all roads lead to calvary-第4章

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rom　ever　taking　place。　　Why　couldn't　the　little　beast　have　been　guided　back　from　school　through　the　orchard；　much　the　shorter　way；　instead　of　being　brought　round　by　the　yard；　so　as　to　come　upon　her　at　a　moment　when　she　was　feeling　a　bit　short…tempered；　to　put　it　mildly？　　And　why　had　God　allowed　him　to　call　her　〃Carrots〃？　　That　Joan　should　have　〃put　it〃　this　way；　instead　of　going　down　on　her　knees　and　thanking　the　Lord　for　having　saved　her　from　a　crime；　was　proof　of　her　inborn　evil　disposition。　　In　the　evening　was　reached　the　culminating　point。　　Just　before　going　to　bed　she　had　murdered　old　George　the　cowman。　　For　all　practical　purposes　she　might　just　as　well　have　been　successful　in　drowning　William　Augustus　earlier　in　the　day。　　It　seemed　to　be　one　of　those　things　that　had　to　be。　　Mr。　Hornflower　still　lived；　it　was　true；　but　that　was　not　Joan's　fault。　Joan；　standing　in　white　night…gown　beside　her　bed；　everything　around　her　breathing　of　innocence　and　virtue：　　the　spotless　bedclothes；　the　chintz　curtains；　the　white　hyacinths　upon　the　window…ledge；　Joan's　Bible；　a　present　from　Aunt　Susan；　her　prayer…　book；　handsomely　bound　in　calf；　a　present　from　Grandpapa；　upon　their　little　table；　Mrs。　Munday　in　evening　black　and　cameo　brooch　（pale　red　with　tomb　and　weeping　willow　in　white　relief）　sacred　to　the　memory　of　the　departed　Mr。　MundayJoan　standing　there　erect；　with　pale；　passionate　face；　defying　all　these　aids　to　righteousness；　had　deliberately　wished　Mr。　Hornflower　dead。　　Old　George　Hornflower　it　was　who；　unseen　by　her；　had　passed　her　that　morning　in　the　wood。　　Grumpy　old　George　it　was　who　had　overheard　the　wicked　word　with　which　she　had　cursed　the　pig；　who　had　met　William　Augustus　on　his　emergence　from　the　pond。　　To　Mr。　George　Hornflower；　the　humble　instrument　in　the　hands　of　Providence；　helping　her　towards　possible　salvation；　she　ought　to　have　been　grateful。　　And　instead　of　that　she　had　flung　into　the　agonized　face　of　Mrs。　Munday　these　awful　words：

〃I　wish　he　was　dead！〃

〃He　who　in　his　heart〃　there　was　verse　and　chapter　for　it。　　Joan　was　a　murderess。　　Just　as　well；　so　far　as　Joan　was　concerned；　might　she　have　taken　a　carving…knife　and　stabbed　Deacon　Hornflower　to　the　heart。

Joan's　prayers　that　night；　to　the　accompaniment　of　Mrs。　Munday's　sobs；　had　a　hopeless　air　of　unreality　about　them。　　Mrs。　Munday's　kiss　was　cold。

How　long　Joan　lay　and　tossed　upon　her　little　bed　she　could　not　tell。　　Somewhere　about　the　middle　of　the　night；　or　so　it　seemed　to　her；　the　frenzy　seized　her。　　Flinging　the　bedclothes　away　she　rose　to　her　feet。　　It　is　difficult　to　stand　upon　a　spring　mattress；　but　Joan　kept　her　balance。　　Of　course　He　was　there　in　the　room　with　her。　　God　was　everywhere；　spying　upon　her。　　She　could　distinctly　hear　His　measured　breathing。　　Face　to　face　with　Him；　she　told　Him　what　she　thought　of　Him。　　She　told　Him　He　was　a　cruel；　wicked　God。

There　are　no　Victoria　Crosses　for　sinners；　or　surely　little　Joan　that　night　would　have　earned　it。　　It　was　not　lack　of　imagination　that　helped　her　courage。　　God　and　she　alone；　in　the　darkness。　　He　with　all　the　forces　of　the　Universe　behind　Him。　　He　armed　with　His　eternal　pains　and　penalties；　and　eight…year…old　Joan：　　the　creature　that　He　had　made　in　His　Own　Image　that　He　could　torture　and　destroy。　　Hell　yawned　beneath　her；　but　it　had　to　be　said。　　Somebody　ought　to　tell　Him。

〃You　are　a　wicked　God；〃　Joan　told　Him。　　〃Yes；　You　are。　　A　cruel；　wicked　God。〃

And　then　that　she　might　not　see　the　walls　of　the　room　open　before　her；　hear　the　wild　laughter　of　the　thousand　devils　that　were　coming　to　bear　her　off；　she　threw　herself　down；　her　face　hidden　in　the　pillow；　and　clenched　her　hands　and　waited。

And　suddenly　there　burst　a　song。　　It　was　like　nothing　Joan　had　ever　heard　before。　　So　clear　and　loud　and　near　that　all　the　night　seemed　filled　with　harmony。　　It　sank　into　a　tender　yearning　cry　throbbing　with　passionate　desire；　and　then　it　rose　again　in　thrilling　ecstasy：　　a　song　of　hope；　of　victory。

