by John Fowles
Q. Conclude.
A. I am near, sir. And must offend belief again, sir.
Q. Offend. Thou hast me well used by now.
A. How the flames gained upon the beggar-girl, and she burnt not as flesh does, but more as wax will, or fat too near a fire. For her features seemed to melt, sir, if you may picture it, and to drip down and fall, and drain to a pool of grease, which only then the flames did eat and made a blackened smoke thereof, that was all that was left. This passed sooner than I can speak it, sir, she said, as happens in dreams before sleeping eyes. And now she felt a great despair and rage, for this burning of the beggar-girl seemed to her the most cruel and unjust of all she had seen. And thus she turned to face Satan, who she took must be behind. She knew not what to do, yet must let him see her anger at the least. Now, as she told, she stopped. And d asked, Was he not there? And she said, He was not there. On which she was silent a moment, then added, Thou must not mock me. I said I should not. Next she said, All that had been there as I came was gone. For I seemed to stand upon a Bristol quay, one I once knew well. And on it stood my parents, who watched me sadly, to say they too knew who was the beggar-girl lost in hell-fire. Beside them stood another, a carpenter by his apron, like my father, tho' younger and most sweet of face. And I began to weep again, for I had known him well, too, when I was younger. Dost understand? I said, You would say Our Lord? And she said, Yea, though in anevil dream, and tho' not a word was spoke; but yea, a thousand times yea. Our Lord Jesus Christ. Well, sir, I knew not what to say, so I said, And how looked He at thee? And she said, As d had looked at the little beggar-girl, Farthing. But yet there stood no ice-cold pane between us, and I knew I might still be saved. There, sir. I have told all I can, save her very voice and the circumstance.
Q. And is this the gloss she put upon such a farrago? She is brought to sainthood by hobnobbing and coupling with Lucifer himself? Why, man, you should have pitched her off your horse into the nearest ditch. He deserves to be hanged who would believe a word of this; or boiled into wax himself.
A. It seemed best policy to believe her then, sir. That lay behind.
Q. To her waking.
A yes, sir. She said in her dream she would fain run on her Bristol quay to fall to her knees before the Lord and her parents, but waked before it could take place; and found herself as before, in the cavern, to her great relief alone, tho' naked and bitter cold. For now the fire was embers, and all the others vanished. And so she left, sir, as I have told before.
Q. And how did these others vanish, did she suppose? Upon a broomstick?
A, Sir, I asked the same, saying they had not left, or only hick, to my eyes. She could tell no better than I.
Q. Saw she no passage or way farther into this cavern than she went herself?
A. No, sir, yet said there must be, or they might have turned themselves to other creatures I had not marked, thinking them natural, such as the ravens I spake of.
Q. Old women may credit that. Not I.
A. No, sir. Then the cavern must have its inner parts. And it may be it ran under its hill and out upon another side.
Q. Seemed the land apt to provide it?
A. It may be, sir. I could not know how it lay, see you, .there behind the cliff.
Q. This smoke you saw - was there not an issue above?
A. Why, yes, sir, plainly. I doubt such a one five persons might have passed from, without my seeing.
Q. This humming you spake of also - enquired you concerning that?
A. I did, sir. And Rebecca said it came from the great spinning wheel I spake of, that one of the hags had beside her, that circled more swift than eye could follow, at her smallest touch.
Q. What, in a close cavern, and you two or three hundred paces off? 'Tis not to be believed.
A. No, sir.
Q. You are certain she intended you to believe that Satan had lain with her? Seemed she in pain as she rode?
A. No, sir.
Q. Showed she no great abhorrence or horror, in thinking that she must have his seed in her womb? I do not mean at the telling, Jones; but after. Did she not speak of it again?
A. No, sir, but much of the great mercy of her escape, and finding Christ again. Or the light, as she said.
Q. What said she of Dick's running out, as if sore afraid?
A. Naught, sir, beyond the supposing the fellow driven at the end out of his wits, the while she lay drugged, by what had passed.
