Fore-Glimpse

by Bram Stoker

　　'I would rather be an angel than God!'The voice of the speaker sounded clearly through the hawthorn tree.The young man and the young girl who sat together on the lowtombstone looked at each other. They had heard the voices of the twochildren talking, but had not noticed what they said; it was thesentiment, not the sound, which roused their attention.The girl put her finger to her lips to impress silence, and the mannodded; they sat as still as mice whilst the two children went ontalking.The scene would have gladdened a painter's heart. An old churchyard.The church low and square-towered, with long mullioned windows, theyellow-grey stone roughened by age and tender-hued with lichens.Round it clustered many tombstones tilted in all directions. Behindthe church a line of gnarled and twisted yews.The churchyard was full of fine trees. On one side a magnificentcedar; on the other a great copper beech. Here and there among thetombs and headstones many beautiful blossoming trees rose from thelong green grass. The laburnum glowed in the June afternoonsunlight; the lilac, the hawthorn and the clustering meadowsweetwhich fringed the edge of the lazy stream mingled their heavysweetness in sleepy fragrance. The yellow-grey crumbling walls weregreen in places with wrinkled harts-tongues, and were topped withsweet-williams and spreading house-leek and stone-crop and wild-flowers whose delicious sweetness made for the drowsy repose ofperfect summer.But amid all that mass of glowing colour the two young figures seatedon the grey old tomb stood out conspicuously. The man was inconventional hunting-dress: red coat, white stock, black hat, whitebreeches, and top-boots. The girl was one of the richest, mostglowing, and yet withal daintiest figures the eye of man could lingeron. She was in riding-habit of hunting scarlet cloth; her black hatwas tipped forward by piled-up masses red-golden hair. Round herneck was a white lawn scarf in the fashion of a man's hunting-stock,close fitting, and sinking into a gold-buttoned waistcoat of snowytwill. As she sat with the long skirt across her left arm her tinyblack top-boots appeared underneath. Her gauntleted gloves were ofwhite buckskin; her riding-whip was plaited of white leather, toppedwith ivory and banded with gold.Even in her fourteenth year Miss Stephen Norman gave promise ofstriking beauty; beauty of a rarely composite character. In her thevarious elements of her race seemed to have cropped out. The firm-set jaw, with chin broader and more square than is usual in a woman,and the wide fine forehead and aquiline nose marked the high descentfrom Saxon through Norman. The glorious mass of red hair, of thetrue flame colour, showed the blood of another ancient ancestor ofNorthern race, and suited well with the voluptuous curves of thefull, crimson lips. The purple-black eyes, the raven eyebrows andeyelashes, and the fine curve of the nostrils spoke of the Easternblood of the far-back wife of the Crusader. Already she was tall forher age, with something of that lankiness which marks the earlydevelopment of a really fine figure. Long-legged, long-necked, asstraight as a lance, with head poised on the proud neck like a lilyon its stem.Stephen Norman certainly gave promise of a splendid womanhood.Pride, self-reliance and dominance were marked in every feature; inher bearing and in her lightest movement.Her companion, Harold An Wolf, was some five years her senior, and bymeans of those five years and certain qualities had long stood in theposition of her mentor. He was more than six feet two in height,deep-chested, broad-shouldered, lean-flanked, long-armed and big-handed. He had that appearance strength, with well-poised neck andforward set of the head, which marks the successful athlete.The two sat quiet, listening. Through the quiet hum of afternooncame the voices of the two children. Outside the lich-gate, underthe shade of the spreading cedar, the horses stamped occasionally asthe flies troubled them. The grooms were mounted; one held thedelicate-limbed white Arab, the other the great black horse.'I would rather be an angel than God!'The little girl who made the remark was an ideal specimen of thevillage Sunday-school child. Blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, thick-legged,with her straight brown hair tied into a hard bunch with a much-creased, cherry-coloured ribbon. A glance at the girl would havesatisfied the most sceptical as to her goodness. Without being inany way smug she was radiant with self-satisfaction and well-doing.A child of the people; an early riser; a help to her mother; a goodangel to her father; a little mother to her brothers and sisters;cleanly in mind and body; self-reliant, full of faith, cheerful.The other little girl was prettier, but of a more stubborn type; morepassionate, less organised, and infinitely more assertive. Black-haired, black-eyed, swarthy, large-mouthed, snub-nosed; the very typeand essence of unrestrained, impulsive, emotional, sensual nature. Aseeing eye would have noted inevitable danger for the early years ofher womanhood. She seemed amazed by the self-abnegation implied byher companion's statement; after a pause she replied:'I wouldn't! I'd rather be up at the top of everything and giveorders to the angels if I chose. I can't think, Marjorie, why you'drather take orders than give them.''That's just it, Susan. I don't want to give orders; I'd rather obeythem. It must be very terrible to have to think of things so much,that you want everything done your own way. And besides, I shouldn'tlike to have to be just!''Why not?' the voice was truculent, though there was wistfulness init also.'Oh Susan. Just fancy having to punish; for of course justice needspunishing as well as praising. Now an angel has such a nice time,helping people and comforting them, and bringing sunshine into darkplaces. Putting down fresh dew every morning; making the flowersgrow, and bringing babies and taking care of them till their mothersfind them. Of course God is very good and very sweet and verymerciful, but oh, He must be very terrible.''All the same I would rather be God and able to do things!'Then the children moved off out of earshot. The two seated on thetombstone looked after them. The first to speak was the girl, whosaid:'That's very sweet and good of Marjorie; but do you know, Harold, Ilike Susie's idea better.''Which idea was that, Stephen?''Why, didn't you notice what she said: "I'd like to be God and beable to do things"?''Yes,' he said after a moment's reflection. 