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Title: The Well of LonelinessAuthor: Radclyff Hall* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *eBook No.: 0609021h.htmlLanguage: EnglishDate first posted: March 2015Most recent update: March 2015Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editionswhich are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright noticeis included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particularpaper edition.Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check thecopyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing thisfile.This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg AustraliaLicence which may be viewed online.
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To Our Three Selves
All the characters in this book are purelyimaginary, and if the author has used names that may suggest areference to living persons, she has done so inadvertently.
A motor ambulance unit of British women drivers did very fineservice upon the Allied Front in France during the later months ofthe war, but although the unit mentioned in this book, of whichStephen Gordon becomes a member, operates in much the same area, ithas never had any existence save in the author's imagination.
1
Not very far from Up ton-on-Severn—between it, in fact,and the Malvern Hills—stands the country seat of the Gordonsof Bramley; well-timbered, well-cottaged, well-fenced andwell-watered, having, in this latter respect, a stream that forksin exactly the right position to feed two large lakes in thegrounds.
The house itself is of Georgian red brick, with charmingcircular windows near the roof. It has dignity and pride withoutostentation, self-assurance without arrogance, repose withoutinertia; and a gentle aloofness that, to those who know its spirit,but adds to its value as a home. It is indeed like certain lovelywomen who, now old, belong to a bygone generation—women whoin youth were passionate but seemly; difficult to win but when won,all-fulfilling. They are passing away, but their homesteads remain,and such an homestead is Morton.
To Morton Hall came the Lady Anna Gordon as a bride of just overtwenty. She was lovely as only an Irish woman can be, having thatin her bearing that betokened quiet pride, having that in her eyesthat betokened great longing, having that in her body thatbetokened happy promise—the archetype of the very perfectwoman, whom creating God has found good. Sir Philip had met heraway in County Clare—Anna Molloy, the slim virgin thing, allchastity, and his weariness had flown to her bosom as a spent birdwill fly to its nest—as indeed such a bird had once flown toher, she told him, taking refuge from the perils of a storm.
Sir Philip was a tall man and exceedingly well-favoured, but hischarm lay less in feature than in a certain wide expression, atolerant expression that might almost be called noble, and insomething sad yet gallant in his deep-set hazel eyes. His chin,which was firm, was very slightly cleft, his forehead intellectual,his hair tinged with auburn. His wide-nostrilled nose wasindicative of temper, but his lips were well-modelled and sensitiveand ardent—they revealed him as a dreamer and a lover.
Twenty-nine when they had married, he had sown no few wild oats,yet Anna's true instinct made her trust him completely: Herguardian had disliked him, opposing the engagement, but in the endshe had had her own way. And as things turned out her choice hadbeen happy, for seldom had two people loved more than they did;they loved with an ardour undiminished by time; as they ripened, sotheir love ripened with them.
Sir Philip never knew how much he longed for a son until, someten years after marriage, his wife conceived a child; then he knewthat this thing meant complete fulfilment, the fulfilment for whichthey had both been waiting. When she told him, he could not findwords for expression, and must just turn and weep on her shoulder.It never seemed to cross his mind for a moment that Anna might verywell give him a daughter; he saw her only as a mother of sons, norcould her warnings disturb him. He christened the unborn infantStephen, because he admired the pluck of that Saint. He was not areligious man by instinct, being perhaps too much of a student, buthe read the Bible for its fine literature, and Stephen had grippedhis imagination. Thus he often discussed the future of their child:'I think I shall put Stephen down for Harrow', or: 'I'd rather likeStephen to finish off abroad, it widens one's outlook on life'.
And listening to him, Anna also grew convinced; his certaintywore down her vague misgivings, and she saw herself playing withthis little Stephen, in the nursery, in the garden, in thesweet-smelling meadows. 'And himself the lovely young man,' shewould say, thinking of the soft Irish speech of her peasants; 'Andhimself with the light of the stars in his eyes, and the courage ofa lion in his heart!'
When the child stirred within her she would think it stirredstrongly because of the gallant male creature she was hiding; thenher spirit grew large with a mighty new courage, because aman-child would be born. She would sit with her needle-work droppedon her knees, while her eyes turned away to the long line of hillsthat stretched beyond the Severn valley. From her favourite seatunderneath an old cedar, she would see these Malvern Hills in theirbeauty, and their swelling slopes seemed to hold a new meaning.They were like pregnant women, full-bosomed, courageous, greatgreen-girdled mothers of splendid sons! thus through all thosesummer months she sat and watched the hills, and Sir Philip wouldsit with her—they would sit hand in hand. And because shefelt grateful she gave much to the poor, and Sir Philip went tochurch, which was seldom his custom, and the Vicar came to dinner,and just towards the end many matrons called to give good advice toAnna.
But: 'Man proposes—God disposes', and so it happened thaton Christmas Eve, Anna Gordon was delivered of a daughter; anarrow-hipped, wide-shouldered little tadpole of a baby, thatyelled and yelled for three hours without ceasing, as thoughoutraged to find itself ejected into life.
2
Anna Gordon held her child to her breast, but she grieved whileit drank, because of her man who had longed so much for a son. Andseeing her grief, Sir Philip hid his chagrin, and he fondled thebaby and examined its fingers.
'What a hand!' he would say. 'Why it's actually got nails on allits ten fingers: little, perfect, pink nails!'
Then Anna would dry her eyes and caress it, kissing the tinyhand.
He insisted on calling the infant Stephen, nay more, he wouldhave it baptized by that name. 'We've called her Stephen so long,'he told Anna, 'that I really can't see why we shouldn't goon—'
Anna felt doubtful, but Sir Philip was stubborn, as he could beat times over whims.
The Vicar said that it was rather unusual, so to mollify himthey must add female names. The child was baptized in the villagechurch as Stephen Mary Olivia Gertrude—and she throve,seeming strong, and when her hair grew it was seen to be auburnlike Sir Philip's. There was also a tiny cleft in her chin, sosmall just at first that it looked like a shadow; and after a whilewhen her eyes lost the blueness that is proper to puppies and otheryoung things, Anna saw that her eyes were going to behazel—and thought that their expression was her father's. Onthe whole she was quite a well-behaved baby, owing, no doubt, to afine constitution. Beyond that first energetic protest at birth shehad done very little howling.
It was happy to have a baby at Morton, and the old house seemedto become more mellow as the child, growing fast now and learningto walk, staggered or stumbled or sprawled on the floors that hadlong known the ways of children. Sir Philip would come home allmuddy from hunting and would rush into the nursery before pullingoff his boots, then down he would go on his hands and knees whileStephen clambered on to his back. Sir Philip would pretend to bewell corned up, bucking and jumping and kicking wildly, so thatStephen must cling to his hair or his collar, and thump him withhard little arrogant fists. Anna, attracted by the outlandishhubbub, would find them, and would point to the mud on thecarpet.
She would say: 'Now, Philip, now, Stephen, that's enough! It'stime for your tea', as though both of them were children. Then SirPhilip would reach up and disentangle Stephen, after which he wouldkiss Stephen's mother.
3
The son that they waited for seemed long a-coming; he had notarrived when Stephen was seven. Nor had Anna produced other femaleoffspring. thus Stephen remained cock of the roost. It is doubtfulif any only child is to be envied, for the only child is bound tobecome introspective; having no one of its own ilk in whom toconfide, it is apt to confide in itself. It cannot be said that atseven years old the mind is beset by serious problems, butnevertheless it is already groping, may already be subject to smallfits of dejection, may already be struggling to get a grip onlife—on the limited life of its surroundings. At seven thereare miniature loves and hatreds, which, however, loom large and areextremely disconcerting. There may even be present a dim sense offrustration, and Stephen was often conscious of this sense, thoughshe could not have put it into words. To cope with it, however, shewould give way at times to sudden fits of hot temper, workingherself up over everyday trifles that usually left her cold. Itrelieved her to stamp and then burst into tears at the first signof opposition. After such outbursts she would feel much morecheerful, would find it almost easy to be docile and obedient. Insome vague, childish way she had hit back at life, and this facthad restored her self-respect.
Anna would send for her turbulent offspring and would say:'Stephen darling, Mother's not really cross—tell Mother whatmakes you give way to these tempers; she'll promise to try andunderstand if you'll tell her—'
But her eyes would look cold, though her voice might be gentle,and her hand when it fondled would be tentative, unwilling. Thehand would be making an effort to fondle, and Stephen would beconscious of that effort. Then looking up at the calm, lovely face,Stephen would be filled with a sudden contrition, with a suddendeep sense of her own shortcomings; she would long to blurt allthis out to her mother, yet would stand there tongue-tied, sayingnothing at all. For these two were strangely shy with eachother—it was almost grotesque, this shyness of theirs, asexisting between mother and child. Anna would feel it, and throughher Stephen, young as she was, would become conscious of it; sothat they held a little aloof when they should have been drawingtogether.
Stephen, acutely responsive to beauty, would be dimly longing tofind expression for a feeling almost amounting to worship, that hermother's face had awakened. But Anna, looking gravely at herdaughter, noting the plentiful auburn hair, the brave hazel eyesthat were so like her father's, as indeed were the child's wholeexpression and bearing, would be filled with a sudden antagonismthat came very near to anger.
She would awake at night and ponder this thing, scourgingherself in an access of contrition; accusing herself of hardness ofspirit, of being an unnatural mother. Sometimes she would shedslow, miserable tears, remembering the inarticulate Stephen.
She would think: I ought to be proud of the likeness, proud andhappy and glad when I sec it! then back would come flooding thatqueer antagonism that amounted almost to anger.
It would seem to Anna that she must be going mad, for thislikeness to her husband would strike her as an outrage—asthough the poor, innocent seven-year-old Stephen were in some way acaricature of Sir Philip; a blemished, unworthy, maimedreproduction—yet she knew that the child was handsome. Butnow there were times when the child's soft flesh would be almostdistasteful to her; when she hated the way Stephen moved or stoodstill, hated a certain largeness about her, a certain crude lack ofgrace in her movements, a certain unconscious defiance. Then themother's mind would slip back to the days when this creature hadclung to her breast, forcing her to love it by its own utterweakness; and at this thought her eyes must fill again, for shecame of a race of devoted mothers. The thing had crept on her likea foe in the dark—it had been slow, insidious, deadly, it hadwaxed strong as Stephen herself had waxed strong, being part, insome way, of Stephen.
Restlessly tossing from side to side, Anna Gordon would pray forenlightenment and guidance; would pray that her husband might neversuspect her feelings towards his child. All that she was and hadbeen he knew; in all the world she had no other secret save thisone most unnatural and monstrous injustice that was stronger thanher will to destroy it. And Sir Philip loved Stephen, he idolizedher; it was almost as though he divined by instinct that hisdaughter was being secretly defrauded, was bearing some unmeritedburden. He never spoke to his wife of these things, yet watchingthem together, she grew daily more certain that his love for thechild held an element in it that was closely akin to pity.
1
At about this time Stephen first became conscious of an urgentnecessity to love. She adored her father, but that was quitedifferent; he was part of herself, he had always been there, shecould not envisage the world without him—it was other withCollins, the housemaid. Collins was what was called 'second ofthree'; she might one day hope for promotion. Meanwhile she wasflorid, full-lipped and full-bosomed, rather ample indeed for ayoung girl of twenty, but her eyes were unusually blue andarresting, very pretty inquisitive eyes. Stephen had seen Collinssweeping the stairs for two years, and had passed her by quiteunnoticed; but one morning, when Stephen was just over seven,Collins looked up and suddenly smiled, then all in a moment Stephenknew that she loved her—a staggering revelation!
Collins said politely: 'Good morning, Miss Stephen.'
She had always said: 'Good morning, Miss Stephen,' but on thisoccasion it sounded alluring—so alluring that Stephen wantedto touch her, and extending a rather uncertain hand she started tostroke her sleeve.
Collins picked up the hand and stared at it. 'Oh, my!' sheexclaimed, 'what very dirty nails!' Whereupon their owner flushedpainfully crimson and dashed upstairs to repair them.
'Put them scissors down this minute, Miss Stephen!' came thenurse's peremptory voice, while her charge was still busily engagedon her toilet.
But Stephen said firmly: 'I'm cleaning my nails 'cause Collinsdoesn't like them—she says they're dirty!'
'What impudence!' snapped the nurse, thoroughly annoyed. 'I'llthank her to mind her own business!'
Having finally secured the large cutting-out scissors, Mrs.Bingham went forth in search of the offender; she was not one totolerate any interference with the dignity of her status. She foundCollins still on the top flight of stairs, and forthwith shestarted to upbraid her: 'putting her back in her place,' the nursecalled it; and she did it so thoroughly that in less than fiveminutes 'the second-of-three' had been told of every fault that waslikely to preclude promotion.
Stephen stood still in the nursery doorway. She could feel herheart thumping against her side, thumping with anger and pity forCollins who was answering never a word. There she knelt mute, withher brush suspended, with her mouth slightly open and her eyesrather scared; and when at long last she did manage to speak, hervoice sounded humble and frightened. She was timid by nature, andthe nurse's sharp tongue was a byword throughout the household.
Collins was saying: 'Interfere with your child? Oh, no, Mrs.Bingham, never! I hope I knows my place better than that—MissStephen herself showed me them dirty nails; she said: "Collins,just look, aren't my nails awful dirty!" And I said: "You must askNanny about that, Miss Stephen." Is it likely that I'd interferewith your work? I'm not that sort, Mrs. Bingham.'
Oh, Collins, Collins, with those pretty blue eyes and that funnyalluring smile! Stephen's own eyes grew wide with amazement, thenthey clouded with sudden and disillusioned tears, for far worsethan Collins' poorness of spirit was the dreadful injustice ofthose lies—yet this very injustice seemed to draw her toCollins, since despising, she could still love her.
For the rest of that day Stephen brooded darkly over Collins'unworthiness; and yet all through that day she still wantedCollins, and whenever she saw her she caught herself smiling, quiteunable, in her turn, to muster the courage to frown her innatedisapproval. And Collins smiled too, if the nurse was not looking,and she held up her plump red fingers, pointing to her nails andmaking a grimace at the nurse's retreating figure. Watching her,Stephen felt unhappy and embarrassed, not so much for herself asfor Collins; and this feeling increased, so that thinking about hermade Stephen go hot down her spine.
In the evening, when Collins was laying the tea, Stephen managedto get her alone. 'Collins,' she whispered, 'you told anuntruth—I never showed you my dirty nails!'
'Course not!' murmured Collins, 'but I had to saysomething—you didn't mind, Miss Stephen, did you?' And asStephen looked doubtfully up into her face, Collins suddenlystooped and kissed her.
Stephen stood speechless from a sheer sense of joy, all herdoubts swept completely away. At that moment she knew nothing butbeauty and Collins, and the two were as one, and the one wasStephen—and yet not Stephen either, but something more vast,that the mind of seven years found no name for.
The nurse came in grumbling: 'Now then, hurry up, Miss Stephen!Don't stand there as though you were daft! Go and wash your faceand hands before tea—how many times must I tell you the samething?'
'I don't know—' muttered Stephen. And indeed she did not;she knew nothing of such trifles at that moment.
2
From now on Stephen entered a completely new world, that turnedon an axis of Collins. A world full of constant excitingadventures; of elation, of joy, of incredible sadness, but withal afine place to be dashing about in like a moth who is courting acandle. Up and down went the days; they resembled a swing thatsoared high above the tree-tops, then dropped to the depths, butseldom if ever hung midway. And with them went Stephen, clinging tothe swing, waking up in the mornings with a thrill of vagueexcitement—the sort of excitement that belonged by rights tobirthdays, and Christmas, and a visit to the pantomime at Malvern.She would open her eyes and jump out of bed quickly, still toosleepy to remember why she felt so elated; but then would comememory—she would know that this day she was actually going tosec Collins. The thought would set her splashing in her sitz-bath,and tearing the buttons off her clothes in her haste, and cleaningher nails with such ruthlessness and vigour that she made themquite sore in the process.
She began to be very inattentive at her lessons, sucking herpencil, staring out of the window, or what was far worse, notlistening at all, except for Collins' footsteps. The nurse slappedher hands, and stood her in the corner, and deprived her of jam,but all to no purpose; for Stephen would smile, hugging closer hersecret—it was worth being punished for Collins.
She grew restless and could not be induced to sit still evenwhen her nurse read aloud. At one time she had very much likedbeing read to, especially from books that were all about heroes,but now such stories so stirred her ambition that she longedintensely to live them. She, Stephen, now longed to be Williamtell, or Nelson, or the whole Charge of Balaclava; and this led tomuch foraging in the nursery ragbag, much hunting up of garmentsonce used for charades, much swagger and noise, much strutting andposing, and much staring into the mirror. There ensued a period ofgeneral confusion when the nursery looked as though smitten by anearthquake; when the chairs and the floor would be littered withoddments that Stephen had dug out but discarded. Once dressed, shewould walk away grandly, waving the nurse peremptorily aside,going, as always, in search of Collins, who might have to bestalked to the basement.
Sometimes Collins would play up, especially to Nelson. 'My, butyou do look fine!' she would exclaim. And then to the cook: 'Docome here, Mrs. Wilson! Doesn't Miss Stephen look exactly like aboy? I believe she must be a boy with them shoulders, and themfunny gawky legs she's got on her!'
And Stephen would say gravely: 'Yes, of course I'm a boy. I'myoung Nelson, and I'm saying: "What is fear?" you know,Collins—I must be a boy, 'cause I feel exactly like one, Ifeel like young Nelson in the picture upstairs.'
Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after Stephenhad gone they would get talking, and Collins might say: 'She is aqueer kid, always dressing herself up and play-acting—it'sfunny.'
But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: 'I don't hold with suchnonsense, not for a young lady. Miss Stephen's quite different fromother young ladies—she's got none of their pretty littleways—it's a pity!'
There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky, whenStephen could dress up as Nelson in vain. 'Now, don't bother me,Miss, I've got my work to see to!' or: 'You go and showNurse—yes, I know you're a boy, but I've got my work to geton with. Run away.'
And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangelyunhappy and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes sheso dearly loved donning, to replace them by the garments she hated.How she hated soft dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and small coralbeads, and openwork stockings! Her legs felt so free andcomfortable in breeches; she adored pockets, too, and these wereforbidden—at least really adequate pockets. She would gloomabout the nursery because Collins had snubbed her, because she wasconscious of feeling all wrong, because she so longed to be someonequite real, instead of just Stephen pretending to be Nelson. In aquick fit of anger she would go to the cupboard, and getting outher dolls would begin to torment them. She had always despised theidiotic creatures which, however, arrived with each Christmas andbirthday.
'I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!' she would mutter, thumpingtheir innocuous faces.
But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, sheseemed to be filled with a sudden contrition. 'It's me housemaid'sknee,' she confided to Stephen. 'It's not you, it's me, housemaid'sknee, dearie.'
