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Elementary Guide To Reliability Fifth Edition An download

The document discusses various downloadable ebooks, including titles on reliability, project management, algebra, and the TOEFL test. It also features a narrative involving characters Mary and Robert, who share their struggles with a cruel guardian, Uncle Simeon, and their desire to escape their unhappy situation. The story highlights themes of friendship, resilience, and the longing for freedom from oppression.

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100% found this document useful (1 vote)
16 views37 pages

Elementary Guide To Reliability Fifth Edition An download

The document discusses various downloadable ebooks, including titles on reliability, project management, algebra, and the TOEFL test. It also features a narrative involving characters Mary and Robert, who share their struggles with a cruel guardian, Uncle Simeon, and their desire to escape their unhappy situation. The story highlights themes of friendship, resilience, and the longing for freedom from oppression.

Uploaded by

heuffdouek
Copyright
© © All Rights Reserved
We take content rights seriously. If you suspect this is your content, claim it here.
Available Formats
Download as PDF, TXT or read online on Scribd
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fared no better than I did; and thin and pale she looked. Robert riled
me most. It was natural for Uncle Simeon to be mean, greedy, vile.
In Robert I felt it was wrong; like Methodies, he knew better. Kind
brown eyes were all very well, but a poor set-off to a greedy little
belly. One morning therefore when in the middle of breakfast, just as
he was beginning his poached egg, Robert said he felt sick, I neither
felt sorry nor pretended to. Justice at last! I hoped he would be very,
very sick. Uncle Simeon followed him out, fawning.
"Look here child, eat this," said Aunt Martha passing me Robert's
poached egg, "'twill do you good." Kindly but fearfully: her usual
struggle. She declined to share it with me, so I accepted. I was just
munching the last delicious yellow mouthful, when Robert came
back, looking still pale, but better. He saw what had happened, and
flushed crimson. He saw what I thought of him and flushed deeper.
That afternoon, when I was in my bedroom putting on my hat, there
was a timid knocking. He walked in. I hardened my heart.
"I'm sorry about breakfast, Mary," he faltered. I knew his heart was
beating fast.
"Breakfast? What do you mean, Master Robert?"
"You know. The egg. I'm sorry—"
"Of course you are. Sorry I ate it."
He flushed. I developed a meticulous interest in a pincushion.
"No; sorry to see you eating it so hungrily. You know that's what I
meant. Now I know it's all lies when he says eggs are bad for you
and that you don't like them and you refuse them when he offers
them and that you mustn't eat much of anything. It's all a lie,
because he doesn't want you to eat things, because he hates you or
because he's mean. I always thought it funny you never had nice
things. I asked him three times and he said you were always taking
medicine, and the doctor said you must eat very little and always
very plain. You must have thought me horrid."
"I did. I'm sorry. Oh, the liar, the mean wretch, he dare tell you all
that? Look here, we've begun now, haven't we, so I'm going to tell
you what I know of him; everything. First you must answer a
question. Do you just not like Uncle, or do you really hate him, hate
him like this?" I clenched my fists and ground my teeth together.
"Yes, now I do; he's never done anything to me, but I've liked him a
bit less every day I've been here. Now I hate him, like you do."
"Well, I'll tell you, he's a mean, cruel, wicked man. He beats and
cuffs and pinches me when you're not looking. He canes me till I
bleed. He starves me so as to make as much money as he can out
of what my Grandmother pays him. The first morning I came I said
No, when he offered me one miserable spoonful of his egg. I've
never touched one since, and he's told you all this about my not
liking eggs at all. I do take medicine, but it's because I'm ill and
don't get enough to eat. He's mean and he hates me, that's why he
starves me: one as much as the other. He's nice to you because
you're rich and important and have friends and relations. Do they
pay a lot of money for you?"
"I don't know."
"They must do or you wouldn't get so much to eat. Oh, the beast,
he's always talking as though he was so good and then he starves
me and gives me sneakish blows in the dark. He praises the Lord
with his lips and he's got the devil in his heart. He flatters with his
tongue, but his inward part is very wickedness—"
I stopped short, fancying I heard a noise outside, and looked out
into the passage. There he was, skulking as usual, making pretence
to rummage in a cupboard just outside the door.
"What are you doing, Uncle?" I asked weakly, very weakly.
"What are you doing, one asks."
"I just—opened the door...."
"Ah," he said, slipping away.
"Has he heard?" asked Robert fearfully.
"Every word. I don't care. He knows the truth now; he can't treat me
worse than he has done. I hate him. Everything is hateful. All the
world is against me always; 'tis all beating and starving and
meanness and misery; and nobody loves me. I wish I'd never been
born, I do, I do." I broke down and sat on the bed, sobbing bitterly.
"Don't, Mary," huskily, "everybody doesn't hate you, I don't." He sat
beside me and put his arm on my shoulder.
That was the beginning of happiness.
I cried more than ever, but they were other tears.
"Don't cry, Mary, don't cry, please. I like you. Tell me you know I do.
I'm going to do something, I'm going to help you somehow. I'll
never touch another egg unless you do too, and if he stops mine, I'll
write to Uncle Vivian and tell him why. I shall ask Uncle Vivian to let
me go somewhere else as soon as I can; but you must get away
first, you must ask your Grandmother to have you back with her
right away. Mary dear, don't cry."
He was on the border line himself. He screwed a dirty little
handkerchief into his eyes. The other arm was still on my shoulder.
He was crying too. Then I comforted him, and found it a joy greater
even than being comforted.
"We must go now," I said, getting up. "Come on, Master Robert,"
smiling; smiling being a thing I achieved perhaps once a year.
"No, and don't say Robert either. Say Robbie. Uncle Vivian and all
the people I like call me that."
There were two pairs of red eyes at the tea table that night, and one
pair of steel blue ones which observed them. From that moment, the
political situation of No. 1 the Quay was entirely transformed. In the
field of domestic economy there was a more striking change still.
Next morning, I almost reeled when a boiled egg was set before me,
though as the porridge was cut down by nearly half, my Uncle spiced
his defeat with triumph. Openly he treated me no worse, though he
