Laying her hand on me, Mother said to her old friend the Bishop, seated by her bedside, “All my children but this one and the little brother have been received into the Church. I shall not be here when they are old enough for Confirmation. You will see that it is attended to when the right time comes, Bishop?” “Ah, indeed my friend, it is a sacred trust.”
Even Confirmation itself did not seem to me at the moment as sacred as Mother’s trust in the Bishop and the Bishop’s promise to Mother who was dying. Two years had passed since Mother’s death. I do not think that the Bishop had spoken to me since. They lived opposite us; we often met but he passed with only a nod. Elder said, “You are to attend the Confirmation class this year, after school on Fridays, don’t forget.”
Six lanky girls waited in the old Sunday School room beside the church next Friday after school. Boys met on a different day. I was not a very enthusiastic member of the class; we had between four and five miles walking every day for school. However I remembered the Bishop’s promise to my mother and I felt the smirk of the privileged. I would be a sort of guest of honour in the class, because Mother had put me specially in the Bishop’s care about Confirmation. Surely he would remember this child, now that I was under his nose in his class.
We sat on crude benches, waiting for the Bishop. I soon found there was nothing to be smart about or to feel special about. The Bishop did not seem to remember me; to be sure, he kept his eyes shut all the time. When he opened them, it was to give each of the six girls their questions, then he shut them again and waited for the six answers. Each girl took her question and wrassled with it. It was difficult to tell if the Bishop was asleep or awake. He and the flies tagged along together in a dreary hum, and the hot sun blazed in through the windowless blinds. Finally we did get through the course and we were running through it for final rehearsal. Things were going badly with me at home, the same old troubles—these miserable remittance people from the old country with whom the Elder would fill our house. I was not nice to them, and after a severe attack of rebellion, my sister the Elder said, “Now Miss Impertinence, you walk straight out the door and over to the Bishop’s house. Tell him I say you are far too wicked to be confirmed and are to drop out from the class.” It wanted two weeks to the Confirmation Sunday. The others in the class would wonder. All of us were sewing on our white Confirmation dresses. The Elder could not have thought of a plan to hurt me more.
I walked slowly up the Bishop’s driveway. Its curves hid the study window. Laurel trees and little bushes of yellow roses grew all the way up the drive. I always stopped to smell them; this day I did not. There seemed no sweetness anywhere. The Bishop’s wife opened the door. I loved her. She gave me kisses, a dozen in a cluster, and made to lead me into the sitting room. I had never been inside the Bishop’s study before. My feet stopped outside the door, clumsy with fear.
I want, at least, I have got to see the Bishop.” The old lady was surprised, but she opened the door of the study and stood aside. The study was a small room littered with papers and boxes. The Bishop sat at a table drawn close to the fire. The Bishop’s wife left the room and I stood there before the closed eyelids of the Bishop. He had forgotten me, so I made a little fidget. “Ah, child,” but there was no recognition in his voice.
The pen was still between his fingers—perhaps that was one of his sermons on love and charity before him. He gave a deep, almost patient sigh, as if I were one of life’s crosses, and repeated, “Well, child!” with slight asperity. “I’m Small, Mr. Bishop. You remember, you used to come see my mother before she died?” “Indeed I remember Emily Carr. A good Christian woman. What can I do for her daughter, Small they call you don’t they?” “I’m wicked sir, and my sister sent me to say I was not fit for Confirmation and was to drop out of the class.” “I am sorry to hear you are bad.” “Not horrible badness, sir, not stealing or lying or things like that, just rebellion and impertinence.”
Then I tumbled choking into an orgy of tears. Having expected major wickedness, the Bishop sighed and laid his pen down and crossed his hands. “You are young yet. It would not hurt to wait another year.” Had he no suggestion, no help to offer, no questions to ask?
Every moment my heart grew harder towards the Bishop and towards his religion. The Bishop’s eyes were closed again. I glanced towards the door. It was not latched. Turning, I crept quickly. In a few steps I was through the hall and out in the open. I scuttled behind the gracious laurels’ shelter. The little yellow roses never smelled so sweet. I stopped to smell each bush. All my school companions were confirmed that year. They had wondered why I dropped out of the class. I was confirmed the next year. It did not mean much to me, not what it had meant the first time I joined the class.