'Is that dangerous?' demanded the child, looking frightened.
Then Collins, true to her class, said: 'It may be—it maymean an 'orrible operation, and I don't want no operation.'
'What's that?' inquired Stephen.
'Why, they'd cut me,' moaned Collins; 'they'd 'ave to cut me tolet out the water.'
'Oh, Collins! What water?'
'The water in me kneecap—you can see if you press it, MissStephen.'
They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery, whereCollins was limply making the bed. It was one of those rare anddelicious occasions when Stephen could converse with her goddessundisturbed, for the nurse had gone out to post a letter. Collinsrolled down a coarse woollen stocking and displayed the afflictedmember; it was blotchy and swollen and far from attractive, butStephen's eyes filled with quick, anxious tears as she touched theknee with her finger.
'There now!' exclaimed Collins. 'See that dent? That's thewater!' And she added: 'It's so painful it fair makes me sick. Itall comes from polishing them floors, Miss Stephen; I didn't oughtto polish them floors.'
Stephen said gravely: 'I do wish I'd got it—I wish I'd gotyour housemaid's knee, Collins, 'cause that way I could bear itinstead of you. I'd like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, theway Jesus was hurt for sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don't youthink I might catch it? Or supposing I rub my knee againstyours?'
'Lord bless you!' laughed Collins, 'it's not like the measles;no, Miss Stephen, it's caught from them floors.'
That evening Stephen became rather pensive, and she turned totheChild's Book of Scripture Stories and she studied thepicture of the Lord on His Cross, and she felt that she understoodHim. She had often been rather puzzled about Him, since she herselfwas fearful of pain—when she barked her shins on the gravelin the garden, it was not always easy to keep back hertears—and yet Jesus had chosen to bear pain for sinners, whenHe might have called up all those angels! Oh, yes, she had wondereda great deal about Him, but now she no longer wondered.
At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say herprayers—as custom demanded—Stephen's prayers lackedconviction. But when Anna kissed her and had turned out the light,then it was that Stephen prayed in good earnest—with suchfervour, indeed, that she dripped perspiration in a veritable orgyof prayer.
'Please, Jesus, give me a housemaid's knee instead ofCollins—do,do, Lord Jesus. Please Jesus, I would liketo bear all Collins' pain the way You did, and I don't want anyangels! I would like to wash Collins in my blood, LordJesus—I would like very much to be a Saviour toCollins—I love her, and I want to be hurt like You were;please, dear Lord Jesus, do let me. Please give me a knee that'sall full of water, so that I can have Collins' operation. I want tohave it instead of her, 'cause she's frightened—I'm not a bitfrightened!'
This petition she repeated until she fell asleep, to dream thatin some queer way she was Jesus, and that Collins was kneeling andkissing her hand, because she, Stephen, had managed to cure her bycutting off her knee with a bone paper-knife and grafting it on toher own. The dream was a mixture of rapture and discomfort, and itstayed quite a long time with Stephen.
The next morning she awoke with the feeling of elation thatcomes only in moments of perfect faith. But a close examination ofher knees in the bath revealed them to be flawless except for oldscars and a crisp, brown scab from a recent tumble—this, ofcourse, was very disappointing. She picked off the scab, and thathurt her a little, but not, she felt sure, like a real housemaid'sknee. However, she decided to continue in prayer, and not to be tooeasily downhearted.
For more than three weeks she sweated and prayed, and pesteredpoor Collins with endless daily questions: 'Is your knee betteryet?' 'Don't you think my knee's swollen?' 'Have you faith? 'CauseI have—' 'Does it hurt you less, Collins?'
But Collins would always reply in the same way: 'It's no better,thank you, Miss Stephen.'
At the end of the fourth week, Stephen suddenly stopped praying,and she said to Our Lord: 'You don't love Collins, Jesus, but I do,and I'm going to get housemaid's knee. You see if I don't!' Thenshe felt rather frightened, and added more humbly: 'I mean, I dowant to—You don't mind, do You, Lord Jesus?'
The nursery floor was covered with carpet, which was obviouslyrather unfortunate for Stephen; had it only been parquet like thedrawing-room and study, she felt it would better have served herpurpose. All the same it was hard if she knelt long enough—itwas so hard, indeed, that she had to grit her teeth if she stayedon her knees for more than twenty minutes. This was much worse thanbarking one's shins in the garden; it was much worse even thanpicking off a scab! Nelson helped her a little. She would think:'Now I'm Nelson. I'm in the middle of thee Battle ofTrafalgar—I've got shots in my knees.' But then she wouldremember that Nelson had been spared such torment. However, it wasreally rather fine to be suffering—it certainly seemed tobring Collins much nearer; it seemed to make Stephen feel that sheowned her by right of this diligent pain.
There were endless spots on the old nursery carpet, and thesespots Stephen could pretend to be cleaning; always careful to copy.Collins' movements, rubbing backwards and forwards while groaning alittle. When she got up at last, she must hold her left leg andlimp, still groaning a little. Enormous new holes appeared in herstockings, through which she could examine her aching knees, andthis led to rebuke: 'Stop your nonsense, Miss Stephen! It'sscandalous the way you're tearing your stockings!' But Stephensmiled grimly and went on with the nonsense, spurred by love to anopen defiance. On the eighth day, however, it dawned upon Stephenthat Collins should be shown the proof of her devotion. Her kneeswere particularly scarified that morning, so she limped off insearch of the unsuspecting housemaid.
Collins stared: 'Good gracious, whatever's the matter? Whateverhave you been doing, Miss Stephen?'
Then Stephen said, not without pardonable pride: 'I've beengetting a housemaid's knee, like you, Collins!' And as Collinslooked stupid and rather bewildered—'You see, I wanted toshare your suffering. I've prayed quite a lot, but Jesus won'tlisten, so I've got to get housemaid's knee my own way—Ican't wait any longer for Jesus!'
'Oh, hush!' murmured Collins, thoroughly shocked. 'You mustn'tsay such things: it's wicked, Miss Stephen.' But she smiled alittle in spite of herself, then she suddenly hugged the childwarmly.
All the same, Collins plucked up her courage that evening andspoke to the nurse about Stephen. 'Her knees was all red andswollen, Mrs. Bingham. Did you ever know such a queer fish as sheis? Praying about my knee, too. She's a caution! And now if sheisn't trying to get one! Well, if that's not real loving then Idon't know nothing.' And Collins began to laugh weakly.
After this Mrs. Bingham rose in her might, and the self-imposedtorture was forcibly stopped. Collins, on her part, was ordered tolie, if Stephen continued to question. So Collins lied nobly: 'It'sbetter, Miss Stephen, it must be your praying—you see Jesusheard you. I expect He was sorry to see your poor knees—Iknow as I was when I saw them!'
'Are you telling me the truth?' Stephen asked her, stilldoubting, still mindful of that first day of Love's youngdream.
'Why, of course I'm telling you the truth, Miss Stephen.' Andwith this Stephen had to be content.
3
Collins became more affectionate after the incident of thehousemaid's knee; she could not but feel a new interest in thechild whom she and the cook had now labelled as 'queer', andStephen basked in much surreptitious petting, and her love forCollins grew daily.
It was spring, the season of gentle emotions, and Stephen, forthe first time, became aware of spring. In a dumb, childish way shewas conscious of its fragrance, and the house irked her sorely, andshe longed for the meadows, and the hills that were white withthorn-trees. Her active young body was for ever on the fidget, buther mind was bathed in a kind of soft haze, and this she couldnever quite put into words, though she tried to tell Collins aboutit. It was all part of Collins, yet somehow quitedifferent—it had nothing to do with Collins' wide smile, norher hands which were red, nor even her eyes which were blue, andvery arresting. Yet all that was Collins, Stephen's Collins, wasalso a part of these long, warm days, apart of the twilights thatcame in and lingered for hours after Stephen had been put to bed; apart too, could Stephen have only known it, of her own quickeningchildish perceptions. this spring, for the first time, she thrilledto the cuckoo, standing quite still to listen, with her head on oneside; and the lure of that far-away call was destined to remainwith her all her life.
There were times when she wanted to get away from Collins, yetat others she longed intensely to be near her, longed to force theresponse that her loving craved for, but quite wisely was veryseldom granted.
She would say: 'I do love you awfully, Collins. I love you somuch that it makes me want to cry.'
And Collins would answer: 'Don't be silly, Miss Stephen,' whichwas not satisfactory—not at all satisfactory.
Then Stephen might suddenly push her, in anger: 'You're a beast!How I hate you, Collins!'
And now Stephen had taken to keeping awake every night, in orderto build up pictures: pictures of herself companioned by Collins inall sorts of happy situations. Perhaps they would be walking in thegarden, hand in hand, or pausing on a hillside to listen to thecuckoo; or perhaps they would be skimming over miles of blue oceanin a queer little ship with a leg-of-mutton sail, like the one inthe fairy story. Sometimes Stephen pictured them living alone in alow thatched cottage by the side of a mill stream—she hadseen such a cottage not very far from Upton—and the waterflowed quickly and made talking noises; there were sometimes deadleaves on the water. This last was a very intimate picture, full ofdetail, even to the red china dogs that stood one at each end ofthe high mantelpiece, and the grandfather clock that ticked loudly.Collins would sit by the fire with her shoes off. 'Me feet's thatswollen and painful,' she would say. Then Stephen would go and cutrich bread and butter—the drawing-room kind, little bread andmuch butter—and would put on the kettle and brew tea forCollins, who liked it very strong and practically boiling, so thatshe could sip it from her saucer. In this picture it was Collinswho talked about loving, and Stephen who gently but firmly rebukedher: 'There, there, Collins, don't be silly, you are a queer fish!'And yet all the while she would be longing to tell her howwonderful it was, like honeysuckle blossom—something verysweet like that—or like fields smelling strongly of new-mownhay, in the sunshine. And perhaps she would tell her, just at thevery end—just before the last picture faded.
4
In these days Stephen clung more closely to her father, and thisin a way was because of Collins. She could not have told you why itwas so, she only felt that it was. Sir Philip and his daughterwould walk on the hill-sides, in and out of the black-thorn andyoung green bracken; they would walk hand in hand with a deep senseof friendship, with a deep sense of mutual understanding.
Sir Philip, knew all about wild flowers and berries, and theways of young foxes and rabbits and such people. There were manyrare birds, too, on the hills near Malvern, and these he wouldpoint out to Stephen. He taught her the simpler laws of nature,which, though simple, had always filled him with wonder: the law ofthe sap as it flowed through the branches, the law of the wind thatcame stirring the sap, the law of bird life and the building ofnests, the law of the cuckoo's varying call, which in June changedto Cuckoo-kook!' He taught out of love for both subject and pupil,and while he thus taught he watched Stephen.
Sometimes, when the child's heart would feel full past bearing,she must tell him her problems in small, stumbling phrases. Tellhim how much she longed to be different, longed to be someone likeNelson.
She would say: 'Do you think that I could be a man, supposing Ithought very hard—or prayed, Father?'
Then Sir Philip would smile and tease her a little, and wouldtell her that one day she would want pretty frocks, and his teasingwas always excessively gentle, so that it hurt not at all.
But at times he would study his daughter gravely, with hisstrong, cleft chin tightly cupped in his hand. He would watch herat play with the dogs in the garden, watch the curious suggestionof strength in her movements, the long line of her limbs—shewas tall for her age—and the poise of her head on herover-broad shoulders. Then perhaps he would frown and become lostin thought, or perhaps he might suddenly call her:
'Stephen, come here!'
She would go to him gladly, waiting expectant for what he shouldsay; but as likely as not he would just hold her to him for amoment, and then let go of her abruptly. Getting up he would turnto the house and his study, to spend all the rest of that day withhis books.
A queer mixture, Sir Philip, part sportsman, part student. Hehad one of the finest libraries in England, and just lately he hadtaken to reading half the night, which had not hitherto been hiscustom. Alone in that grave-looking, quiet study, he would unlock adrawer in his ample desk, and would get out a slim volume recentlyacquired, and would read and re-read it in the silence. The authorwas a German, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, and reading, Sir Philip's eyeswould grow puzzled; then groping for a pencil he would make littlenotes all along the immaculate margins. Sometimes he would jump upand pace the room quickly, pausing now and again to stare at apicture—the portrait of Stephen painted with her mother, byMillais, the previous year. He would notice the gracious beauty ofAnna, so perfect a thing, so completely reassuring; and then thatindefinable quality in Stephen that made her look wrong in theclothes she was wearing, as though she and they had no right toeach other, but above all no right to Anna. After a while he wouldsteal up to bed, being painfully careful to tread very softly,fearful of waking his wife who might question: 'Philip, darling,it's so late—what have you been reading?' He would not wantto answer, he would not want to tell her; that was why he musttread very softly.
The next morning, he would be very tender to Anna—but evenmore tender to Stephen.
5
As the spring waxed more lusty and strode into summer, Stephengrew conscious that Collins was changing. The change was almostintangible at first, but the instinct of children is not mocked.Came a day when Collins turned on her quite sharply, nor did sheexplain it by a reference to her knee.
'Don't always be under my feet now, Miss Stephen. Don't followme about and don't be always staring. I 'ates beingwatched—you run up to the nursery, the basement's no placefor young ladies.' After which such rebuffs were of frequentoccurrence, if Stephen went anywhere near her.
Miserable enigma! Stephen's mind groped about it like a littleblind mole that is always in darkness. She was utterly confounded,while her love grew the stronger for so much hard pruning, and shetried to woo Collins by offerings of bull's-eyes and chocolatedrops, which the maid took because she liked them. Nor was Collinsso blameworthy as she appeared, for she, in her turn, was thepuppet of emotion. The new footman was tall and exceedinglyhandsome. He had looked upon Collins with eyes of approval. He hadsaid: Stop that damned kid hanging around you; if you don't she'llgo blabbing about us.'
And now Stephen knew very deep desolation because there was noone in whom to confide. She shrank from telling even herfather—he might not understand, he might smile, he mighttease her—if he teased her, however gently, she knew that shecould not keep back her tears. Even Nelson had suddenly becomequite remote. What was the good of trying to be Nelson? What wasthe good of dressing up any more—what was the good ofpretending? She turned from her food, growing pasty and languid;until, thoroughly alarmed, Anna sent for the doctor. He arrived,and prescribed a dose of Gregory powder, finding nothing much wrongwith the patient. Stephen tossed off the foul brew without amurmur—it was almost as though she liked it!
The end came abruptly as is often the way, and it came when thechild was alone in the garden, still miserably puzzling overCollins, who had been avoiding her for days. Stephen had wanderedto an old potting-shed, and there, whom should she see but Collinsand the footman; they appeared to be talking very earnestlytogether, so earnestly that they failed to hear her. Then a reallycatastrophic thing happened, for Henry caught Collins roughly bythe wrists, and dragged her towards him, still handling herroughly, and he kissed her full on the lips. Stephen's headsuddenly felt hot and dizzy, she was filled with a blind,uncomprehending rage; she wanted to cry out, but her voice failedcompletely, so that all she could do was to splutter. But the verynext moment she had seized a broken flower-pot and had hurled ithard and straight at the footman. It struck him in the face,cutting open his cheek, down which the blood trickled slowly. Hestood as though stunned, gently mopping the cut, while Collinsstared dumbly at Stephen. Neither of them spoke, they were feelingtoo guilty—they were also too much astonished.
Then Stephen turned and fled from them wildly. Away and away,anyhow, anywhere, so long as she need not see them! She sobbed asshe ran and covered her eyes, tearing her clothes on the shrubs inpassing, tearing her stockings and the skin of her legs as shelunged against intercepting branches. But suddenly the child wascaught in strong arms, and her face was pressing against herfather, and Sir Philip was carrying her back to the house, andalong the wide passage to his study. He held her on his knee,forbearing to question, and at first she crouched there like alittle dumb creature that had somehow got itself wounded. But herheart was too young to contain this new trouble—too heavy itfelt, too much over-burdened, so the trouble came bubbling up fromher heart and was told on Sir Philip's shoulder.
He listened very gravely, just stroking her hair.'Yes—yes—' he said softly; and then: go on, Stephen.'And when she had finished he was silent for some moments, while hewent on stroking her hair. Then he said: 'I think I understand,Stephen—this thing seems more dreadful than anything elsethat has ever happened, more utterly dreadful—but you'll findthat it will pass and be completely forgotten—you must try tobelieve me, Stephen. And now I'm going to treat you like a boy, anda boy must always be brave, remember. I'm not going to pretend asthough you were a coward; why should I when I know that you'rebrave? I'm going to send Collins away to-morrow; do you understand,Stephen? I shall send her away. I shan't be unkind, but she'll goaway to-morrow, and meanwhile I don't want you to see her again.You'll miss her at first, that will only be natural, but in timeyou'll find that you'll forget all about her; this trouble willjust seem like nothing at all. I am telling you the truth, dear, Iswear it. If you need me, remember that I'm always nearyou—you can come to my study whenever you like. You can talkto me about it whenever you're unhappy, and you want a companion totalk to.' He paused, then finished rather abruptly: 'Don't worryyour mother, just come to, me, Stephen.'
And Stephen, still catching her breath, looked straight at him.She nodded, and Sir Philip saw his own mournful eyes gazing backfrom his daughter's tear-stained face. But her lips set morefirmly, and the cleft in her chin grew more marked with a new,childish will to courage.
Bending down, he kissed her in absolute silence—it waslike the sealing of a sorrowful pact.
6
Anna, who had been out at the time of the disaster, returned tofind her husband waiting for her in the hall.
'Stephen's been naughty, she's up in the nursery; she's had oneof her fits of temper,' he remarked.
In spite of the fact that he had obviously been waiting tointercept Anna, he now spoke quite lightly. Collins and the footmanmust go, he told her. As for Stephen, he had had a long talk withher already—Anna had better just let the thing drop, it hadonly been childish temper.
Anna hurried upstairs to her daughter. She, herself, had notbeen a turbulent child, and Stephen's outbursts always made herfeel helpless; however, she was fully prepared for the worst. Butshe found Stephen sitting with her chin on her hand, and calmlystaring out of the window; her eyes were still swollen and her facevery pale, otherwise she showed no great signs of emotion; indeedshe actually smiled up at Anna—it was rather a stiff littlesmile. Anna talked kindly and Stephen listened, nodding her headfrom time to time in acquiescence. But Anna felt awkward, and asthough for some reason the child was anxious to reassure her; thatsmile had meant to be reassuring—it had been such a veryunchildish smile. The mother was doing all the talking she found.Stephen would not discuss her affection for Collins; on this pointshe was firmly, obdurately silent. She neither excused nor upheldher action in throwing a broken flower-pot at the footman.
'She's trying to keep something back,' thought Anna, feelingmore nonplussed every moment.
In the end Stephen took her mother's hand gravely and proceededto stroke it, as though she were consoling. She said: 'Don't feelworried, 'cause that worries Father—I promise I'll try not toget into tempers, but you promise that you won't go on feelingworried.'
