That incident in itself is sufficient. There is no need to lead a
way down the steps that brought the Rev. Samuel Bishop to his final
degradation and ultimate death. The generous offer of the chaplaincy
of a small union, the withdrawal of his son from Oxford, the dismissal
of the tutelary services of the lady who had charge of his daughter's
education, the replacing of a better man in the rectory at
Cailsham--all these stages of the little tragedy have no intimate
importance in themselves, except that they formed the first
evolutionary periods of the development of Sally's life. These were
the press-gang of circumstances that forced her into the service of
her sex; these, the shrilling calls of the bugle that bid her strap
the haversack to her slender shoulders and march out to war against
the sea of trouble.
In a living and moving institution such as the Christian Church, you
cannot afford to be lenient to incompetency. And the Rev. Samuel was
incompetent. There is no doubt about that.
In such circumstances as these, assuming them up to the point where
the obliging chauffeur had found the door closed in his face, a
competent man would have lifted reason above his faith. Calmly, he
would have told himself, as did the chauffeur, "This is the juice
of the grape; it is in nowise altered in composition because these
hands of mine--which have done many things--have been laid upon it.
It is better to mix it again with unconsecrated wine, than pour it
down the sacrilegious throat of an unbelieving chauffeur; I will put
it back in the bottle."
So a competent man would have acted, presuming that he had ever
allowed himself to be so far caught in such a predicament. But the
Rev. Samuel was too fully possessed of that first characteristic of
faith, which the Christian Church demands. It only argues that you
must take no man absolutely at his word, even when he presumes to
speak, inspired with the voice of God. Nothing has yet been written,
nothing has yet been said, which can be made to apply without
deviation to the law of change, and also indiscriminately of persons.
And so, for this unswerving faith of the Rev. Samuel, Sally Bishop
is made to suffer. Very shortly after the removal from Cailsham, she
made her declaration of independence.
"Mother," she said, one morning at breakfast, "I'm going to earn my
own living." The baby lines of her mouth set tight, and her chin
puckered.
Mrs. Bishop laid down her piece of toast. "I wish you wouldn't talk
nonsense, Sally," she said.
The young man down from Oxford ejaculated--
"Rot!"
"It's not rot--it's not nonsense!"
Her voice was petulant; there were tears in it. It was not a decision
of strength. Here the press-gang was at work driving the unwilling
conscript. She was going; there was no doubt about her going; but
it was a hard struggle to feel resigned.
"But it _is_ nonsense," said Mrs. Bishop.
"How do you think _you_ could earn your living?" said the young man.
He knew something about the matter; he was trying to find employment
himself--he, a 'Varsity man--and as yet nothing had offered itself.
"If I can't get anything to do," he added sententiously, "how on earth
do you think you're going to?"
"She doesn't mean it," said Sally's eldest sister. "She only thinks
it sounds self-sacrificing."
"Is that the kindest thing you can think of?" asked Sally. "I do mean
it. I've written to London and I've got the prospectus here of one
of the schools for teaching shorthand and typewriting. For eight
pounds they guarantee to make any one proficient in both--suitable
to take a secretaryship. Doesn't matter how long you'll stay; they
agree for that sum to make you proficient, and they also half promise
to get you a situation."
"And where are you going to get the eight pounds from?" said her
little sister.
"And where are you going to get the cost of your living up in Town?"
asked the wise young man, who knew how London could dissolve the money
in one's pocket.
"Oh, she's all right there," said the eldest sister bitterly. "I know
what she's thinking about. She's going to draw that money that
grandmama left her--that fifty pounds. I guessed she'd spend that
on herself one of these days."
"And who else was it left to?" asked Sally.
"Yes, my dear child," said her mother; "we know it was left to you,
of course; but since we came away from Cailsham"--her mouth pursed;
she admirably conveyed the effort of controlling her emotions--the
lump in the throat, the hasty swallowing and the blinking
eyes--"since we left Cailsham, I'd sometimes hoped--"
"Of course you had, mater," said the young man sympathetically.
"But I'm going to relieve you of all responsibility," said Sally.
"I'm no longer going to be an expense to you, and I'm going to do
it with my own money--the money I was given and the money I make.
I can't see what right you have to think me selfish--all of you--as
I know you do. I'm no more selfish than you who expect me to spend
the money on you; in fact, I'm less selfish. It's my money."
