by John Fowles
The man raises his eyes there for a moment and stares across the room at the light in the doorway; then down at the ashes in the hearth beside him. He goes back to his reading.
Meanwhile Rebecca walks to the necessary, bucket in hand. There is a quickness and lightness in her walk that belies her condition; and are quite certainly not justified by Toad Lane. Though the Industrial Revolution has hardly yet begun, Toad Lane is an early forerunner of a familiar sight in many modern cities; a once fair street become a miserable slum of dilapidated houses, both they and their courts behind become warrens of one-room tenements, warrens of disease also. Its practical effects can be seen everywhere in the human denizens, in pocked faces, rickety legs, malnutrition, the neck ulcers of scrofula, scurvy ... or would be so seen by a modern eye. Fortunately the victims were not then aware how much they were to be pitied. Such was life, and change not imaginable; and a more fundamental principle of resilience applied. One survived as one could, or must. This day the majority of those in the street and its doorways are women and very young children, for those of their men and children (though not more than five or six years old) with work have gone to their places. Some eye Rebecca a little askance, but it is for her sect-betraying dress; not her in herself, nor her errand.
The closets stand near the end of the street, on a common space: a ramshackle row with their backs turned to the street, five noisome boxes, in turn containing even more noisome holes in the ground. Between them and a ditch below stands a heap of human dung, to which Rebecca adds, with something of an expert toss, the contents of her bucket. Nearby grows fat-hen, as always; another name for it is dung-weed. Then she goes to wait patiently by the necessaries, since all are occupied. They serve a population of nearly five hundred; as does the one water-pump close by in the street.
Now an older woman, yet dressed rather as Rebecca, and with a similar very plain, closefitting white cap, joins her in her wait. Rebecca smiles primly in recognition and then utters what must seem, in the circumstances, either a profound sociological need or something too obvious to require saying at all.
'More love, sister.'
All that is spoken in reply are the same three words. It is clear they are not sisters, for the two women say no more, and stand still rather apart. It seems this is no more than a stock greeting between fellow-believing neighbours, as banal as a goodmorning. Yet it is not a Quaker formula; and exceptionally Mr Henry Ayscough's man (who at this very moment stands, as it happens, waiting near the half-cellar, with Jones at his side) has misinformed him on one matter.
When some fifteen minutes later John, who has put on a plainbrimmed hat and a threadbare black coat, and Rebecca Lee emerge from their cellar and walk towards the two men, the latter make no pretence of turning their backs and being in conversation, but stand and watch them approach. The tall clerk wears a small and sardonic smile, as one accustomed to his present role; Jones seems ill at ease. When they are only a few feet apart, Rebecca stops, though her husband walks on. She has no eyes except for Jones, who awkwardly takes off his hat, and looks sheepishly down at the gutter between them.
'I must. 'Twas as we agreed.'
Still she stares at him, as at a total stranger; yet without anger, merely as one who sees him whole. Then she looks down and speaks that same phrase she had spoken at the necessary.
'More love to thee, brother.'
She quickens her step to rejoin John Lee, who has stopped and now stares at these two strange men as if the last thing he feels for them is love. But Rebecca touches his arm, and they go on. The other two wait a moment, then turn and follow, like a pair of foxes who have marked their weak lamb.
* * *
The Examination and Deposition of
Rebecca Lee
the which doth attest upon her sworn
oath, this fourth day of October
in the tenth year of the reign of
our sovereign Lord George the second,
by the grace of God King of Great
Britain and of England, &c.
* * *
My name is Rebecca Lee, I was born Hocknell, eldest daughter of Amos and Martha Hocknell, in the city of Bristol, on the fifth day of January in the year 1712. I am married to John Lee, blacksmith, of Toad Lane, Manchester. I was common prostitute in London until May of this year, and went by the name of Fanny. I am six months gone with child.