And absurd though it seemed, Anna heard herself saying: 'Verywell then—I do promise, Stephen.'
1
Stephen never went to her father's study in order to talk of hergrief over Collins. A reticence strange in so young a child,together with a new, stubborn pride, held her tongue-tied, so thatshe fought out her battle alone, and Sir Philip allowed her to doso. Collins disappeared and with her the footman, and in Collins'stead came a new second housemaid, a niece of Mrs. Bingham's, whowas even more timid than her predecessor, and who talked not atall. She was ugly, having small, round black eyes likecurrants—not inquisitive blue eyes like Collins.
With set lips and tight throat Stephen watched this intruder asshe scuttled to and fro doing Collins' duties. She would sit andscowl at poor Winefred darkly, devising small torments to add toher labours—such as stepping on dustpans and upsetting theircontents, or hiding away brooms and brushes andslop-cloths—until Winefred, distracted, would finally unearththem from the most inappropriate places.
''Owever did them slop-cloths get in 'ere!' she would mutter,discovering them under a nursery cushion. And her face would growblotchy with anxiety and fear as she glanced towards Mrs.Bingham.
But at night, when the child lay lonely and wakeful, these actsthat had proved a consolation in the morning, having sprung from adesperate kind of loyalty to Collins—these acts would seemtrivial and silly and useless, since Collins could neither know ofthem nor see them, and the tears that had been held in checkthrough the day would well under Stephen's eyelids. Nor could she,in those lonely watches of the night-time, pluck up courage enoughto reproach the Lord Jesus, Who, she felt, could have helped herquite well had He chosen to accord her a housemaid's knee.
She would think; 'He loves neither me nor Collins—He wantsall the pain for Himself; He won't share it!'
And then she would feel contrite: 'Oh, I'm sorry, Lord Jesus,'cause I do know You love all miserable sinners!' And the thoughtthat perhaps she had been unjust to Jesus would reduce her to stillfurther tears.
Very dreadful indeed were those nights spent in weeping, spentin doubting the Lord and His servant Collins. The hours would dragby in intolerable blackness, that in passing seemed to envelopStephen's body, making her feel now hot and now cold. Thegrandfather clock on the stairs ticked so loudly that her headached to hear its unnatural ticking—when it chimed, which itdid at the hours and half-hours, its voice seemed to shake thewhole house with terror, until Stephen would creep down under thebed-clothes to hide from she knew not what. But presently, huddledbeneath the blankets, the child would be soothed by a warm sense ofsafety, and her nerves would relax, while her body grew limp withthe drowsy softness of bed. Then suddenly a big and comfortingyawn, and another, and another, until darkness and Collins and tallclocks that menaced, and Stephen herself; were all blended andmerged into something quite friendly, a harmonious whole, neitherfearful nor doubting—the blessed illusion we call sleep.
2
In the weeks that followed on Collins' departure, Anna tried tobe very gentle with her daughter, having the child more frequentlywith her, more diligently fondling Stephen. Mother and daughterwould walk in the garden, or wander about together through themeadows, and Anna would remember the son of her dreams, who hadplayed with her in those meadows. A great sadness would cloud hereyes for a moment, an infinite regret as she looked down atStephen; and Stephen, quick to discern that sadness, would pressAnna's hand with small, anxious fingers; she would long to inquirewhat troubled her mother, but would be held speechless throughshyness.
The scents of the meadows would move those twostrangely—the queer, pungent smell from the hearts ofdog-daisies; the buttercup smell, faintly green like the grass; andthen meadow-sweet that grew close by the hedges. Sometimes Stephenmust tug at her mother's sleeve sharply—intolerable to bearthat thick fragrance alone!
One day she had said: Stand still or you'll hurt it—it'sall round us—it's a white smell, it reminds me of you!' Andthen she had flushed, and had glanced up quickly, rather frightenedin case she should find Anna laughing.
But her mother had looked at her curiously, gravely, puzzled bythis creature who seemed all contradictions—at one moment sohard, at another so gentle, gentle to tenderness, even. Anna hadbeen stirred, as her child had been stirred, by the breath of themeadow-sweet under the hedges; for in this they were one, themother and daughter, having each in her veins the warm Celtic bloodthat takes note of such things—could they only have divinedit, such simple things might have formed a link between them.
A great will to loving had suddenly possessed Anna Gordon, therein that sunlit meadow—had possessed them both as they stoodtogether, bridging the gulf between maturity and childhood. Theyhad gazed at each other as though asking for something, as thoughseeking for something, the one from the other; then the moment hadpassed—they had walked on in silence, no nearer in spiritthan before.
3
Sometimes Anna would drive Stephen into Great Malvern, to theshops, with lunch at the Abbey Hotel on cold beef and wholesomerice pudding. Stephen loathed these excursions, which meantdressing up, but she bore them because of the honour which she feltto be hers when escorting her mother through the streets,especially Church Street with its long, busy hill, because everyonesaw you in Church Street. Hats would be lifted with obviousrespect, while a humbler finger might fly to a forelock; womenwould bow, and a few even curtsy to the lady of Morton—womenin from the country with speckled sunbonnets that looked like theirhens, and kind faces like brown, wrinkled apples. Then Anna muststop to inquire about calves and babies and foals, indeed all suchcreatures as prosper on farms, and her voice would be gentlebecause she loved such young creatures.
Stephen would stand just a little behind her, thinking howgracious and lovely she was; comparing her slim and elegantshoulders with the toil-thickened back of old Mrs. Bennett, withthe ugly, bent spine of young Mrs. Thompson, who coughed when shespoke and then said: 'I beg pardon!' as though she were consciousthat one did not cough in front of a goddess like Anna.
Presently Anna would look round for Stephen: 'Oh, there you are,darling! We must go into Jackson's and change mother's books'; or,'Nanny wants some more saucers; let's walk on and get them atLangley's.'
Stephen would suddenly spring to attention, especially if theywere crossing the street. She would look right and left forimaginary traffic, slipping a hand under Anna's elbow.
'Come with me,' she would order; 'and take care of the puddles,'cause you might get your feet wet—hold on by me,Mother!'
Anna would feel the small hand at her elbow, and would thinkthat the fingers were curiously strong; strong and efficient theywould feel like Sir Philip's and this always vaguely displeasedher. Nevertheless she would smile at Stephen while she let thechild guide her in and out between the puddles.
She would say: thank you, dear; you're as strong as a lion!'trying to keep that displeasure from her voice.
Very protective and careful was Stephen when she and her motherwere out alone together. Not all her queer shyness could preventher protecting, nor could Anna's own shyness save her fromprotection, She was forced to submit to a quiet supervision thatwas painstaking, gentle but extremely persistent. And yet was thislove? Anna often wondered. It was not, she felt sure, the trustingdevotion that Stephen had always felt for her father; it was morelike a sort of instinctive admiration, coupled with a large,patient kindness.
'If she'd only talk to me as she talks to Philip, I might get tounderstand her,' Anna would muse. 'It's so odd not to know whatshe's feeling and thinking, to suspect that something's alwaysbeing kept in the background.'
Their drives home from Malvern were usually silent, for Stephenwould feel that her task was accomplished, her mother no longerneeding her protection now that the coachman had the care of themboth—he, and the arrogant-looking grey cobs that were yet somannerly and gentle. As for Anna, she would sigh and lean back inher corner, weary of trying to make conversation. She would wonderif Stephen were tired or just sulky, or if, after all, the childmight be stupid. Ought she, perhaps, to feel sorry for the child?She could never quite make up her mind.
Meanwhile, Stephen, enjoying the comfortable brougham, wouldbegin to indulge in kaleidoscopic musings, those musings thatbelong to the end of the day, and occasionally visit children. Mrs.Thompson's bent spine, it looked like a bow—not a rainbow butone of the archery kind; if you stretched a tight string from herfeet to her head, could you shoot straight with Mrs. Thompson?China dogs—they had nice china dogs at Langley's—thatmade you think of someone; oh, yes, of course,Collins—Collins and a cottage with red china dogs. But youtried not to think about Collins! there was such a queer lightslanting over the hills, a kind of gold glory, and it made you feelsorry—why should a gold glory make you feel sorry when itshone that way on the hills? Rice pudding, almost as bad astapioca—not quite though, because it was not soslimy—tapioca evaded your efforts to chew it, it felt horrid,like biting down on your own gum. The lanes smelt of wetness, awonderful smell! Yet when Nanny washed things they only smeltsoapy—but then, of course, God washed the world without soap:being God, perhaps He didn't need any—you needed a lot,especially for hands—did God wash His hands without soap?Mother, talking about calves and babies, and looking like theVirgin Mary in church, the one in the stained-glass window withJesus, which reminded you of Church Street, not a bad place afterall; Church Street was really rather exciting—what fun itmust be for men to have hats that they could take off, instead ofjust smiling—a bowler must be much more fun than aLeghorn—you couldn't take that off to Mother—
The brougham would roll smoothly along the white road, betweenstout leafy hedges starred with dog-roses; blackbirds and thrusheswould be singing loudly, so loudly that Stephen could hear theirvoices above the quick clip, clip of the cobs and the muffledsounds of the carriage. Then from under her brows she must glanceacross at Anna, who she knew loved the songs of blackbirds andthrushes; but Anna's face would be hidden in shadow, while herhands lay placidly folded.
And now the horses, nearing their stables, would redouble theirefforts as they swung through the gates, the tall, iron gates ofthe parklands of Morton, faithful gates that had always meant home.Old trees would fly past, then the paddocks with theircattle—Worcestershire cattle with uncanny white faces; thenthe two quiet lakes where the swans reared their cygnets; then thelawns, and at last the wide curve in the drive, near the house,that would lead to the massive entrance.
The child was too young to know why the beauty of Morton wouldbring a lump to her throat when seen thus in the gold haze of lateafternoon, with its thoughts of evening upon it. She would want tocry out in a kind of protest that was very near tears: 'Stopit—stop it, you're hurting!' But instead she would blink hardand shut her lips tightly, unhappy yet happy. It was a queerfeeling; it was too big for Stephen, who was still rather littlewhen it came to affairs of the spirit. For the spirit of Mortonwould be part of her then, and would always remain somewhere deepdown within her, aloof and untouched by the years that must follow,by the stress and the ugliness of life. In those after-yearscertain scents would evoke it—the scent of damp rushesgrowing by water; the kind, slightly milky odour of cattle; thesmell of dried rose-leaves and orris-root and violets, thattogether with a vague suggestion of bees-wax always hung aboutAnna's rooms. Then that part of Stephen that she still shared withMorton would know what it was to feel terribly lonely, like a soulthat wakes up to find itself wandering, unwanted, between thespheres.
4
Anna and Stephen would take off their coats, and go to the studyin search of Sir Philip who would usually be there waiting.
'Hallo, Stephen!' he would say in his pleasant, deep voice, buthis eyes would be resting on Anna.
Stephen's eyes invariably followed her father's, so that she toowould stand looking at Anna, and sometimes she must catch herbreath in surprise at the fullness of that calm beauty. She nevergot used to her mother's beauty, it always surprised her each timeshe saw it; it was one of those queerly unbearable things, like thefragrance of meadow-sweet under the hedges.
Anna might say: 'What's the matter, Stephen? For goodness' sakedarling, do stop staring!' And Stephen would feel hot with shameand confusion because Anna had caught her staring.
Sir Philip usually came to her rescue: 'Stephen, here's that newpicture-book about hunting'; or, 'I know of a really nice print ofyoung Nelson; if you're good I'll order it for you tomorrow'.
But after a little he and Anna must get talking, amusingthemselves irrespective of Stephen, inventing absurd little games,like two children, which games did not always include the realchild. Stephen would sit there silently watching, but her heartwould be a prey to the strangest emotions—emotions thatseven-years-old could not cope with, and for which it could find noadequate names. All she would know was that seeing her parentstogether in this mood, would fill her with longings for somethingthat she wanted yet could not define—a something that wouldmake her as happy as they were. And this something would always bemixed up with Morton, with grave, stately rooms like her father'sstudy, with wide views from windows that let in much sunshine, andthe scents of a spacious garden. Her mind would go groping aboutfor a reason, and would find no reason—unless it wereCollins—but Collins would refuse to fit into these pictures;even love must admit that she did not belong there any more thanthe brushes and buckets and slop-cloths belonged in that dignifiedstudy.
Presently Stephen must go off to her tea, leaving the twogrown-up children together; secretly divining that neither of themwould miss her—not even her father.
Arrived in the nursery she would probably be cross, because herheart felt very empty and tearful; or because, having looked atherself in the glass, she had decided that she loathed her abundantlong hair. Snatching at a slice of thick bread and butter, shewould upset the milk jug, or break a new tea-cup, or smear thefront of her dress with her fingers, to the fury of Mrs. Bingham.If she spoke at such times it was usually to threaten: 'I shall cutall my hair off, you see if I don't!' or, 'I hate this white dressand I'm going to bum it—it makes me feel idiotic!' But oncelaunched she would dig up the grievances of months, going back tothe time of the would-be young Nelson, loudly complaining thatbeing a girl spoilt everything—even Nelson. The rest of theevening would be spent in grumbling, because one does grumble whenone is unhappy—at least one does grumble when one isseven—later on it may seem rather useless.
At last the hour of the bath would arrive, and still grumbling,Stephen must submit to Mrs. Bingham, fidgeting under the nurse'srough fingers like a dog in the hands of a trimmer. There she wouldstand pretending to shiver, a strong little figure, narrow-hippedand wide-shouldered; her flanks as wiry and thin as a greyhound'sand even more ceaselessly restless.
'God doesn't use soap!' she might suddenly remark.
At which Mrs. Bingham must smile, none too kindly: 'Maybe not,Miss Stephen—He don't 'ave to wash you; if He did He'd needplenty of soap, I'll be bound!'
The bath over, and Stephen garbed in her nightgown, a long pausewould ensue, known as: 'Waiting for Mother', and if mother, forsome reason, did not happen to arrive, the pause could be spun outfor quite twenty minutes, or for half an hour even, if luck waswith Stephen, and the nursery clock not too precise andold-maidish.
'Now come on, say your prayers,' Mrs. Bingham would order, 'andyou'd better ask the dear Lord to forgive you—impious I callsit, and you a young lady! Carrying on because you can't be aboy!'
Stephen would kneel by the side of the bed, but in such moods asthese her prayers would sound angry. The nurse would protest: 'Notso loud, Miss Stephen! Pray slower, and don't shout at the Lord, Hewon't like it!'
But Stephen would continue to shout at the Lord in a kind ofimpotent defiance.
1
The sorrows of childhood are mercifully passing, for it is onlywhen maturity has rendered soil mellow that grief will root verydeeply. Stephen's grief for Collins, in spite of its violence, orperhaps because of that very violence, wore itself out like apassing tempest and was all but spent by the autumn. By Christmas,the gusts when they came were quite gentle, rousing nothing moredisturbing than a faint melancholy—by Christmas it requiredquite an effort to recapture the charm of Collins.
Stephen was nonplussed and rather uneasy; to have loved sogreatly and now to forget! It made her feel childish and horriblysilly, as though she had cried over cutting her finger. As on allgrave occasions, she considered the Lord, remembering His love formiserable sinners:
Teach me to love Collins Your way,' prayed Stephen, trying hardto squeeze out some tears in the process, 'teach me to love her'cause she's mean and unkind and won't be a proper sinner thatrepenteth.' But the tears would not come, nor was prayer what ithad been; it lacked something—she no longer sweated when sheprayed.
Then an awful thing happened, the maid's image was fading, andtry as she would Stephen could not recall certain passingexpressions that had erstwhile allured her. Now she could not seeCollins' face at all dearly even if she willed very hard in thedark. Thoroughly disgruntled, she bethought her of books, books offairy tales, hitherto not much in favour, especially of those thattreated of spells, incantations and other unlawful proceedings. Sheeven requested the surprised Mrs. Bingham to read from theBible:
'You know where,' coaxed Stephen, 'it's the place they werereading in church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch with a namelike Edna—the place where she makes some person come up,'cause the king had forgotten what he looked like.'
But if prayer bad failed Stephen, her spells also failed her;indeed they behaved as spells do when said backwards, making hersee, not the person she wished to, but a creature entirelydifferent. For Collins now had a most serious rival, one who hadlately appeared at the stables. He was not possessed of a realhousemaid's knee, but instead, of four deeply thrilling brownlegs—he was two up on legs and one up on a tail, which wasrather unfair on Collins! that Christmas, when Stephen was eightyears old, Sir Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she waslearning to ride him, could ride him already, being naturallyskilful and fearless. There had been quite a heated discussion withAnna, because Stephen had insisted on riding astride. In this shehad shown herself very refractory, falling off every time she triedthe side-saddle—quite obvious, of course, this falling-offprocess, but enough to subjugate Anna.
And now Stephen would spend long hours at the stables,swaggering largely in corduroy breeches, hobnobbing with Williams,the old stud groom, who had a soft place in his heart for thechild.
She would say: 'Come up, horse!' in the same tone as Williams;or, pretending to a knowledge she was far from possessing: 'Is thatfetlock a bit puffy? It looks to me puffy; supposing we put on anice wet bandage.'
Then Williams would rub his rough chin as though thinking:'Maybe yes—maybe no—' he would temporize, wisely.
She grew to adore the smell of the stables; it was far moreenticing than Collins' perfume—the Erasmic she had used onher afternoons out, and which had once smelt so delicious. And thepony! So strong, so entirely fulfilling, with his round, gentleeyes, and his heart big with courage—he was surely moreworthy of worship than Collins, who had treated you badly becauseof the footman! And yet—and yet—you owed something toCollins, just because you had loved her, though you couldn't anymore. It was dreadfully worrying, all this hard thinking, when youwished to enjoy a new pony! Stephen would stand there rubbing herchin in an almost exact imitation of Williams. She could notproduce the same scrabby sound, but in spite of this drawback, themovement would soothe her.
Then one morning she had a bright inspiration: 'Come up, horse!'she commanded, slapping the pony. 'Come up, horse, and let me getclose to your ear, 'cause I'm going to whisper something dreadfullyimportant.' Laying her cheek against his firm neck, she saidsoftly: 'You're not you any more, you're Collins!'
So Collins was comfortably transmigrated. It was Stephen's lasteffort to remember.
2
Came the day when Stephen rode out with her father to a meet, aglorious and memorable day. Side by side the two of them joggedthrough the gates, and the lodgekeeper's wife must smile to seeStephen sitting her smart bay pony astride, and looking socomically like Sir Philip.
'It do be a pity as her isn't a boy, our young lady,' she toldher husband.
It was one of those still, slightly frosty mornings when thelanding is tricky on the north side of the hedges; when the smokefrom farm chimneys rises straight as a ramrod; when the scent oflog fires or of burning brushwood, though left far behind, stillpersists in the nostrils. A crystal clear morning, like a draughtof spring water, and such mornings are good when one is young.