Q. And this speaking of a maggot, when first you came upon her?
A. She said it was from one of the hangings in her dream, sir, in the Devil's gallery. For there she saw a fair corse of a young lady being gnawed by a seethe of maggots as it lay, unburied; and one of which was monstrous large, out of all nature, she could not forget it.
Q. If all she said were true, how comes it to pass that she is let escape to tell all? That Satan in person may come and claim his own; well, we'll not go into that. That he should come and not claim, I do not conceive. Why lay she not murdered or spirited away with the rest?
A. We spake of that, sir. And she believed it was because she prayed as she lay there and begged God's mercy on her sins, and swore with all her heart she would never do such again, if He would succour her now in her extremity. That she heard no answer there, as she lay. Yet felt she was answered, in her dream. And when she did wake, and found herself rid of her persecutors, all gone, felt more sure still. And more and more full of the divine presence, the light as she called it, when she met me, that she called the good Samaritan, and we came down safely, so that in the end she must thank the Lord and solemnly renew the promise she had made. Which she did, sir, in the manner of her religion, with the shaking and sobbing I told of.
Q. Now consider this, Jones. You fall on the wench, when she least expects and desires. Least of all does she wish to go with you to his Lordship's father. She is no fool. She knows her men, and thee and thy failings, and the tale thou art most like to swallow. So she cooks thee a fine repast, admixed of superstition and quack conversion and plays the repentant fallen woman in need of thy protection. And moreover warns thee that what passed was so loathsome and terrible a commerce that thou'lt be held for a blasphemous liar if thou tell it. What say you to that?
A. I have thought the same, sir. I won't deny it. Yet humbly begging your worship's pardon, would believe her still till I know better. Set a thief to catch a thief, as the saying goes. For my part I know your liars, sir, being one myself, God forgive me. I smelt none there, as to repentance for her past.
Q. That might be. And what she told of the cavern, as false as it sounds. I shall have her yet, I shall know. Now I would have the subsequent course of events. You rode straight to Bideford?
A. No, sir, for at the first village we came upon, though all seemed asleep, there was a great barking of dogs, and a fellow cried after us, and we were sore afraid the constables or tithing-men might be upon us, and feared the watchmen of Bideford worse, should we come straight there in the night. So thought best to lay by our road till it was dawn, and enter the town more safe by day.
Q. You lay in the fields?
A. Yes, sir. On a bank we found.
Q. Did you speak of going to His Grace again?
A. I did, sir, for when all was told, she said I must see now we - could not. I said I did not, I was certain we should be well rewarded. At which she said something strange, sir. To wit, that she knew my heart and that it spoke a different tongue; that if gold was all I believed in, tho' she knew I did not, then she had no less than twenty guineas sewn among her petticoats, and I had best murder her there and then, and take them. Well, sir, I said she mistook me, I thought most of my duty to his Lordship's father. No, she said, 'tis the gold. Now thou'dst call me liar to my face, I said, and that is poor reward for my help to thee. Farthing, she says, I doubt not thou art poor, and weak when such temptation shows; yet thou know'st it wrong. Thou mayst deny it, but the light falls on thee as well, she said, and would save thee. First save you
rself, says I, 'tis the way of the world. And now she says, ] have lived that way, and I tell thee it is damned. And we came to a stop there, sir, for I was taken aback she was so sure of me, and something of how she spake, which was not of accusing or reproach, see you, sir, 'twas more as my own , conscience might have said. Then as I thought on this, she ! went on, Well, wilt murder me for my gold? 'Tis easy enough, and to hide my body, in this wild place. For this was spoken where we lay on the bank, sir, and no house within a mile. I said, Rebecca, thou know'st well I will not, but what of our Christian duty to tell the father what has become of the son? What is more Christian, she says, to tell him he is gone certain to Hell, or not? And I tell thee thou must tell him, for I will not; and I counsel thee not, for thou'lt get far more trouble by it than reward, and all to no purpose. It is done, his Lordship is damned and they'll be persuaded thou hast some part in it. And then she said, If it was money alone I needed, I was welcome to the half of what she had on her person. sir, we argued thus for some time more, and I said I would think on it; that how whatsoever was done, if I was to be one day taken up and questioned, I should be in great trouble if I told truth and had no other word to prove it save my own; in which only she could help me. To which she said, she had given me her father's name and his place of abode, which she spake again, sir, and now gave me her word she would stand by what I said, if asked. And at that we were silent, sir, --..id slept as well we could. I know you will say I should have been more firm, but I was tired, why, all of that day seemed lik-e a dream to me also, so far was it from what I had expected.