'That's a fine idea inthe abstract; but I doubt of its happiness in the long-run.''Doubt of its happiness? Come now? what could there be better, afterall? Isn't it good enough to be God? What more do you want?'The girl's tone was quizzical, but her great black eyes blazed withsome thought of sincerity which lay behind the fun. The young manshook his head with a smile of kindly tolerance as he answered:'It isn't that--surely you must know it. I'm ambitious enough,goodness knows; but there are bounds to satisfy even me. But I'm notsure that the good little thing isn't right. She seemed, somehow, tohit a bigger truth than she knew: "fancy having to be just."''I don't see much difficulty in that. Anyone can be just!''Pardon me,' he answered, 'there is perhaps nothing so difficult inthe whole range of a man's work.' There was distinct defiance in thegirl's eyes as she asked:'A man's work! Why a man's work? Isn't it a woman's work also?''Well, I suppose it ought to be, theoretically; practically itisn't.''And why not, pray?' The mere suggestion of any disability of womanas such aroused immediate antagonism. Her companion suppressed asmile as he answered deliberately:'Because, my dear Stephen, the Almighty has ordained that justice isnot a virtue women can practise. Mind, I do not say women areunjust. Far from it, where there are no interests of those dear tothem they can be of a sincerity of justice that can make a man'sblood run cold. But justice in the abstract is not an ordinaryvirtue: it has to be considerate as well as stern, and above allinterest of all kinds and of every one--' The girl interruptedhotly:'I don't agree with you at all. You can't give an instance wherewomen are unjust. I don't mean of course individual instances, butclasses of cases where injustice is habitual.' The suppressed smilecropped out now unconsciously round the man's lips in a way which wasintensely aggravating to the girl.'I'll give you a few,' he said. 'Did you ever know a mother just toa boy who beat her own boy at school?' The girl replied quietly:'Ill-treatment and bullying are subjects for punishment, notjustice.''Oh, I don't mean that kind of beating. I mean getting the prizestheir own boys contended for; getting above them in class; showingsuperior powers in running or cricket or swimming, or in any of theforms of effort in which boys vie with each other.' The girlreflected, then she spoke:'Well, you may be right. I don't altogether admit it, but I acceptit as not on my side. But this is only one case.''A pretty common one. Do you think that Sheriff of Galway, who indefault of a hangman hanged his son with his own hands, would havedone so if he had been a woman?' The girl answered at once:'Frankly, no. I don't suppose the mother was ever born who would dosuch a thing. But that is not a common case, is it? Have you anyother?' The young man paused before he spoke:'There is another, but I don't think I can go into it fairly withyou.''Why not?''Well, because after all you know, Stephen, you are only a girl andyou can't be expected to know.' The girl laughed:'Well, if it's anything about women surely a girl, even of my tenderage, must know something more of it, or be able to guess at, than anyyoung man can. However, say what you think and I'll tell you franklyif I agree--that is if a woman can be just, in such a matter.''Shortly the point is this: Can a woman be just to another woman, orto a man for the matter of that, where either her own affection or afault of the other is concerned?''I don't see any reason to the contrary. Surely pride alone shouldensure justice in the former case, and the consciousness ofsuperiority in the other.' The young man shook his head:'Pride and the consciousness of superiority! Are they not much thesame thing. But whether or no, if either of them has to be reliedon, I'm afraid the scales of Justice would want regulating, and hersword should be blunted in case its edge should be turned back onherself. I have an idea that although pride might be a guidingprinciple with you individually, it would be a failure with theaverage. However, as it would be in any case a rule subject to manyexceptions I must let it go.'Harold looked at his watch and rose. Stephen followed him;transferring her whip into the hand which held up the skirt, she tookhis arm with her right hand in the pretty way in which a young girlclings to her elders. Together they went out at the lich-gate. Thegroom drew over with the horses. Stephen patted hers and gave her alump of sugar. Then putting her foot into Harold's ready hand shesprang lightly into the saddle. Harold swung himself into his saddlewith the dexterity of an accomplished rider.As the two rode up the road, keeping on the shady side under thetrees, Stephen said quietly, half to herself, as if the sentence hadimpressed itself on her mind:'To be God and able to do things!'Harold rode on in silence. The chill of some vague fear was uponhim.