“What did he say?”
“He couldn’t answer. We were just by the gate. He said he thought it was a remarkably reasonable dilemma. He laughed.”
“And ye’ve never had any discussion of these things with him?”
“No.”
“Ye’re an independent young woman,” said Miss Haddie.
Miriam looked up. Miss Haddie was sitting on the edge of her bed. A faint pink flush on her cheeks made her eyes look almost blue. She was no longer frowning. “I’m something new—a kind of different world. She is wondering. I must stick to my guns,” mused Miriam.
“I’ll not ask ye,” said Miss Haddie quietly and cheerfully, “to expect any help from yer fellow creatures since ye’ve such a poor opinion of them. But ye’re not happy. Why not go straight to the source?”
Miriam waited. For a moment the sheen on Miss Haddie’s silk sleeves had distracted her by becoming as gentle and unchallenging as the light on her mother’s dresses when there were other people in the room. She had feared the leaping out of some emotional appeal. But Miss Haddie had a plan. Strange secret knowledge.
“I should like to ask ye a question.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I’ll put it in this way. While ye’ve watched the doings of yer fellow creatures ye’ve forgotten that the truth ye’re seeking is a—a Person.”
Miriam pondered.
“That’s where ye ought to begin. And how about—what—what about—I fancy ye’ve been neglecting the—the means of grace. … I think ye have.” Miss Haddie rose and crossed the room to a little bookshelf at the head of her bed, talking happily on. “Upright as a dart,” commented Miriam mentally, waiting for the fulfilment of the promise of Miss Haddie’s cheerfulness. Against the straight lines of the wallpaper Miss Haddie showed as swaying slightly backwards from the waist as she moved.
The first bell rang and Miriam got up to go. Miss Haddie came forward with a small volume in her hands and held it out, standing close by her and keeping her own hold on the volume. “Ye’ll find no argument in it. Not but I think a few sound arguments would do ye good. Give it a try. Don’t be stiff-necked. Just read it and see.” The smooth soft leather slipped altogether into Miriam’s hands and she felt the passing contact of a cool small hand and noted a faint fine scent coming to her from Miss Haddie’s person.
In her own room she found that the soft binding of the book had rounded corners and nothing on the cover but a small plain gold cross in the right-hand corner. She feasted her eyes on it as she took off her things. When the second bell rang she glanced inside the cover. “Preparation for Holy Communion.” Hurriedly hiding it in her long drawer under a pile of linen, she ran to the door. Running back again she took it out and put it, together with her prayer book and hymn book, in the small top drawer.
The opportunity to use Miss Haddie’s book came with Nancie’s departure for a weekend visit. Beadie was in the deeps of her first sleep and the room seemed empty. The book lay open on her bed. She noted as she placed it there when she began preparing for bed that it was written by a bishop, a man she knew by name as being still alive. It struck her as extraordinary that a book should be printed and read while the author was alive, and she turned away with a feeling of shame from the idea of the bishop, still going about in his lawn sleeves and talking, while people read a book that he had written in his study. But it was very interesting to have the book to look at, because he probably knew about modern people with doubts and would not think about them as “infidels”—“an honest agnostic has my sympathy,” he might say, and it was possible he did not believe in eternal punishment. If he did he would not have had his book printed with rounded edges and that beautiful little cross. … Line Upon Line and the Pilgrim’s Progress were not meant for modern minds. Archbishop Whateley had a “chaste and eloquent wit” and was a “great gardener.” A witty archbishop fond of gardening was simply aggravating and silly.
Restraining her desire to hurry, Miriam completed her toilet and at last knelt down in her dressing-gown. Its pinked neck-frill fell heavily against her face as she leant over the bed. Tucking it into her neck she clasped her outstretched hands, leaving the book within the circle of her arms. The attitude seemed a little lacking in respect for the beautifully printed gilt-edged pages. Flattening her entwined hands between herself and the edge of the bed, she read very slowly that just as for worldly communion men cleanse and deck their bodies so for attendance at the Holy Feast must there be a cleansing and decking of the spirit. She knelt upright, feeling herself grow very grave. The cold air of the bedroom flowed round her carrying conviction. Then that dreadful feeling at early service, kneeling like a lump in the pew, too late to begin to be good, the exhausted moments by the altar rail—the challenging light on the shining brass rod, on the priest’s ring and the golden lining of the cup, the curious bite of the wine in the throat—the sullen disappointed homecoming; all the strange failure was due to lack of preparation. She knelt for some moments, without thoughts, breathing in the cleansing air, sighing heavily at intervals. What she ought to do was clear. A certain time for preparation could be taken every night, kneeling up in bed with the gas out if Nancie were awake, and a specially long time on Saturday night. The decision took her back to her book. She read that no man can cleanse himself, but it is his part to examine his conscience and confess his sins with a prayer