* * *
Q. You know why you come before me?
A. I do.
Q. That I enquire upon the disappearance of a noble gentleman in May last?
A. Yes.
Q. Then first this. Have you since the first day of May last seen, had news of, or held any communication whatsoever with his Lordship?
A. No.
Q. Do you have knowledge that he is or is most probably dead, in whatsoever manner?
A. None.
Q. And is what I have asked of his Lordship true also of his man Dick? You have no greater knowledge of his fate?
A. None.
Q. You are upon oath.
A. I know it.
Q. Now, my new-virtuous Mistress Lee, I will find out what you are before we come to what you were. And you will speak as plain as your dress. Your swelling belly shall not save you, if you rant religion. Is that plain enough for you?
A. Christ shall be my witness.
Q. Very well. And I counsel you, keep it well in mind that I have Jones's testimony concerning you before me. And your former mistress's, and much else besides. Now, when arrived you here from Bristol last May?
A. On the twelfth day.
Q. And found your parents?
A. Yes.
Q. Who forgave you your sins?
A. I thank the Lord.
Q. You told them of what you had been since they saw you last?
A. Yes.
Q. Did they not abominate you?
A. No.
Q. How no - are they not strict in their religion?
A. Very strict, and so forgave me.
Q. I take you not, woman.
A. They do not abominate those who truly repent.
Q. Did they not abominate you before and cast you out?
A. Because I was wicked and did not truly repent. And I know now they were right, from what I became.
Q. You say you have told them all. Do you mean by that, what happened in Devonshire immediately before you came hither?
A. No, I have not told that.
Q. Why not?
A. Because I sinned not in that, nor would trouble them with it.
Q. You are principal witness and accessary to foul and irreligious crimes, and are not to be troubled with them? Why answer you not?
A. Because they were not crimes, I say.
Q. But I say they were, and that you aided and abetted in their commission.
A. I deny it.
Q. You shall not deny what is proven.
A. I shall, if I be falsely accused. There is a greater lawgiver than thee. Is Jesus so poor a meter He cannot weigh true repentance in a soul? He is not so small, and soon the world shall know it.
Q. Enough. Watch thy tongue. None of thy thouing andtheeing.
A, It is our manner. I must.
Q, A fig for thy musts.
A, We mean no disrespect. All are brothers and sisters in Christ.
Q, Enough!
A. It is truth. We are equal in this, if not in the world. Blame me not for defending my right, and God's word.
Q. Thy right and God's word! Shall I fetch thee to a pulpit?
A. I say they are one. Who takes my right steals from Christ.
Q. Thou hast no right to be stolen, thou art a most notorious whore. I am not thy new modesty's fool. I see thy whorish insolence still proud in thy eyes.
A. I'm no harlot now. And thee knows it, thee hast inquired of me. Christ is my master and mistress now. My pride is to be His servant, naught else.
Q. Thou canst buy remission of your sins so easy? Why, thou shouldst be at Rome.
A. Thee dost not know my religion. I am repentance with each breath I breathe, until my last, or still I sin.
Q. I know I'll have thee whipped, if thou throw'st more piety at me.
A. I came not here to offend.
Q. Then cease your impudence.
A. When I was harlot I learnt those who would serve us worse than their horses or their dogs served themselves likewise; and those that were more kind left happier.
Q. I should bow and scrape to you, is it so? I should call you madam and hand you to your coach?
A. Thee may thunder and frown as thee will, but I think 'tis more in thy manner than in thy heart.
Q. Dost thou indeed!
A. Yes. I pray thee, be not angry. I have met lawyers beyond thee, and judges besides; and know their hearts are not all flint. Nor would they rail me so for giving up my wickedness, as if 'twere better I was their harlot again.
