It is always so beautiful when the candles are lit to signify the new world, the new year, the new life. Our heavy little church is not unlike the cave where the birth of Jesus is so often pictured. The people knelt and prayed, shepherds and fishermen. I knelt too, and tried to turn my confused thoughts into some kind of charity and goodwill, to pray in my way. I prayed, as I always pray, that the people would understand the spirit in which my father keeps those festivals only that he considers universal-for him, the nativity is the winter solstice, the turning of the earth to the light. The Curé is afraid of him. He knows he should remonstrate, and dare not.
I saw that she was not kneeling, and then that she was lowering herself, after all, rather carefully, as though she felt faint. When we were seated again, after the candles were lit, I looked to see if she was well, and understood. She was leaning back, in the corner of the bench, with her head against a pillar and her eyes and lips tightly closed, wearily closed, but not patiently. She was shadowed, the church-shadows swallowed her, but I saw she was pale. She had her hands clasped under her bosom, and some trick of the twist of her body, some ancient protectiveness in those hands made me see clearly what she had concealed and what I, a good countrywoman and mistress of a household, should have understood long ago. I have seen too many women hold their hands so to be mistaken. Leaning like that, I could see how she is stout. She came to us for sanctuary indeed. Much, if not all, is explained.
Gode knows. She is quick-eyed and wise about these things.
My father knows, I think, he must have known for some time, if not before she came. What he feels is pity and protectiveness, I see it now; I have read sentiments that did not exist except in my own fevered imagination.
What shall I say or do?
DEC. 3
I see I shall dare to say nothing to her. I went up to her room in the afternoon, with a gift of barley sugar and a book I had borrowed in earlier times before I grew angry. I said to her,
"I am sorry to have been so disagreeable, Cousin. I have been misunderstanding things.”
“Indeed," she said, not so agreeably. "I am glad you find it to be a misunderstanding.”
“Oh, I know how things are, now," I said. "I wish to be good to you. To help you."
"You know how things are now, do you?" she said slowly. "You know how things are. Do we ever know that about a fellow-creature? Tell me then, Cousin Sabine, how do you think thingsare with me?"
And she stared at me with her white face and her pale eyes, defying me to speak. If I had, if I had uttered it, what could she have done or said? It is so, I know it. But I stammered, I did not know what I meant, I believed I had made her unhappy, and then, as she stared on, I burst into tears.
"Things are well enough with me," she said. "I am a grown woman, and you are a young girl, full of the fancies and instability of youth. I can look after myself. I do not desire help from you, Sabine. But I am glad you are no longer so full of rage. Rage hurts the spirit, as I know to my cost."
I felt she knew all, all I had suspected and feared and resented. And that she did not choose to forgive me. And then I was angry again, in my turn, and went out still weeping. For she says she does not need help, but she does, she has already requested it, that is why she is here. What will become of her? Of us? Of the child? Shall I speak to my father? I still feel she is like Aesop's frozen serpent. A figure of speech may get hold of your imagination even when its appositeness is worn away. In which case which of us is the serpent? But she looked at me so coldly. I wonder if she is a little mad.
[LATEJAN] Today I made up my mind to speak to my father about Cousin Christabel's state. I have thought of it once or twice, but something has always prevented me. Possibly a fear that he too may reprove me. But the silence lies between me and him. So I waited until she had gone away to the church-any practised eye could tell her condition by now, for sure. She is too little in stature to disguise it. I went in to my father and said very quickly, before I could be deflected from my purpose, "I wish to talk to you about Christabel.”
“I have noticed, with regret, that you seem to show her less affection than you did.”
“As to that, I do not think she wants my affection. I misunderstood. I thought she was growing so close to you that I-that there was no space left for me.”
“That was most unjust. Both to her and to me.”
“I know now, for I have seen, father, I have seen her condition, which is unmistakable. I was blind, but now I see." He turned his face away to the window and said, "I do not think we should speak of that.”
“You mean, you do not think I should.”
“I do not think we should.”
“But what is to become of her? Of the child? Are they to stay here always? I am the mistress of this house, I wish to know, I need to know. And I wish to help, Father, I wish to help Christabel.”
“The best way to help her seems to be by maintaining silence." He sounded puzzled. I said, "Well, if you know what she intends, I am content, I will be quiet and say no more. I only wish to help.”
“Ah, my dear," he said, "I know no more than you do, of what she intends. I am as much in the dark as you are. I offered a home, as she requested-'for some time' was all she said in her letter. But she has not allowed me to speak of-the reason for her need. Indeed, it was Gode who enlightened me, very early. It may be that she will turn to Gode, when the time comes. She is our kin-we offered sanctuary.”
“She must speak of her trouble," I said.
"I have tried," he said. "She turns it all aside. As though she wished to deny her state, even to herself."
FEBRUARY
I have noticed that I have lost pleasure in this journal. For some time now it has been neither writer's exercise nor record of my world, only a narrative of jealousy and bafflement and resentment. I have noticed that writing such things down does not exorcise them, only gives them solid life, as the witch's wax dolls take on vitality when she warms them into shape before pricking them. I did not start this journal to be a confidante for my spying on another's private pain. Also I am afraid that it might be read, by accident, and misconstrued. So, for all these reasons, and as a kind of spiritual discipline, I shall give it up for the time being.