Mary saw that she was likely to be alone in her adventure. It appeared to her more than ever as a journey into a beautiful, quiet yet exciting country where you could go on and on. The mere pleasure of being able to move enchanted her. But nobody would go with her. Nobody knew. Nobody cared.
There was Spinoza; but Spinoza had been dead for ages. Now she came to think of it she had never heard anybody, not even Mr. Propart, speak of Spinoza. It would be worse for her than it had ever been for Aunt Lavvy who had actually known Dr. Martineau. Dr. Martineau was not dead; and if he had been there were still lots of Unitarian ministers alive all over England. And in the end Aunt Lavvy had broken loose and gone into her Unitarian Chapel.
She thought: “Not till after Grandmamma was dead. Till years after Grandmamma was dead.”
She thought: “Of course I’d die rather than tell Mamma.”
VII
Aunt Lavvy had gone. Mr. Parish had taken her away in his wagonette.
At lessons Mamma complained that you were not attending. But she was not attending herself, and when sewing time came she showed what she had been thinking about.
“What were you doing in Aunt Lavvy’s room this morning?”
She looked up sharply over the socks piled before her for darning.
“Only talking.”
“Was Aunt Lavvy talking to you about her opinions?”
“No, Mamma.”
“Has she ever talked to you?”
“Of course not. She wouldn’t if she promised not to. I don’t know even now what Unitarianism is. … What do Unitarians believe in?”
“Goodness knows,” her mother said. “Nothing that’s any good to them, you may be sure.”
Mary went on darning. The coarse wool of the socks irritated her fingers. It caught in a split nail, setting her teeth on edge.
If you went on darning forever—if you went on darning—Mamma would be pleased. She had not suspected anything.
VIII
“ ‘Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.’ ”
Between the lovely lines she could hear Mamma say, “They all scamp their work. You would require a resident carpenter and a resident glazier—”
And Mrs. Farmer’s soft drawl spinning out the theme: “And a resident plumber. Yes, Mrs. Olivier, you really wou-ould.”
Mr. and Mrs. Farmer had called and stayed to tea. Across the room you could see his close, hatchet nose and straggly beard. Every now and then his small, greenish eyes lifted and looked at you.
Impossible that you had ever enjoyed going to Mrs. Farmer’s to see the baby. It was like something that had happened to somebody else, a long time ago. Mrs. Farmer was always having babies, and always asking you to go and see them. She couldn’t understand that as you grew older you left off caring about babies.
“ ’—We are such stuff
As dreams are made of—’ ”
“The Bishop—Confirmation—opportunity.”
Even Mamma owned that Mr. Farmer never knew when it was time to go.
“ ’As dreams are made of, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep—’ ”
The universe is nothing but the spectacle of the dreams of God. Or was it the thoughts of God?
“Confirmation—Parish Church—Bishop—”
Confirmation. She had seen a Confirmation once, years ago. Girls in white dresses and long white veils, like brides, shining behind the square black windows of the broughams. Dora and Effie Draper. Effie leaned forward. Her pretty, piercing face looked out through the black pane, not seeing anything, trying greedily to be seen. Big boys and girls knelt down in rows before the Bishop, and his sleeves went flapping up and down over them like bolsters in the wind.
Mr. Farmer was looking at her again, as if he had an idea in his head.
IX
The Church Service was open at the Thirty-Nine Articles. Mamma had pushed Dr. Smith’s “History of England” away.
“Do you think,” she said, “you could say the Catechism and the Athanasian Creed straight through without stopping?”
“I daresay I could if I tried. Why?”
“Because Mr. Farmer will want to examine you.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because,” her mother said, “there’s going to be a Confirmation. It’s time you were thinking about being confirmed.”
“Confirmed? Me?”
“And why not you?”
“Well—I haven’t got to be, have I?”
“You will have, sooner or later. So you may as well begin to think about it now.”
Confirmation. She had never thought about it as a real thing that might happen to her, that would happen, sooner or later, if she didn’t do something to stop Mr. Farmer and Mamma.
“I am thinking. I’m thinking tight.”
Tight. Tight. Her mind, in agony, pinned itself to one point: how she could stop her mother without telling her.
Beyond that point she couldn’t see clearly.
“You see—you see—I don’t want to be confirmed.”
“You don’t want? You might as well say you didn’t want to be a Christian.”
“Don’t worry, Mamma darling. I only want to stay as I am.”
“I must worry. I’m responsible for you as long as you’re not confirmed. You forget that I’m your godmother as well as your mother.”
She had forgotten it. And Papa and Uncle Victor were her godfathers. “What did your godfathers and godmothers then for you?—They did promise and vow three things in my name—” they had actually done it. “First: that I should renounce”—renounce—renounce—“Secondly: that I should believe all the Articles of the Christian Faith—”
The Christian Faith—the Catholic Faith. “Which Faith except everyone do keep whole and undefiled, without doubt he shall perish everlastingly”—
—“And the Catholic Faith is this: That we worship one God in Trinity and Trinity in Unity.”
They had promised and vowed all that. In her name. What right had they? What right had they?
“You’re not a baby any more,” her mother said.
“That’s what I mean. I was a baby when you went and did it. I knew nothing about it. You can’t make me responsible.”
“It’s we who are
