“In the sense you intend, yes. Medicine can do nothing. You must not think she is like us men, able to reason clearly, examine her motives, understand why she behaves as she does. One must see her as a being in a mist. All we can do is wait and hope that the mists rise. Then perhaps…” he fell silent. Then added, without hope, “Perhaps.”

At that very same moment, Sarah’s bedroom lies in the black silence shrouding Marlborough House. She is asleep, turned to the right, her dark hair falling across her face and almost hiding it. Again you notice how peaceful, how untragic, the features are: a healthy young woman of twenty-six or -seven, with a slender, rounded arm thrown out, over the bedclothes, for the night is still and the windows closed… thrown out, as I say, and resting over another body.

Not a man. A girl of nineteen or so, also asleep, her back to Sarah, yet very close to her, since the bed, though large, is not meant for two people.

A thought has swept into your mind; but you forget we are in the year 1867. Suppose Mrs. Poulteney stood suddenly in the door, lamp in hand, and came upon those two affectionate bodies lying so close, so together, there. You imagine perhaps that she would have swollen, an infuriated black swan, and burst into an outraged anathema; you see the two girls, dressed only in their piteous shifts, cast from the granite gates.

Well, you would be quite wrong. Since we know Mrs. Poulteney dosed herself with laudanum every night, it was very unlikely that the case should have been put to the test. But if she had after all stood there, it is almost certain that she would simply have turned and gone away—more, she might even have closed the door quietly enough not to wake the sleepers.

Incomprehensible? But some vices were then so unnatural that they did not exist. I doubt if Mrs. Poulteney had ever heard of the word “lesbian”; and if she had, it would have commenced with a capital, and referred to an island in Greece. Besides, it was to her a fact as rock-fundamental as that the world was round or that the Bishop of Exeter was Dr. Phillpotts that women did not feel carnal pleasure. She knew, of course, that the lower sort of female apparently enjoyed a certain kind of male caress, such as that monstrous kiss she had once seen planted on Mary’s cheeks, but this she took to be the result of feminine vanity and feminine weakness. Prostitutes, as Lady Cotton’s most celebrated good work could but remind her, existed; but they were explicable as creatures so depraved that they overcame their innate woman’s disgust at the carnal in their lust for money. That indeed had been her first assumption about Mary; the girl, since she giggled after she was so grossly abused by the stableboy, was most patently a prostitute in the making.

But what of Sarah’s motives? As regards lesbianism, she was as ignorant as her mistress; but she did not share Mrs. Poulteney’s horror of the carnal. She knew, or at least suspected, that there was a physical pleasure in love. Yet she was, I think, as innocent as makes no matter. It had begun, this sleeping with Millie, soon after the poor girl had broken down in front of Mrs. Poulteney. Dr. Grogan recommended that she be moved out of the maids’ dormitory and given a room with more light. It so happened that there was a long unused dressing room next to Sarah’s bedroom; and Millie was installed in it. Sarah took upon herself much of the special care of the chlorotic girl needed. She was a plowman’s daughter, fourth of eleven children who lived with their parents in a poverty too bitter to describe, her home a damp, cramped, two-room cottage in one of those valleys that radiates west from bleak Eggardon. A fashionable young London architect now has the place and comes there for weekends, and loves it, so wild, so out-of-the-way, so picturesquely rural; and perhaps this exorcizes the Victorian horrors that took place there. I hope so; those visions of the contented country laborer and his brood made so fashionable by George Morland and his kind (Birket Foster was the arch criminal by 1867) were as stupid and pernicious a sentimentalization, therefore a suppression of reality, as that in our own Hollywood films of “real” life. One look at Millie and her ten miserable siblings should have scorched the myth of the Happy Swain into ashes; but so few gave that look. Each age, each guilty age, builds high walls round its Versailles; and personally I hate those walls most when they are made by literature and art.

One night, then, Sarah heard the girl weeping. She went into her room and comforted her, which was not too difficult, for Millie was a child in all but her years; unable to read or write and as little able to judge the other humans around her as a dog; if you patted her, she understood—if you kicked her, then that was life. It was a bitterly cold night, and Sarah had simply slipped into the bed and taken the girl in her arms, and kissed her, and quite literally patted her. To her Millie was like one of the sickly lambs she had once, before her father’s social ambitions drove such peasant procedures from their way of life, so often brought up by hand. And heaven knows the simile was true also for the plowman’s daughter.

From then on, the lamb would come two or three times a week and look desolate. She slept badly, worse than Sarah, who sometimes went solitary to sleep, only to wake in the dawn to find the girl beside her—so meekly-gently did Millie, at some intolerable midnight hour, slip into her place. She was afraid of the dark, poor girl; and had it not been for Sarah, would have asked to go back to the dormitory upstairs.

This tender relationship was almost mute. They rarely if ever talked, and if they did, of only the most trivial domestic things. They knew it was that warm, silent co-presence in the darkness that mattered. There must have been something sexual in their feelings? Perhaps; but they never went beyond the bounds that two sisters would. No doubt here and there in another milieu, in the most brutish of the urban poor, in the most emancipated of the aristocracy, a truly orgastic lesbianism existed then; but we may ascribe this very common Victorian phenomenon of women sleeping together far more to the desolating arrogance of contemporary man than to a more suspect motive. Besides, in such wells of loneliness is not any coming together closer to humanity than perversity?

So let them sleep, these two innocents; and let us return to that other more rational, more learned and altogether more nobly gendered pair down by the sea.

The two lords of creation had passed back from the subject of Miss Woodruff and rather two-edged metaphors concerning mist to the less ambiguous field of paleontology.

“You must admit,” said Charles, “that Lyell’s findings are fraught with a much more than intrinsic importance. I fear the clergy have a tremendous battle on their hands.”

Lyell, let me interpose, was the father of modern geology. Already Buffon, in the famous Epoques de la Nature of 1778, had exploded the myth, invented by Archbishop Ussher in the seventeenth century and recorded solemnly in countless editions of the official English Bible, that the world had been created at nine o’clock on October 26th, 4004 B.C. But even the great French naturalist had not dared to push the origin of the world back further than some 75,000 years. Lyell’s Principles of Geology, published between 1830 and 1833—and so coinciding very nicely with reform elsewhere—had burled it back millions. His is a largely unremembered, but an essential name; he gave the age, and countless scientists in other fields, the most meaningful space. His discoveries blew like a great wind, freezing to the timid, but invigorating to the bold, through the century’s stale metaphysical corridors. But you must remember that at the time of which I write few had even heard of Lyell’s masterwork, fewer believed its theories, and fewer still accepted all their implications. Genesis is a great lie; but it is also a great poem; and a six-thousand-year-old womb is much warmer than one that stretches for two thousand million.