Q. I wonder they ever came again to your bed, if you preached so at them.
A. Then more's the pity I did not.
Q. Well, well, I see you have imbibed your father's poison.
A. And my mother's. Who also lives in Christ.
Q. And contempt of all secular rank and natural respect, is it not so?
A. No. Unless where rank and respect would forbid our liberty of conscience.
Q. That gives you no liberty to be pert in your answers.
A. Then harry me not for my beliefs.
Q. We waste time. I would know of your marriage. When was it?
A. On the second day of August.
Q. The man is one of your congregation?
A. We are Quakers no more. He is Prophet.
Q. What manner of prophet?
A. French Prophet, descended of they who came from France this fifty years past, called Whiteshirts by some.
Q. The Camisards? Are they not lapsed?
A. We are forty or more here who believe that Christ soon comes, by prophecy, as they did.
Q. You mean, your man is of French blood?
A. No, he's English.
Q. Your parents are grown such prophets also?
A. Yes, and my uncle John Hocknell, who is friend to Brother James Wardley, our elder and teacher.
Q. Was Quakerism not extravagant enough for you?
A. Not since I know Christ comes. But I will not speak ill of the Friends. They are good people.
Q. Your husband knew of your past infamy?
A. He did.
Q. That he wore horns to the altar, in the state of your belly?
A. He wore Christian kindness there, no horns.
Q. A prophetic saint indeed. He took you from pity, in short?
A. And holy love. For our Lord Jesus said, Neither do I condemn thee.
Q. Did you not tell Jones, you would hear of marriage from no man?
A. I did not know then I was by child.
Q. Then you are wed for your bastard's sake?
A. For his soul's sake or if it be she, for hers. And my own.
Q. And is it this, a marriage in form, without true conjugality?
A. I know not what that would mean.
Q. Whether your man has his fleshly rights?
A. He is content with what he has.
Q. That is no answer. I require yes or no. Why say you nothing?
A. My conscience will not allow.
Q. I must know.
A. Thee'll not know from me. Nor my husband, who waits in the street below, and thee may call him up.
Q. This is more defiance. You are to answer.
A. Of his Lordship thee may ask all, and I will answer. But of this, not.
Q. Then the imputation is this, the poor clown protects you, yet is denied your bed?
A. Believe what thee must. Where lies more shame? In my silence, or this prying where thee has no business? Of what I was thee may inquire, 'tis as whipping to that abomination I was, that she deserves. What I am since is no business of
thine, nor any other man.
Q. Who sired this bastard?
A. His Lordship's servant.
Q. You are certain?
A. I was used by no other in that month.
Q. What, you are prostitute, and slept with no other man?
A. I had my courses, my flowers, then left the bagnio before I was used again unless by him.
Q. Did not his Lordship have his pleasure of thee?
A. No.
Q. No, what no is this? Did he not hire you?
A. Not for such a use.
Q. Did not the Devil himself have advantage of you in that Devonshire cavern? Why answer you not? Jones says he did, and that you told him so.
A. I told him what he might believe.
Q. And not what truly passed there?
A. No.
Q. You lied to him?
A. Yes. In that.
Q. Why?
A. Because I wished to lead him from meddling further. Because I would be what I am now become, an obedient daughter and a true Christian. And most, the last.
Q. Had you no thought of his Lordship's family, who are in despair of ever seeing him again?
A. I pity their pain, and their unknowing.
Q. Are you not its cause?
A. God is the cause.
Q. And doth He pardon those who most shamefully neglect their Christian duty? Answer.
A. I answer, He pardons those who do not speak a truth that none will believe.
Q. What none-will-believe is this?
A. What I am here to tell thee. It shall be seen, whether thee theeself will believe.
Q. That it shall, mistress, that it shall, and Heaven help thee if I do not. Which I will not, if you give me no better than these artful-devious answers. Now, it is true you know nothing of what is become of the begetter of that lump in thy womb - the man Dick?
