When Christmas came Papa gave her another _Children's Prize_. This time
the cover was blue and the number on it was 1870. Eighteen-seventy was
the name of the New Year that was coming after Christmas. It meant that
the world had gone on for one thousand eight hundred and seventy years
since Jesus was born. Every year she was to have a _Children's Prize_
with the name of the New Year on it.
Eighteen-seventy was a beautiful number. It sounded nice, and there was a
seven in it. Seven was a sacred and holy number; so was three, because of
the three Persons, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, and because of
the seven stars and the seven golden candlesticks. When you said
good-night to Mamma you kissed her either three times or seven times. If
you went past three you had to go on to seven, because something dreadful
would happen if you didn't. Sometimes Mamma stopped you; then you stooped
down and finished up on the hem of her dress, quick, before she could see
you.
She was glad that the _Children's Prize_ had a blue cover, because blue
was a sacred and holy colour. It was the colour of the ceiling in St.
Mary's Chapel at Ilford, and it was the colour of the Virgin Mary's
dress.
There were golden stars all over the ceiling of St. Mary's Chapel. Roddy
and she were sent there after they had had chicken-pox and when their
whooping-cough was getting better. They were not allowed to go to the
church at Barkingside for fear of giving whooping-cough to the children
in Dr. Barnardo's Homes; and they were not allowed to go to Aldborough
Hatch Church because of Mr. Propart's pupils. But they had to go to
church somewhere, whooping-cough or no whooping-cough, in order to get to
Heaven; so Mark took them to the Chapel of Ease at Ilford, where the
Virgin Mary in a blue dress stood on a sort of step over the door. Mamma
said you were not to worship her, though you might look at her. She was a
graven image. Only Roman Catholics worshipped graven images; they were
heretics; that meant that they were shut outside the Church of England,
which was God's Church, and couldn't get in. And they had only half a
Sunday. In Roman Catholic countries Sunday was all over at twelve
o'clock, and for the rest of the day the Roman Catholics could do just
what they pleased; they danced and went to theatres and played games, as
if Sunday was one of their own days and not God's day.
She wished she had been born in a Roman Catholic country.
Every night she took the _Children's Prize_ to bed with her to keep her
safe. It had Bible Puzzles in it, and among them there was a picture of
the Name of God. A shining white light, shaped like Mamma's vinaigrette,
with black marks in the middle. Mamma said the light was the light that
shone above the Ark of the Covenant, and the black marks were letters and
the word was the real name of God. She said he was sometimes called
Jehovah, but that was not his real name. His real name was a secret name
which nobody but the High Priest was allowed to say.
When you lay in the dark and shut your eyes tight and waited, you could
see the light, shaped like the vinaigrette, in front of you. It quivered
and shone brighter, and you saw in the middle, first, a dark blue colour,
and then the black marks that were the real name of God. She was glad she
couldn't read it, for she would have been certain to let it out some day
when she wasn't thinking.
Perhaps Mamma knew, and was not allowed to say it. Supposing she forgot?
At church they sang "Praise Him in His name Jah and rejoice before Him."
Jah was God's pet-name, short for Jehovah. It was a silly name--Jah.
Somehow you couldn't help thinking of God as a silly person; he was
always flying into tempers, and he was jealous. He was like Papa. Dank
said Papa was jealous of Mark because Mamma was so fond of him. There was
a picture of God in the night nursery. He had a big flowing beard, and a
very straight nose, like Papa, and he was lying on a sort of sofa that
was a cloud. Little Jesus stood underneath him, between the Virgin Mary
and Joseph, and the Holy Ghost was descending on him in the form of a
dove. His real name was Jesus Christ, but they called him Emmanuel.
"There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains."
That was another frightening thing. It would be like the
fountain in Aunt Bella's garden, with blood in it instead of
water. The goldfishes would die.
Mark was pleased when she said that Sarah wouldn't be allowed to go to
Heaven because she would try to catch the Holy Ghost.
Jesus was not like God. He was good and kind. When he grew up he was
always dressed in pink and blue, and he had sad dark eyes and a little,
close, tidy beard like Uncle Victor. You could love Jesus.
Jenny loved him. She was a Wesleyan; and her niece Catty was a Wesleyan.
Catty marched round and round the kitchen table with the dish-cloth,
drying the plates and singing:
"'I love Jesus, yes, I do,
_For_ the Bible tells me _to_!'"
and
"'I am so glad that my Father in Heaven
Tells of His love in the book He has given--
I am so glad that Jesus loves me,
Jesus loves me,
Jesus loves even me!'"
On New Year's Eve Jenny and Catty went to the Wesleyan Chapel at Ilford
to sing the New Year in. Catty talked about the Old Year as if it was
horrid and the New Year as if it was nice. She said that at twelve
o'clock you ought to open the window wide and let the Old Year go out and
the New Year come in. If you didn't something dreadful would happen.
Downstairs there was a party. Uncle Victor and Aunt Lavvy and Aunt
Charlotte were there, and the big boys from Vinings and the Vicarage at
Aldborough Hatch. Mark and Dank and Roddy were sitting up, and Roddy had
promised to wake her when the New Year was coming.
He left the door open so that she could hear the clock strike twelve. She
got up and opened the windows ready. There were three in Mamma's room.
She opened them all.
The air outside was like clear black water and very cold. You couldn't
see the garden wall; the dark fields were close--close against the house.
One--Two--Three.
Seven--When the last stroke sounded the New Year would have come in.
Ten--Eleven--Twelve.
The bells rang out; the bells of Ilford, the bells of Barkingside, and
far beyond the flats and the cemetery there would be Bow bells, and
beyond that the bells of the City of London. They clanged together and
she trembled. The sounds closed over her; they left off and began again,
not very loud, but tight--tight, crushing her heart, crushing tears out
of her eyelids. When the bells stopped there was a faint whirring sound.
That was the Old Year, that was eighteen sixty-nine, going out by itself
in the dark, going away over the fields.
Mamma was not pleased when she came to bed and found the door and windows
open and Mary awake in the cot.