One of a rather different kind had another effect. I was sitting in the garden one day watching in the distance a jay huffling and sidling and preening its feathers on a bit of decrepit fencing. Suddenly there fell a sharp crack of sound. In a flash, with a derisive chattering, the jay was flown: and then I saw Adam Waggett, half doubled up, stealing along towards the place. I lay in wait for him. With catapult dangling in one hand, the other fist tight shut, he came along like a thief. And I cried hollowly out of my concealment, “Adam, what have you there?”
Such a picture of foolish shame I have never seen. He was compelled none the less to exhibit his spoil, an eye-shut, twinkle-tailed, needle-billed Jenny Wren crumpled up in his great, dirty paw. Fury burnt up in me like a fire. What I said to him I cannot remember, but it was nothing sweet; and it was a cowed Adam Waggett that loafed off as truculently as he could towards the house, his catapult and victim left behind him. But that was his lesson rather than mine, and one which he never forgot.
When in my serener moods Pollie’s voice would be heard slyly hallooing for me, I would rouse up with a shock to realize again the little cell of my body into which I had been confined. Then she and I would eat our luncheon, a few snippets of biscuit, a cherry or two, or slice of apple for me, and for her a hunch of bread and bacon about half my size in length and thickness. I would turn my back on her, for I could not endure to see her gobble her meal, having an abhorrence of cooked flesh, and a dainty stomach. Still, like most children I could be greedy, and curious of unfamiliar foods. To a few forbidden black currants which I reached up and plucked from their rank-smelling bush, and devoured, skin and all, I owe lesson Number 3. This one, however, had to be repeated.
Childhood quickly fleets away. Those happy, unhappy, faraway days seem like mere glimpses of a dragonfly shimmering and darting over my garden stream, though at the actual time they more closely resembled, perhaps, a continuous dream broken into bits of vivid awakening.
As I grew older, my skirts grew longer, my desire for independence sharper, and my wits more inquiring. On my seventeenth birthday I put up my hair, and was confirmed by a bishop whom my godmother persuaded to officiate in the house. It was a solemn occasion; but my mother was a good deal concerned about the lunch, and I with the ballooning lawn sleeves and the two square episcopal fingertips disposed upon my head. The experience cast a peaceful light into my mind and shook my heart, but it made me for a time a little self-conscious of both my virtue and my sins. I began to brood not only on the deplorable state of my own soul, but also on Pollie’s and Mrs. Ballard’s, and became for a time a diminutive Miss Fenne. I suppose innocence is a precarious bliss. On the other hand, if one’s mind is like a dead mole’s belly, it is wise, I think, to examine it closely but not too often, and to repeat that confirmation for one’s self every morning and evening.
As a young child I had been, of course, as naturally religious as a savage or an angel. But even then, I think, I never could quite believe that Paradise was a mere Fenne-land.
Once I remember in the midst of my multiplication table I had broken out unannounced with, “Then God made the world, mamma?”
“Yes, my dear.”
“And all things in the forests and the birds in the sky and—and moles, and this?” I held down my limp, coral-coloured arithmetic.
“Yes,” said she.
I wondered a while, losing myself, as if in wanderings like Ariel’s, between the clouds. “What, mamma, did He make them of?” my voice interrupted me.
“He made them,” said my mother steadily, “of His Power and Love.”
Rapidly I slid back into her company. “And can we, can I, make things of my power and love?”
“I suppose, my dear,” replied my mother reflectively and perhaps thinking of my father in his study, over his Paper and Hops, “it is only that in life that is really worth doing.”
“Then,” I said sagely, “I suspects that’s how Mullings does the garden, mamma.”
Long before Miss Fenne’s and the bishop’s visitation my mother had set about teaching me in earnest. A governess—a Miss Perry—was our first experiment. Alas, apart from her tendency to quinsy, it was I who was found wanting. She complained of the strain on her nerves. My mother feared that quinsy was catching; and Miss Perry had no successor. Reading was always a difficulty. My father bought me as tiny old books as could be found, including a dwarf Bible, a midget Pickering Shakespeare, and a grammar (with a menagerie for frontispiece) from which I learned that “irony is a figure which intends the reverse of what it speaks, and under the masque of praise, conceals the most biting satyr”; and the following stanza:—
Hail Energeia! hail my native tongue
Concisely full, and musically strong;
Thou with the pencil hold’st a glorious strife,
And paint’st the passions equal to the life.
My mother agreed that strung would be preferable to “strong,” and explained that “the passions” did not signify merely ill-temper; while, if I pecked over-nicely at
