all roads lead to calvary-第3部分

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　race　as　a　well　thought　out　part　of　the　Creator's　scheme。　　No　leader　had　been　bold　enough　to　come　forward　and　denounce　it　as　an　insult　to　his　God。　　As　one　grew　older；　kindly　mother　Nature；　ever　seeking　to　ease　the　self…inflicted　burdens　of　her　foolish　brood；　gave　one　forgetfulness；　insensibility。　　The　condemned　criminal　puts　the　thought　of　the　gallows　away　from　him　as　long　as　may　be：　　eats；　and　sleeps　and　even　jokes。　　Man's　soul　grows　pachydermoid。　　But　the　children！　　Their　sensitive　brains　exposed　to　every　cruel　breath。　　No　philosophic　doubt　permitted　to　them。　　No　learned　disputation　on　the　relationship　between　the　literal　and　the　allegorical　for　the　easing　of　their　frenzied　fears。　　How　many　million　tiny　white…faced　figures　scattered　over　Christian　Europe　and　America；　stared　out　each　night　into　a　vision　of　black　horror；　how　many　million　tiny　hands　clutched　wildly　at　the　bedclothes。　　The　Society　for　the　Prevention　of　Cruelty　to　Children；　if　they　had　done　their　duty；　would　have　prosecuted　before　now　the　Archbishop　of　Canterbury。

Of　course　she　would　go　to　Hell。　　As　a　special　kindness　some　generous　relative　had；　on　Joan's　seventh　birthday；　given　her　an　edition　of　Dante's　〃Inferno；〃　with　illustrations　by　Dore。　　From　it　she　was　able　to　form　some　notion　of　what　her　eternity　was　likely　to　be。　　And　God　all　the　while　up　in　His　Heaven；　surrounded　by　that　glorious　band　of　praise…trumpeting　angels；　watching　her　out　of　the　corner　of　His　eye。　　Her　courage　saved　her　from　despair。　　Defiance　came　to　her　aid。　　Let　Him　send　her　to　Hell！　　She　was　not　going　to　pray　to　Him　and　make　up　to　Him。　　He　was　a　wicked　God。　　Yes；　He　was：　a　cruel；　wicked　God。　　And　one　night　she　told　Him　so　to　His　face。