This, in a word, is the spirit, the attitude of mind that is entering
into the mental composition of women. They are becoming conscious
of their personality. That phrase may be cryptic; without
consideration it may convey but little; yet it sums up the whole
movement, is the very moon itself to the turning tide. The woman who
once becomes conscious of her own personality is in a fair way towards
her own enfranchisement. Away go the fettering conventions of home
life, the chains of social hypocrisy are flung aside. She rides out
into the open air like the bird from the shattered cage, and if man,
the marksman, does not bring her to earth before her fluttering wings
are fully spread, then she is off--up into the deep, blue zenith of
liberty!
"I'm no more selfish than you who expect me to spend the money on
you; in fact, I'm less selfish. It's my money."
In that definite assertion, Sally first expressed the realization
of her own personality. The girl of twenty years ago would have
sacrificed her little dowry upon the family altar without a word;
she would, without complaint, have allowed it to be spent upon her
brother's education. But now we are dealing with modernity, and out
of the quiet country lanes, from the sacred hearth of the peaceful
home-circles, this army of women are rising. Who has taught them?
No one knows. Who has inspired them with the vitality of action? No
one can say. The spirit of the hive is at work within them; already
they are swarming in obedience to the silent command. Pick out a
hundred girls as they go to work in the city, and ask them why they
are toiling from one day to another. They will all--or ninety-nine
of them--give you the same answer--
"I didn't want to stay at home. I prefer to be independent."
There lies the heart of it, the realization of the ego in the
personality.
Sally had her own way. In the face of abuse, in the face of reproach,
she packed her leather trunk. All those little idols of sentiment,
the clock that ticked on her mantelshelf, the pictures that hung on
the walls; the books she had collected, even the copy of Browning
that she did not understand--they all were stowed away into the
leather trunk. She went out of the house, she went out of the home
as a moth flies out of a darkened room, and you know that unless you
kindle a light to lure it back, it will never return. They knew they
could never kindle the light. They knew she would never come back.
What love had they to offer as an inducement? And no love of her
relations is an inducement to the woman who is seeking her own.
Only the Rev. Samuel shed tears over her. She came into his study
one morning after breakfast to say good-bye. He was writing a new
sermon for the season of Easter, and his mind was raking up the past
as a man unearths some buried thing that the mould has rotted.
The sunlight was pouring in through the window as he bent over his
desk nursing thoughts that were vermin in his brain.
"You're going, Sally?" he said.
"Yes, father."
He stood up from his chair and looked at her--looked her up and down
as though he wished the sight of her to last in his memory for the
rest of his life.
"What time do you get to London?"
"Half-past one."
"And you've arranged about where you're going to stay?"
"Yes, I'm going to share rooms with Miss Hallard--"
"The girl who's going to be an artist?"
"Yes; she has lodgings near Kew."
"Ah, Kew. Yes, Kew. I remember walking from Kew to Richmond, along
by the gardens, when I was quite a young man. So you're going there,
Sally?" His eyes still roamed over her.
"Yes, father. What are you doing? Are you writing a sermon?"
That little interest in his own affairs awakened him. Animation crept
into his eyes. It was the slight, subtle touch that a woman knows
how to bestow.
"Yes, I'm writing a sermon, Sally, for next Sunday--Easter
Sunday--listen to this--" In the pride of composition, having none
but her who would appreciate his efforts, he took up one of the papers
with almost trembling hands.
"There can be no hope without promise, and in the rising of our Lord
from the dead, we have the promise of everlasting life. For just as
He, on that Sabbath morning, defied the prison walls of the sepulchre,
and was lifted beyond earthly things to those things that are
spiritual, so shall we, if we defy the things of this world--its pomps
and its vanities and all the sinful lusts of the flesh--so shall we
win to the things that are eternal rather than those which are
temporal and void."
He looked up at her, waiting eagerly for the words of her approval
to convince him of what he was scarcely convinced himself. Before
she could utter them, Mrs. Bishop entered the room.
"Samuel," she said, "I've written my letter to Lady Bray. I've asked
her to come on the seventeenth. You'd better write yours and enclose
it with mine. You know what to say. I mean you know what sort of thing
she likes from you. I've also written and asked the Colles's to come
to dinner on the eighteenth to meet her. They're sure to accept if
they know they're going to meet her, and I think they ought to be
useful. Write your letter now, will you?"
The Rev. Samuel nodded assent. "I will," he added.
Then he turned to his daughter. "Good-bye, Sally."
She put her hands on his shoulders--knowing all his frailty--and
kissed him. Then she walked out of the room.
When she had closed the door, the clergyman sat down again to his
desk and read again through the sentences he had read to Sally.
"I suppose she didn't think it very true," he said to himself, "but
it is--it is true--its pomps and its vanities, ah--"
Then he took out a sheet of note-paper, and picking up his pen, he
began--
"My dear Lady Bray--"