gave me a savage kick in the hall that night. I knew he was saving
up for something dreadful. Once the mood of passion and defiance
had passed away, I was more afraid of him than ever. He hated
Robbie now, while striving not to show it. Robbie showed his feelings
sometimes and was openly surly. The short-lived Albert-Mary entente
collapsed once for all, shattered by the Mary-Robert alliance.
The new friendship caused a veritable revolution in all my ideas.
Now, whenever I was brooding or thinking away in my usual bitter
fashion, I would say to myself, "Think of it, quickly, quickly," and I
would feel again his hand on my shoulder; he would comfort me and
I him. I re-lived it over and over again. It was the first purely happy
vision I had ever conjured up. To Robbie it meant much less. I
decided he was a nice little boy, kind and decent-hearted; he had
been sorry to see me unhappy and he had been glad to comfort me.
It was an impulse; not more. He liked me, he pitied me, but the
whole thing meant very little to him.
One day a letter came from his Uncle Vivian.
He came to me joyfully. "Hurrah! Hurrah! I shall be going away
soon. I'm ever so glad."
"In every way?" with a sneer; hungrily.
He flushed crimson, as we do when any one surprises us in
thoughtless egotism; when another lays bare to us a selfishness we
were too selfish to have seen. Or else it was the cruel injustice of
what I said, or both: the good reason and the bad.
"You know I didn't mean that. When I get to Uncle Vivian I'll tell him
to write to your Grandmother and tell her all about it and have you
taken away. She'd listen to my uncle. But wait, you must get away
from here before that. It would be dreadful if you were here alone
for a bit between my going and the time you'd be able to get away,
if we waited for Uncle Vivian to write—"
"He'd kill me if he dared. Can't you write to Uncle Vivian now, so
that he could write to my Grandmother at once? I can't write. Uncle
Simeon reads all my letters to her."
"A letter of mine mightn't reach Uncle Vivian. The last time he wrote
to me was from Paris in France; he said he was going further south
for Christmas, that's somewhere much further away, and said I need
not write again as he would be back for the New Year. We're quite
near Christmas now, so it's too late. I'll tell you my plan. Now, the
day I go away, Mr. Greeber is sure to be at the railway station to see
me off. The minute we've left the house you must be dressed and
ready to run away and walk back to Tawborough; your Grandmother
couldn't be angry if you told her all about him. Then Uncle Vivian will
write as soon as I see him, and you won't have been alone with Mr.
Greeber in the house for a minute."
"'Tisn't Grandmother, 'tis Aunt Jael. And suppose only Uncle Simeon
goes with you to the station to see you off. What about Albert and
Aunt Martha? Besides, he'll make me come too. He'd do it to please
you, knowing you'd like it, though out of spite he'd want me not to,
because he knows I'd like to. It all depends whether he wants to be
nice to you more than to be nasty to me. Nice to you, I think, most
of the two, because he can be nasty enough to me the second
you're gone."
"You could say you felt sick."
"That's a lie. Besides, that might make him want to make me come
all the more, if he thought it would pain me or make me feel worse
to come. I don't tell lies, if he does. Unless of course, I really felt
sick. I could take something and make myself sick, and then 'twould
be true. But then Aunt Martha would say she'd stay with me while
the rest of you went to the railway station. No, the best thing is to
pretend very much I'd like to come, which of course I would, and
then he won't let me. You might pretend to quarrel with me the last
day; that would help. The real trouble is Aunt Jael; she'd get into a
frightful rage and send me back; and when I came back, 'twould be
a hundred times worse. He'd kill me."
"You said your Aunt Jael hated Mr. Greeber. If she knew he'd like it,
are you sure she'd send you back; when she knew too that you'd
run away for fear of your life? I'm sure she wouldn't do that."
"You don't know her. No, my plan is this: to write a letter somehow
to Grandmother, who'd talk to Aunt Jael and sort of prepare her for
my running away. I'll write it in bed tonight, it's the only place I can
where he's not watching me; and we'll post it tomorrow afternoon,
sometime on the walk when Albert isn't looking. I'll tell my
Grandmother about the canings, and how he half starves me. Aunt
Jael hates him so much that I think there's a chance. Then I needn't
run away at all. Grandmother would come to fetch me herself."
The letter was duly written that night. I jumped out of bed and hid it
in the bottom of my chest of drawers, in a far corner of the drawer
between two white cotton Chemises. It would be safe there till the
next afternoon. After dinner next day I came up to put on my hat
and to get the letter. I put my hand in the corner underneath the
Chemises. The letter was not there! I pulled the top chemise right
out. There the letter was after all, but at the other end of the
chemise. It had been moved. The garment was only eighteen or
twenty inches long, but I remembered perfectly I had put the letter
at the outside-end of the drawer and now it was right at the other
end of the chemise, near the middle of the drawer. Yet there was my
handwriting, there was the envelope: no one had tampered with it.
It must be my over-suspicious mind. Aunt Martha had been tidying
my clothes, or putting the clean washing away and so had moved
the letter without seeing anything.... We posted it that afternoon. In
a couple of days came my Grandmother's reply.
The first sentence made my heart sick. "Your uncle writes me—tells
me he has destroyed an untruthful letter, full of untruthful
complaints that you had written me without his knowledge—how
grieved he and your Aunt Martha are—how they do everything to
make you happy—your Aunt Jael is grievously annoyed—your loving
Grandmother is disappointed—Always come to me, my dear, for
help, but don't give way to discontent so easily. Reflect always what
your dear mother had to put up with. Take up thy cross and walk!"
This letter Uncle Simeon never asked to see, but he had had one for
himself from my Grandmother by the same post. He said nothing,
but looked at me from time to time with malicious triumph, meaning
"Revenge is near; it will be sweet. Wait till this fine young friend of
yours is out of the way. One has a whip, you remember, ha, ha, one
has a whip!"
A few days later Robbie had a letter from his Uncle Vivian
announcing his return to England for December 30th and arranging
for Robbie to leave Torribridge on New Year's Eve, now only three
weeks away.
New Year's Eve then was the day, and though I did eventually fly
from Torribridge to Tawborough within a few hours of the time we
fixed, it befell very differently from anything we had planned or
foreseen.