The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was tremblingwith pleasure, for he was no novice; he knew all about signs andwonders in stables, such as large feeds of corn administered early,and extra long groomings, and pink coats, with brass buttons, likethe hunt coat Sir Philip was wearing. He frisked down the road, amass of affectation, demanding some skill on the part of his rider;but the child's hands were strong yet exceedingly gentle—shepossessed that rare gift, perfect hands on a horse.
'This is better than being young Nelson,' thought Stephen,''cause this way I'm happy just being myself.'
Sir Philip looked down at his daughter with contentment; she wasgood to look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment was notquite complete, so that he looked away again quickly, sighing alittle, because, somehow these days, he had taken to sighing overStephen.
The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; ColonelAntrim, the Master, rode up and spoke kindly: 'You've a fine ponythere, but he'll need a bit of holding!' And then to her father:'Is she safe astride, Philip? Violet's learning to ride, butside-saddle, I prefer it—I never think girl children get thegrip astride; they aren't built for it, haven't the necessarymuscle; still, no doubt she'll stick on by balance.'
Stephen flushed: 'No doubt she'll stick on by balance!' thewords rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was learning toride side-saddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed if youpinched her; that terrified creature of muslins and ribbons andhair that curled over the nurse's finger! Why, Violet could nevercome to tea without crying, could never play a game without gettingherself hurt! She had fat, wobbly legs too, just like a ragdoll—and you, Stephen, had been compared to Violet!Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you felt lessimpressive in your fine riding breeches. You felt—well, notfoolish exactly, but self-conscious—not quite at your ease, alittle bit wrong. It was almost as though you were playing at youngNelson again, were only pretending.
But you said: 'I've got muscles, haven't I, Father? Williamssays I've got riding muscles already!' then you dug your heelssharply into the pony, so that he whisked round, bucking andrearing. As for you, you stuck to his back like a limpet. Wasn'tthat enough to convince them?
'Steady on, Stephen!' came Sir Philip's voice, warning. Then theMaster's: 'She's got a fine seat, I'll admit it—Violet's alittle bit scared on a horse, but I think she'll get confidencelater; I hope so.'
And now hounds were moving away towards cover, tailswaving—they looked like an army with banners. 'Hi,Starbright—Fancy! Get in, little bitch! Hi, Frolic, get onwith it, Frolic!'
The long lashes shot out with amazing precision, stinging aflank or stroking a shoulder, while the four-legged Amazons closedup their ranks for the serious business ahead. 'Hi, Starbright!'Whips cracked and horses grew restless; Stephen's mount requiredundivided attention. She had no time to think of her muscles or hergrievance, but only of the creature between her small knees.
'All right, Stephen?'
'Yes, Father.'
Well, go steady at your fences; it may be a little bit slipperythis morning.' But Sir Philip's voice did not sound at all anxious;indeed there was a note of deep pride in his voice.
'He knows that I'm not just a rag doll, like Violet; he knowsthat I'm different to her!' thought Stephen.
3
The strange, implacable heart-broken music of hounds givingtongue as they break from cover; the cry of the huntsman as hestands in his stirrups; the thud of hooves pounding ruthlesslyforward over long, green, undulating meadows. The meadows flyingback as though seen from a train, the meadows streaming away behindyou; the acrid smell of horse sweat caught in passing; the smell ofdamp leather, of earth and bruised herbage—all sudden, allpassing—then the smell of wide spaces, the air smell, coolyet as potent as wine.
Sir Philip was looking back over his shoulder: 'All right,Stephen?' Oh, yes—' Stephen's voice sounded breathless.
Steady on! Steady on!'
They were coming to a fence, and Stephen's grip tightened alittle. The pony took the fence in his stride very gaily; for aninstant he seemed to stay poised in mid-air as though he had wings,then he touched earth again, and away without even pausing.
'All right, Stephen?'
'Yes, yes!'
Sir Philip's broad back was bent forward over the shoulder ofhis hunter; the crisp auburn hair in the nape of his neck showedbright where the winter sunshine touched it; and as the childfollowed that purposeful back, she felt that she loved it utterly,entirely. At that moment it seemed to embody all kindness, allstrength, and all understanding.
4
They killed not so very far from Worcester; it had been a stiffrun, the best of the season. Colonel Antrim came jogging along toStephen, whose prowess had amused and surprised him.
'Well, well,' he said, grinning, 'so here you are, madam, stillwith a leg on each side of your horse—I'm going to tellViolet she'll have to buck up. By the way, Philip, can Stephen cometo tea on Monday, before Roger goes back to school? She can? Oh,splendid! And now where's that brush? I think our young Stephenhere takes it.'
Strange it is, but unforgettable moments are often connectedwith very small happenings, happenings that assume fictitiousproportions, especially when we are children. If Colonel Antrim hadoffered Stephen the crown of England on a red velvet cushion, it isdoubtful whether her pride would have equalled the pride that shefelt when the huntsman came forward and presented her with herfirst hunting trophy—the rather pathetic, bedraggled littlebrush, that had weathered so many hard miles. Just for an instantthe child's heart misgave her, as she looked at the soft, furrything in her hand; but the joy of attainment was still hot uponher, and that incomparable feeling of elation that comes from theknowledge of personal courage, so that she forgot the woes of thefox in remembering the prowess of Stephen.
Sir Philip fastened the brush to her saddle. 'You rode well,' hesaid briefly, then turned to the Master.
But she knew that that day she had not failed him, for his eyeshad been bright when they rested on hers; she had seen great lovein those melancholy eyes, together with a curiously wistfulexpression of which her youth lacked understanding. And now manypeople smiled broadly at Stephen, patting her pony and calling hima flier.
One old farmer remarked: ''E do be a good plucked un, and so be'is rider—beggin' your pardon.'
At which Stephen must blush and grow slightly mendacious,pretending to give all the credit to the pony, pretending to feelvery humble of spirit, which she knew she was far from feeling.
'Come along!' called Sir Philip. 'No more to-day, Stephen, yourpoor little fellow's had enough for one day.' Which was true, sinceCollins was all of a tremble, what with excitement and strainingshort legs to keep up with vainglorious hunters.
Whips touched hats: 'Good-bye, Stephen, come out soonagain—See you on Tuesday, Sir Philip, with the Croome.' Andthe field settled down to the changing of horses, before drawingyet one more cover.
5
Father and daughter rode home through the twilight, and nowthere were no dog-roses in the hedges, the hedges stood leaflessand grey with frost rime, a network of delicate branches. The earthsmelt as clean as a newly washed garment—it smelt of 'God'swashing', as Stephen called it—while away to the left, from adistant farm-house, came the sound of a yard-dog, barking. Smalllights were glowing in cottage windows as yet uncurtained, as yetvery friendly; and beyond, where the great hills of Malvern showedblue against the pale sky, many small lights wereburning—lights of home newly lit on the altar of the hills tothe God of both hills and homesteads. No birds were singing in thetrees by the roadside, but a silence prevailed, more lovely thanbird song; the thoughtful and holy silence of winter, the silenceof trustfully waiting furrows. For the soil is the greatest saintof all ages, knowing neither impatience, nor fear, nor doubting;knowing only faith, from which spring all blessings that areneedful to nurture man.
Sir Philip said: 'Are you happy, my Stephen?'
And she answered: 'I'm dreadfully happy, Father. I'm sodreadfully happy that it makes me feel frightened, 'cause I mayn'talways last happy—not this way.'
He did not ask why she might not last happy; he just nodded, asthough he admitted a reason; but he laid his hand over hers on thebridle for a moment, a large, and comforting hand. Then the peaceof the evening took possession of Stephen, that and the peace of ahealthy body tired out with fresh air and much vigorous movement,so that she swayed a little in her saddle and came near to fallingasleep. The pony, even more tired than his rider, jogged along withneck drooping and reins hanging slackly, too weary to shy at theogreish shadows that were crouching ready to scare him. His smallmind was doubtless concentrated on fodder; on the bucket of waternicely seasoned with gruel; on the groom's soothing hiss as herubbed down and bandaged; on the warm blanket clothing, so pleasantin winter, and above all on that golden bed of deep straw that wassure to be waiting in his stable.
And now a great moon had swung up very slowly; and the moonseemed to pause, staring hard at Stephen, while the frost rimeturned white with the whiteness of diamonds, and the shadows turnedblack and lay folded like velvet round the feet of the drowsyhedges. But the meadows beyond the hedges turned silver, and so didthe road to Morton.
*
It was late when they reached the stables at last, and oldWilliams was waiting in the yard with a lantern.
'Did you kill?' he inquired, according to custom; then he sawStephen's trophy and chuckled.
Stephen tried to spring easily out of the saddle as her fatherhad done, but her legs seemed to fail her. To her horror andchagrin her legs hung down stiffly as though made of wood; shecould not control them; and to make matters worse, Collins now grewimpatient and began to walk off to his loose-box. Then Sir Philipput two strong arms around Stephen, and he lifted her bodily asthough she were a baby, and he carried her, only faintlyprotesting, right up to the door of the house and beyondit—right up indeed, to the warm pleasant nursery where asteaming hot bath was waiting. Her head fell back and lay on hisshoulder, while her eyelids drooped, heavy with well-earned sleep;she had to blink very hard several times over in order to get thebetter of that sleep.
'Happy, darling?' he whispered, and his grave face bent nearer.She could feel his cheek, rough at the end of the day, pressedagainst her forehead, and she loved that kind roughness, so thatshe put up her hand and stroked it.
So dreadfully, dreadfully happy, Father,' she murmured,'so—dreadfully happy—'
1
On the Monday that followed Stephen's first day out hunting shewoke with something very like a weight on her chest; in less thantwo minutes she knew why this was—she was going to tea withthe Antrims. Her relations with other children were peculiar, shethought so herself and so did the children; they could not defineit and neither could Stephen, but there it was all the same. Ahigh-spirited child she should have been popular, and yet she wasnot, a fact which she divined, and this made her feel ill at easewith her playmates, who in their turn felt ill at ease. She wouldthink that the children were whispering about her, whispering andlaughing for no apparent reason; but although this had happened onone occasion, it was not always happening as Stephen imagined. Shewas painfully hyper-sensitive at times, and she sufferedaccordingly.
Of all the children that Stephen most dreaded, Violet and RogerAntrim took precedence; especially Roger, who was ten years old,and already full to the neck of male arrogance—he had justbeen promoted to Etons that winter, which added to his overbearingpride. Roger Antrim had round, brown eyes like his mother, and ashort, straight nose that might one day be handsome; he was rathera thick-set, plump little boy, whose buttocks looked too large in ashort Eton jacket, especially when he stuck his hands in hispockets and strutted, which he did very often.
Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly haveloved to bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her arms wereso strong, he could never wrench Stephen's arms backwards likeViolet's; he could never make her cry or show any emotion when hepinched her, or tugged roughly at her new hair ribbon, and thenStephen would often beat him at games, a fact which he deeplyresented. She could bowl at cricket much straighter than he could;she climbed trees with astonishing skill and prowess, and even ifshe did tear her skirts in the process it was obviously cheek for agirl to climb at all. Violet never climbed trees; she stood at thebottom admiring the courage of Roger. He grew to hate Stephen as akind of rival, a kind of intruder into his especial province; hewas always longing to take her down a peg, but being slow-witted hewas foolish in his methods—no good daring Stephen, sheresponded at once, and usually went one better. As for Stephen, sheloathed him, and her loathing was increased by a most humiliatingconsciousness of envy. Yes, despite his shortcomings she enviedyoung Roger with his thick, clumping boots, his cropped hair andhis Etons; envied his school and his masculine companions of whomhe would speak grandly as: 'all the other fellows!'; envied hisright to climb trees and play cricket and football—his rightto be perfectly natural; above all she envied his splendidconviction that being a boy constituted a privilege in life; shecould well understand that conviction, but this only increased herenvy.
Stephen found Violet intolerably silly, she cried quite asloudly when she bumped her own head as when Roger applied his moststrenuous torments. But what irritated Stephen, was the fact thatshe suspected that Violet almost enjoyed those torments.
'He's so dreadfully strong!' she had confided in Stephen, withsomething like pride in her voice.
Stephen had longed to shake her for that: 'I can pinch quite ashard as he can!' she had threatened. 'If you think he's strongerthan I am, I'll show you!' At which Violet had rushed awayscreaming.
Violet was already full of feminine poses; she loved dolls, butnot quite so much as she pretended. People said: 'Look at Violet,she's like a little mother; it's so touching to see that instinctin a child!' then Violet would become still more touching. She wasalways thrusting her dolls upon Stephen, making her undress themand put them to bed. 'Now you're Nanny, Stephen, and I'm Gertrude'smother, or you can be mother this time if you'd rather—Oh, becareful, you'll break her! Now you've pulled off a button! I dothink you might play more like I do!' And then Violet knitted, orsaid that she knitted—Stephen had never seen anything butknots. 'Can't you knit?' she would say, looking scornfully atStephen, 'I can—Mother called me a dear little housewife!'then Stephen would lose her temper and speak rudely: 'You're a dearlittle sop, that's what you are!' For hours she must play stupiddoll-games with Violet, because Roger would not always play realgames in the garden. He hated to be beaten, yet how could she helpit? Could she help throwing straighter than Roger?
They had nothing whatever in common, these children, but theAntrims were neighbours, and even Sir Philip; indulgent though hewas, insisted that Stephen should have friends of her own age toplay with. He had spoken quite sharply on several occasions whenthe child had pleaded to be allowed to stay at home. Indeed hespoke sharply that very day at luncheon:
'Eat your pudding please, Stephen; come now, finish it quickly!If all this fuss is about the little Antrims, then Father won'thave it, it's ridiculous, darling.'
So Stephen had hastily swallowed her pudding and escapedupstairs to the nursery.
2
The Antrims lived half a mile from Ledbury, on the other side ofthe hills. It was quite a long drive to their house fromMorton—Stephen was driven over in the dog-cart. She satbeside Williams in gloomy silence, with the collar of her coatturned up to her ears. She was filled with a sense of bitterinjustice; why should they insist on this stupid expedition? Evenher father had been cross at luncheon because she preferred to stayat home with him. Why should she be forced to know other children?they didn't want her nor she them. And above all the Antrims! thatidiotic Violet—Violet who was learning to rideside-saddle—and Roger strutting about in his Etons, andbragging, always bragging because he was a boy—and theirmother who was quite sure to patronize Stephen because beinggrown-up made her put on a manner. Stephen could hear herinfuriating voice, the voice she reserved for children: Ah, hereyou are, Stephen! Now then, little people, run along and have agood feed in the schoolroom. There's plenty of cake; I knew Stephenwas coining; we all know Stephen's capacity for cake!'
Stephen could hear Violet's timorous giggle and Roger's guffawas they greeted this sally. She could feel his fat fingers pinchingher arm; pinching cruelly, slyly, as he strutted beside her. Thenhis whisper: 'You're a pig! You eat much more than I do, mothersaid so today, and boys need more than girls!' then Violet: 'I'mnot very fond of plum cake, it makes me feel sicky—mothersays it's indigestion. I could never eat big bits of plum cake likeStephen. Nanny says I'm a dainty feeder.' then Stephen herself,saying nothing at all, but glaring sideways at Roger.
The dog-cart was slowly climbing British Camp, that long, steephill out of Little Malvern. The cold air grew colder, butmarvellously pure it was, up there above the valleys. The peak ofthe Camp stood out clearly defined by snow that had fallen lightlythat morning, and as they breasted the crest of the hill, the sunshone out on the snow. Away to the right lay the valley of the Wye,a long, lovely valley of deep blue shadows; a valley of smallhomesteads and mothering trees, of soft undulations and wide,restful spaces leading away to a line of dimmountains—leading away to the mountains of Wales, that layjust over the border. And because she loved this kind of Englishvalley, Stephen's sulky eyes must turn and rest upon it; not allher apprehension and sense of injustice could take from her eyesthe joy of that seeing. She must gaze and gaze, she must let itpossess her, the peace, the wonder that lay in such beauty; whilethe unwilling tears welled up under her lids—she not knowingwhy they had come there.
And now they were trotting swiftly downhill; the valley hadvanished, but the woods of Eastnor stood naked and lovely, and theforms of their trees were more perfect than forms that are madewith hands—unless with the hands of God. Stephen's eyesturned again; she could not stay sulky, for these were the woodswhere she drove with her father. Twice every spring they drove upto these woods and through them to the stretching parkland beyond.There were deer in the park—they would sometimes get out ofthe dog-cart so that Stephen could feed the does.
She began to whistle softly through her teeth, an accomplishmentin which she took a great pride. Impossible to go on feelingresentful when the sun was shining between the bare branches, whenthe air was as clear and as bright as crystal, when the cob wasliterally flying through the air, taking all Williams' strength tohold him.
Steady boy—steady on! He be feeling the weather—getsinto his blood and makes him that skittish—Now go quiet, youyoung blight! Just look at him, will you, he's got himself all of alather!'
'Let me drive,' pleaded. Stephen. 'Oh, please,please,Williams!'
But Williams shook his head as he grinned at her broadly: 'I'vegot old bones, Miss Stephen, and old bones breaks quick when it'sfrosty, so I've heard tell.'
3
Mrs. Antrim was waiting for Stephen in the lounge—she wasalways waiting to waylay her in the lounge, or so it appeared toStephen. The lounge was a much overdressed apartment, full ofsmall, useless tables and large, clumsy chairs. You bumped into thechairs and tripped over the tables; at least you did if you wereStephen. There was one deadly pitfall you never could avoid, a hugepolar bear skin that lay on the floor. Its stuffed head protrudedat a most awkward angle; you invariably stubbed your big toe onthat head. Stephen, true to tradition, stubbed her toe rather badlyas she blundered towards Mrs. Antrim.
'Dear me,' remarked her hostess, 'you are a great girl; why yourfeet must be double the size of Violet's! Come here and let me havea look at your feet.' then she laughed as though something amusedher.
Stephen was longing to rub her big toe, but she thought betterof it, enduring in silence.
'Children!' called Mrs. Antrim, 'Here's Stephen, I'm sure she'sas hungry as a hunter!'
Violet was wearing a pale blue silk frock; even at seven she wasvain of her appearance. She had cried until she had got permissionto wear that particular pale blue frock, which was usually reservedfor parties. Her brown hair was curled into careful ringlets, andtied with a very large bow of blue ribbon. Mrs. Antrim glancedquickly from Stephen to Violet with a look of maternal pride.
Roger was bulging inside his Etons; his round cheeks werepuffed, very pink and aggressive. He eyed Stephen coldly from abovea white collar that was obviously fresh from the laundry. On theirway upstairs he pinched Stephen's leg, and Stephen kickedbackwards, swiftly and neatly.
'I suppose you think you can kick!' grunted Roger, who wassuffering acutely at that moment from his shin. You've not got thestrength of a flea; I don't feel it!'
