They came loitering to the square, white house, pausing at the gate and
talking to friends, lingering over the removal of their goloshes
indoors. The crisp air was in their lungs. There was the scent of
cooking faintly in the hall. It rose pleasantly in their nostrils.
They laughed and chatted like a nestful of starlings. Jane was more
amusing than usual. Her comments upon the hat bought by the police
sergeant's wife in Exeter and worn that Sunday morning for the first
time were shrewd and close of observation; too close to be kind, yet so
shrewd as to prick even the soft heart of Hannah to laughter she would
have restrained if she could.
Even Fanny, with mind still beating out her meters, lost that far-off
look in her eyes and lingered in the hall to listen to Jane's sallies,
to every one of which Hannah would murmur between her laughter--
"Jane! Jane--how can you? Fancy your noticing that! Oh dear! we
oughtn't to be laughing at all. Poor thing! She can't help her eye or
her figure."
"If I were fat," said Jane, "I wouldn't go in stripes. You don't put
hoops round a barrel to make it look thin."
Foolish though that might have sounded in London drawing-rooms, it found
a burst of laughter in the square, white house.
On her knees above, upstairs in her bedroom, Mary heard the noise of it.
She could guess well the kind of remark from Jane that had evoked it.
Until those moments Jane had been a source of amusement to her as much
as to any of them. She was a source of amusement no longer. Even there
on her knees with the sound of their laughter far away in the distance
of the house, it was that sad figure of a woman, shrivelled and dried,
bitter with the need of sun to ripen her, that came before her eyes.
Then what were the others? With this new vision, she dreaded to think
that she in time must look at them. What thoughts to have on one's
knee! What thoughts to bring into the sight and mind of God!
She had come there alone to her bedroom to pray--but what for? How
could prayer help? Could she by prayer make numb and dead the motion of
her mind? By prayer could she silence her thoughts, inducing oblivion
as a drug could induce sleep?
Hastening away alone to her bedroom, she had hoped she could. Even then
she cherished the belief of all she had been taught of the efficacy of
prayer. But having fallen upon her knees at her bedside, what could she
pray? Nothing.
"Oh--God, my heavenly Father," she began, and staring before her with
rigid eyes at the pillow on her bed it became a twisted bundle of straw
on which for poor comfort rested the pale face of a woman patient and
enduring in her hour.
How could prayer put away such visions as these? With conscious muscular
effort she closed her eyes and began repeating in a voice her ears could
hear--"Our Father which art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name."
So she would have decoyed herself into the attitude of mind of prayer,
but the sound of laughter in the house broke in upon the midst of it.
She saw that thin, withered woman in whom the sap of life had dried to
pith, and, casting away the formula of supplication, her voice had cried
out for understanding of it all.
"Something's all wrong!" she said aloud as though one were there in the
room beside her to hear and oppose her accusations. "I don't know what
it is. I've never thought it was wrong before. And perhaps after all
it's I who am wrong."
She knew what she meant by that. Wrong she might insist it was for her
to have thought what she thought in church. And yet some quality of
deliberation seemed necessary to compose the substance of evil. What
deliberation had there been in her? Out of the even and placid monotony
of life had shrilled this voice into her heart.
"Who was the father of the Son of Man?"
She had not beckoned the voice. It had lifted out of nowhere above the
soulless intonation of the Vicar's sermon. But what was more, now once
she had heard it, it appeared as though it long had been waiting to cry
its message in her ears. She wondered why she had never heard it
before. For twenty-nine years she realized as she knelt there on her
knees, she had been little more than a child. Now in the lateness of
the day she was a woman, knowing more of the world than ever she would
have learnt by experience.
The deeper purposes of life they were that had come without seeking upon
her imagination. It was not this or that she knew about women, not this
or that which had come in revelation to her about men. Only that there
was a meaning within herself, pitiably and almost shamefully
unfulfilled. Something there was wrong--all wrong. Half she suspected
in herself what it was. For those few moments as they walked back from
church, she had caught actual sight of it in her sister Jane.
Would she discern it in the others? Discovering it in them would she
know what it was in her? Why was she on her knees for thoughts like
this? This was not prayer. She could not pray.
The sound of the bell downstairs raised her slowly to her feet. She
took off her hat and laid it on the bed. Automatically she crossed to
the mirror and began to tidy her hair.
Was there anything in her face that made her heart beat the faster? She
stood looking at her reflection, pondering that there was not. What
beauty of color was there in her cheeks? What line of beauty in her
lips? And why did she look for these things and why, when behind her
eyes she saw something in her mind she dared not speak, did her heart
set up a beating in every pulse?
With a gesture of impatient self-rebuke, she turned away and went
downstairs.