Heaven was dark; yet the clouds at last had begun to break. For
always, eternally, I could re-make the moments that had been, and
live and cry and laugh and love it over again.
I pretended his arm was round me each night as I fell asleep.
CHAPTER XVII: CHRISTMAS NIGHT
"What do you do for Christmas?" asked Robbie a day or two later.
"It's only a week tomorrow."
"What do you mean—do for Christmas?"
"Why, people coming to stay, and a party perhaps. You know."
"What do you mean? The only party we ever had was on Aunt Jael's
seventieth birthday and that's in August."
"It must be different at your house from anywhere else. People have
a jolly sort of time, a lot of people in the house and that kind of
thing."
"There was something about it in Westward Ho! the book he stole
from me and burned just before you came. It said something about
'happy sports and mummers' plays,' and cakes and ale and some
word like flapdragons. It's what worldly people do, I suppose, and
sinners, but not us; I've never heard of it with the Saints."
Robbie was too wise to attack priggery-piety in the open. "I don't
know about all that. You do talk funnily; your Grandmother seems to
be different from other people. You must know all the special things
you do at Christmas, all the special things you eat—"
"I don't. What are they?"
"Oh, roast goose and turkey and plum-pudding and mince pies.
Then for tea the big Christmas cake, crammed with raisins and
covered with almond paste and icing sugar with crystallized fruit on
top and those little green bits like candied peel—not really candied
peel, it's some name I forget, anyway it's nice. If you're a little boy
you're allowed to stay in the dining-room all the same and eat all the
walnuts and dates you want and drink a little port or madeira! What
do you have for Christmas dinner?"
"Hash," I replied enviously, "and a roly-poly pudding with no jam, or
hardly any, for afterwards."
Incredulity seemed to struggle with pity in his mind.
"I'm sorry. It sounds so funny. I didn't know there were people like
that. The villagers are just the same. Mrs. Richards down at the Blue
Dragon makes the biggest Christmas cake I've ever seen, lovely
bluey-looking icing with preserved cherries in it, those big red ones,
and almond paste an inch thick. Everywhere it's the great day in the
year for feasting."
"Why?" I asked. "Why should Christmas Day be the great day for
feasting? It's the day Jesus was born; why should that make people
guzzle? A funny way of keeping His birthday, eating and drinking. I
know what it is, it's what the Papists do: eat all day. That's it, it's
Popish." My voice rose combatively in the good cause of plain and
Protestant living, hash and heaven.
Weakly or wisely, he skirted the theological issue. "Don't be silly.
Besides it's not only what you eat yourself. At Christmas time you
always give a lot away to the poor people. Uncle Vivian gives heaps
of logs and firewood and coal all round the village, and gives geese
to the tenants and heaps of other things; giving things away is a
good enough way of keeping Christmas, isn't it? There are presents.
You get presents, don't you?"
"Never."
Here I was wrong, for on Christmas morning a parcel came
addressed to Miss Mary Lee. It was the first I had ever received,
except some new winter underclothes Grandma had sent me from
Tawborough, and I undid it eagerly. Inside was a box of colours. I
found from a little note inside the cover of the box that Great-Uncle
John had sent me this in addition to his usual half-sovereign. This
made me ponder. I had heard vaguely of his half-sovereign at long
intervals of time, but had never thought of it in the light of a
Christmas present. I had never seen or touched it; it was "put by" or
otherwise dimly dealt with by Grandmother and Aunt Jael.
This box of colours was the finest thing I had yet possessed. No
doubt the art of mixing paint was then in its infancy, and this box
provided me with but a few of the simplest colours; no doubt a mere
half crown box of today is superior both in number of colours and
quality of paint. No doubt, but ignorance was bliss; no such odious
comparisons came to cloud my joy. I had never seen a paint box
before except through a shop window; and now I had one in my
own hands and was gloating with all the joy of proprietorship over
the twelve little pans before me and the high adventurous names
with which each was labelled.
Gamboge, yellow-ochre; cobalt, Prussian blue; green-bice, Hooker's
green; carmine, crimson-lake; raw-sienna, burnt-sienna; sepia and
ivory black. There was also a mysterious little tube tucked away in a
niche at one end and labelled Chinese white, the contents of which
oozed out when pressed, like a white tape-worm. These names were
a delight. Carmine: the colour which Brother Quappleworthy painted
his sins in discourse. Crimson-lake: which called up a vision of a
great sea of Precious Blood with wave-crests of scarlet-foam.
Robbie had several presents: a box of soldiers, a picture book, some
sweetmeats and money.
"That's much less than usual," he said, not too kindly. "I expect
there's more waiting for me at Uncle Vivian's."
Albert was bare and giftless, for his half sovereign from Great-Uncle
John meant no more to him than to me, being instantly put (or not
put) into "the bank" by Uncle Simeon. He was naturally jealous,
envied Robbie's wealth and luck, cursed his father's meanness in
giving him nothing, reviled Uncle John for sending me the paint-box
as well as the half sovereign, and to himself no corresponding extra.
All this well distributed hostility he could vent on me alone. The
means of his vengeance should be my solitary ewe-lamb. He waited
his opportunity.
Robbie went out to dinner, invited by some friends of his uncle's. So
Uncle Simeon brought a cane in to dinner, lodged it on the edge of
the table, and allowed me to taste it now and then. I espied neither
goose nor turkey, cakes nor ale, port nor madeira; though there was
a much better pudding than usual, a suet one made in a basin with
sultanas and citron peel which bore—alas!—an awful and edible
likeness to the genuine popish article. After dinner Aunt Martha, who
said she had a headache, retired to her bedroom to lie down, and
later on Uncle Simeon went out, his big Bible under one arm and his
big umbrella under the other, to expound the former to a bedridden
old female Saint he visited twice a week, a second cousin of Brother
Atonement Gelder's.
Albert and I were left alone together in the dining-room. It was
perhaps not more than three o'clock, but it was a cold, dark day and
the room was already dusk. Uncle Simeon was hardly out of the
house before Albert came up to the table at which I was just settling
down to begin using my treasure, snatched the box away, dipped
the biggest brush into my cup of water and began roughly digging it
into the pans of colour. Then he splashed water over all the pans
and made great wasteful daubs on the palette.
"Don't, Albert," I pleaded, "please don't."
"I shall, I shall—ugh" (his usual grunt), "nothing will happen to me if
I do. It's no good your whining, I'm going to spoil it, out of spite!
because I want to! Try sneaking to father if you dare. Ha, ha, I know
what you told Robert Grove about father, nasty little sneaks and liars
both of you. Father's on my side now, so you won't get much by
going to him; and if you did I'd bang you afterwards."
He took up the cup and poured water into the box, smearing all the
colours together with the brush. The little brute was ruining my
treasure before my eyes. Appeal was useless, so I made a deft
attempt to snatch. For reply he struck me heavily with his fist over
the ear. I screamed out half in pain, half in rage, and made another
snatch. This time, throwing the box on to the ground, he struck me
on the shoulder with the full force of his fist and sent me flying. I fell
down, half stunned for a moment, when another voice broke into
the room.
"You beast, you brute," I heard—and saw Robbie, back sooner than
we expected. He slammed the door behind him, went straight across
the room to Albert, and tried to seize his arm.
"Here, you leave me alone. She hit me first, when I wanted to use
her filthy paint box, and the mean cat said I shouldn't, and started
snatching and scratching so I had to push her away."
"Oh, you liar!" I cried.
"Then she banged her paint box on the floor in her rage, and came
for me again, then I punched her, and serve her right."
"'Tis all lies, lies, lies."
"Believe her, do you?" sneered Albert, lowering at Robbie, "she's a
nice one to believe. Do you know what her father did? I do; ugh,
ugh, she's a nice one like he was. Look here, just keep your hands
off me."
Albert struck a first blow and the two boys were soon fighting like
savages. My head was still aching from the two blows that Albert
had given me; I forgot them and everything else in the excitement
of the struggle. Blows on head, face and shoulders were exchanged.
With every stout one Albert received I exulted; every one of Albert's
that hurt Robbie hurt me too. Albert was sturdy and strong and even
broader than Robbie; on the whole he was getting the best of it; I
felt sick and apprehensive. I prayed fervently to God for Robbie to
win, promising lordly penances and impossible virtues in return. I
would give all my life and health to comforting the heathen if Robbie
might win. I would be burnt or eaten alive—if Robbie might win. I
employed all the magic I knew, and counted frenzied thirty-sevens
