“Flies don’t buzz,” she said passionately. “They don’t buzz. Why do people say they buzz?” The pain pressing behind her temples slackened. In a moment it would be only a glow.
Miss Haddie stood with bent head, her face turning from side to side, with its sour hesitating smile, her large eyes darting their strange glances about the room.
“Won’t you sit down a minute? They haven’t sounded the first bell yet.” Miriam sat down on the one little white-painted, cane-seated chair near the dressing-table. “Eh—eh,” said Miss Haddie, beginning to unfasten her veil. “She doesn’t approve of general conversation,” thought Miriam. “She’s a female. Oh well, she’ll have to see I’m not.”
“What gave you yer headache?”
“Oh well, I don’t know. I suppose I was wondering what it was all about.”
“I don’t think I quite understand ye.”
“Well, I mean—what that old gentleman was in such a state of mind about.”
“D’ye mean Mr. La Trobe!”
“Yes. Why do you laugh?”
“I don’t understand what ye mean.”
Miriam watched Miss Haddie’s thin fingers feeling for the pins in her black toque. “Of course not,” she thought, looking at the unveiled shrivelled cheek. … “thirty-five years of being a lady.”
“Oh well,” she sighed fiercely.
“What is it ye mean, my dear?”
—“couldn’t make head or tail of a thing the old dodderer said”—no “old boy,” no—these phrases would not do for Miss Haddie.
“I couldn’t agree with anything he said.”
Miss Haddie sat down on the edge of the little white bed burying her face in her hands and smoothing them up and down with a wiping movement.
“One can always criticise a sermon,” she said reproachfully.
“Well, why not?”
“I mean to say ye can,” said Miss Haddie from behind her fingers, “but, but ye shouldn’t.”
“You can’t help it.”
“Oh yes, ye can. If ye listen in the right spirit,” gargled Miss Haddie hurriedly.
“Oh, it isn’t only the sermon, it’s the whole thing,” said Miriam crimsoning.
“Ye mustn’t think about the speaker,” went on Miss Haddie in faint hurried rebuke. “That’s wrong. That sets people running from church to church. You must attend your own parish church in the right spirit, let the preacher be who—who—what he may.”
“Oh, but I think that’s positively dangerous,” said Miriam gravely. “It simply means leaving your mind open for whatever they choose to say. Like Rome.”
“Eh, no‑o‑o,” flared Miss Haddie dropping her hands, “nonsense. Not like Rome at all.”
“But it is. It’s giving up your conscience.”
“You’re very determined,” laughed Miss Haddie bitterly.
“I’m certainly not going to give my mind up to a parson for him to do what he likes with. That’s what it is. That’s what they do. I’ve seen it again and again. I’ve heard people talking about sermons,” finished Miriam with vivacious intentness.
Miss Haddie sat very still with her hands once more pressed tightly against her face.
“Oh, my dear. This is a dreadful state of affairs. I’m afraid you’re all wrong. That’s not it at all. If you listen only for the good, the good will come to you.”
“But these men don’t know. How should they? They don’t agree amongst themselves.”
“Oh, my dear, that is a very wrong attitude. How long have ye felt like this?”
“Oh, all my life,” responded Miriam proudly.
“I’m very sorry, my dear.”
“Ever since I can remember. Always.”
There were ivory-backed brushes on the dressing-table. Miriam stared at them and let her eyes wander on to a framed picture of an agonised thorn-crowned head.
“Were you—have ye—eh—have ye been confirmed?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did ye discuss any of your difficulties with yer vicar?”
“Not I. I knew his mind too well. Had heard him preach for years. He would have run round my questions. He wasn’t capable of answering them. For instance, supposing I had asked him what I’ve always wanted to know. How can people, ordinary people, be expected to be like Christ, as they say, when they think Christ was supernatural? Of course, if he was supernatural it was easy enough for him to be as he was; if he was not supernatural, then there’s nothing in the whole thing.”
“My dear child! I’m dreadfully sorry ye feel like that. I’d no idea ye felt like that, poor child. I knew ye weren’t quite happy always; I mean I’ve thought ye weren’t quite happy in yer mind sometimes, but I’d no idea—eh, eh, have ye ever consulted anybody—anybody able to give ye advice?”
“There you are. That’s exactly the whole thing! Who can one consult? There isn’t anybody. The people who are qualified are the people who have the thing called faith, which means that they beg the whole question from the beginning.”
“Eh—dear—me—Miriam—child!”
“Well, I’m made that way. How can I help it if faith seems to me just an abnormal condition of the mind with fanaticism at one end and agnosticism at the other?”
“My dear, ye believe in God?”
“Well, you see, I see things like this. On one side a prime cause with a certain object unknown to me, bringing humanity into being; on the other side humanity, all more or less miserable, never having been consulted as to whether they wanted to come to life. If that is belief, a South Sea Islander could have it. But good people, people with faith, want me to believe that one day God sent a saviour to rescue the world from sin and that the world can never be grateful enough and must become as Christ. Well. If God made people he is responsible and ought to save them.”
“What do yer parents think about yer ideas?”
“They don’t know.”
“Ye’ve never mentioned yer trouble to them?”
“I did ask Pater once when we were coming home