It　had　been　a　pretty　crowded　day；　even　for　so　busy　a　sinner　as　little　Joan。　　It　was　springtime；　and　they　had　gone　into　the　country　for　her　mother's　health。　　Maybe　it　was　the　season：　　a　stirring　of　the　human　sap；　conducing　to　that　feeling　of　being　〃too　big　for　one's　boots；〃　as　the　saying　is。　　A　dangerous　period　of　the　year。　Indeed；　on　the　principle　that　prevention　is　better　than　cure；　Mrs。　Munday　had　made　it　a　custom　during　April　and　May　to　administer　to　Joan　a　cooling　mixture；　but　on　this　occasion　had　unfortunately　come　away　without　it。　　Joan；　dressed　for　use　rather　than　show；　and　without　either　shoes　or　stockings；　had　stolen　stealthily　downstairs：　　something　seemed　to　be　calling　to　her。　　Silently　〃like　a　thief　in　the　night；〃　to　adopt　Mrs。　Munday's　metaphorhad　slipped　the　heavy　bolts；　had　joined　the　thousand　creatures　of　the　woodhad　danced　and　leapt　and　shouted；　had　behaved；　in　short；　more　as　if　she　had　been　a　Pagan　nymph　than　a　happy　English　child。　　She　had　regained　the　house　unnoticed；　as　she　thought；　the　Devil；　no　doubt；　assisting　her；　and　had　hidden　her　wet　clothes　in　the　bottom　of　a　mighty　chest。　　Deceitfulness　in　her　heart；　she　had　greeted　Mrs。　Munday　in　sleepy　tones　from　beneath　the　sheets；　and　before　breakfast；　assailed　by　suspicious　questions；　had　told　a　deliberate　lie。　　Later　in　the　morning；　during　an　argument　with　an　active　young　pig　who　was　willing　enough　to　play　at　Red　Riding　Hood　so　far　as　eating　things　out　of　a　basket　was　concerned；　but　who　would　not　wear　a　night…cap；　she　had　used　a　wicked　word。　　In　the　afternoon　she　〃might　have　killed〃　the　farmer's　only　son　and　heir。　　They　had　had　a　row。　　In　one　of　those　sad　lapses　from　the　higher　Christian　standards　into　which　Satan　was　always　egging　her；　she　had　pushed　him；　and　he　had　tumbled　head　over　heels　into　the　horse…pond。　　The　reason；　that　instead　of　lying　there　and　drowning　he　had　got　up　and　walked　back　to　the　house　howling　fit　to　wake　the　Seven　Sleepers；　was　that　God；　watching　over　little　children；　had　arranged　for　the　incident　taking　place　on　that　side　of　the　pond　where　it　was　shallow。　　Had　the　scrimmage　occurred　on　the　opposite　bank；　beneath　which　the　water　was　much　deeper；　Joan　in　all　probability　would　have　had　murder　on　her　soul。　　It　seemed　to　Joan　that　if　God；　all…　powerful　and　all…foreseeing；　had　been　so　careful　in　selecting　the　site；　He　might　with　equal　ease　have　prevented　the　row　from　ever　taking　place。　　Why　couldn't　the　little　beast　have　been　guided　back　from　school　through　the　orchard；　much　the　shorter　way；　instead　of　being　brought　round　by　the　yard；　so　as　to　come　upon　her　at　a　moment　when　she　was　feeling　a　bit　short…tempered；　to　put　it　mildly？　　And　why　had　God　allowed　him　to　call　her　〃Carrots〃？　　That　Joan　should　have　〃put　it〃　this　way；　instead　of　going　down　on　her　knees　and　thanking　the　Lord　for　having　saved　her　from　a　crime；　was　proof　of　her　inborn　evil　disposition。　　In　the　evening　was　reached　the　culminating　point。　　Just　before　going　to　bed　she　had　murdered　old　George　the　cowman。　　For　all　practical　purposes　she　might　just　as　well　have　been　successful　in　drowning　William　Augustus　earlier　in　the　day。　　It　seemed　to　be　one　of　those　things　that　had　to　be。　　Mr。　Hornflower　still　lived；　it　was　true；　but　that　was　not　Joan's　fault。　Joan；　standing　in　white　night…gown　beside　her　bed；　everything　around　her　breathing　of　innocence　and　virtue：　　the　spotless　bedclothes；　the　chintz　curtains；　the　white　hyacinths　upon　the　window…ledge；　Joan's　Bible；　a　present　from　Aunt　Susan；　her　prayer…　book；　handsomely　bound　in　calf；　a　present　from　Grandpapa；　upon　their　little　table；　Mrs。　Munday　in　evening　black　and　cameo　brooch　（pale　red　with　tomb　and　weeping　willow　in　white　relief）　sacred　to　the　memory　of　the　departed　Mr。　MundayJoan　standing　there　erect；　with　pale；　passionate　face；　defying　all　these　aids　to　righteousness；　had　deliberately　wished　Mr。　Hornflower　dead。　　Old　George　Hornflower　it　was　who；　unseen　by　her；　had　passed　her　that　morning　in　the　wood。　　Grumpy　old　George　it　was　who　had　overheard　the　wicked　word　with　which　she　had　cursed　the　pig；　who　had　met　William　Augustus　on　his　emergence　from　the　pond。　　To　Mr。　George　Hornflower；　the　humble　instrument　in　the　hands　of　Providence；　helping　her　towards　possible　salvation；　she　ought　to　have　been　grateful。　　And　instead　of　that　she　had　flung　into　the　agonized　face　of　Mrs。　Munday　these　awful　words：

〃I　wish　he　was　dead！〃

〃He　who　in　his　heart〃　there　was　verse　and　chapter　for　it。　　Joan　was　a　murderess。　　Just　as　well；　so　far　as　Joan　was　concerned；　might　she　have　taken　a　carving…knife　and　stabbed　Deacon　Hornflower　to　the　heart。

Joan's　prayers　that　night；　to　the　accompaniment　of　Mrs。　Munday's　sobs；　had　a　hopeless　air　of　unreality　about　them。　　Mrs。　Munday's　kiss　was　cold。

How　long　Joan　lay　and　tossed　upon　her　little　bed　she　could　not　tell。　　Somewhere　about　the　middle　of　the　night；　or　so　it　seemed　to　her；　the　frenzy　seized　her。　　Flinging　the　bedclothes　away　she　rose　to　her　feet。　　It　is　difficult　to　stand　upon　a　spring　mattress；　but　Joan　kept　her　balance。　　Of　course　He　was　there　in　the　room　with　her。　　God　was　everywhere；　spying　upon　her。　　She　could　distinctly　hear　His　measured　breathing。　　Face　to　face　with　Him；　she　told　Him　what　she　thought　of　Him。　　She　told　Him　He　was　a　cruel；　wicked　God。