between each blow—for luck to Robbie. Prayer is not always
answered by return, and Albert's right fist now landed a heavy blow
on Robbie's left ear, which nearly felled him; he tottered and paled.
So did I as I resolved to intervene. I would fight till I fainted—to
prevent Robbie being beaten. I clenched my teeth and hovered
awkwardly nearer, wondering how to get in my first blow (or scratch)
—when Robbie recovered suddenly and crashed with his fist
between Albert's eyes. Now it was the latter's turn to stagger. My
spirits rose. Now Albert picked himself up again. Both were battered.
Robbie had a bleeding ear (to match my own), Albert a black eye
and broken nose. The fight went on. Robbie began to get the upper
hand; I could see the loser's look on Albert's face. "Robbie will win!
Robbie will win!" said Instinct exulting. I thought for a moment of
that tame fixture, Susan Durgles versus Seth Baker, when my main
emotion was mere pity for Seth: water to the wine of joy now
coursing through my veins as I watched Robbie pound Albert more
victoriously every moment. Albert was now desperate, came closer,
tried to grip Robbie and push him to the ground. For a moment prize
fight turned to wrestling bout.
The harmony of a choir, singing carols on the Quay outside, fell
suddenly on our ears. It may have been the Parish Church choir, or a
glee party from the Wesleyan Chapel: sinners, in any case, as Miss
Glory would have said. They were singing a carol with a friendly
wave-like tune, merry, yet sad too, as Christmas songs should be: It
came upon the midnight clear—though I did not know the words.
The tune revived the fighting. The boys got free from each other's
grip; blows were resumed. The end came at last with a swift, terrific
stroke on Albert's shoulder, which knocked him flat. In a second
Robbie was kneeling on his body and had pinioned his arms. The
victim scowled, the victor showed modest pride, the spectator
exulted like a savage.
"There now," said Robbie, "that's what you get for striking a girl.
Worse another time. Say you're sorry you hit Mary. Say you were a
brute."
Albert scowled, growled, made efforts to get free, failed.
"No good, you'll stay here till you say it; 'I'm sorry I hit Mary and I
was a brute.'"
Albert wriggled again, perceived that all endeavours would be
fruitless, and surrendered. "Well, then, you great bully. Sorry—hit—
Mary—and—was—brute. There you are, now let me go."
"Not until you've made one more promise, 'I'll never hit Mary
again.'"
For some reason Albert obeyed with alacrity this time. "I'll never
strike Mary again."
Robbie released him, and walked towards the door saying shyly to
me: "Come to my bedroom, and help bathe my face; it's awful."
I followed him upstairs. Just as we reached the landing Albert came
out and shouted. "Ugh, you nasty beasts. I promised I'd never strike
Mary again and I won't—never want to see her ugly face again—but
I'll see that father does all right. This very night too, as soon as ever
he comes in. He'll make you cringe and bleed; he'll make the flesh
fly. You too, you bully, you overdressed flashy big—"
We went into Robbie's bedroom and stopped to hear no more.
"It's not much good," said Robbie, smiling mournfully, as he washed
the blood from his ears and face, "because I shall get hurt much
more when Mr. Greeber comes in. That beast downstairs is sure to
set him on. I think he would dare to flog me this time, because he'd
be able to say to Uncle Vivian that I'd half killed Albert."
"Yes, he'd say 'one felt it one's painful duty after young Master
Robert's brutal attack on one's own dear son,' and that you had
really hurt Albert. Which you have," I concluded with satisfaction.
"Still, it'll be nothing to what he'll do to you if he gets you alone; so
you must get away the same day as me; or sooner would be best."
"No, sooner wouldn't do, because then he'd flog you worse; he'd be
sure to know you'd helped me get away."
"Yes, my first plan is best; while they're at the station seeing me off
you must run away to Tawborough or take the coach, because we've
enough money for that now. Here's the half-sovereign, my present,
you know; the half-crown mightn't be enough and I've nothing in
between—"
The door, opening softly, cut him short. Uncle Simeon, very pale and
slimy and cat-like—himself at his worst—was followed by Albert, also
at his worst, with an ugly black eye and an uglier leer.
"No, father," he whined, "not one; both. Flog 'em both, father, both
of 'em."
Albert's disappointed whine seemed to mean that his father might
not dare to touch Robbie. I was glad for Robbie's sake; what my
own fate would be I hardly dared to think. I shrank from him into
the seat of the window sill. He took a long coil of cord out of his
pocket, and came towards—not me—but Robbie. What, would you
dare? Was Robbie, after all, the victim, and I, if only for the
moment, the one to escape? I must do myself the justice of noting
that for once in my life at any rate I was sorry to bear the easier
part: I would gladly have chosen to take the beating for Robbie,
would bravely have played the Royal Prince's whipping-girl. He
bound Robbie with the cord hand and foot to the bedpost, his own
bedpost of course; for it all took place in his bedroom, where Uncle
Simeon had surprised us. Uncle Simeon went out of the room for a
moment, leaving Albert to watch us.
There was two minutes absolute silence. The three children looked
at each other. We waited.
He came back, in his right hand the long heralded whip; a kind of
cat-o'-nine-tails for domestic use, with five tails only instead of nine;
these were made of cord, with three knots each at intervals, and
were fastened to a piece of thick rope, which Uncle Simeon wielded.
An evil-looking thing.
Robbie did not wince. He would not while I was by. But I lost all
control of myself, and, for the first time, burst out openly against
Uncle Simeon. I flew up to him, and with fierce feebleness clutched
his wrist.
"Don't you dare touch him," I cried, in a treble shriek. "I dare you to
whip him. You cruel, horrible man."
"Cruel horrible man," he sneered. "Bah! A fine one you are to call
one that; you, your father's daughter every inch of you. Cruel
horrible man, forsooth!—Go and call him that, your own dear, kind,
loving father who drove your dear mother into an early grave and
mocked her when she was lying there; a heartless whoremongering
beast who spent all the time he spared from stews and brothels in
hounding her to death with his cruelties; unfit to untie the shoe of a
humble Christian like oneself, frail and sinful though one doubtless
is. You're like him, body and soul. Come, loose hold!"
The vile words stung me for a moment, but when he wrenched my
hand from his wrist, scratching at it savagely with his nails, I cried
with redoubled fury: "Don't you dare to whip him, don't you dare."
"Whip him? Whip him?" he purred with bland enquiry, "Who can be
meant by 'him'? Not Master Robert surely? One would not dream of
punishing one whose only sin is to be led into evil paths by another.
One must tie him up, to be sure, lest he should be led into the evil
path of interfering with a certain little duty one owes to one's Lord,
one's little son, and one's own poor self. Quick, off with your blouse
and skirt!"
He gnashed his teeth. Even at that moment it fascinated me to
watch how curiously the muscles under his cheek twitched when he
was on cruelty bent. There must be a cruelty muscle.
I stood before him in vest and petticoat, pale and limp with fright, a
pitiable, cowering object: the sort of rabbit the serpent loves. I had
felt and seen hard blows that same day; now too Aunt Jael's
masterpieces flitted in dour procession through my mind: the rope
end, the day I sucked the acid drops, the three blows of the thorned
stick after Robinson Crewjoe, the great flogging with the butt end of
her stick when I said that Proverbs was the nastiest book in the
Bible. These were as nothing to what was coming now. I lifted my
eyes and for one second looked into his. I shall never again, please
God, see a look so cruel, so craven, so cad-like. There was spite in
it, and hate, and fear. Yet his fear was as nothing to mine.
Whip in hand he came towards me to catch hold. There could be no
hope. Aunt Martha was not to be seen; in any case what could she
have done? Albert was kneeling hopefully on the bed, Robbie's bed,
to get a better view of the sport. Robbie was bound hand and foot,
looking hate at Uncle Simeon; wretchedness, sympathy and
encouragement at me. His lips were tight together so that he should
not cry. Here was Simeon Greeber approaching me. He looked like
the devil; the idea seized me, he was the devil, the Personal Devil
himself; now I knew. But here lay hope: through the devil's enemy,
the Lord God Almighty. Moved by an insane impulse, I went down on
my knees on the bare floor.
"Oh, God," I cried, "save me from him, now, somehow! Save me,
and if it be Thy will, strike him dead!"
I was cut rudely short. He clutched my shoulder, his claw striking
cold and damp through my vest, and pulled me roughly to my feet.
"My Lord, my Lord, how she blasphemes! One will avenge it, Lord,
one will avenge." He dragged me into the middle of the room.
In that moment a strange thing happened. The sudden sweetness of
an old Christmas hymn smote our ears. It was the carollers again:
they must have moved up the Quay, for now they were singing just
outside the house:

Hark the herald angels si-ing


Glory to the new-born King—

For an instant he was unnerved, but for an instant only, and with

Peace on earth and mercy mi-ild

the first stroke of the whip fell across my back.


The memory comes back to me in nightmare. I see the honey-yellow
face ghastly against the growing darkness of the room. I see the
coarse little brute gloating on the bed. I see the young prisoner at
the bed-post flushed with rage and pity, biting his lips manfully. I
hear the voices of the singers out on the Quay mocking me with
merry Christmas hymns. To this day I can never hear the opening
notes of The Herald Angels without starting back, and living over
again for a moment all the horror. For all my fear and bodily agony, I
would not cry out. I would not give Robbie the pain nor Uncle
Simeon the pleasure. The whip tore my legs and body and back. I
bled all over. He thrashed me till I was faint with pain; till he could
thrash no longer. Then he kicked me and I fell half-dazed to the
ground, where as a final tribute from his humble if Christian person
he spat in my face. As I lay I heard vaguely the singers outside. The
voices now seemed dreamlike and far-away in their last triumphant
unison:

Mild he lays His glory by-y,


Born that man no more may di-ie,
Born to raise the sons of earth,
Born to-o give them second birth.
Hark, the Herald Angels sing,
Glory-y to the new-born-king!
In the following silence I heard his voice, far away too it seemed.
"Yes, you'd better go at once; dear Mr. Vivian Fortescue would not
have you stay another day to be so corrupted."
I felt another kick. "Come, up with you now to bed."
I rose painfully, but was too weak to stand, and tumbled. Albert
guffawed. At last I got up and crept to the door.
"Good night," he smiled. "Bid us good night, if you please. Let there
be no malice, no evil rage in your heart, for this little foretaste of
correction. Let there be no evil spirit of revenge. One harbours none
oneself. One forgives, forgives freely. Later on when Master Robert is
gone away one may begin to think of the just punishment that is
due. One must not shrink, grievously though it pains one. It is the
Lord's will, and His will be done. One forgives you, my child, forgives
you freely, despite all the wickedness and trouble you have brought
into the house. One forgives, yet one must punish."
I crawled upstairs to my bedroom. I had only my vest to take off—or
tear off, for it was stuck to me with blood. When I was naked I
looked at myself by the candle-light in the long wardrobe mirror. My
white breastless little body was covered with blood and dark strokes
and great weals. I bathed the worst places with the ice-cold water in
my basin and then rubbed in plenty of the mixed whitening with
which Grandmother had supplied me. It relieved me a little, and I
got into bed.
Soon the door opened. My heart beat fast. It was only Aunt Martha,
bringing my Christmas supper. Not flap-dragons, nor raisins nor
almond paste; just a small basin of mutton gruel.
"I'm sorry you've been so naughty, child, and have had to be
corrected."
She produced two apples craftily from her pocket, put them on the
bedside pedestal with the gruel, and went out. I did not touch them.
I was too sick and wretched to eat.
Nor could I sleep. The long night began; pain, hate and
wretchedness possessed me, first one more than another, and each
in turn. My rough woollen nightgown chafed my sores; the bed,
which was never a soft one, hurt me everywhere. My whole body
smarted and ached. Why had I to suffer such pain? Why was I
starved and bullied and abused and beaten and half-killed? Why had
a man, professing to be one of the Lord's own people, the right to
flog me so? Oh, the tyrant, I could only hear to think of him by
picturing to myself a glorious day when my turn would come, when I
would cat-o'-nine-tail him till he fainted and bang his face against a
stone wall till his pale features were one red indistinguishable mush.
Hate, hate, a bitter ointment, had eased my pain; hate for him, hate
for the world, and by silly bitter moments the Devil's temptation to
hate God. From hate for the tyrant I came to pity for the victim,
which was self-pity, so sweet a misery that it drove away all other
trouble. I was the wretchedest of all God's creatures, the
wretchedest being since Creation. For me all things were unjust.
Robbie and Albert were never treated as I was; in this alone were
they alike, and all children save me alike. Every little child I saw in
the street was happy, free, well-treated. Every one else had brothers
and sisters, and friends—and a mother.
The old new bitterness returned; why had my mother been taken
away? She would have protected me and cherished me. I tried to
think more clearly than ever before what she would have looked like
if still alive; like Grandmother, I fancied, with the same kind gentle
face, but taller and younger and warmer. I should have nestled to
her bosom, she would have taken me in her arms. I should have
comforted her. She would have loved me. The agony of the thought
was torture. I needed her to madness. I could lie down no longer. I
knelt up in bed and my soul cried out for her. Involuntarily my voice
was crying too, "Mother, mother!"
I uttered the words without knowing, as it were, that I spoke; they
were wrung from me without my consent; it was my soul not my
mind which spoke. And I knew this time that the prayer would be
answered; I had the sure supernatural instinct that my mother was
coming to me. She had been mouldering in Tawborough graveyard
for ten years now, yet I knew she was coming. I did not call again,
but waited in intense expectation. I clasped my hands in an agony of
hope.
She came. Right up to the bedside she moved in a white robe. She
spoke. Her voice seemed nearer to me than if it had been at the
bedside; inside me, in my very soul. Mother was with me, in me,
around me.
"I am here, Mary, I love you. You want to know that I love you, and
I have come to show you that I do."
The darkness was made radiant by the white figure before me. I was
bathed in a new presence, and I knew that it was love. I was still
kneeling on the bed and my face was on a level with my mother's. I
bent forward to fulfil my supreme need; I went nearer, my arms
were closing round her—and she was gone.
My arms closed round empty space. I came back to reality. I was
kneeling on the cold bed. And she was gone. The feeling of her
presence faded away; the sense of love and comfort was abiding. It
abides with me still. I was sad, forlorn, but happy to think she had
gone back to heaven, and that she loved me enough to come ten
million miles to comfort me. She had shown me the truth of the
resurrection, of the immortality of the soul; and something far
greater, the truth of love.
Hate, pain and weariness were forgotten in the joy of my mother's
love, I nestled in it, sheltered in it, clasped it to me, and soon it was
wooing me to sleep.
Then—a soft tread in the room—and I was wide awake in a flash.
The moon did not light the corner of the room by the door, but I
seemed to see a white figure standing there. Was it my angel