At Violet's request they were left alone for tea; she likedplaying the hostess, and her mother spoilt her. A special smallteapot had had to be unearthed, in order that Violet could liftit.
'Sugar?' she inquired with tongs poised in mid air, 'Andmilk?' she added, imitating her mother. Mrs. Antrim always said:And milk,' in that tone—it made you feel that you mustbe rather greedy.
'Oh, chuck it!' growled Roger, whose shin was still aching. Youknow I want milk and four lumps of sugar.'
Violet's underlip began to tremble, but she held her ground withunexpected firmness. 'May I give you a little more milk, Stephendear? Or would you prefer no milk, only lemon?'
There isn't any lemon and you know it!' bawled Roger. 'Here,give me my tea or I'll spoil your hair ribbon.' He grabbed at hiscup and nearly upset it.
'Oh, oh!' shrilled Violet. 'My dress!'
They settled down to the meal at last, but Stephen observed thatRoger was watching; every mouthful she ate she could feel himwatching, so that she grew self-conscious. She was hungry, nothaving eaten much luncheon, but now she could not enjoy her cake;Roger himself was stuffing like a grampus, but his eyes never lefther face. Then Roger, the slow-witted in his dealings with Stephen,all but choked in the throes of a great inspiration.
'I say,you,' he began, with his mouth very full, 'whatabout a certain young lady out hunting? What about a fat leg oneach side of her horse like a monkey on a stick, and everybodylaughing!'
'They were not!' exclaimed Stephen, growing suddenly red. 'Oh,yes, but they were, though!' mocked Roger.
Now had Stephen been wise she would have let the thing drop, forno fun is derived from a one-sided contest, but at eight years oldone is not always wise, and moreover her pride had been stung tothe quick.
She said: 'I'd like to see you get the brush; why you can'tstick on just riding round the paddock! I've seen you fall off,jumping nothing but a hurdle; I'd like to see you out hunting!'
Roger swallowed some more cake; there was now no great hurry; hehad thrown his sprat and had landed his mackerel. He had very muchfeared that she might not be drawn—it was not always easy todraw Stephen.
'Well now, listen,' he drawled, 'and I'll tell you something.You thought they admired you squatting on your pony; you thoughtyou were being very grand, I'll bet, with your new riding breechesand your black velvet cap; you thought they'd suppose that youlooked like a boy, just because you were trying to be one. As amatter of fact, if you really want to know, they were busting theirsides; why, my father said so. He was laughing all the time at yourlooking so funny on that rotten old pony that's as fat as aporpoise. Why, he only gave you the brush for fun, because you weresuch a small kid—he said so. He said: "I gave Stephen Gordonthe brush because I thought she might cry if I didn't."'
'You're a liar,' breathed Stephen, who had turned very pale.
'Oh, am I? Well, you ask father.'
'Do stop—' whimpered Violet, beginning to cry; 'you'rehorrid, you're spoiling my party.'
But Roger was launched on his first perfect triumph; he had seenthe expression in Stephen's eyes: 'And my mother said,' hecontinued more loudly, that your mother must be funny to allow youto do it; she said it was horrid to let girls ride that way; shesaid she was awfully surprised at your mother; she said that she'dhave thought that your mother had more sense; she said that itwasn't modest; she said—'
Stephen had suddenly sprung to her feet: 'How dare you! How dareyou—my mother!' she spluttered. And now she was almost besideherself with rage, conscious only of one overwhelming impulse, andthat to belabour Roger.
A plate crashed to the ground and Violet screamed faintly.Roger, in his turn, had pushed back his chair; his round eyes werestaring and rather frightened; he had never seen Stephen quite likethis before. She was actually rolling up the sleeves of hersmock.
'You cad!' she shouted, 'I'll fight you for this!' And shedoubled her fist and shook it at Roger while he edged away from thetable.
She stood there an enraged and ridiculous figure in her Libertysmock, with her hard, boyish forearms. Her long hair had partlyescaped from its ribbon, and the bow sagged down limply, crookedand foolish. All that was heavy in her face sprang into view, thestrong line of the jaw, the square, massive brow, the eyebrows, toothick and too wide for beauty. And yet there was a kind of largesplendour about her—absurd though she was, she was splendidat that moment—grotesque and splendid, like some primitivething conceived in a turbulent age of transition.
'Are you going to fight me, you coward?' she demanded, as shestepped round the table and faced her tormentor.
But Roger thrust his hands deep into his pockets: 'I don't fightwith girls!' he remarked very grandly. Then he sauntered out of theschoolroom.
Stephen's own hands fell and hung at her sides; her headdrooped, and she stood staring down at the carpet. The whole of hersuddenly drooped and looked helpless, as she stood staring down atthe carpet.
'How could you!' began Violet, who was plucking up courage.'Little girls don't have fights—I don't, I'd befrightened—'
But Stephen cut her short: 'I'm going,' she said thickly; 'I'mgoing home to my father.'
She went heavily downstairs and out into the lobby, where sheput on her hat and coat; then made her way round the house to thestables, in search of old Williams and the dog-cart.
4
'You're home very early, Stephen,' said Anna, but Sir Philip wasstaring at his daughter's face.
'What's the matter?' he inquired, and his voice sounded anxious.'Come here and tell me about it.'
Then Stephen quite suddenly burst into tears, and she wept andshe wept as she stood there before them, and she poured out hershame and humiliation, telling all that Roger had said about hermother, telling all that she, Stephen, would have done to defendher, had it not been that Roger would not fight with a girl. Shewept and she wept without any restraint, scarcely knowing what shesaid—at that moment not caring. And Sir Philip listened withhis head on his hand, and Anna listened bewildered and dumbfounded.She tried to kiss Stephen, to hold her to her, but Stephen, stillsobbing, pushed her away; in this orgy of grief she resentedconsolation, so that in the end Anna took her to the nursery anddelivered her over to the care of Mrs. Bingham, feeling that thechild did not want her.
When Anna went quietly back to the study, Sir Philip was stillsitting with his head on his hand. She said: 'It's time yourealized, Philip, that if you're Stephen's father, I'm her mother.So far you've managed the child your own way, and I don't thinkit's been successful. You've treated Stephen as though she were aboy—perhaps it's because I've not given you a son—' Hervoice trembled a little but she went on gravely: 'It's not good forStephen; I know it's not good, and at times it frightens me,Philip.'
'No, no!' he said, sharply.
But Anna persisted: 'Yes, Philip, at times it makes meafraid—I can't tell you why, but it seems all wrong—itmakes me feel—strange with the child.'
He looked at her out of his melancholy eyes: 'Can't you trustme? Won't you try to trust me, Anna?'
But Anna shook her head: 'I don't understand, why shouldn't youtrust me, Philip?'
And then in his terror for this well-beloved woman, Sir Philipcommitted the first cowardly action of his life—he who wouldnot have spared himself pain, could not bear to inflict it on Anna.In his infinite pity for Stephen's mother, he sinned very deeplyand gravely against Stephen, by withholding from that mother hisown conviction that her child was not as other children.
'There's nothing for you to understand,' he said firmly, 'but Ilike you to trust me in all things.'
After this they sat talking about the child, Sir Philip veryquiet and reassuring.
'I've wanted her to have a healthy body,' he explained, 'that'swhy I've let her run more or less wild; but perhaps we'd betterhave a governess now, as you say; a French governess, my dear, ifyou'd prefer one—later on I've always meant to engage abluestocking, some woman who's been to Oxford. I want Stephen tohave the finest education that care and money can give her.'
But once again Anna began to protest. 'What's the good of it allfor a girl?' she argued. 'Did you love me any less because Icouldn't do mathematics? Do you love me less now because I count onmy fingers?'
He kissed her. 'That's different, you're you,' he said, smiling,but a look that she knew well had come into his eyes, a cold,resolute expression, which meant that all persuasion was likely tobe unavailing.
Presently they went upstairs to the nursery, and Sir Philipshaded the candle with his hand, while they stood together gazingdown at Stephen—the child was heavily asleep.
'Look, Philip,' whispered Anna, pitiful and shaken, 'lookPhilip—she's got two big tears on her cheek!'
He nodded, slipping his arm around Anna: 'Come away,' hemuttered, 'we may wake her.'
1
Mrs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her steadreigned Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French governess with along, pleasant face that reminded Stephen of a horse. This equineresemblance was fortunate in one way—Stephen took toMademoiselle Duphot at once—but it did not make forrespectful obedience. On the contrary, Stephen felt very familiar,kindly familiar and quite at her ease; she petted MademoiselleDuphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely and homesick, and it must beadmitted that she liked being petted. Stephen would rush off to gether a cushion, or a footstool or her glass of milk at eleven.
'Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite fine, ellea si bon coeur,' would think Mademoiselle Duphot, and somehowgeography would not seem to matter quite so much, or arithmeticeither—in vain did Mademoiselle try to be strict, her pupilcould always beguile her.
Mademoiselle Duphot knew nothing about horses, in spite of the rfact that she looked so much like one, and Stephen wouldcomplacently entertain her with long conversation anent splints andspavins, cow hocks and colic, all mixed up together in a kind ofwild veterinary jumble. Had Williams been listening, he might wellhave rubbed his chin, but Williams was not there to listen.
As for Mademoiselle Duphot, she was genuinely impressed: 'Maisquel type, quel type!' she was always exclaiming. 'Vous êtesdéjà une vraie petite Amazone, Stévenne.'
'N'est-ce pas?' agreed Stephen, who was picking up French.
The child showed real ability for French, and this delighted herteacher; at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely,making quick little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She likedtalking French, it rather amused her, nor was she averse tomastering the grammar; what she could not endure were the long,foolish dictées from the edifying Bibliothèque Rose.Weak in all other respects with Stephen, Mademoiselle Duphot clungto these dictées; the Bibliothèque Rose became herlast trench of authority, and she held it.
'"Les Petites Filles Modèles,"' Mademoiselle wouldannounce, while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom;'Maintenant nous allons retrouver Sophie—Where to did wearrive? Ah, oui, I remember: "Cette preuve de confiance touchaSophie et augmenta encore son regret d'avoir été siméchante."
'"Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer a une tellecolère? Comment ai-je été si méchanteavec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j'ai id, et si hardieenvers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. deFleurville!"'
From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts ofan even more edifying nature, and 'Les Bons Enfants' would bechosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision of Stephen.
'La Maman, Donne-lui ton coeur, mon Henri; c'est ce queto pourras lui dormer de plus agréable.
'—Mon coeur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit eten ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait uncouteau.' At which Stephen would giggle.
One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin:'Little beast, he was only shamming!' and Mademoiselle, coming onthis unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil.After which there was naturally less discipline than ever in theschoolroom, but considerably more friendship.
However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becomingso proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked lessanxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. Thisfrank, jaunty, slacking on the part of his daughter should bechecked later on he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of themild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored the unusual child.She would confide her troubles to Stephen, those family troubles inwhich governesses abound—her Maman was old and delicate andneedy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and now hersister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paidvery badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight throughmaking those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, andpaid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings,and sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman musthave her chicken on Sundays: 'Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il fautmanger, au moins—' And afterwards that chicken came in verynicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and afew leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the warmthof it eased her old gums.
Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patienceand with apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely:'Mais c'est dur,' she would comment, 'c'est terriblement dur, lavie!'
But she never confided her own special troubles, andMademoiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: 'Est-elleheureuse, cet étrange petit être?' she would wonder.'Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!'
2
Idleness and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more thantwo years, when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon andproceeded to announce that he taught gymnastics and fencing. Fromthat moment peace ceased to reign in the schoolroom, or indeedanywhere in the house for that matter. In vain did MademoiselleDuphot protest that gymnastics and fencing thickened the ankles, invain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen merely ignored them andconsulted her father.
'I want to go in for Sandowing,' she informed him, as thoughthey were discussing a career.
He laughed: 'Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?' ThenStephen explained about ex-Sergeant Smylie.
'I see,' nodded Sir Philip, 'you want to learn fencing.'
And how to lift weights with my stomach,' she said quickly.
'Why not with your large front teeth?' he teased her. 'Oh,well,' he added, there's no harm in fencing or gymnasticseither—provided, of course, that you don't try to wreckMorton Hall like a Samson wrecking the house of the Philistines; Iforesee that that might easily happen—'
Stephen grinned: 'But it mightn't if I cut off my hair! May Icut off my hair? Oh, do let me, Father!'
'Certainly not, I prefer to risk it,' said Sir Philip, speakingquite firmly.
Stephen went pounding back to the schoolroom. 'I'm going tothose classes!' she announced in triumph. 'I'm going to be drivenover to Malvern next week; I'm going to begin on Tuesday, and I'mgoing to learn fencing so as I can kill your brother-in-law who's abeast to your sister, I'm going to fight duels for wives indistress, like men do in Paris, and I'm going to learn how to liftpianos on my stomach by expanding something—the diapanmuscles—and I'm going to cut my hair off!' she mendaciouslyconcluded, glancing sideways to observe the effect of thisbombshell.
'Bon Dieu, soyez clément!' breathed Mademoiselle Duphot,casting her eyes to heaven.
3
It was not very long before ex-Sergeant Smylie discovered thatin Stephen he had a star pupil. Some day you ought to make achampion fencer, if you work really hard at it, Miss,' he toldher.
Stephen did not learn to lift pianos with her stomach, but astime went on she did become quite an expert gymnast and fencer; andas Mademoiselle Duphot confided to Anna, it was after all verycharming to watch her, so supple and young and quick in hermovements.
'And she fence like an angel,' said Mademoiselle fondly, 'shefence now almost as well as she ride.'
Anna nodded. She herself had seen Stephen fencing many times,and had thought it a fine performance for so young a child, but thefencing displeased her, so that she found it hard to praiseStephen.
'I hate all that sort of thing for girls,' she said slowly.
'But she fence like a man, with such power and such grace,'babbled Mademoiselle Duphot, the tactless.
And now life was full of new interest for Stephen, an interestthat centred entirely in her body. She discovered her body for athing to be cherished, a thing of real value since its strengthcould rejoice her; and young though she was she cared for her bodywith great diligence, bathing it night and morning in dull, tepidwater—cold baths were forbidden, and hot baths, she hadheard, sometimes weakened the muscles. For gymnastics she wore herhair in a pigtail, and somehow that pigtail began to intrude onother occasions. In spite of protests, she always forgot and camedown to breakfast with a neat, shining plait, so that Anna gave inin the end and said, sighing:
'Have your pigtail do, child, if you feel that youmust—but I can't say it suits you, Stephen.'
And Mademoiselle Duphot was foolishly loving. Stephen would stopin the middle of lessons to roll back her sleeves and examine hermuscles; then Mademoiselle Duphot, instead of protesting, wouldlaugh and admire her absurd little biceps. Stephen's craze forphysical culture increased, and now it began to invade theschoolroom. Dumbbells appeared in the school-room bookcases, whilehalf worn-out gym shoes skulked in the corners. Everything went bythe board but this passion of the child's for training her body.And what must Sir Philip elect to do next, but to write out toIreland and purchase a hunter for his daughter to ride—areal, thoroughbred hunter. And what must he say but: 'That's onefor young Roger!' So that Stephen found herself comfortablylaughing at the thought of young Roger; and that laugh went a longway towards healing the wound that had rankled withinher—perhaps this was why Sir Philip had written out toIreland for that thoroughbred hunter.
The hunter, when he came, was grey-coated and slender, and hiseyes were as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage was asbright as an Irish sunrise, and his heart was as young as the wildheart of Ireland, but devoted and loyal and eager for service, andhis name was sweet on the tongue as you spoke it—beingRaftery, after the poet. Stephen loved Raftery and Raftery lovedStephen. It was love at first sight, and they talked to each otherfor hours in his loose box—not in Irish or English, but in aquiet language having very few words but many small sounds and manysmall movements, which to both of them meant more than words. AndRaftery said: 'I will carry you bravely, I will serve you all thedays of my life.' And she answered: 'I will care for you night andday, Raftery—all the days of your life.' Thus Stephen andRaftery pledged their devotion, alone in his fragrant, hay-scentedstable. And Raftery was five and Stephen was twelve when theysolemnly pledged their devotion.
Never was rider more proud or more happy than Stephen, whenfirst she and Raftery went a-hunting; and never was youngster morewise or courageous than Raftery proved himself at his fences; andnever can Bellerophon have thrilled to more daring than didStephen, astride of Raftery that day, with the wind in her face anda fire in her heart that made life a thing of glory. At the verybeginning of the run the fox turned in the direction of Morton,actually crossing the big north paddock before turning once moreand making for Upton. In the paddock was a mighty, upstandinghedge, a formidable place concealing timber, and what must they do,these two young creatures, but go straight at it and get safelyover—those who saw Raftery fly that hedge could neverafterwards doubt his valour. And when they got home there was Annawaiting to pat Raftery, because she could not resist him. Because,being Irish, her hands loved the feel of fine horseflesh undertheir delicate fingers—and because she did very much want tobe tender to Stephen, and understanding. But as Stephen dismounted,bespattered and dishevelled, and yet with that perversive look ofher father, the words that Anna had been planning to speak diedaway before they could get themselves spoken—she shrank backfrom the child; but the child was too overjoyed at that moment toperceive it.
4
Happy days, splendid days of childish achievements; but theypassed all too soon, giving place to the seasons, and there camethe winter when Stephen was fourteen.
On a January afternoon of bright sunshine, Mademoiselle Duphotsat dabbing her eyes; for Mademoiselle Duphot must leave her lovedStévenne, must give place to a rival who could teach Greekand Latin—she would go back to Paris, the poor MademoiselleDuphot, and take care of her ageing Maman.
Meanwhile, Stephen, very angular and lanky at fourteen, wasstanding before her father in his study. She stood still, but herglance kept straying to the window, to the sunshine that seemed tobe beckoning through the window. She was dressed for riding inbreeches and gaiters, and her thoughts were with Raftery.
'Sit down,' said Sir Philip, and his voice was so grave that herthoughts came back with a leap and a bound; 'you and I have got totalk this thing out, Stephen.'
'What thing, Father?' she faltered, sitting down abruptly.
'Your idleness, my child. The time has now come when all playand no work will make a dull Stephen, unless we pull ourselvestogether.'
She rested her large, shapely hands on her knees and bentforward, searching his face intently. What she saw there was aquiet determination that spread from his lips to his eyes. She grewsuddenly uneasy, like a youngster who objects to the ratherunpleasant process of mouthing.
'I speak French,' she broke out, 'I speak French like a native;I can read and write French as well as Mademoiselle does.'
'And beyond that you know very little,' he informed her; 'it'snot enough, Stephen, believe me.'
There ensued a long silence, she tapping her leg with her whip,he speculating about her. Then he said, but quite gently: 'I'veconsidered this thing—I've considered this matter of youreducation. I want you to have the same education, the sameadvantages as I'd give to my son—that is as far aspossible—' he added, looking away from Stephen.
