Atonement -- Fiction; Clergy -- England -- Fiction; Illegitimate children -- Fiction
Gwynneth was now in her twentieth year, a tall and graceful girl, albeit
with the slight stoop of the natural student that she was. At her school
she had won all available honours, but it was not a modern school, and
in those days such as Gwynneth had no definite knowledge of any wider
arena. So she left her school without great regret. She had learnt all
that they could teach her there. And she taught herself twice as much in
stolen hours spent in the hall library, which had been bought with the
place, and hitherto only used by Sidney on wet days. But now there was
no need to steal an hour; the girl's time was all her own, and she held
high revel among the books. Moreover, it was the dawn of the University
Extension system, and Gwynneth heard of a course of lectures upon
English literature, only eight miles from Long Stow, just in time to
attend. To do so she had to fight a weekly battle with the coachman, but
Fraulein Hentig took her side, and the opposition did not endure.
Gwynneth took voluminous notes and wrote elaborate essays, bringing to
the whole interest that energy, thoroughness and enthusiasm, to which,
though each was an essential characteristic, she was only now enabled to
give free play. Yet the young girl was no mere bookworm, though at this
stage of her career she seemed little else. It was a phase of
intellectual absorption, but all the while it needed but a touch of
human interest in her life to awake the deeper nature of the eternal
woman. Such awakening had come with the most alarming period of
Georgie's illness. Gwynneth was starting for her lecture, primed with
sharp pencils and her new essay, when she heard in the village that two
doctors had been at the Flint House in the night. She did not go to that
lecture at all, but for two days and nights was scarcely an hour absent
from the bedside of a little boy whom she had barely known by sight
before. And his first comprehensible words formed the question which
Gwynneth, worn out by watching, had answered in the fashion he could
never understand.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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