mother again?
"Mother," I cried faintly. I did not feel the divine sureness of her
presence I had known before. It could not be. Yet I heard the soft
tread again. The white form moved nearer.
Uncle Simeon! Pity, pity, he had come to flog me naked, torture me
in the darkness, rub salt into my wounds as he had threatened; to
kill me. I hid my face under the bedclothes in terror, then withdrew
as quickly for fear he would stifle me beneath them. His ghostlike
figure was still there. "Mother—God—Jesus!"
"Mary, don't be frightened."
It was Robbie.
Reaction from fear was so strong and overwhelming that for a
moment I could not think. The first words I could speak were
prompted by the fear that had fled, just as the life that has gone
enables a tiger still to spring, though shot through the heart a
second before.
"Hush, hush," I whispered. "Don't make a sound. What is it? Why
are you here? Think, if he found us! Oh, you frightened me. First, I
thought it was Mother, then that it was him."
"Mother?" said Robbie. "Are you dreaming, Mary? Are you awake
properly? I've got bare feet, and he can't hear whispering. Besides
he's snoring. I listened outside his door and it's nearly midnight."
"Why have you come?"
"To tell you I'm going away either tomorrow or the day after. He has
written to Uncle Vivian's housekeeper, Mrs. Venn, telling her to
expect me back straight away; and he has forbidden me to try to
see you before I go; dared me to.... This is our only chance, Mary. I
overheard him saying that tomorrow morning very early, before
breakfast, he's going to lock you in the attic and keep you locked
there till after I'm gone away. Well—I came to tell you that—and—to
say good-bye." He paused and took courage. "And to tell you that
when I'm a man I've made up my mind to come back and beat him
till he bleeds as he has made you bleed."
He stopped and waited. I knew what he was waiting for. I trembled,
shook like an aspen leaf; my heart, soul, brain, were all aflood with
what he longed for me to say.
"Why don't you come nearer?" huskily. He came a little nearer and
waited again, pretending, for all the world like a grown human
being, that he did not see the invitation he longed for.
"You are cold," I said (truth ready to my hand for use). "Come and
lie under the coverlet." The first word over, it was easier.
"It must be hurting you horribly," he said. He stood by the bedside in
a last moment of hesitation.
"Come," I repeated. He climbed on the bed beside me. "Yes, it hurts
badly. Robbie, come nearer."
Then he put his arms round me; I was half out of the bedclothes;
but we were warm together under the coverlet. His curly head
touched mine, his soft boyish cheek gently rubbed against my own.
This was what he had come to do. This was what I had waited to
know.
Here was love again. It was true. It was sweet beyond belief.
That is many years ago. Since then I have known many glorious
things. I say still that this moment, when he placed his boyish arms
around me, was the holiest and happiest of my life.
I was crying new tears, not of hate nor misery, but joy. Love opens
the floodgates; and I was surrounded with love, bathed in it; love in
heaven and love on earth; angel mother and human boy. The two
little night-gowned bodies lay close together, the two children's
hearts beat. In one there was affectionate pity, in the other a wild
joy; in both the high happiness of love. This is a joy so pure, that
when older we can never know it again. We kissed each other again
and again; eagerly, tenderly, wildly. The pent-up passion of my bitter
heart poured forth; I strained him tenderly in my arms, he strained
me in his. We were happy, far too happy to speak. His eyes were
bright and tender, his dear face transfigured. We forgot everything,
except that we loved each other.
The church clock sounded midnight.
Robbie broke the silence nervously. "I must go—soon. We shall have
to say good-bye, shan't we? It mayn't be safe much longer. Don't
forget you must escape from the attic somehow; break the door
open or anything. Find out from Mrs. Greeber exactly when I'm
going. I thought of your going tonight when I was still here to help
you, but you can't; he has bolted all the doors and locked them and
taken away the keys. He knew we might try. Oh, how I'll flog him
when I grow up."
"He'll be old then, and yellower and wrinkled instead of smooth."
"I don't care. I'll flog him all the same.... Get a screw-driver or
something and hide it when you are up in the attic. Then when
we're at the station you must break the lock and fly. I'll leave the
money under your bedroom carpet in the corner next to the door,
let's say four inches in—"
There was a sound; Robbie started up. "Oh, that's only the floor
creaking. Still, it's late."
"Don't go, Robbie."
"You know I don't want to, but I'll have to. When I'm older I'm not
going to forget. We mayn't meet for years and years, but we shall
see each other again somewhere, I know we shall. We must try to
remember each other ever so clearly. Isn't there anything we can do
to make it seem we're near together when we're really far apart?"
"I know. Every year exactly at this minute, a few minutes after
midnight on Christmas night, we'll think hard of each other, shut our
eyes, clench our fists, and think terribly hard. Then it will seem that
we're really right by each other; you'll believe I'm in the room with
you, and I'll believe you are. I shall wait till just after midnight, then
try to think of nothing else in all the world but you. I shall think of
you now as you are this minute—kiss me, it will be better to
remember by—yes, hard, like that—and then I'll pray 'God, oh God,
make Robbie be with me.' He will help it to happen. People who are
away from you can be with you like that, even dead people. My
mother came tonight. I saw her and she spoke to me. I called out
knowing she would come, and she came. You will too. But you must
believe with all your heart that it's going to happen; then it will. I
shall think you are with me; then you will be. Of course I shall think
of you other times, every day I expect, and always when I'm not
happy, but only Christmas night in this special way. It's too special to
do often. Will you too? Remember, every Christmas night, just after
midnight, when you're lying in bed, however far away you are, and
every year, always, think with all your soul of me and of our being
together just as we are tonight. Then we shall be together again
really, so that we shall always know one another whatever happens;
always love each other, always be able to kiss. Promise, will you
try?"
"Yes, Mary," he whispered.
For another few minutes we lay quietly in each other's arms. We
were together that night perhaps one hour in all; an hour in which
my whole soul changed. At last he had to go. Though he only
whispered, I could hear that the whisper was husky. His little body
trembled in my arms.
"Good-night, Mary."
"Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear." I hugged him harder than ever to
me. I would not let him go.
Then the good-bye kiss, sweetest of all, too sad for tears. His soft
