A Maggot - John Fowles (55 page)

Tudor moves to silence her; almost at once he stops.
Something extraordinary has happened. At that last 'I see', her eyes
have suddenly shifted. From staring at Ayscough, they look away, to
the corner of the room to her left, some fifteen feet from where she
stands. A small side-door there apparently leads to the adjacent
room. It is exactly as if someone has entered by it and now stands
there, making further speech impossible. The impression of this is so
vivid that both Ayscough and his clerk look swiftly to the side-door.
It stands silently there, unopened. No one has entered. Of one accord
they look back to Rebecca, to see her still staring as before, it
seems rooted, struck dumb; yet not dumbfounded or amazed, on the
contrary, tamed, almost like one grateful to be silenced. All that
previous, pinched and obstinate quality in her face has mysteriously
passed away. Whatever she sees, her expression is more that of a
dawning smile, curiously timid, childlike and expectant, brought
unexpectedly face to face with someone she trusts and loves.

Ayscough looks quickly round to the door again, then
to Tudor, who answers his unspoken question.

'No one entered?'

'Not a soul, sir.'

The two men stare a moment at each other. Ayscough
looks back at Rebecca.

'She is in a fit. See if she may be woken.'

Tudor moves closer, then stopping a yard short of the
tranced girl, gingerly reaches out a hand and shakes her arm, as if
she were a snake or some dangerous animal. Still Rebecca stares
towards the door.

'Harder, man, harder. She won't bite thee.'

Tudor goes behind her, and moving her chair back,
takes both her arms. At first she seems oblivious, but as he
continues to shake there comes a small cry from her, as of pain. It
is low, more love, than true pain. Slowly her eyes find Ayscough who
still stands facing her across the table. They close immediately and
her head sinks.

'Make her sit.'

Tudor places the chair behind her.

'Sit, mistress. It is past.'

She sits as if will-less, her head sunk deep; then
raises her hands to her face, and begins to sob, it seems at first in
shame, as if she would hide this collapse into emotion. Ayscough
leans forward, hands on table.

'What is this, what saw you then?' Her only answer is
a deeper sob. 'Water, give her water.'

'Let her be, master. 'Tis like the vapours. 'Twill
pass.'

Ayscough scrutinizes the sobbing woman a little
longer; then goes abruptly to the side-door to open it. But there he
is defeated; though he tries twice, three times, with increasing
irritation, it is locked. He walks more slowly back to the window and
stares out; but sees nothing. The irreducible one part of his mind
stands as shaken as Rebecca herself, though he does not admit it; nor
looks back as her sobs rise, become unshameable, racking her body,
rending in their intensity. Only when they become less frequent, does
he turn again. He sees his clerk has managed to persuade her to
drink, and stands with a hand on her shoulder, though she still sits
with her head bowed. After a minute Ayscough goes back to his chair.
He watches her bent head for a few moments, then gestures Tudor back
to his seat.'

'Are you returned within your senses, mistress?' She
nods her bowed head. 'We may proceed?' Again she nods her head. 'What
came upon you then?' She shakes her head. 'Why stared you so, toward
the door?'

At last she speaks, though without looking up. 'At
what I saw.'

There was none there. Why answer you not? I will
forgive you your ranting and your insolence, your words most
insulting of me. I would know what you saw, that is all.' He folds
his arms across his breast, and waits, but in vain. 'Are you ashamed
of what you saw?'

Then he has Rebecca's eyes, as she straightens up to
face him, and once more puts her hands on her lap. Her face gives him
a shock, for it holds a faint but perceptible smile. He will long
remember it.

'I am not ashamed.'

'Why smile you?' She continues smiling, as if it is
sufficient answer. 'It was a person?'

'Yes.'

'A person of this world?'

'No.'

'Did you believe it to be Our Lord, the Saviour?'

'No.'

'She you call Holy Mother Wisdom?'

'No ,

'Mistress, no more of this coyness. You did stare, it
seemed at one who stood behind, that had entered. Is it not so? Come,
who was it?'

Her face has lost its
mysterious smile; it is as if only now she remembers where she is,
before an enemy. Yet in what follows of the interrogatory, Rebecca is
not to seem the same. One knows she will not win, and cannot win;
neither in this historical present, nor in the future. One knows, and
she does not.

* * *

A. He you would find.

Q. His Lordship? You maintain, you saw his Lordship
stand here in this very room?

A. Thee will not believe.

Q. What expression bore he?

A. As my friend.

Q. What clothes wore he? As those he wore when you
travelled into Devon? As those in your dream?

A. As those he wore of June Eternal.

Q. Did he open the door to enter, and close it
behind?

A. No.

Q. He came then as a ghost, an apparition, that takes
no account of what is obstacle to ordinary flesh?

A. He came.

Q. Did he not speak?

A. He needs no words.

Q. You were not surprised to see him so? Answer me,
mistress. Is it not this - you have seen him so on other occasions
since the first of May? Is it not so? Answer. It is so or it is not?
Did you not tell false at the very beginning, when I asked if you had
had any communication whatsoever with him? What is this else?

A. Thee will not believe.

Q. Such is no answer. Have you or have you not seen
him, it may be not as here today, none the less so you may say, I
have seen him?