There　are　no　Victoria　Crosses　for　sinners；　or　surely　little　Joan　that　night　would　have　earned　it。　　It　was　not　lack　of　imagination　that　helped　her　courage。　　God　and　she　alone；　in　the　darkness。　　He　with　all　the　forces　of　the　Universe　behind　Him。　　He　armed　with　His　eternal　pains　and　penalties；　and　eight…year…old　Joan：　　the　creature　that　He　had　made　in　His　Own　Image　that　He　could　torture　and　destroy。　　Hell　yawned　beneath　her；　but　it　had　to　be　said。　　Somebody　ought　to　tell　Him。

〃You　are　a　wicked　God；〃　Joan　told　Him。　　〃Yes；　You　are。　　A　cruel；　wicked　God。〃

And　then　that　she　might　not　see　the　walls　of　the　room　open　before　her；　hear　the　wild　laughter　of　the　thousand　devils　that　were　coming　to　bear　her　off；　she　threw　herself　down；　her　face　hidden　in　the　pillow；　and　clenched　her　hands　and　waited。

And　suddenly　there　burst　a　song。　　It　was　like　nothing　Joan　had　ever　heard　before。　　So　clear　and　loud　and　near　that　all　the　night　seemed　filled　with　harmony。　　It　sank　into　a　tender　yearning　cry　throbbing　with　passionate　desire；　and　then　it　rose　again　in　thrilling　ecstasy：　　a　song　of　hope；　of　victory。

Joan；　trembling；　stole　from　her　bed　and　drew　aside　the　blind。　There　was　nothing　to　be　seen　but　the　stars　and　the　dim　shape　of　the　hills。　　But　still　that　song；　filling　the　air　with　its　wild；　triumphant　melody。

Years　afterwards；　listening　to　the　overture　to　Tannhauser；　there　came　back　to　her　the　memory　of　that　night。　　Ever　through　the　mad　Satanic　discords　she　could　hear；　now　faint；　now　conquering；　the　Pilgrims'　onward　march。　　So　through　the　jangled　discords　of　the　world　one　heard　the　Song　of　Life。　　Through　the　dim　aeons　of　man's　savage　infancy；　through　the　centuries　of　bloodshed　and　of　horror；　through　the　dark　ages　of　tyranny　and　superstition；　through　wrong；　through　cruelty；　through　hate；　heedless　of　doom；　heedless　of　death；　still　the　nightingale's　song：　　〃I　love　you。　　I　love　you。　　I　love　you。　　We　will　build　a　nest。　　We　will　rear　our　brood。　　I　love　you。　I　love　you。　　Life　shall　not　die。〃

Joan　crept　back　into　bed。　　A　new　wonder　had　come　to　her。　　And　from　that　night　Joan's　belief　in　Mrs。　Munday's　God　began　to　fade；　circumstances　helping。

Firstly　there　was　the　great　event　of　going　to　school。　　She　was　glad　to　get　away　from　home；　a　massive；　stiffly　furnished　house　in　a　wealthy　suburb　of　Liverpool。　　Her　mother；　since　she　could　remember；　had　been　an　invalid；　rarely　leaving　her　bedroom　till　the　afternoon。　Her　father；　the　owner　of　large　engineering　works；　she　only　saw；　as　a　rule；　at　dinner…time；　when　she　would　come　down　to　dessert。　　It　had　been　different　when　she　was　very　young；　before　her　mother　had　been　taken　ill。　　Then　she　had　been　more　with　them　both。　　She　had　dim　recollections　of　her　father　playing　with　her；　pretending　to　be　a　bear　and　growling　at　her　from　behind　the　sofa。　　And　then　he　would　seize　and　hug　her　and　they　would　both　laugh；　while　he　tossed　her　into　the　air　and　caught　her。　　He　had　looked　so　big　and　handsome。　All　through　her　childhood　there　had　been　the　desire　to　recreate　those　days；　to　spring　into　the　air　and　catch　her　arms　about　his　neck。　　She　could　have　loved　him　dearly　if　he　had　only　let　her。　Once；　seeking　explanation；　she　had　opened　her　heart　a　little　to　Mrs。　Munday。　　It　was　disappointment；　Mrs。　Munday　thought；　that　she　had　not　been　a　boy；　and　with　that　Joan　had　to　content　herself。　Maybe