boy's lips brushed mine; it seemed too that they touched the tendrils
of my heart and made it blossom like the garden of lilies you read of
in Solomon's Song. A spirit of loveliness filled me. He got up; now it
was last good-bye. I saw his face for a moment in the beam of
moonlight that came slantwise through my window. For many years
that vision was the chief treasure I had: a little boy in a long white
nightgown, a head of tousled curls, a bright face flushed with joy
and tears, radiant with my embrace, radiant with love for me.
"Good-night, Mary, good-night. I'll never forget you; I'll always love
you."
"Good-night, Robbie."
CHAPTER XVIII: NEW YEAR'S
NIGHT
I awoke next morning to see Aunt Martha standing by my bedside.
"You're to get up at once. Your uncle says you are to spend a week
in the attic for your naughtiness, so get up and dress quickly. I'll
come back to take you in a few minutes. Your uncle says you're to
go before breakfast, now, at once, so that you can speak to
nobody."
Robbie had heard aright.
I was still very sore; my nightgown stuck to me here and there with
dry blood, and hurt me as I tore it off. I dressed, and was ready
when Aunt Martha returned. In the grey of a damp winter dawn I
followed her upstairs. No one else was stirring. The unused, airless
smell of the attic seemed more unpleasant than usual in the cold: an
atmosphere at once frozen and stuffy. A mattress had been put on
the floor; there were no bedclothes or coverlets. The room was bare
except for a few boxes and old picture frames in one corner, the
rusty old fender that always stood end upwards against the wall, and
one rickety backless old chair.
"Here's a cloak to wrap round you in the night. Your uncle said I
wasn't to leave one." She went away.
All day I was left alone. Twice Aunt Martha came up with a bowl of
gruel and a dry crust, but (evidently under orders) she said nothing.
It was so cold that the cloak could not prevent my getting numbed. I
lay huddled up on the mattress all through the day, thinking,
thinking, thinking.... Now that the first glow of the Wonder Night had
passed away, there came a reaction, and I was gnawing away once
more at all my bitter memories and hates. Pain, too, was governing
me; my aching body was half numbed with cold, especially my legs
and feet, which the cloak was not long enough to cover, huddle as I
might. I kept my soul warm—and body too to some degree—by
hugging to me the loves that now were mine. I lived the time spent
with my mother and with Robbie over and over and over again:
every gesture, every kindness, every kiss. For all my unhappiness
and physical misery I could never again be so blankly, harbourlessly
miserable as before. In my darkest moments I now knew that there
were places of comfort to which I could fly.
I wondered what was going on in the house downstairs. It was
night-time now; tomorrow morning Robbie would be going and I
should be alone with Uncle Simeon. Escape I must. I climbed on to
the rickety old chair and opened the skylight window. I looked out
and observed that the skylight was of a level piece with the sloping
roof. I could see nothing beyond the edge of the roof; the sense of
the great drop beyond that edge came to me, and as I pictured
myself falling, I shuddered. That way there was no escape.
Then, for one second, as I looked down the sloping roof, came a
sudden notion to throw myself over. It was a physical impulse only,
and passed as quickly as it came. It would have stayed longer had I
been the least bit tempted. But I could never see the sense of
suicide. I saw no good in killing myself, because I believed in
immortality. By killing myself I should only be ensuring an Eternity in
hell instead of an Eternity in heaven. The little boy in one of the new
novels makes away with himself because he believes that there is
nothing beyond death, and that by killing himself in this world he
has killed his soul for ever. If I had believed that I too might have
been tempted. But my creed was in immortality, from which there is
no escape. Nor had I the physical courage which suicide requires.
And it would steal my chance of meeting my mother in the next
world and Robbie in this.
I lay down on my mattress, seeking vainly, like a mouse in a trap,
some new way of escape. During the first night in that cold dreary
attic I slept hardly at all. The rats frightened me; I could not sleep
for fear they would crawl over my face once it was still. Surely
Robbie would send some sign, some message. None came. Later I
must have slept; for again it was Aunt Martha who woke me when
she came to bring my "breakfast." She was startled to see how
starved with cold I was, and came back with a big warm blanket. It
was a brave thing for her to do.
"Robert Grove is going, isn't he?" I asked casually, steadying my
voice.
"Your Uncle thought he was going today, but it has been put off till
next Tuesday, New Year's Day, when his uncle returns from abroad.
Till then your uncle says you must stay here."
There I stayed. Four walls, locked door, and precipitous roof baffled
all my notions of escape. The best thing I could think of was a rush
for the door when Aunt Martha came with my food; but I saw this
would not be much good. She would raise the alarm, and he would
catch me before I could get clear of the house.
Five days passed, long, cold and wretched; though with the big
blanket, and the forbidden extras Aunt Martha contrived sometimes
to convey me with my meals, I managed to keep alive, and kept, in
my fashion of health, reasonably well. No message came from
Robbie. No doubt Uncle Simeon was watching him day and night.
But still—.
I was not sure of the passage of time, but I reckoned one night that
it was New Year's Eve. The last night, and still no message.
Tomorrow he was going: this time for certain, and for ever; I should
be left alone with my tormentor. Half in terror (of Uncle Simeon
when he should get me alone), half in hope (of a sign from Robbie),
I lay awake through the whole of that night. It struck midnight. The
bells rang out; merrily, mockingly. It was New Year's night as I had
thought. All over the town people, even Saints, were wishing each
other a Happy New Year. The bells were still. I lay awake waiting for
something to happen, for I knew it would. All the night-time sounds
of an old house were around me. Boards creaked, roof shook, rats
scampered. Sometimes I was startled by a metallic sound as a rat
scampered over the tin plate on which Aunt Martha brought my
bread.
There—that was a new sound! That tapping noise at the door was
never a rat. It seemed low down just where a rat might scratch, but
that was the rap of human knuckles, faint but unmistakable. Who?
Why? I crawled out of the blanket, lay down on the bare boards and
whispered under the door.
"Robbie, is that you, Robbie?"
There was no reply except the stealthy sound of something being
pushed under the door. I saw a white thing that looked like a small
envelope. I touched it and felt inside the paper a hard round thing.
It was the half-sovereign he had promised me.
"Robbie, Robbie, thank you! Are you there? Robbie, Robbie."