'But I'm not your son, Father,' she said very slowly, and evenas she said it her heart felt heavy—heavy and sad as it badnot done for years, not since she was quite a small child.
And at this he looked back at her with love in his eyes, loveand something that seemed like compassion; and their looks met andmingled and held for a moment, speechless yet somehow expressingtheir hearts. Her own eyes clouded and she stared at her boots,ashamed of the tears that she felt might flow over. He saw this andwent on speaking more quickly, as though anxious to cover herconfusion.
'You're all the son that I've got,' he told her. 'You're braveand strong-limbed, but I want you to be wise—I want you to bewise for your own sake, Stephen, because at the best life requiresgreat wisdom. I want you to learn to make friends of your books;some day you may need them, because—' He hesitated, 'becauseyou mayn't find life at all easy, we none of us do, and books aregood friends. I don't want you to give up your fencing andgymnastics or your riding, but I want you to show moderation.You've developed your body, now develop your mind; let your mindand your muscles help, not hinder each other—it can be done,Stephen, I've done it myself, and in many respects you're like me.I've brought you up very differently from most girls, you must knowthat—look at Violet Antrim. I've indulged you, I suppose, butI don't think I've spoilt you, because I believe in you absolutely.I believe in myself, too, where you're concerned; I believe in myown sound judgment. But you've now got to prove that my judgment'sbeen sound, we've both got to prove it to ourselves and to yourmother—she's been very patient with my unusualmethods—I'm going to stand trial now, and she'll be my judge.Help me, I'm going to need all your help; if you fail then I fail,we shall go down together. But we're not going to fail, you'regoing to work hard when your new governess comes, and when you'reolder you're going to become a fine woman; you must, dear—Ilove you so much that you can't disappoint me.' His voice faltereda little, then he held out his hand: 'and Stephen, comehere—look me straight in the eyes—what is honour, mydaughter?'
She looked into his anxious, questioning eyes: 'You are honour,'she said quite simply.
5
When Stephen kissed Mademoiselle Duphot good-bye, she cried, forshe felt that something was going that would never comeback—irresponsible childhood. It was going, like MademoiselleDuphot. Kind Mademoiselle Duphot, so foolishly loving, so easilycoerced, so glad to be persuaded; so eager to believe that you weredoing your best, in the face of the most obvious slacking. KindMademoiselle Duphot who smiled when she shouldn't, who laughed whenshe shouldn't, and now was weeping—but weeping as only aLatin can weep, shedding rivers of tears and sobbing quiteloudly.
'Chérie—mon bébé, petit thou!' shewas sobbing, as she clung to the angular Stephen.
The tears ran down on to Mademoiselle's tippet, and they wet thepoor fur which already looked jaded, and the fur clogged together,turning black with those tears, so that Mademoiselle tried to wipeit. But the more she wiped it, the wetter it grew, since herhandkerchief only augmented the trouble; nor was Stephen's largehandkerchief very dry either, as she found when she started tohelp.
The old station fly that had come out from Malvern, drove up,and the footman seized Mademoiselle's luggage. It was such meagreluggage that he waved back assistance from the driver, and liftedthe trunk single-handed. Then Mademoiselle Duphot broke out intoEnglish—heaven only knew why, perhaps from emotion.
'It's not farewell, it shall not be for ever—' she sobbed.'You come, but I feel it, to Paris. We meet once more,Stévenne, my poor little baby, when you grow up bigger, wetwo meet once more—' And Stephen, already taller than shewas, longed to grow small again, just to please Mademoiselle. Then,because the French are a practical people even in moments of realemotion, Mademoiselle found her handbag, and groping in its depthsshe produced a half sheet of paper.
'The address of my sister in Paris,' she said, snuffling; 'theaddress of my sister who makes little bags—if you should hearof anyone, Stévenne—any lady who would care to buy onelittle bag—'
'Yes, yes, I'll remember,' muttered Stephen.
At last she was gone; the fly rumbled away down the drive andfinally turned the corner. To the end a wet face had been thrustfrom the window, a wet handkerchief waved despondently at Stephen.The rain must have mingled with Mademoiselle's tears, for theweather had broken and now it was raining. It was surely a desolateday for departure, with the mist closing over the Severn Valley andbeginning to creep up the hill-sides...
Stephen made her way to the empty schoolroom, empty of all savea general confusion; the confusion that stalks in some people'strail—it had always stalked Mademoiselle Duphot. On thechairs, which stood crooked, lay odds and ends meaningnothing—crumpled paper, a broken shoehorn, a well-worn brownglove that had lost its fellow and likewise two of its buttons. Onthe table lay a much abused pink blotting-pad, from which Stephenhad torn off the corners, unhidden—it was crossed andre-crossed with elegant French script until its scarred face hadturned purple. And there stood the bottle of purple ink,half-empty, and green round its neck with dribbles; and a pen witha nib as sharp as a pin point, a thin, peevish nib that jabbed atthe paper. Chock-a-block with the bottle of purple ink lay a littlepiety card of St. Joseph that had evidently slipped out ofMademoiselle's missal—St. Joseph looked very respectable andkind—like the fishmonger in Great Malvern. Stephen picked upthe card and stared at St. Joseph; something was written across hiscorner; looking closer she read the minute handwriting: 'Priez pourma petite Stévenne.'
She put the card away in her desk; the ink and the blotter shehid in the cupboard together with the peevish steel nib that jabbedpaper, and that richly deserved cremation. Then she straightenedthe chairs and threw away the litter, after which she went insearch of a duster; one by one she dusted the few remaining volumesin the bookcase, including the Bibliothèque Rose. Shearranged her dictation notebooks in a pile with others that werefar less accurately written—books of sums, mostly carelessand marked with a cross; books of English history, in one of whichStephen had begun to write the history of the horse! Books ofgeography with Mademoiselle's comments in strong purple ink: 'Grandmanque d'attention'. And lastly she collected the torn lesson booksthat had lain on their backs, on their sides, on theirbellies—anyhow, anywhere in drawers or in cupboards, but notvery often in the bookcase. For the bookcase was harbouring quiteother things, a motley and most unstudious collection; dumb-bells,wooden and iron of various sizes—some Indian clubs, one splitoff at the handle—cotton laces for gym shoes, the belt of atunic. And then stable keepsakes, including a headband that Rafteryhad worn on some special occasion; a miniature horseshoe kickedsky-high by Collins; a half-eaten carrot, now withered and mouldy,and two hunting crops that had both lost their lashes and werewaiting to visit the saddler.
Stephen considered, rubbing her chin—a habit which by nowhad become automatic—she finally decided on the amplebox-sofa as a seemly receptacle. Remained only the carrot, and shestood for a long time with it clasped in her hand, disturbed andunhappy—this clearing of the decks for stern mental actionwas certainly very depressing. But at last she threw the thing intothe fire, where it shifted distressfully, sizzling and humming.Then she sat down and stared rather grimly at the flames that wereburning up Raftery's first carrot.
1
Soon after the departure of Mademoiselle Duphot, there occurredtwo distinct innovations at Morton. Miss Puddleton arrived to takepossession of the schoolroom, and Sir Philip bought himself amotor-car. The motor was a Panhard, and it caused much excitementin the neighbourhood of Upton-on-Severn. Conservative, suspiciousof all innovations, people had abstained from motors in theMidlands, and, incredible as it now seems to look back upon, SirPhilip was regarded as a kind of pioneer. The Panhard was ahigh-shouldered, snub-nosed abortion with a loud, vulgar voice andan uncertain temper. It suffered from frequent fits of dyspepsia,brought about by an unhealthy spark-plug. Its seats were the veryacme of discomfort, its primitive gears unhandy and noisy, butnevertheless it could manage to attain to a speed of about fifteenmiles per hour—given always that, by God's good grace and thechauffeur's, it was not in the throes of indigestion.
Anna felt doubtful regarding this new purchase. She was one ofthose women who, having passed forty, were content to go onplacidly driving in their broughams, or, in summer, in theircharming little French victorias. She detested the look of herselfin large goggles, detested being forced to tie on her hat, detestedthe heavy, mannish coat of rough tweed that Sir Philip insisted shemust wear when motoring. Such things were not of her; they offendedher sense of the seemly, her preference for soft, clinginggarments, her instinct for quiet, rather slow, gentle movements,her love of the feminine and comely. For Anna at forty-four wasstill slender, and her dark hair, as yet, was untouched with grey,and her blue Irish eyes were as clear and candid as when she hadcome as a bride to Morton. She was beautiful still, and this factrejoiced her in secret, because of her husband. Yet Anna did notignore middle age; she met it half-way with dignity and courage;and now her soft dresses were of reticent colours, and hermovements a little more careful than they had been, and her mindmore severely disciplined and guarded—too much guarded thesedays, she was gradually growing less tolerant as her interestsnarrowed. And the motor, an unimportant thing in itself, servednevertheless to crystallize in Anna a certain tendency towardsretrogression, a certain instinctive dislike of the unusual, acertain deep-rooted fear of the unknown.
Old Williams was openly disgusted and hostile; he considered thecar to be an outrage to his stables—those immaculate stableswith their spacious coach-houses, their wide plaits of straw neatlyinterwoven with yards of red and blue saddler's tape, and theirfine stable-yard hitherto kept so spotless. Came the Panhard, andbehold, pools of oil on the flagstones, greenish, bad-smelling oilthat defied even scouring; and a medley of odd-looking tools in thecoach-house, all greasy, all soiling your hands when you touchedthem; and large tins of what looked like black vaseline; and sparetyres for which nails had been knocked into the woodwork; and abench with a vice for the motor's insides which were frequentlybeing dissected. From this coach-house the dog-cart had beenruthlessly expelled, and now it must stand chock-a-block with thephaeton, so that room might be made for the garish intrudertogether with its young body-servant. The young body-servant wasknown as a chauffeur—he had come down from London and woreclothes made of leather. He talked Cockney, and openly spat beforeWilliams in the coach-house, then rubbed his foot over thespittle.
'I'll have none of yer expectoration 'ere in me coach-house, Itell ee!' bawled Williams, apoplectic with temper.
'Oh, come orf it, do, Grandpa; we're not in the ark!' was howthe new blood answered Williams.
There was war to the knife between Williams andBurton—Burton who expressed large disdain of the horses.
'Yer time's up now, Grandpa,' he was constantly remarking; 'it'sall up with the gees—better learn to be a shovver!'
'Opes I'll die afore ever I demean meself that way, you youngblight!' bawled the outraged Williams. Very angry he grew, and hisdinner fermented, dilating his stomach and causing discomfort, sothat his wife became anxious about him.
'Now don't ee go worryin', Arth-thur,' she coaxed; 'us be old,me and you, and the world be progressin'.'
'It be goin' to the devil, that's what it be doin'!' groanedWilliams, rubbing his stomach.
To make matters worse, Sir Philip's behaviour was that of aschoolboy with some horrid new contraption. He was caught by hisstud-groom lying flat on his back with his feet sticking outbeneath the bonnet of the motor, and when he emerged there was sooton his cheek-bones, on his hair, and even on the tip of his nose.He looked terribly sheepish, and as Williams said later to hiswife:
'It were somethin' aw-ful to see 'im all mucked up, and 'im sucha neat gentleman, and 'im in a filthy old coat of that Burton's,and that Burton agrinnin' at me and just pointin', silent, becausethe master couldn't see 'im, and the master a-callin' upfamiliar-like to Burton: "I say! She's got somethin' all wrong with'er exhaust pipe!" and Burton a-contradictin' the master: "It'sthat piston," says 'e, as cool as yer please.'
Nor was Stephen less thrilled by the car than was her father.Stephen made friends with the execrable Burton, and Burton, who wasonly too anxious to gain allies, soon started to teach her theparts of the engine; he taught her to drive too, Sir Philip beingwilling, and off they would go, the three of them together, leavingWilliams to glare at the disappearing motor.
'And 'er such a fine 'orse-woman and all!' he would grumble,rubbing a disconsolate chin.
It is not too much to say that Williams felt heart-broken, hewas like a very unhappy old baby; quite infantile he was in hisfits of bad temper, in his mouthings and his grindings of toothlessgums. And all about nothing, for Sir Philip and his daughter hadthe lure of horseflesh in their very bones—and then there wasRaftery, and Raftery loved Stephen, and Stephen loved Raftery.
2
The motoring, of course, was the most tremendous fun,but—and it was a very large but indeed—when Stephen gothome to Morton and the schoolroom, a little grey figure would besitting at the table correcting an exercise book, or preparing sometask for the following morning. The little grey figure might lookup and smile, and when it did this its face would be charming; butif it refrained from smiling, then its face would be ugly, too hardand too square in formation—except for the brow, which wasrounded and shiny like a bare intellectual knee. If the little greyfigure got up from the table, you were struck by the fact that itseemed square all over—square shoulders, square hips, a flat,square line of bosom; square tips to the fingers, square toes tothe shoes, and all tiny; it suggested a miniature box that wasneatly spliced at the corners. Of uncertain age, pale, withiron-grey hair, grey eyes, and invariably dressed in dark grey.Miss Puddleton did not look very inspiring—not at all as onehaving authority, in fact. But on close observation it had to beadmitted that her chin, though minute, was extremely aggressive.Her mouth, too, was firm, except when its firmness was melted bythe warmth and humour of her smile—a smile that mocked,pitied and questioned the world, and perhaps Miss Puddleton aswell.
From the very first moment of Miss Puddleton's arrival, Stephenhad had an uncomfortable conviction that this queer little womanwas going to mean something, was going to become a fixture. Andsure enough she had settled down at once, so that in less than twomonths it seemed to Stephen that Miss Puddleton must always havebeen at Morton, must always have been sitting at the large walnuttable, must always have been saying in that dry, toneless voicewith the Oxford accent: 'You've forgotten something, Stephen,' andthen, the books can't walk to the bookcase, but you can, so supposethat you take them with you.'
It was truly amazing, the change in the schoolroom, not a bookout of place, not a shelf in disorder; even the box lounge had hadto be opened and its dumb-bells and clubs paired off nicelytogether—Miss Puddleton always liked things to be paired,perhaps an unrecognized matrimonial instinct. And now Stephen foundherself put into harness for the first time in her life, and sheloathed the sensation. There were so many rules that a very largetime-sheet had had to be fastened to the blackboard in theschoolroom.
'Because,' said Miss Puddleton as she pinned the thing up, 'evenmy brain won't stand your complete lack of method, it's infectious;this time-sheet is my anti-toxin, so please don't tear it topieces!'
Mathematics and algebra, Latin and Greek, Roman history, Greekhistory, geometry, botany, they reduced Stephen's mind to a speciesof beehive in which every bee buzzed on the least provocation. Shewould gaze at Miss Puddleton in a kind of amazement; that tiny,square box to hold all this grim knowledge! And seeing that gazeMiss Puddleton would smile her most warm, charming smile, and wouldsay as she did so:
'Yes, I know—but it's only the first effort, Stephen;presently your mind will get neat like the schoolroom, and thenyou'll be able to find what you want without all this rummaging andbother.'
But her tasks being over, Stephen must often slip away to visitRaftery in the stables; 'Oh, Raftery, I'm hating it so!' she wouldtell him. 'I feel like you'd feel if I put you inharness—hard wooden shafts and a kicking strap,Raftery—but my darling, I'd never put you into harness!'
And Raftery would hardly know what he should answer, since allhuman creatures, so far as he knew them, must run betweenshafts...God-like though they were, they undoubtedly had to runbetween shafts...
Nothing but Stephen's great love for her father helped her toendure the first six months of learning—that and her ownstubborn, arrogant will that made her hate to be beaten. She wouldswing clubs and dumb-bells in a kind of fury, consoling herselfwith the thought of her muscles, and, finding her at it, MissPuddleton had laughed.
'You must feel that your teacher's some sort of midge,Stephen—a tiresome midge that you want to brush off!'
Then Stephen had laughed too: 'Well, you are little,Puddle—oh, I'm sorry—'
'I don't mind,' Miss Puddleton had told her; 'call me Puddle ifyou like, it's all one to me.' After which Miss Puddletondisappeared somehow, and Puddle took her place in thehousehold.
An insignificant creature this Puddle, yet at momentsunmistakably self-assertive. Always willing to help in domesticaffairs, such as balancing Anna's chaotic account books, or makingout library lists for Jackson's, she was nevertheless very guardfulof her rights, very quick to assert and maintain her position.Puddle knew what she wanted and saw that she got it, both in andout of the schoolroom. Yet everyone liked her; she took what shegave and she gave what she took, yes, but sometimes she gave just alittle bit more—and that little bit more is the whole art ofteaching, the whole art of living, in fact, and Miss Puddleton knewit. Thus gradually, oh, very gradually at first, she wore down herpupil's unconscious resistance. With small, dexterous fingers shecaught Stephen's brain, and she stroked it and modelled it afterher own fashion. She talked to that brain and showed it newpictures; she gave it new thoughts, new hopes and ambitions; shemade it feel certain and proud of achievement. Nor did she belittleStephen's muscles in the process, never once did Puddle make gameof the athlete, never once did she show by so much as the twitch ofan eyelid that she had her own thoughts about her pupil. Sheappeared to take Stephen as a matter of course, nothing surprisedor even amused her it seemed, and Stephen grew quite at ease withher.
'I can always be comfortable with you, Puddle,' Stephen wouldsay in a tone of satisfaction, 'you're like a nice chair; thoughyou are so tiny yet one's got room to stretch, I don't know how youdo it.'
Then Puddle would smile, and that smile would warm Stephen whileit mocked her a little; but it also mocked Puddle—they wouldshare that warm smile with its fun and its kindness so that neitherof them could feel hurt or embarrassed. And their friendship tookroot, growing strong and verdant, and it flourished like a greenbay-tree in the school-room.
Came the time when Stephen began to realize that Puddle hadgenius—the genius of teaching; the genius of compelling herpupil to share in her own enthusiastic love of the Classics.
Oh, Stephen, if only you could read this in Greek!' she wouldsay, and her voice would sound full of excitement; 'the beauty, thesplendid dignity of it—it's like the sea, Stephen, ratherterrible, but splendid; that's the language, it's far more virilethan Latin.' And Stephen would catch that sudden excitement, anddetermine to work even harder at Greek.
But Puddle did not live by the ancients alone, she taughtStephen to appreciate all literary beauty, observing in her pupil areally fine judgment, a great feeling for balance in sentences andwords. A vast tract of new interest was thus opened up, and Stephenbegan to excel in composition; to her own deep amazement she foundherself able to write many things that had long lain dormant in herheart—all the beauty of nature, for instance, she could writeit. Impressions of childhood—gold light on the hills; thefirst cuckoo, mysterious, strangely alluring; those rides home fromhunting together with her father—bare furrows, the meaning ofthose bare furrows. And later, how many queer hopes and queerlongings, queer joys and even more curious frustrations. Joy ofstrength, splendid physical strength and courage; joy of health andsound sleep and refreshed awakening; joy of Raftery leaping underthe saddle, joy of wind racing backward as Raftery leapt forward.And then, what? A sudden impenetrable darkness, a sudden vast voidall nothingness and darkness; a sudden sense of acute apprehension:'I'm lost, where am I? Where am I? I'm nothing—yes I am, I'mStephen—but that's being nothing—' then that horriblesense of apprehension.