A. He is my friend.

Q. So you may say, you have seen him?

A. I have known him close.

Q. As a less fanciful might say, I have felt his
spirit close?

A. Most close.

Q. Have you as here, seen him as it seemed in the
flesh?

A. What is the flesh?

Q. I grow angry. This you must know.

A. He was not in this world's flesh; yet as he is.

Q. Has his Lordship never, on such occasion you felt
his spirit close, addressed you?

A. Not by word. In the spirit.

Q. How in the spirit - has he ever said, do this or
that, believe this or that I tell you?

A. In the soul.

Q. Your soul is told what it must do and believe?

A. That what it does and believes is right.

Q. Has the spirit or what you will of his Lordship
never spoken of himself, where his flesh might now be?

A. No. It has no need.

Q. You are certain it is in your June Eternal?

A. Yes.

Q. Have you told any other, your man, your parents,
your friends and gossips, whosoever it might be, of these
conversations?

A. No.

Q. None can bear witness to this, that you have had
such visions, spiritual conversation', what you may call it?

A. None but he, and our master Jesus Christ.

Q. How often has this been since the first of May?
Shake not your head, mistress. You may say in the general. Is it
often or not? Many occasions, or few?

A. When I have need.

Q. Often, or less?

A. Often at the first.

Q. The more rarely the more latterly?

A. Yes.

Q. Is it not most common among your co-religionaries
they make publick their visions among you, thereby to prove the
efficacy of their conviction? Why said you nothing of this to anyone,
mistress?

A. It is not of such presence they may believe.

Q. Did you not say, his Lordship is of the spirit of
Jesus Christ? Is

that not presence enough?

A. It is not time that he was seen.

Q. Your fellows should not acknowledge him, if you
were to tell of what passed this last April? They should not
understand this great worth you put upon him? They see not so far as
you?

A. I have seen him among us, where we meet; most
plain, yet my brothers and sisters not. He would not yet be seen by
all.

Q. Shall you tell them, in time to come?

A. They shall be told.

Q. By whom, if not you?

A. Truth will out, and all but the damned shall see.

Q. Why dost thou ever speak the word as a cat laps
cream? Is this Christian, that you should so often rejoice in the
damnation of others?

A. I rejoice not. 'Tis thee and thy kind most in this
world that do rejoice; yea, that nothing may change, that thee and
thine have brought about a hell worse than Hell itself for all below
thee on this earth. I ask thee plain, is that Christian? Thee knows I
am a simple woman, thee's a subtle man of law. Can thee and thy law
answer the plain question? Thee knows 'tis so. Can thee tell why, can
thee justify?

Q. To each his deserts. It is appointed so.

A. The most rich deserves the most. Yea, it is
appointed; but not by will of God, by will of rich men alone.

Q. Were it not God's will, He would not allow it.

A. That He has not struck is no proof He shall not.
Thee'd twist His patience into a justifying.

Q. And you, mistress, His anger to satisfaction of
your own resentment.

A. Mercy is money loaned. One day it shall be paid
back, or he who pays not shall suffer for it, and be made most
terrible example of. All shall be dust and ashes, all shall be such
fire I saw.

Q. Still you prophesy. Of what may come you speak as
if it were already come; which speaks far more to your present
intemperate desire than to what time shall bring in truth. I ask
again. How shall you change this present world?

A. By living as we should and would, which is by
Christ's light and word.

Q. If you prove so contrary and obstinate in all,
mistress, then I prophesy you shall be forbid, and with good cause.
Answer not, I will be led no more into such idle disputation. I am
almost done with you, for the now. First I admonish you, and most
severely, of these following matters. You shall not speak of what has
passed here, nor of what passed earlier this year. Neither to your
man, nor your father, nor Wardley, nor any else beside. Nor shall you
speak of those same things to prove your faith, to make of his
Lordship in your meetings what he never was. In this you shall not
now or ever more be prophetess. Is it understood?

A. As Herod must be understood.

Q. I will not have truth nor untruth from you. But
silence, in the both cases. I demand your sworn oath thereon, and
signed upon this paper before me. Have you letters to write your
name?

A. If thee and thine think they may prison God's
truth, I'll be thy bar to prove thee wrong. I may write my flesh's
name.

Q. I warn thee. Think not you may speak despite this,
I shall not know. I shall know, and shall make you curse the day you
speak.

A. So 1, that I did break my given word.

Q. This is not all. I require likewise your oath
sworn and signed upon what you did swear at the beginning: which is,
you have not in any common sense, that is, without your visions and
spiritual conversations, seen or spoken with his Lordship since the
first of May last, nor had communication with him, nor news by third
party whatsoever of him. You may state no more than this: what is
become of him, you know not.

A. I will sign.

Q. Do you smile, mistress?

A. Thee'd pin me fast upon the least, and toss aside
the most.

O. I'll have thee pinned in gaol, if thou dost make
light of this. I would make light of all.

I warn you one last time. If you have lied and I
shall at any future time discover such, it shall be with you as you
said yourself of mercy not paid most duly back. All the just wrath of
his Lordship's family, and my own, shall fall upon you. You shall be
made most terrible example of. I shall deserve no less.

(Here was the said solemn affidavit read to the
deponent, that she did sign with her name, and it was witnessed
duly.)

Q. Very Well. You may go,
I'll have no more of you at this present. Think not you are free. You
shall attend, if called upon, to answer further.

* * *

Rebecca stands. John Tudor looks slowly up from the
end of the table at his master, as a man watches, even though it is
his master; things are not as expected, in something they surprise.
Ayscough stops Rebecca as she would move.