There was no reply. I heard cautious footsteps, with a long interval
between each, going down the creaky old stairs. How I wished he
had whispered one word, one word. He had thought I was asleep
and had not dared to speak loud enough to wake me. Never mind, it
was better that the last thing was Christmas Night's perfect good-
bye.
I clutched the envelope and mourned the weary hours of waiting
until I could read it, for I had no candle. I kept my eyes staring wide
open to prevent myself falling asleep. I could feel that there was a
letter as well as money inside the envelope. I knew it would help
me; I was impatient to know how. So much did it raise my hopes,
that I fell to thinking of the coach-ride to Tawborough, of what
Grandmother would say and how Aunt Jael would receive me.
As I stared through the darkness I became gradually aware of a ray
of light along the ceiling. It did not come from the skylight, for there
was no moon; and it ran horizontally along the ceiling, not down into
the room. I got up and climbed on to the chair to investigate. Then I
guessed. I had often noticed in a corner in the top of the wall (the
corner farthest from the door) a little wooden door a foot or more
square; it did not exactly fit the space in the wall and there was a
thin aperture between the bottom of this little door and where the
wall began. It was through this slit, not more than half an inch wide,
that the strip of light came. I pulled at the handle and the little door
opened.
Ten yards or so away, on a level with my eyes, I saw a square patch
of brightness. In a flash, I understood; the light from which it came
was in Uncle Simeon's attic. There was a hole in the corner of the
top of the wall there too, the selfsame square space I had seen
when peeping through the keyhole. What the holes were for I did
not know; most likely to ventilate the room in between. The space
mystery which had so often puzzled me was now explained. There
was, in between the two attics which I knew, mine and Uncle
Simeon's, another intermediate garret twice as large as either.
Instantly, I formed the resolution of squeezing my way through the
hole, traversing the long dark attic in between, clambering up the
other aperture through which the ray of light was streaming, and
seeing—just what I was too excited to guess, except that I knew
that he was there. The hole was about eighteen inches square; it
was a tight squeeze, but thanks to his dieting I managed it.
Clambering down the other side was awkward work; I held on to the
wall part of the hole to prepare for a jump. I knew it was a longish
drop; there was no convenient chair on this side, and as I had left
my slippers behind so as to make as little noise as possible, I hoped
the ground was not too hard. My feet alighted unevenly; the left foot
on the corner of a beam stuck edgeways, the right on the level of
the floor, which was of course lower by the width of the beam. I hurt
my toe badly. The ray of light was only sufficient to show up very
dimly the big garret in which I now stood; I could make out that the
floor was traversed by long beams laid edgeways, parallel with the
front of the house and thus leading from my attic to his. Along one
of these I walked; for although it was awkwardly narrow, it was
better for my stockinged feet than the floor, which I made out to be
strewn with pieces of wood, stone and plaster. When I got to the
other end I found that my objective was too high; my fingers only
just reached the edge of the hole. By standing on tiptoe, however,
and clutching for all I was worth I managed to lever myself up. Then
I looked into the mysterious room.
What I saw was unforgettable. On a high cupboard flared a lamp,
nearly on a level with the space through which I was looking. This
explained how it was that the light carried right through to the
corresponding hole in the wall of my attic. In the full glare of the
lamp sat Simeon Greeber, leaning over a table covered with papers
and documents, at which he peered. He gloated over them, fondled
them, sometimes he laughed and breathed hard, and his eyes
shone. Then he would stop, cock his head on one side for a
moment, and listen anxiously. I watched him, fascinated. Round him,
on the floor and the table, were many envelopes and papers. The
wall was some inches thick; to see as much as I could I peered
further in, so far indeed that if he stood up and looked my way he
could hardly fail to see me. I noticed the big green box I had
observed from the key-hole months before; a heavy door on hinges
stood wide open; inside were more papers. His face, in the moments
when he lifted it up, was of a greenish yellow hue in the lamp-light;
and his eyes shone.
In my interest I had forgotten the awkwardness of my posture;
supported by my elbows and wrists on the wall part of the hole, with
my feet hanging in mid-air, my toes perhaps barely touching the
wall. Once I lost my hold, and clutched convulsively so as not to fall.
He heard the noise, lifted his face from the pile in which he was
wallowing, and looked round anxiously. I had scared him.
"No, no, it can't be, it can't be," he whispered, endeavouring to
assure himself of something.
He returned to his love. Now he rubbed his face sideways against
the papers, gently, like a friendly cat against your leg.
I resolved to make a noise deliberately, keeping myself far enough
back not to be seen, and to listen to what he might say.
In silence, at night, alone, a sigh is the most awful noise that can
strike the human ear. I waited till his face was lifted again for a
moment, held myself far enough back so as not to be seen easily,
while still seeing him, and uttered a long-drawn agonized sigh. He
started up with a cry. His cowardly face was a livid green.
"Brother, brother"—it was a terrified whine—"twelve years ago,
twelve years ago."
"Twelve years ago, twelve years ago," echoed the watching
whisperer.
He gave a horrible frightened cry, something between a beast's
whine and howl, dropped on his knees, clasped his hands, turned his
terrified eyes upward, and broke into delirious prayer. His face
streamed with sweat.
"Oh, God, God, visit not Thy servant thus. 'Twas all done for Thee,
all for Thee, Thou knowest. The gold is all Thine. For Thy name's
sake, Oh Lord, pity Thy faithful, humble servant. He, Lord, was a
sinner, it was meet that he should go, and that one of Thine own
people should hold his wealth. He was spending all in sin; it was
one's duty, Lord, one's duty. It was Thou who guidedst one's hand
that night, and was he not dying already from the illness with which
Thou hadst stricken him? For Thy sake, oh Lord, it was done. Thou
knowest it. Not the meanest penny has been spent on worldly
pleasures nor evil ways nor self, as he, oh Lord, would have spent it.
Thou knowest, Thou knowest; the meetings, the missionaries, the
work in Thy vineyard amongst Thy people; all that has been spent
has been spent in Thy service, and when Thou callest me to Thee,
all will be left for Thy work on earth below. All, oh Lord, all. Thou

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