A. It is true.
Q. I have your word upon oath?
A. Yes.
Q. Then I'll tell you. He is dead.
A. Dead?
Q. Found hanged of his own hand, and not three miles from that place where last you saw him.
A. I knew not.
Q. And have no more to say?
A. I pray our Lord Jesus forgive him his sins.
Q. Spare me your prayers. You say, you did not know?
A. When I saw him last, he lived.
Q. Jones has writ you no letter since you parted at Bideford? Nor come hither?
A. No.
Q. Nor any other of your past world?
A. None but Claiborne.
Q. How is this, Claiborne? She swore upon oath she knew not where you were.
A. Then she lied. She sent one Arkles Skinner, who is called her lackey, but is her bully-man.
Q. Write Hercules. When came he here?
A. Toward the end of June.
Q. And lived-to his name? He would use force to have you back?
A. Yes, but I cried out and my husband John came running and struck him to the ground. And I had Brother Wardley, that knows letters, to write Skinner's mistress how I had told
others all I knew, and if harm came to me, then worse harm to her.
Q. And she has held her peace since?
A. Yes.
Q. Well, I may approve your husband's fist, if not his choice of wife. Where works he now?
A. When he can with my uncle, like my father. They make grates and backs, and set them in, and the mantels, which is my father's part, who is joiner. They will do good work for
any. But few will hire them, for their religion.
Q. You are poor, then?
A. We have enough. Those among us who have give to those who have not. The world's goods are to be shared by all who believe, so say we; and do.
Q. Now, Mistress Lee, I'll have the part you played last April, and not a scene omitted. When came his Lordship first to you at Claiborne's?
A. Near the beginning of that month, I cannot say the day.
Q. And you had seen him never before - no
matter where?
A. I had not. He was introduced by Lord B.........
Q. Knew you who he was?
A. Not then. But soon after.
Q. How?
A. Claiborne asked me of him. And when I had spoken, she told me who he truly was.
Q. And what else?
A. That he was worth the plucking, and I must keep him close.
Q. And how fared his Lordship? Liked he his sport in your bed?
A. There was none.
Q. How none?
A. No sooner went we apart in my chamber and I would put my arm around him, he took it away; and said, it was in vain. That he had entered upon it only so as not to lose face before Lord B........ Then that he would pay me well for my silence.
Q. What, would he not assay those arts and wiles you were once so remarked for?
A. No.
Q. Were you not surprised?
A. The case is not so uncommon.
Q. Is it not?
A. No. Though few admit it so soon, and without trial. And most as well would buy our silence if they could, as they'd buy our boastings for them.
Q. Of their gallantry?
A. It was the custom, when they came down from us. Which we fostered, for our purses. Though among ourselves the saying was, Brag most, do least. And I think not only in that place.
Q. We need not thy bagnio wit.
A. More truth than wit.
Q. Enough. So, he would not, or could not. What passed then?
A. His Lordship was civil, and spoke with me, saying Lord B....... had said well of me. And asked of my wicked life of sin, and how I liked what I must do.
Q. Seemed he at ease, or embarrassed in his manner?
A. Unused. I would have him lie beside me; he would not, nor even sit. But then at last, he sat at the end of my bed and told me something of himself. That he had never lain with a woman, that he suffered greatly for the knowledge of it and the having to hide it from his family and his friends, that he was much blamed for refusing advantageous offers of marriage, for he was a younger son and had no great expectations. I thought him more distressed than he showed. He spake all with his face turned, as if in shame that he had no more than one like me to confess it to.
Q. What said you to this?
A. I tried my best to comfort him, and said he was young, I had known others in the same condition, who now had their normal powers. And that we should try. But I could not move him to't. And then of a sudden he stood away from the bed, and when I went to draw him back, he said, Leave me, *no more, as he were angry and I was grown importunate; as sudden again made his excuses, saying I was not to blame, I did my best, that he was worse than marble not to melt at my kisses, and suchlike. That if I would have patience with him, he would like to make one more trial on another occasion, in two days' time, for he believed himself on this first one too wrought by his anticipations, not knowing what I should be like, nor the place; but was reassured now, and conscious of my charms, so be it he could not yet prove it. That is all.
