Lily Fairchild. Don Gutteridge
Читать онлайн книгу.
up for christenin’ by the look of it.” And he winked mysteriously towards Lily. “They’ve already made the turn, I reckon.”
Aunt Bridie never panicked, especially on Saturday afternoons in September with the weather clement and the week’s market done. “If God hadn’t been Presbyterian,” she would say, “he’d’ve made his Sabbath on Saturday afternoons so’s all of us could rest together.” Nonetheless, she went indoors at a trot, signaling for Lily to follow.
“It’s the Ladies Aid for sure,” she mumbled. Wordlessly they hurried about “straightening up” the living area. Bridie covered the table, set it for tea and put the kettle on. She turned to Lily. “This is about you, you can be sure.”
No doubt they were coming to drag her away to Miss Pringle’s school. “Go an’ see that uncle of yours is safe in his stall,” Bridie said, removing her apron but otherwise making no further concessions to the visitors. Lily raced to the barn. Chester was in his workshop, now fully restored to him since Cam’s sudden departure. He hadn’t bothered to remove the pallet, finding it a more convenient spot to rest between stints at the workbench. That is where Lily found him.
Meanwhile, the delegation had arrived: the missuses McHarg, Salter and McWhinney. After tea and niceties, Mrs. McWhinney took the lead. “I’ll come right to the point,” she said with mercantilist efficiency, draining her cup.
“The point,” interrupted Reverend McHarg’s representative, “is Lily.”
Bridie poured Mrs. McWhinney another cup of tea.
“The point is the baptism of this innocent child.”
“We know how good you been to her an’ all,” added Josephine Salter hastily. “Nobody can take that away from you. You been a wonderful momma to this dear little foundlin’ here. Just the other night I says to Mr. Salter –”
“What Josie means, is that it may be all right for you to reject your Maker, to live out here in a state of sin and run the risk of eternal damnation –”
“You’re a bright woman, Bridie,” said Mrs McWhinney. “Nobody denies you that. You work hard an’ you keep your own counsel. Well an’ good. But we’re talkin’ here about the girl. Now we all might come from different churches, an’ we have our set-to’s from time to time, but we all agree on this – the girl deserves a chance to save her own soul.”
“It don’t even matter who baptizes her,” added Mrs. Salter with Methodist charity. “It’s just gotta be done, that’s all.”
No one had looked directly at Lily during this exchange though she was occasionally acknowledged with a flutter of fingers or a glancing nod. Bridie sat straight-backed, following each of the speakers with intense interest.
“Do you intend to toss a coin?” she asked.
“Bridie, this is serious. We’re just askin’ you to think about the girl, about her future.”
“In Heaven or Port Sarnia?”
The sudden edge to Aunt Bridie’s voice silenced Mrs. Salter and Mrs. McWhinney. They hadn’t expected it to come to this. Mrs. McHarg, being Orange, had more ancient claim on self-righteousness.
“Both,” she said.
Bridie leaned forward and looked over at Lily, who could not read the emotions held in check by that awesome will. “Well then,” she said. “We’ll let the girl decide. Lily, dear, what do you say?”
Lily, concluding it was time to find out once and for all who this God was, answered, “Yes.”
It was agreed that Lily Ramsbottom’s religious education would begin a week Sunday with an interview with the Reverend McHarg himself at the Manse. He would determine the status of the girl’s ‘natural’ inclinations to religious sentiment, after which she would be placed exclusively in the hands of Mrs. McHarg for special tutoring before being released to the general influence of Sunday School and Service.
On the day of the interview, Chester took Lily by horse and cart to the door of the imposing red-brick Manse. He held her hand, squeezed it, and tried to say something encouraging, but couldn’t. Lily watched the rig move west down George Street and stop in front of the Anglican Church whose spire glinted above the horizon. Uncle Chester got out and, a bit like a thief entering a shop, went in.
“Come in, come in, my child!” boomed the Reverend Clarion McHarg, swivelling in his desk chair and waving the deaf housekeeper away.
Lily obeyed. The woman had taken her shawl somewhere. She peered around the dimly-lit room embroidered with walnut and cherrywood and leather-skinned tomes of impressive dimension.
“Sit,” said the Reverend, pointing to a padded, armless chair across from the littered secretary. “My, don’t we look pretty, today,” he added, finishing up a sentence and blotting it. Adjusted now to the poor light, Lily saw that his features were all crags and cliffs, with spiky eyebrows that bunched like a pair of singed caterpillars. Despite the eager teeth of his smile, his eyes burned. “You’re the…young lady from the township my wife was telling me about?”
“Yes, your reverence.” Chester had instructed her in the appropriate form of address.
“I ain’t been baptized,” Lily ventured.
“Haven’tbeen,” he said automatically.
“Yes, sir. My aunt says I haven’t had a proper upbringin’.”
“Do you know what being baptized in the Lord means?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, let’s find out, shall we, how much you doknow.” The caterpillars arched expectantly. “God will be pleased, I’m sure, to have you join His congregation of the Saved.”
“Yes,” Lily said. “I come here to find out about him. I do have questions.”
“Such as?”
“Can I talk to him?”
The good Reverend smiled as if charmed by the naiveté of such a remark. “You may prayto Him.”
“How do I do that?” Lily wanted to hear it from the source.
My word, the ignorance of some of these country folks was appalling! “You get down on your knees, close your eyes, and tell God about your sins and ask Him to offer you strength and succor.”
“What sins?”
The Reverend stared at Lily as if trying to catch her out at some trick. “You don’t know?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, I can see that Mrs. McHarg has some tough cloth to cut here.”
“Can I speak to God, like this, like we are?” Lily said.
“Of course not,” he snapped. “The Lord will answer your prayers if and when He decides.”
“When he does answer, will it be in English?”
“Are you being blasphemous, child?”
“What’s blasphemous, sir?”
“God speaks to each man in his own tongue; He hears, sees and knows everything.”
“Uncle Chester says that according to his Bible, God talks in Hebrew.”
“Damnation to Uncle Chester! Excuse me, child. You see why we must all pray.”
Lily didn’t. She straightened up, charily. McHarg did the same. “Would God, if I prayed to him real hard, talk to me in Pottawatomie?”
The caterpillars jumped in agitation. “Who put you up to this? That heathen aunt of yours?” He had both of her shoulders in his grip.
“No, sir. I just thought if your god can talk in every tongue, then he could if he wants talk to me in Pottawatomie. Or Chippewa