Towards evening it rained again and Aunt Lavvy went off to Ilford for the Evening Service, by herself. Everybody else stayed at home, and there was hymn-singing instead of church. Mary and her mother were alone together. When her mother had sung the last hymn, “Lead, Kindly Light,” then she would do it.
Her mother was singing:
“ ‘Jesu, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the nearer wa‑a‑ters roll,
While the tempest still is high’ ”—
She could see the stiff, slender muscles straining in her mother’s neck. The weak, plaintive voice tore at her heart. She knew that her mother’s voice was weak and plaintive. Its thin, sweet notes unnerved her.
“ ‘Other refuge ha‑ave I none:
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee’ ”—
Helpless—Helpless. Mamma was helpless. It was only her love of Mark and Jesus that was strong. Something would happen if she told her—something awful. She could feel already the chill of an intolerable separation. She could give up Jesus, the lover of her soul, but she could not give up her mother. She couldn’t live separated from Mamma, from the weak, plaintive voice that tore at her.
She couldn’t do it.
IV
Catty’s eyes twinkled through the banisters. She caught Mary coming downstairs and whispered that there was cold boiled chicken and trifle for supper, because of Aunt Lavvy.
Through the door Mary could see her father standing at the table, and the calm breasts of the cold chicken smoothed with white sauce and decorated with beetroot stars.
There was a book beside Papa’s plate, the book Aunt Lavvy had been reading. She had left it open on the drawing-room table when she went to church. She was late for supper and they sat there waiting for her. She came in, slowly as usual, and looking at the supper things as though they were not there. When she caught sight of the book something went up and flickered in her eyes—a sort of triumph.
You couldn’t help thinking that she had left it lying about on purpose, so that Papa should see it.
He stood waiting till she had sat down. He handed the book to her. His eyes gleamed.
“When you come here,” he said, “you will be good enough to leave James Martineau behind you.”
Mamma looked up, startled. “You don’t mean to say you’ve brought that man’s books into the house?”
“You can see for yourself, Caroline,” said Aunt Lavvy.
“I don’t want to see. No, Mary, it has nothing to do with you.”
Mamma was smiling nervously. You would have supposed that she thought James Martineau funny, but the least bit improper.
“But look, Mamma, it’s his Endeavours After the Christian Life.”
Her mother took up the book and put it down as if it had bitten her.
“Christian Life, indeed! What right has James Martineau to call himself a Christian? When he denies Christ—the Lord who bought him! And makes no secret of it. How can you respect an infidel who uses Christ’s name to cover up his blasphemy?”
Aunt Lavvy was smiling now.
“I thought you said he made no secret of it?”
Mamma said, “You know very well what I mean.”
“If you knew Dr. Martineau—”
“You’ve no business to know him,” Emilius said, “when your brother Victor and I disapprove of him.”
Emilius was carving chicken. He had an air of kindly, luscious hospitality, hesitating between the two flawless breasts.
“Dr. Martineau is the wisest and holiest man I ever knew,” said Aunt Lavvy.
“I daresay your sister Charlotte thinks Mr. Marriott the wisest and the holiest man she ever knew.”
He settled the larger breast on Aunt Lavvy’s plate and laid on it one perfect star of beetroot. He could do that while he insulted her.
“Oh—Papa—you are a br—”
Aunt Lavvy shook her gentle head.
“Lavinia dear” (Mamma’s voice was gentle), “did you have a nice service?”
“Very nice, thank you.”
“Did you go to Saint Mary’s, or the Parish church?”
Aunt Lavvy’s straight, flat chin trembled slightly. Her pale eyes lightened. “I went to neither.”
“Then—where did you go?”
“If you insist on knowing, Caroline, I went to Mr. Robson’s church.”
“You went to Mr.—to the Unitarian Chapel?”
“To the Unitarian Chapel.”
“Emilius—” You would have thought that Aunt Lavvy had hit Mamma and hurt her.
Emilius took up his table napkin and wiped his moustache carefully. He was quite horribly calm.
“You will oblige me by not going there again,” he said.
“You forget that I went every Sunday when we were in Liverpool.”
“You forget that is the reason why you left Liverpool.”
“Only one of the reasons, I think.”
“Can you tell me what reason you have for going now? Beyond your desire to make yourself different from other people.”
“Aren’t Unitarians other people?”
She poured out a glass of water and drank. She was giving herself time.
“My reason,” she said, “is that I have joined the Unitarian Church.”
Mamma put down her knife and fork. Her lips opened and her face turned suddenly sharp and sallow as if she were going to faint.
“You don’t mean to say you’ve gone over? Then God help poor Charlotte!”
Emilius steadied himself to speak. “Does Victor know?” he said.
“Yes. He knows.”
“You have consulted him, and you have not consulted me?”
“You made me promise not to talk about it. I have kept my promise.”
Mary was sure then that Aunt Lavvy had left the book open on purpose. She had laid a trap for Emilius, and he had fallen into it.
“If you will hold infamous opinions you must be made to keep them to yourself.”
“I have a perfect right to my opinions.”
“You have no right to make an open profession of them.”
“The law is more tolerant than you, Emilius.”
“There is a moral law and a law of honour. You are not living by yourself. As long as you are in Victor’s house the least you can do is to avoid giving offence. Have you no consideration for your family? You say you came here to be near us. Have you thought of
