Still
there is no need to say what risks a clergyman's wife runs when she walks on
the moor. Short, dark, with kindling eyes, a pheasant's feather in her hat,
Mrs. Jarvis was just the sort of woman to lose her faith upon the moors--to
confound her God with the universal that is-- but she did not lose her faith,
did not leave her husband, never read her poem through, and went on walking the
moors, looking at the moon behind the elm trees, and feeling as she sat on the
grass high above Scarborough... Yes, yes, when the lark soars; when the sheep,
moving a step or two onwards, crop the turf, and at the same time set their
bells tinkling; when the breeze first blows, then dies down, leaving the cheek kissed;
when the ships on the sea below seem to cross each other and pass on as if
drawn by an invisible hand; when there are distant concussions in the air and
phantom horsemen galloping, ceasing; when the horizon swims blue, green,
emotional--then Mrs. Jarvis, heaving a sigh, thinks to herself, "If only
some one could give me... if I could give some one...." But she does not
know what she wants to give, nor who could give it her.
Jacob’s Room (25)
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