Q, The next morning?
A. We came to Bideford without trouble, and found us an inn behind the quay, which we chose for seeming less busy than the others, and so put up there, and brake our fast upon a star-gazy pie, that was stale, but in truth I have never eaten better, so empty of belly I was. And there at the inn they said a ship sailed on the tide that very next morning for Bristol, which we went to ask when we had ate, and found it true. And I would take passage for us both, but she would not have it, and once more we fell to a skirmish or what you may call it, I saying I would not part from her, she saying I must. Well, sir, there were other matters I will not tire you with, but it came to my agreeing. I should for Swansea, she for Bristol, and neither of us to speak of what we knew, but should be ready to speak for each other, were either accused. I inquired and found I could be suited for Swansea two days thence, as I have told, with master Parry. So we made for our passages with our two masters, then went back to the inn.
Q. Did they not ask you your business there?
A. Yes, sir. And we said we were fellow servants, come from Plymouth, having lost our places by reason of our widow mistress's death, and so regaining our homes. And must leave the horse, and would pay a month's keep for it, until it was fetched; for we would not seem to steal it, sir. And I did not forget to send message to Barnstaple at the Crown, as I had writ Mr Lacy, for where it now was; which your worship will find I did, and sent by a boy and gave him twopence for his pains.
Q. The name of this inn?
A. The Barbadoes, sir.
Q. This money she promised thee?
A. She was good to it, sir. She took me to a little room apart after our dinner and counted me ten of her guineas, tho' she said it was whoring money and would bring me no good; but my need was great, so I took it.
Q. And spent it so fast you had none a month later?
A. I spent some, sir. I gave most to my brother, for I found him in great need. You may ask.
Q. You saw her take ship?
A. Yes, sir, that next morning, and warped away, and sail.
Q. The name of this ship?
A. The Elizabeth Ann, sir. She was brig, the master Mr Templeman or Templeton, I mind not which now.
Q. You are positive the wench did not leave it before sailing?
A. Yes, sir. I waited upon the quay, and she stood at the rail as they went out and raised her hand to me where I stood.
Q. Said she nothing particular on your parting?
A. That I must trust her, sir. And try to lead a better life, if we should not meet again.
Q. You saw no sign at Bideford of his Lordship?
A. Not one, sir. You may believe I watched well for him, and Dick beside.
Q. You sailed yourself for Swansea the day after?
A. Yes, sir. At full flood, then down on the ebb.
Q. Despite thy fear of the sea and of privateers.
A. Well, sir, there is truth in that. Salt water I never abode. But I had small choice, found where I was. I had liefer be in Little-Ease.
Q. Where I wish I might lodge thee. I tell thee thy first plan was a far better, that you should go to tell his Lordship's family, for all thy seeking thy own profit in it. I desire to know more of how this whore persuaded thee from it.
A. You may think I was cozened by her, sir, and it may yet prove I was. But, your worship's respect, I must tell you again she I spake with that day was another woman from she I had spake to before. There was some great change upon her. Why, she was more friendly to me in a minute than in a day of her previous ways.
