The Unpossessed Read Online Free Page A

birch, said “Maybe that will teach you,” and he had answered “I’ll ask God to help me.” There had been a God then. Now God like Uncle Daniel had been a long time dead.
    And sitting at supper (to which the aunts timidly bade him come) on the raw stripes of Uncle Daniel’s licking, he would be filled with a righteous exaltation. It was more blessed to sit on stripes than on a bottom unlawfully padded with deceit. Uncle Dan flogged harder than the immediate sin deserved; this was because Uncle Daniel, wise, like God, knew vaguely of many other sins which had not come to light, which might have been stored up on a small boy’s conscience almost since his birth. In this Uncle Daniel was a loyal representative of God. So before his eyes, as before God’s, he lowered his own; in fear—for something in him loathed those floggings; in guilt—if ever all the sins were guessed then flogging was not enough; and also, obscurely, in hope, for once they were all read that one lacked the strength to own to, then would come absolution complete: an end to evil thoughts preventing sleep at night, end to the sudden threats of God sounding in guilty ears—one would be like “other children” that the aunts, not knowing, dimly fancied.
    Here came Margaret, at him, it seemed (a wistful aunt, a helpless mother, ill-disguised) with that peculiar look of hope planned to seduce him; he described it to her fondly, at times when he could bear it, as her “balmy” look. Dropping the bags at his feet as though she brought a sick child toys from the Five and Ten and fully expecting his fever to go down at sight of them, not knowing them for trash! Poor little Maggie; it took stooping to enter the doll’s house in which she lived; which she furnished so tenderly with chairs that were too little and too soft, always struggling to draw the curtains so a man could not see out; and rushing to the miniature door with her hands outstretched, her face gone “balmy” with her filmy hopefulness, begging a man to come in and be stifled. He could have borne it better if her face had sprung to life for Jeffrey.
    He waved her back: “Ten percent. So now you will be bringing home most of the bacon”; and watched her, with compunction yet with pleasure, withdraw and stoop as though for refuge to the bags. Her face looked hurt as though his need for hurt hurt her. But since she would not stab him, he longed to reach and scratch out forever the “balmy” look from her mild, uncomprehending face.
    â€œLeave them, leave them,” he said, slumped in his chair. “We have time before we eat.” The paper corner on the bulkiest lifted suddenly with a crackle, like the ear of an animal, rather hurt. He prodded it with one toe and shoved it an inch or two farther from his chair.
    So lately had she held it! He could feel his toe gently prodding her shoulder where the helpless bag had lain. Well, now was her chance: why didn’t she scream out in anger and strike him back? When would she learn that a man could not live with such unrelenting kindness?
    â€œBut darling!” she protested. “I—” She stopped. She seemed to eye him humbly; perhaps ashamed of her bucolic unawareness, her gift to him of vegetables! She sighed, her protest skillfully withdrawn. She has her own way, he thought, of knifing me! her cowardly pulling out the sword—that wounds!
    â€œBut what did he say—Mr. Pidgeon?” she asked, as though rousing herself (concession number one!) to pretend acquaintance with his world of facts; so might his aunts have inquired kindly about a game of baseball played at school. “Old Son-of-a-Bitch?” she added painfully (concession number two!); did she think to win him with this condescending loyalty?
    â€œ He doesn’t matter.” Contemptuously Miles dropped Mr. Pidgeon along with Margaret’s