qualm. So Mrs Bowater came to my rescue, and between us we concocted replies to her which, I am afraid, were not more intelligible for a tendency on my landlady’s part to express my sentiments in the third person.
This little service set her thinking of Sunday and church. She was not, she told me, “what you might call a religious woman,” having been compelled “to keep her head up in the world, and all not being gold that glitters.” She was none the less a regular attendant at St Peter’s—a church a mile or so away in the valley, whose five bells of a Sabbath evening never failed to recall my thoughts to Lyndsey and to dip me into the waters of melancholy. I loved their mellow clanging in the lap of the wind, yet it was rather doleful to be left alone with my candles, and only Henry sullenly squatting in the passage awaiting his mistress’s return.
“Not that you need making any better, miss,” Mrs Bowater assured me. “Even a buttercup—or a retriever dog, for that matter—being no fuller than it can hold of what it is, in a manner of speaking. But there’s the next world to be accounted for, and hopes of reunion on another shore, where, so I understand, mere size, body or station, will not be noticeable in the sight of the Lamb. Not that I hold with the notion that only the good so-called will be there.”
This speech, I must confess, made me exceedingly uncomfortable.
“Wherever I go, Mrs Bowater,” I replied hastily, “I shall not be happy unless you are there.”
“D. V.,” said Mrs Bowater, grimly, “I will.”
Still, I remained unconverted to St Peter’s. Why, I hardly know: perhaps it was her reference to its pew rents, or her description of the vicar’s daughters (who were now nursing their father at Tunbridge Wells), or maybe even it was a stare from her husband which I happened at that precise moment to intercept from the wall. Possibly if I myself had taken a “sitting,” this aura of formality would have faded away. Mrs Bowater was a little reassured, however, to hear that my father and mother, in spite of Miss Fenne, had seldom taken me to church. They had concluded that my absence was best both for me and for the congregation. And I told her of our little evening services in the drawing-room, with Mrs Ballard, the parlourmaid, Pollie, and the Boy on the sofa, just as it happened to be their respective “Sundays in.”
This set her mind at rest. Turn and turn about, on one Sunday evening she went to St Peter’s and brought back with her the text and crucial fragments of Mr Crimble’s sermon, and on the next we read the lessons together and sang a hymn. Once, indeed, I embarked upon a solo, “As pants the hart,” one of my mother’s favourite airs. But I got a little shaky at “O for the wings,” and there was no rambling, rumbling chorus from my father. But Sunday was not my favourite day on Beechwood Hill. Mrs Bowater looked a little formal with stiff white “frilling” round her neck. She reminded me of a leg of mutton. To judge from the gloom and absentmindedness into which they sometimes plunged her, quotations from Mr Crimble could be double-edged. My real joy was to hear her views on the fashions and manners of her fellow-worshippers.
Well, so the months went by. Winter came with its mists and rains and frosts, and a fire in the polished grate was no longer an evening luxury but a daily need. As often as possible I went out walking. When the weather was too inclement, I danced for an hour or so, for joy and exercise, and went swimming on a chair. I would entertain myself also in watching through the muslin curtains the few passers-by; sorting out their gaits, and noses, and clothes, and acquaintances, and guessing their characters, occupations, and circumstances. Certain little looks and movements led me to suppose that, even though I was perfectly concealed, the more sensitive among them were vaguely uneasy under this secret scrutiny. In such cases (though very reluctantly) I always drew my eyes away: first because I did not like the thought of encroaching on their privacy, and next, because I was afraid their uneasiness might prevent them coming again. But this microscopic examination of mankind must cease with dusk, and the candle-hours passed rather heavily at times. The few books I had brought away from Lyndsey were mine now nearly by heart. So my eye would often wander up to a small bookcase that hung out of reach on the other side of the chimney-piece.
Chapter Ten
One supper-time I ventured to ask Mrs Bowater if she would hand me down a tall, thin, dark-green volume, whose appearance had particularly taken my fancy. A simple enough request, but surprisingly received. She stiffened all over and eyed the bookcase with a singular intensity. “The books there,” she said, “are what they call the dead past burying its dead.”
Spoon in hand, I paused, looking now at Mrs Bowater and now at the coveted book. “Mr Bowater,” she added from deep down in herself, “followed the sea.” This was, in fact, Mr Bowater’s début in our conversation, and her remark, uttered in so hollow yet poignant a tone, produced a romantic expectancy in my mind.
“Is—” I managed to whisper at last: “I hope Mr Bowater isn’t dead?”
Mrs Bowater’s eyes were like lead in her long, dark-skinned face. She opened her mouth, her gaze travelled slowly until, as I realized, it had fixed itself on the large yellowing photograph behind my back.
“Dead, no”; she echoed sepulchrally. “Worse than.”
By which I understood that, far from being dead, Mr Bowater was still actively alive. And yet, apparently, not much the happier for that. Instantaneously I caught sight of a rocky, storm-strewn shore, such as I had seen in my Robinson Crusoe, and there Mr Bowater, still “following the sea.”
“Never, never,” continued Mrs Bowater in her Bible voice, “never to darken these doors again!” I stole an anxious glance over my shoulder. There was such a brassy boldness in the responsive stare that I was compelled to shut my eyes.
But Mrs Bowater had caught my expression. “He was, as some would say,” she explained with gloomy pride, “a handsome man. Do handsome he did never. But there, miss, things being as they must be, and you in the green of your youth—though hearing the worst may be a wholesome physic if taken with care, as I have told Fanny many a time.…” She paused to breathe. “What I was saying is, there can be no harm in your looking at the book if that’s all there’s to it.” With that she withdrew the dry-looking volume from the shelf and laid it on the table beside my chair.
I got down, opened it in the middle (as my father had taught me, in order to spare the binding), opened it on a page inky black as night all over, but starred with a design as familiar to me as the lines on the palm of my hand.
“But oh! Mrs Bowater!” I cried, all in a breath, running across, dragging back the curtain, and pointing out into the night; “look, look, it’s there! It’s Orion!”
There, indeed, in the heavens beyond my window, straddling the dark, star for star the same as those in the book, stood the Giant, shaking his wondrous fires upon the air. Even Mrs Bowater was moved by my enthusiasm. She came to the table, compared at my direction chart with sky, and was compelled rather grudgingly to admit that her husband’s book was at least true to the facts. Stooping low, I read out a brief passage. She listened. And it seemed a look of girlhood came into the shadowy face uplifted towards the window. So the stars came into my life, and faithful friends they have remained to this day.
Mrs Bowater’s little house being towards the crest of the hill, with sunrise a little to the left across the meadows, my window commanded about three-fifths of the southern and eastern skies. By day I would kneel down and study for hours the charts, and thus be prepared for the dark. Night after night, when the weather was fair, or the windy clouds made mock of man’s celestial patternings, I would sit in the glow of the firelight and summon these magic shiners each by name—Bellatrix, huge Betelgeuse, Aldebaran, and the rest. I would look at one, and, while so doing, watch another. This not only isolated the smaller stars, but