Writing, it was like a heavenly balm, it was like the flowingout of deep waters, it was like the lifting of a load from thespirit; it brought with it a sense of relief, of assuagement. Onecould say things in writing without feeling self-conscious, withoutfeeling shy and ashamed and foolish—one could even write ofthe days of young Nelson, smiling a very little as one did so.
Sometimes Puddle would sit alone in her bedroom reading andrereading Stephen's strange compositions; frowning, or smiling alittle in her turn, at those turbulent, youthful outpourings.
She would think: 'Here's real talent, real red-hottalent—interesting to find it in that great, athleticcreature; but what is she likely to make of her talent? She's upagin the world, if she only knew it!' Then Puddle would shake herhead and look doubtful, feeling sorry for Stephen and the world ingeneral.
3
This then was how Stephen conquered yet another kingdom, and atseventeen was not only athlete but student. Three years underPuddle's ingenious tuition, and the girl was as proud of her brainsas of her muscles—a trifle too proud, she was growingconceited, she was growing self-satisfied, arrogant even, and SirPhilip must tease her: 'Ask Stephen, she'll tell us. Stephen,what's that reference to Adeimantus, something about a mind fixedon true being—doesn't it come in Euripides, somewhere? Oh,no, I'm forgetting, of course it's Plato; really my Greek isdisgracefully rusty!' Then Stephen would know that Sir Philip waslaughing at her, but very kindly.
In spite of her newly acquired book learning, Stephen stilltalked quite often to Raftery. He was now ten years old and hadgrown much in wisdom himself, so he listened with care andattention.
'You see,' she would tell him, 'it's very important to developthe brain as well as the muscles; I'm now doing both—standstill, will you, Raftery! Never mind that old corn-bin, stoprolling your eye round—it's very important to develop thebrain because that gives you an advantage over people, it makes youmore able to do as you like in this world, to conquer conditions,Raftery.'
And Raftery, who was not really thinking of the corn-bin, butrolling his eye in an effort to answer, would want to say somethingtoo big for his language, which at best must consist of smallsounds and small movements; would want to say something about astrong feeling he had that Stephen was missing the truth. But howcould he hope to make her understand the age-old wisdom of all thedumb creatures? The wisdom of plains and primeval forests, thewisdom come down from the youth of the world.
1
At seventeen Stephen was taller than Anna, who had used to beconsidered quite tall for a woman, but Stephen was nearly as tallas her father—not a beauty this, in the eyes of theneighbours.
Colonel Antrim would shake his head and remark: 'I like 'emplump and compact, it's more taking.'
Then his wife, who was certainly plump and compact, so compactin her stays that she felt rather breathless, would say: 'But thenStephen is very unusual, almost—well, almost a wee bitunnatural—such a pity, poor child, it's a terrible drawback;young men do hate that sort of thing, don't they?'
But in spite of all this Stephen's figure was handsome in aflat, broad-shouldered and slim flanked fashion; and her movementswere purposeful, having fine poise, she moved with the easyassurance of the athlete. Her hands, although large for a woman,were slender and meticulously tended; she was proud of her hands.In face she had changed very little since childhood, still havingSir Philip's wide, tolerant expression. What change there was onlytended to strengthen the extraordinary likeness between father anddaughter, for now that the bones of her face showed more clearly,as the childish fullness had gradually diminished, the formation ofthe resolute jaw was Sir Philip's. His too the strong chin with itsshade of a cleft; the well modelled, sensitive lips were his also.A fine face, very pleasing, yet with something about it that wentill with the hats on which Anna insisted—large hats trimmedwith ribbons or roses or daisies, and supposed to be softening tothe features.
Staring at her own reflection in the glass, Stephen would feeljust a little uneasy: Am I queer looking or not?' she would wonder,Suppose I wore my hair more like Mother's?' and then she would undoher splendid thick hair, and would part it in the middle and drawit back loosely.
The result was always far from becoming, so that Stephen wouldhastily plait it again. She now wore the plait screwed up verytightly in the nape of her neck with a bow of black ribbon. Annahated this fashion and constantly said so, but Stephen wasstubborn: 'I've tried your way, Mother, and look like a scarecrow;you're beautiful, darling, but your young daughter isn't, which isjolly hard on you.'
She makes no effort to improve her appearance,' Anna wouldreproach, very gravely.
These days there was constant warfare between them on thesubject of clothes; quite a seemly warfare, for Stephen waslearning to control her hot temper, and Anna was seldom anythingbut gentle. Nevertheless it was open warfare, the inevitable clashof two opposing natures who sought to express themselves inapparel, since clothes, after all, are a form of self-expression.The victory would now be on this side, now on that; sometimesStephen would appear in a thick woollen jersey, or a suit of roughtweeds surreptitiously ordered from the excellent tailor inMalvern. Sometimes Anna would triumph, having journeyed to Londonto procure soft and very expensive dresses, which her daughter mustwear in order to please her, because she would come home quitetired by such journeys. On the whole, Anna got her own way at thistime, for Stephen would suddenly give up the contest, reduced tosubmission by Anna's disappointment, always more efficacious thanmere disapproval.
'Here, give it to me!' she would say rather gruffly, grabbingthe delicate dress from her mother.
Then off she would rush and put it on all wrong, so that Annawould sigh in a kind of desperation, and would pat, readjust,unfasten and fasten, striving to make peace between wearer andmodel, whose inimical feelings were evidently mutual.
Came a day when Stephen was suddenly outspoken: 'It's my face,'she announced, 'something's wrong with my face.'
'Nonsense!' exclaimed Anna, and her cheeks flushed a little, asthough the girl's words had been an offence, then she turned awayquickly to hide her expression.
But Stephen had seen that fleeting expression, and she stoodvery still when her mother had left her, her own face growing heavyand sombre with anger, with a sense of some uncomprehendedinjustice. She wrenched off the dress and hurled it from her,longing intensely to rend it, to hurt it, longing to hurt herselfin the process, yet filled all the while with that sense ofinjustice. But this mood changed abruptly to one of self pity; shewanted to sit down and weep over Stephen; on a sudden impulse shewanted to pray over Stephen as though she were someone apart, yetterribly personal too in her trouble. Going over to the dress shesmoothed it out slowly; it seemed to have acquired an enormousimportance; it seemed to have acquired the importance of prayer,the poor, crumpled thing lying crushed and dejected. Yet Stephen,these days, was not given to prayer, God had grown so unreal, sohard to believe in since she had studied Comparative Religion;engrossed in her studies she had somehow mislaid Him. But now, hereshe was, very wishful to pray, while not knowing how to explain herdilemma: 'I'm terribly unhappy, dear, improbable God—' wouldnot be a very propitious beginning. And yet at this moment she waswanting a God and a tangible one, very kind and paternal; a Godwith a white flowing beard and wide forehead, a benevolentparent—Who would lean out of Heaven and turn His facesideways the better to listen from His cloud, upheld by cherubs andangels. What she wanted was a wise old family God, surrounded byendless heavenly relations. In spite of her troubles she began tolaugh weakly, and the laughing was good for it killed self pity;nor can it have offended that Venerable Person whose image persistsin the hearts of small children.
She donned the new dress with infinite precaution, pulling outits bows and arranging its ruffles. Her large hands were clumsy butnow they were willing, very penitent hands full of deepresignation. They fumbled and paused, then continued to fumble withthe endless small fastenings so cunningly hidden. She sighed onceor twice but the sighs were quite patient, so perhaps in this Wise,after all, Stephen prayed.
2
Anna worried continually over her daughter; for one thingStephen was a social disaster, yet at seventeen many a girl waspresented, but the bare idea of this had terrified Stephen, and soit had had to be abandoned. At garden parties she was always afailure, seemingly ill at ease and ungracious. She shook hands muchtoo hard, digging rings into fingers, this from sheer automaticnervous reaction. She spoke not at all, or else gabbled too freely,so that Anna grew vague in her own conversation; all eyes and earsshe would be as she listened—it was certainly terribly hardon Anna. But if hard on Anna, it was harder on Stephen who dreadedthese festive gatherings intensely; indeed her dread of them lackedall proportion, becoming a kind of unreasoning obsession. Everyvestige of self-confidence seemed to' desert her, so that Puddle,supposing she happened to be present would find herself grimlycomparing this Stephen with the graceful, light-footed, proficientyoung athlete, with the clever and somewhat opinionated student whowas fast outstripping her own powers as a teacher. Yes, Puddlewould sit there grimly comparing, and would feel not a littleuneasy as she did so. Then something of her pupil's distress wouldreach her, so that perforce she would have to share it and as likeas not she would want to shake Stephen.
Good Lord,' she would think, 'why can't she hit back? It'sabsurd, it's outrageous to be so disgruntled by a handful of petty,half-educated yokels—a girl with her brain too, it's simplyoutrageous! She'll have to tackle life more forcibly than this, ifshe's not going to let herself go under!'
But Stephen, completely oblivious of Puddle, would be deep inthe throes of her old suspicion, the suspicion that had haunted herever since childhood—she would fancy that people werelaughing at her. So sensitive was she, that a half-heard sentence,a word, a glance, made her inwardly crumble. It might well be thatpeople were not even thinking about her, much less discussing herappearance—no good, she would always imagine that the word,the glance, had some purely personal meaning. She would twitch ather hat with inadequate fingers, or walk clumsily, slouching alittle as she did so, until Anna would whisper:
'Hold your back up, you're stooping.'
Or Puddle exclaim crossly: 'What on earth's the matter,Stephen!' All of which only added to Stephen's tribulation bymaking her still more self-conscious.
With other young girls she had nothing in common, while they, intheir turn, found her irritating. She was shy to primness regardingcertain subjects, and would actually blush if they happened to bementioned. This would strike her companions as queer andabsurd—after all, between girls—surely every one knewthat at times one ought not to get one's feet wet, that one didn'tplay games, not at certain times—there was nothing to makeall this fuss about surely! To see Stephen Gordon's expression ofhorror if one so much as threw out a hint on the subject, was tofeel that the thing must in some way be shameful, a kind ofdisgrace, a humiliation! And then she was odd about other thingstoo; there were so many things that she didn't like mentioned.
In the end, they completely lost patience with her, and theyleft her alone with her fads and her fancies, disliking the checkthat her presence imposed, disliking to feel that they dare notallude to even the necessary functions of nature without being madeto feel immodest.
But at times Stephen hated her own isolation, and then she wouldmake little awkward advances, while her eyes would grow ratherapologetic, like the eyes of a dog who has been out of favour. Shewould try to appear quite at ease with her companions, as shejoined in their light-hearted conversation. Strolling up to a groupof young girls at a party, she would grin as though their smalljokes amused her, or else listen gravely while they talked aboutclothes or some popular actor who had visited Malvern. As long asthey refrained from too intimate details, she would fondly imaginethat her interest passed muster. There she would stand with herstrong arms folded, and her face somewhat strained in an effort ofattention. While despising these girls, she yet longed to be likethem—yes, indeed, at such moments she longed to be like them.It would suddenly strike her that they seemed very happy, very sureof themselves as they gossiped together. There was something sosecure in their feminine conclaves, a secure sense of oneness, ofmutual understanding; each in turn understood the other'sambitions. They might have their jealousies, their quarrels even,but always she discerned underneath, that sense of oneness.
Poor Stephen! She could never impose upon them; they always sawthrough her as though she were a window. They knew well enough thatshe cared not so much as a jot about clothes and popular actors.Conversation would falter, then die down completely, her presencewould dry up their springs of inspiration. She spoilt things whiletrying to make herself agreeable; they really liked her better whenshe was grumpy.
Could Stephen have met men on equal terms, she would always havechosen them as her companions; she preferred them because of theirblunt, open outlook, and with men she had much incommon—sport for instance. But men found her too clever ifshe ventured to expand, and too dull if she suddenly subsided intoshyness. In addition to this there was something about her thatantagonized slightly, an unconscious presumption. Shy though shemight be, they sensed this presumption; it annoyed them, it madethem feel on the defensive. She was handsome but much too large andunyielding both in body and mind, and they liked clinging women.They were oak-trees, preferring the feminine ivy. It might clingrather close, it might finally strangle, it frequently did, and yetthey preferred it, and this being so, they resented Stephen,suspecting something of the acorn about her.
3
Stephen's worst ordeals at this time were the dinners given inturn by a hospitable county. They were long, these dinners,overloaded with courses; they were heavy, being weighted withpolite conversation; they were stately, by reason of the familysilver; above all they were firmly conservative in spirit, asconservative as the marriage service itself, and almost asinsistent upon sex distinction.
'Captain Ramsay, will you take Miss Gordon in to dinner?' Apolitely crooked arm: 'Delighted, Miss Gordon.'
Then the solemn and very ridiculous procession, animals marchinginto Noah's Ark two by two, very sure of divineprotection—male and female created He them! Stephen's skirtwould be long and her foot might get entangled, and she with butone free hand at her disposal—the procession would stop andshe would have stopped it! Intolerable thought, she had stopped theprocession!
'I'm so sorry, Captain Ramsay!'
'I say, can I help you?'
'No—it's really—all right, I think I canmanage—'
But oh, the utter confusion of spirit, the humiliating feelingthat someone must be laughing, the resentment at having to cling tohis arm for support, while Captain Ramsay looked patient.
'Not much damage, I think you've just torn the frill, but Ioften wonder how you women manage. Imagine a man in a dress likethat, too awful to think of—imagine me in it!' Then a laugh,not unkindly but a trifle self-conscious, and rather more than atrifle complacent.
Safely steered to her seat at the long dinner-table, Stephenwould struggle to smile and talk brightly, while her partner wouldthink: 'Lord, she's heavy in hand; I wish I had the mother; nowthere's a lovely woman!'
And Stephen would think: 'I'm a bore, why is it?' Then, 'But ifI were he I wouldn't be a bore, I could just be myself; I'd feelperfectly natural.'
Her face would grow splotched with resentment and worry; shewould feel her neck flush and her hands become awkward.Embarrassed, she would sit staring down at her hands, which wouldseem to be growing more and more awkward. No escape! No escape!Captain Ramsay was kind-hearted, he would try very hard to becomplimentary; his grey eyes would try to express admiration,polite admiration as they rested on Stephen. His voice would soundsofter and more confidential, the voice that nice men reserve forgood women, protective, respectful, yet a little sex-conscious, alittle expectant of a tentative response. But Stephen would feelherself growing more rigid with every kind word and gallantallusion. Openly hostile she would be feeling, as poor CaptainRamsay or some other victim was manfully trying to do his duty.
In such a mood as this she had once drunk champagne, one glassonly, the first she had ever tasted. She had gulped it all down insheer desperation—the result had not been Dutch courage buthiccups. Violent, insistent, incorrigible hiccups had echoed alongthe whole length of the table. One of those weird conversationallulls had been filled, as it were, to the brim with her hiccups.Then Anna had started to talk very loudly; Mrs. Antrim had smiledand so had their hostess. Their hostess had finally beckoned to thebutler: 'Give Miss Gordon a glass of water,' she had whispered.After that, Stephen shunned champagne like the plague—betterhopeless depression, she decided, than hiccups!
It was strange how little her fine brain seemed able to help herwhen she was trying to be social; in spite of her confidentboasting to Raftery, it did not seem able to help her at all.Perhaps it was the clothes, for she lost all conceit the moment shewas dressed as Anna would have her; at this period clothes greatlyinfluenced Stephen, giving her confidence or the reverse. But bethat as it might, people thought her peculiar, and with them thatwas tantamount to disapproval.
And thus, it was being borne in upon Stephen, that for her therewas no real abiding city beyond the strong, friendly old gates ofMorton, and she clung more and more to her home and to her father.Perplexed and unhappy she would seek out her father on all socialoccasions and would sit down beside him. Like a very small childthis large muscular creature would sit down beside him because shefelt lonely, and because youth most rightly resents isolation, andbecause she had not yet learnt her hard lesson—she had notyet learnt that the loneliest place in this world is theno-man's-land of sex.
1
Sir Philip and his daughter had a new common interest; theycould now discuss books and the making of books and the feel andthe smell and the essence of books—a mighty bond this, andone full of enchantment. They could talk of these things withmutual understanding; they did so for hours in the father's study,and Sir Philip discovered a secret ambition that had lain in thegirl like a seed in deep soil; and he, the good gardener of herbody and spirit, hoed the soil and watered this seed of ambition.Stephen would show him her queer compositions, and would wait verybreathless and still while he read them; then one evening he lookedup and saw her expression, and he smiled:
'So that's it, you want to be a writer. Well, why not? You'vegot plenty of talent, Stephen; I should be a proud man if you werea writer.' After which their discussions on the making of booksheld an even more vital enchantment.
But Anna came less and less often to the study, and she would besitting alone and idle. Puddle, upstairs at work in the schoolroom,might be swotting at her Greek to keep pace with Stephen, but Annawould be sitting with her hands in her lap in the vast drawing-roomso beautifully proportioned, so restfully furnished in old polishedwalnut, so redolent of beeswax and orris root and violets—allalone in its vastness would Anna be sitting, with her white handsfolded and idle.
A lovely and most comfortable woman she had been, and still was,in spite of her gentle ageing, but not learned, oh, no, very farfrom learned—that, indeed, was why Sir Philip had loved her,that was why he had found her so infinitely restful, that was whyhe still loved her after very many years; her simplicity wasstronger to hold him than learning. But now Anna went less and lessoften to the study.
It was not that they failed to make her feel welcome, but ratherthat they could not conceal their deep interest in subjects ofwhich she knew little or nothing. What did she know of or care forthe Classics? What interest had she in the works of Erasmus? Hertheology needed no erudite discussion, her philosophy consisted ofa home swept and garnished, and as for the poets, she liked simpleverses; for the rest her poetry lay in her husband. All this shewell knew and had no wish to alter, yet lately there had come uponAnna an aching, a tormenting aching that she dared give no name to.It nagged at her heart when she went to that study and saw SirPhilip together with their daughter, and knew that her presencecontributed nothing to his happiness when he sat reading toStephen.
Staring at the girl she would see the strange resemblance, theinvidious likeness of the child to the father, she would noticetheir movements so grotesquely alike; their hands were alike, theymade the same gestures, and her mind would recoil with thatnameless resentment, the while she reproached herself; penitent andtrembling. Yet penitent and trembling though Anna might be, shewould sometimes hear herself speaking to Stephen in a way thatwould make her feel secretly ashamed. She would hear herselfcovertly, cleverly gibing, with such skill that the girl would lookup at her bewildered; with such skill that even Sir Philip himselfcould not well take exception to what she was saying; then, as likeas not, she would laugh it off lightly, as though all the time shehad only been jesting, and Stephen would laugh too, a big, friendlylaugh. But Sir Philip would not laugh, and his eyes would seekAnna's questioning, amazed, incredulous and angry. That was why shenow went so seldom to the study when Sir Philip and his daughterwere together.
