A Maggot - John Fowles (37 page)

it selfe, except it abide in the Vine: no more can
yee, except ye abide in me. I am the Vine, yee are the branches: Hee
that abideth in mee, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much
fruit: for without mee ye can doe nothing. If a man abide not in mee,
hee is cast foorth as a branch, and is withered, and men gather them,
and cast them into the fire, and they are burned.'

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.