Q. In what manner friendly?
A. We talked much on our journey to Bideford, sir. And not only of our present.
Q. Of what else?
A. Why, of her past wickednesses, and how she had seen the light and would never return to her whoring. Of how Jesus Christ came into this world for such as she and I, to show us a path through its night. She asked me as well much of myself, sir, so we were met for the first time and she would know who I was and of my past life. Which I told her somewhat of.
Q. You told her your true name?
A. Yes, sir. And of my mother and family, that in despite of all, I had not forgot. And for the visiting of which she did strengthen my conscience, as I have told.
Q. And also to be rid of you, is it not so?
A. I did believe her sincere in that, sir, also.
Q. You said earlier, she spake against her betters.
A. Yes, your worship. Of the injustices of this world and what she had seen of them at Mother Claiborne's.
Q. To wit?
A. Sir, begging your mercy, I had spoken of some past faults of my own, and she said that the gentlemen who went to her bagnio were not better than us, but worse, for they did choose to live evilly when they might live well, while it was forced upon us, only to get our daily bread. That wealth was a great corruption in men's minds, a blindfold upon their true conscience, and the world a most damned place until such day as they see it.
Q. She spake seditiously, in short?
A. Your worship, she said there was no hope for the world while sin governs our betters, and they not punished for it. That we in humbler stations must look to our own souls, and not serve their wickedness.
Q. Did you not laugh to hear such words in such a mouth?
A. No, sir. For they seemed sincere, and she did not prate, and when I said, so I did, that it was not for us to judge our betters, she would persuade me gently, by putting me questions. Saying I'd not thought on it enough and that there was a world to come, which must be earned equally by all in this present one. For there was no rank in heaven, she said, save in saintliness. She flattered my better side, sir. I know you deem those of my nation have none such, and are all wicked. Your worship's respect, sir, we Welsh are most desperate poor people, with so little natural advantage that our faults come most from our need. We are not wicked at heart, more we'd be friendly and religious, if truth be spoke.
Q. I know thy friendship and thy religion, Jones. The first is all treason, the second all dissent. You are a plague among the decency of nations. A nauseous boil upon this kingdom's arse, may God forgive you.
A. At times, sir. When we know no better.
Q. Which is all times. Spake she more of his Lordship?
A. That she forgave him, sir, tho' God would not.
Q. What right has a brazen strumpet to forgive her masters and t
o know God's will?
A. None, sir. I walked almost sleeping, I was so tired and footsore. And what with all that had passed that day, I was much confused. It seemed somewhat of truth, as I led her.
Q. She led thee, thou wretch. She rode the horse?
A. Yes, sir. And here and there walked a little, to give me rest.
Q. Wast thou so fatigued thou no longer played the gallant? Why, hast lost thy tongue?
A. Well, your worship, I see I must tell all, tho' 'tis nothing to your purpose. When we rested before Bideford, she was cold and lay beside me on the bank, with her back turned, 'twas but for the warmth, and saying she trusted me to take no advantage. Which I did not, yet told her as we lay, which is truth, I had married once, albeit it turned out ill for my own fault in drinking and my poor wife that died of the flux. And that I was no better than I should be and doubtless a poor figure of a man beside many she had known. Yet if she would take me, I would take her, and marry again, and we might live honestly and as she said she now wished.
Q. What, she lies with Satan in the morning and thou wouldst lie with her in the evening?
A. Sir, she had lain with Christ since then, or so she said.
Q. Thou gav'st lease to such blasphemy!
A. No, sir. I believed her truly repentant.
Q. And ripe for the practice of thy lust.
A. Well, sir, I won't deny I envied Dick his use of her before. I have my natural vigours. I liked her much for her new . candour, sir, as well as her flesh. And thought she might
bring me to better ways, if I married her.
Q. But this new-found saint would have none of thee?
A. That she'd have none of being wedded to any man, sir. For she said I was kind to think of taking to wife one as defiled and sinful as she, for which she was grateful, tho' she could not; seeing she had promised at the worst of her trial inside the cavern, that she should never again have knowledge of any man of her own willing.