Joan；　trembling；　stole　from　her　bed　and　drew　aside　the　blind。　There　was　nothing　to　be　seen　but　the　stars　and　the　dim　shape　of　the　hills。　　But　still　that　song；　filling　the　air　with　its　wild；　triumphant　melody。

Years　afterwards；　listening　to　the　overture　to　Tannhauser；　there　came　back　to　her　the　memory　of　that　night。　　Ever　through　the　mad　Satanic　discords　she　could　hear；　now　faint；　now　conquering；　the　Pilgrims'　onward　march。　　So　through　the　jangled　discords　of　the　world　one　heard　the　Song　of　Life。　　Through　the　dim　aeons　of　man's　savage　infancy；　through　the　centuries　of　bloodshed　and　of　horror；　through　the　dark　ages　of　tyranny　and　superstition；　through　wrong；　through　cruelty；　through　hate；　heedless　of　doom；　heedless　of　death；　still　the　nightingale's　song：　　〃I　love　you。　　I　love　you。　　I　love　you。　　We　will　build　a　nest。　　We　will　rear　our　brood。　　I　love　you。　I　love　you。　　Life　shall　not　die。〃

Joan　crept　back　into　bed。　　A　new　wonder　had　come　to　her。　　And　from　that　night　Joan's　belief　in　Mrs。　Munday's　God　began　to　fade；　circumstances　helping。

Firstly　there　was　the　great　event　of　going　to　school。　　She　was　glad　to　get　away　from　home；　a　massive；　stiffly　furnished　house　in　a　wealthy　suburb　of　Liverpool。　　Her　mother；　since　she　could　remember；　had　been　an　invalid；　rarely　leaving　her　bedroom　till　the　afternoon。　Her　father；　the　owner　of　large　engineering　works；　she　only　saw；　as　a　rule；　at　dinner…time；　when　she　would　come　down　to　dessert。　　It　had　been　different　when　she　was　very　young；　before　her　mother　had　been　taken　ill。　　Then　she　had　been　more　with　them　both。　　She　had　dim　recollections　of　her　father　playing　with　her；　pretending　to　be　a　bear　and　growling　at　her　from　behind　the　sofa。　　And　then　he　would　seize　and　hug　her　and　they　would　both　laugh；　while　he　tossed　her　into　the　air　and　caught　her。　　He　had　looked　so　big　and　handsome。　All　through　her　childhood　there　had　been　the　desire　to　recreate　those　days；　to　spring　into　the　air　and　catch　her　arms　about　his　neck。　　She　could　have　loved　him　dearly　if　he　had　only　let　her。　Once；　seeking　explanation；　she　had　opened　her　heart　a　little　to　Mrs。　Munday。　　It　was　disappointment；　Mrs。　Munday　thought；　that　she　had　not　been　a　boy；　and　with　that　Joan　had　to　content　herself。　Maybe　also　her　mother's　illness　had　helped　to　sadden　him。　　Or　perhaps　it　was　mere　temperament；　as　she　argued　to　herself　later；　for　which　they　were　both　responsible。　　Those　little　tricks　of　coaxing；　of　tenderness；　of　wilfulness；　by　means　of　which　other　girls　wriggled　their　way　so　successfully　into　a　warm　nest　of　cosy　affection：　　she　had　never　been　able　to　employ　them。　　Beneath　her　self…confidence　was　a　shyness；　an　immovable　reserve　that　had　always　prevented　her　from　expressing　her　emotions。　　She　had　inherited　it；　doubtless　enough；　from　him。　　Perhaps　one　day；　between　them；　they　would　break　down　the　barrier；　the　strength　of　which　seemed　to　lie　in　its　very　flimsiness；　its　impalpability。

And　then　during　college　vacations；　returning　home　with　growing　notions　and　views　of　her　own；　she　had　found　herself　so　often　in　antagonism　with　him。　　His　fierce　puritanism；　so　opposed　to　all　her　enthusiasms。　　Arguing　with　him；　she　might　almost　have　been　listening　to　one　of　his　Cromwellian　ancestors　risen　from　the　dead。　There　had　been　disputes　between　him　and　his　work…people；　and　Joan　had　taken　the　side　of　the　men。　　He　had　not　been　angry　with　her；　but　coldly　contemptuous。　　And　yet；　in　spite　of　it　all；　if　he　had　only　made　a　sign！　　She　wanted　to　fling　herself　crying　into　his　arms　and　shake　himmake　him　listen　to　her　wisdom；　sitting　on　his　knee　with　her　hands　clasped　round　his　neck。　　He　was　not　really　intolerant　and　stupid。　　That　had　been　proved　by　his　letting　her　go　to　a　Church　of　England　school。　　Her　mother　had　expressed　no　wish。　　It　was　he　who　had　selected　it。

Of　her　mother　she　had　always　stood　somewhat　in　fear；　never　knowing　when　the　mood　of　passionate　affection　would　give　place　to　a　chill　aversion　that　seemed　almost　like　hate。　　Perhaps　it　had　been　good　for　her；　so　she　told　herself　in　after　years；　her　lonely；　unguided　childhood。　　It　had　forced　her　to　think　and　act　for　herself。　　At　school　she　reaped　the　benefit。　　Self…reliant；　confident；　original；　leadership　was　granted　to　her　as　a　natural　prerogative。　　Nature　had　helped　her。　　Nowhere　d