But sometimes, when she was alone with her husband, Anna wouldsuddenly cling to him in silence. She would hide her face againsthis hard shoulder clinging closer and closer, as though she werefrightened, as though she were afraid for this great love oftheirs. He would stand very still, forbearing to move, forbearingto question, for why should he question? He knew already, and sheknew that he knew. Yet neither of them spoke it, this most unhappything, and their silence spread round them like a poisonous miasma.The spectre that was Stephen would seem to be watching, and SirPhilip would gently release himself from Anna, while she, lookingup, would see his tired eyes, not angry any more, only veryunhappy. She would think that those eyes were pleading, beseeching;she would think: 'He's pleading with me for Stephen.' Then her owneyes would fill with tears of contrition, and that night she wouldkneel long in prayer to her Maker:
Give me peace,' she would entreat, 'and enlighten my spirit, sothat I may learn how to love my own child.'
2
Sir Philip looked older now than his age, and seeing this, Annacould scarcely endure it. Everything in her cried out in rebellionso that she wanted to thrust back the years, to hold them at baywith her own weak body. Had the years been an army of naked swordsshe would gladly have held them at bay with her body.
He would constantly now remain in his study right into the earlyhours of the morning. This habit of his had been growing on himlately, and Anna, waking to find herself alone, and feeling uneasywould steal down to listen. Backwards and forwards, backwards andforwards! She would hear his desolate sounding footsteps. Why washe pacing backwards and forwards, and why was she always afraid toask him? Why was the hand she stretched out to the door alwaysfearful when it came to turning the handle? Oh, but it was strong,this thing that stood between them, strong with the strength oftheir united bodies. It had drawn its own life from their youth,their passion, from the splendid and purposeful meaning of theirpassion—that was how it had leapt full of power into life,and now it had thrust in between them. They were ageing, they hadlittle left but their loving—that gentler loving, perhaps themore perfect—and their faith in each other, which was part ofthat loving, and their peace, which was part of the peace ofMorton. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards! Thoseincessant and desolate sounding footsteps. Peace: There was surelyno peace in that study, but rather some affliction, menacing,prophetic! Yet prophetic of what? She dared not ask him, she darednot so much as turn the door-handle, a haunting premonition ofdisaster would make her creep away with her question unasked.
Then something would draw her, not back to her bedroom, but onup the stairs to the room of their daughter. She would open thatdoor very gently—by inches. She would hold her hand so thatit shaded the candle, and would stand looking down at the sleepingStephen as she and her husband had done long ago. But now therewould be no little child to look down on, no small helplessness toarouse mother-pity. Stephen would be lying very straight, verylarge, very long, underneath the neatly drawn covers. Quite oftenan arm would be outside the bedspread, the sleeve having fallenaway as it lay there, and that arm would look firm and strong andpossessive, and so would the face by the light of the candle. Sheslept deeply. Her breathing would be even and placid. Her bodywould be drinking in its fill of refreshment. It would rise upclean and refreshed in the morning; it would eat, speak,move—it would move about Morton. In the stables, in thegardens, in the neighbouring paddocks, in the study—it wouldmove about Morton. Intolerable dispensation of nature. Anna wouldstare at that splendid young body, and would feel, as she did so,that she looked on a stranger. She would scourge her heart and heranxious spirit with memories drawn from this stranger's beginnings:'Little—you were so very little!' she would whisper, 'and yousucked from my breast because you were hungry—little andalways so terribly hungry—a good baby though, a contentedlittle baby—'
And Stephen would sometimes stir in her sleep as though she werevaguely conscious of Anna. It would pass and she would lie quietagain, breathing in those deep, placid draughts of refreshment.Then Anna, still ruthlessly scourging her heart and her anxiousspirit, would stoop and kiss Stephen, but lightly and very quicklyon the forehead, so that the girl should not be awakened. So thatthe girl should not wake and kiss back, she would kiss her lightlyand quickly on the forehead.
3
The eye of youth is very observant. Youth has its moments ofkeen intuition, even normal youth—but the intuition of thosewho stand mid-way between the sexes, is so ruthless, so poignant,so accurate, so deadly, as to be in the nature of an added scourge;and by such an intuition did Stephen discover that all was not wellwith her parents.
Their outward existence seemed calm and unruffled; so farnothing had disturbed the outward peace of Morton. But their childsaw their hearts with the eyes of the spirit; flesh of their flesh,she had sprung from their hearts, and she knew that those heartswere heavy. They said nothing, but she sensed that some deep,secret trouble was afflicting them both; she could see it in theireyes. In the words that they left unspoken she could hearit—it would be there, filling the small gaps of silence. Shethought that she discerned it in her father's slowmovements—surely his movements had grown slower of late? Andhis hair was quite grey; it was quite grey all over. She realizedthis with a slight shock one morning as he sat in thesunlight—it had used to look auburn in the nape of his neckwhen the sun fell upon it—and now it was dull grey allover.
But this mattered little. Even their trouble mattered little incomparison with something more vital, with their love—that,she felt, was the only thing that mattered, and that was the thingthat now stood most in danger. This love of theirs had been a greatglory; all her life she had lived with it side by side, but neveruntil it appeared to be threatened, did she feel that she hadreally grasped its true meaning—the serene and beautifulspirit of Morton clothed in flesh, yes, that had been its truemeaning. Yet that had been only part of its meaning for her, it hadmeant something greater than Morton, it had stood for the symbol ofperfect fulfilment—she remembered that even as a very smallchild she had vaguely discerned that perfect fulfilment. This lovehad been glowing like a great friendly beacon, a thing that wassteadfast and very reassuring. All unconscious, she must often havewarmed herself at it, must have thawed out her doubts and her vaguemisgivings. It had always been their love, the one for the other;she knew this, and yet it had been her beacon. But now those flameswere no longer steadfast; something had dared to blemish theirbrightness. She longed to leap up in her youth and strength andcast this thing out of her holy of holies. The fire must not dieand leave her in darkness.
And yet she was utterly helpless, and she knew it. All that shedid seemed inadequate and childish: 'When I was a child I spake asa child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child.'Remembering Saint Paul, she decided grimly that surely she hadremained as a child. She could sit and stare at them—thesepoor, stricken lovers—with eyes that were scared and deeplyreproachful: 'You must not let anything spoil your loving, I needit,' her eyes could send them that message. She could love them inher turn, possessively, fiercely: 'You're mine, mine, mine, the oneperfect thing about me. You're one and you're mine. I'm frightened,I need you!' Her thoughts could send them that message. She couldstart to caress them, awkwardly, shyly, stroking their hands withher strong, bony fingers—first his hand, then hers, thenperhaps both together, so that they smiled in spite of theirtrouble. But she dared not stand up before them accusing, and say:'I'm Stephen, I'm you, for you bred me. You shall not fail me byfailing yourselves. I've a right to demand that you shall not failme!' No, she dared not stand up and speak such words asthese—she had never demanded anything from them.
Sometimes she would think them quietly over as two fellowcreatures whom chance had made her parents. Her father, hermother—a man, a woman; and then she would be amazed todiscover how little she knew of this man and this woman. They hadonce been babies, and later small children, ignorant of life andutterly dependent. That seemed so curious, ignorant oflife—her father utterly weak and dependent. They had come toadolescence even as she had, and perhaps at times they too had feltunhappy. What had their thoughts been, those thoughts that liehidden, those nebulous misgivings that never get spoken? Had hermother shrunk back resentful, protesting, when the seal of herwomanhood had been stamped upon her? Surely not for her mother wassomehow so perfect, that all that befell her must in its turn beperfect—her mother gathered nature into her arms and embracedit as a friend, as a well-loved companion. But she, Stephen, hadnever felt friendly like that, which must mean, she supposed, thatshe lacked some fine instinct.
There had been those young years of her mother's in Ireland; shespoke of them sometimes but only vaguely, as though they were nowvery far away, as though they had never seriously counted. And yetshe had been lovely, lovely Anna Molloy, much admired, much lovedand constantly courted—And her father, he too had been in theworld, in Rome, in Paris, and often in London—he had notlived at Morton in those days; and how queer it seemed, there hadbeen a time when her father had actually not known her mother. Theyhad been completely unconscious of each other, he for twenty-nineyears, she for just over twenty, and yet all the while had beendrawing together, in spite of themselves, always nearer together.Then had come that morning away in County Clare, when those two hadsuddenly seen each other, and had known from that moment themeaning of life, of love, just because they had seen each other.Her father spoke very seldom of such things, but this much he hadtold her, it had all grown quite clear—What had it felt likewhen they realized each other? What did it feel like to see thingsquite clearly, to know the innermost reason for things?
Morton—her mother had come home to Morton, to wonderful,gently enfolding Morton. She had passed for the first time throughthe heavy white doorway under the shining semicircular fanlight.She had walked into the old square hall with its bear-skins, andits pictures of funny, dressed-up looking Gordons—the hallwith the whip-rack where Stephen kept her whips—the hall withthe beautiful iridescent window, that looked over the lawns andherbaceous borders. Then, perhaps hand in hand, they had passedbeyond the hall, her father a man, her mother a woman, with theirdestiny already upon them—and that destiny of theirs had beenStephen.
Ten years. For ten years they had just had each other, eachother and Morton—surely wonderful years. But what had theybeen thinking about all those years? Had they perhaps thought alittle about Stephen? Oh, but what could she hope to know of thesethings, their thoughts, their feelings, their secretambitions—she, who had not even been conceived, she, who hadnot yet come into existence? They had lived in a world that hereyes bad not looked on; days and nights had slipped into the weeks,months and years. Time had existed, but she, Stephen, had not. Theyhad lived through that time; it had gone to their making; theirpresent had been the result of its travail, had sprung from itswomb as she from her mother's, only she had not been a part of thattravail, as she had been a part of her mother's. Hopeless! And yetshe must try to know them, these two, every inch of their hearts,of their minds; and knowing them, she must then try to guardthem—but him first, oh, him first—she did not ask why,she only knew that because she loved him as she did, he wouldalways have to come first. Love was simply like that; it justfollowed its impulse and asked no questions—it wasbeautifully simple. But for his sake she must also love the thingthat he loved, her mother, though this love was somehow quitedifferent; it was less hers than his, he had thrust it upon her; itwas not an integral part of her being. Nevertheless it too must beserved, for the happiness of one was that of the other. They wereindivisible, one flesh, one spirit, and whatever it was that hadcrept in between them was trying to tear asunder thisoneness—that was why she, their child, must rise up and helpthem if she could, for was she not the fruit of their oneness?
4
There were times when she would think that she must have beenmistaken, that no trouble was overshadowing her father; these wouldbe when they two were sitting in his study, for then he would seemcontented. Surrounded by his books, caressing their bindings, SirPhilip would look care-free again and light-hearted.
'No friends in the world like books,' he would tell her. 'Lookat this fellow in his old leather jacket!'
There were times, too, out hunting when he seemed very young, asRaftery had been that first season. But the ten-year-old Rafterywas now wiser than Sir Philip, who would often behave like afoolhardy schoolboy. He would give Stephen leads over hair-raisingplaces, and then, she safely landed, turn round and grin at her. Heliked her to ride the pick of his hunters these days, and wouldslyly show off her prowess. The sport would bring back the oldlight to his eyes, and his eyes would look happy as they rested onhis daughter.
She would think: must have been terribly mistaken,' and wouldfeel a great peace surge over her spirit.
He might say, as they slowly jogged home to Morton: 'Did younotice my youngster here take that stiff timber? Not bad for afive-year-old, he'll do nicely.' And perhaps he might add: 'Put athree on that five, and then tell your old sire that he's not sobad either! I'm fifty-three, Stephen, I'll be going in the wind ifI don't knock off smoking quite soon, and that's certain!'
Then Stephen would know that her father felt young, very young,and was wanting her to flatter him a little.
But this mood would not last; it had often quite changed by thetime 'that the two of them reached the stables. She would noticewith a sudden pain in her heart that he stooped when he walked, notmuch yet, but a little. And she loved his broad back, she hadalways loved it—a kind, reassuring protective back. Then thethought would come that perhaps its great kindness had caused it tostoop as though bearing a burden; and the thought would come: 'Heis bearing a burden, not his own, it's someone else's—butwhose?'
1
Christmas came and with it the girl's eighteenth birthday, butthe shadows that clung round her home did not lessen; nor couldStephen, groping about in those shadows, find a way to win throughto the light. Everyone tried to be cheerful and happy, as even sadpeople will do at Christmas, while the gardeners brought in hugebundles of holly with which to festoon the portraits ofGordons—rich, red-berried holly that came from the hills, andthat year after year would be sent down to Morton. Thecourageous-eyed Gordons looked out from their wreaths unsmiling, asthough they were thinking of Stephen.
In the hall stood the Christmas-tree of her childhood, for SirPhilip loved the old German custom which would seem to insist thateven the aged be as children and play with God on His birthday. Atthe top of the tree swung the little wax Christ-child in Hisspangled nightgown with gold and blue ribbons; and the little waxChrist-child bent downwards and sideways because, although small,He was rather heavy—or, as Stephen had thought when she toohad been small, because He was trying to look for His presents.
In the morning they all went to church in the village, and thechurch smelt of coldness and freshly bruised green stuff—ofthe laurel and holly and pungent pine branches, that wreathed theoak pulpit and framed the altar; and the anxious-faced eagle whomust carry the Scriptures on his wings, he too was looking quitefestive. Very redolent of England it was, that small church, withits apple-cheeked choirboys in newly washed garments; with itsyoung Oxford parson who in summer played cricket to the glory ofGod and the good of the county; with its trim congregation ofneighbouring gentry who had recently purchased an excellent organ,so that now they could hear the opening bars of the hymns with afeeling of self-satisfaction, but with something else too that camenearer to Heaven, because of those lovely old songs of Christmas.The choir raised their sexless untroubled voices: 'While shepherdswatched their flocks...' sang the choir; and Anna's soft mezzomingled and blended with her husband's deep boom and Puddle'ssoprano. Then Stephen sang too for the sheer joy of singing, thoughher voice at best was inclined to be husky: 'While shepherdswatched their flocks by night,' carolled Stephen—for somereason thinking of Raftery.
After church the habitual Christmas greetings: 'MerryChristmas,' 'Merry Christmas.' Same to you, many of them!' Thenhome to Morton and the large mid-day dinner—turkey, plumpudding with its crisp brandy butter, and the mince-pies thatinvariably gave Puddle indigestion. Then dessert with all sorts ofsweet fruits out of boxes, crystallized fruits that made your handssticky, together with fruit from the Morton green-houses; and fromsomewhere that no one could ever remember, the elegant miniatureLady-apples that you ate skins and all in two bites if you weregreedy.
A long afternoon spent in waiting for darkness when Anna couldlight the Christmas-tree candles; and no ringing of bells todisturb the servants, not until they must all file in for theirpresents which were piled up high round the base of the tree onwhich Anna would light the small candles. Dusk—draw thecurtains, it was dark enough now, and someone must go and fetchAnna the taper, but she must take care of the little waxChrist-child, Who liked many lights even though they should meltHim.
'Stephen, climb up, will you, and tie back the Christ-child. Histoe is almost touching that candle!'
Then Anna applying the long lighted taper from branch to branch,very slowly and gravely, as though she accomplished some ritual, asthough she herself were a ministering priestess—Anna veryslender and tall in a dress whose soft folds swept her limbs andlay round her ankles.
'Ring three times, will you, Philip? I think they're alllighted—no, wait—all right now, I'd missed that topcandle. Stephen, begin to sort out the presents, please, dear, yourfather's just rung for the servants. Oh, and Puddle, you might pushover the table, I may need it—no, not that one, the table bythe window—'
A subdued sound of voices, a stifled giggle. The servants filingin through the green baize door, and only the butler and footmenfamiliar in appearance, the others all strangers in mufti. Mrs.Wilson, the cook, in black silk with jet trimming, the scullerymaid in electric blue cashmere, one housemaid in mauve, another ingreen, and the upper of three in dark terra-cotta, while Anna's ownmaid wore an old dress of Anna's. Then the men from outside, fromthe gardens and stables—men bare-headed who were usually seenin their caps—old Williams displaying a widening bald patch,and wearing tight trousers instead of his breeches; old Williamswalking stiffly because his new suit felt like cardboard, andbecause his white collar was too high, and because his hard,made-up black bow would slip crooked. The grooms and the boys, allexceedingly shiny from their neatly oiled heads to theirwell-polished noses—the boys very awkward, short-sleeved andrough-handed, shuffling a little because trying not to. And thegardeners led in by the grave Mr. Hopkins, who wore black of aSunday and carried a Church Service, and whose knowledge of theills that all grape-flesh is heir to, had given his face a patient,pained expression. Men smelling of soil these, in spite of muchscrubbing; men whose necks and whose hands were crossed andrecrossed by a network of tiny and earth-clogged furrows—menwhose backs would bend early from tending the earth. There theystood in the wake of the grave Mr. Hopkins, with their eyes on thebig, lighted Christmas-tree, while they never so much as glanced atthe flowers that had sprung from many long hours of their labour.No, instead they must just stand and gape at the tree, as thoughwith its candles and Christ-child and all, it were some strangeexotic plant in Kew Gardens.
Then Anna called her people by name, and to each one she gavethe gifts of that Christmas; and they thanked her, thanked Stephenand thanked Sir Philip; and Sir Philip thanked them for theirfaithful service, as had always been the good custom at Morton formore years than Sir Philip himself could remember. Thus the day hadpassed by in accordance with tradition, every one from the highestto the lowest remembered; nor had Anna forgotten her gifts for thevillage—warm shawls, sacks of coal, cough mixture and sweets.Sir Philip had sent a cheque to the vicar, which would keep him fora long time in cricketing flannels; and Stephen had carried acarrot to Raftery and two lumps of sugar to the fat, aged Coffins,who because he was all but blind in one eye, had bitten her hand inplace of his sugar. And Puddle had written at great length to asister who lived down in Cornwall and whom she neglected, except onsuch memory-jogging occasions as Christmas, when somehow we alwaysremember. And the servants had gorged themselves to repletion, andthe hunters had rested in their hay-scented stables; while out inthe fields, seagulls, come far inland, had feasted in their turn onhumbler creatures—grubs and slugs, and other unhappy smallfry, much relished by birds and hated by farmers.
Night closed down on the house, and out of the darkness came theanxious young voices of village schoolchildren: 'Noel, Noel—'piped the anxious young voices lubricated by sweets from the ladyof Morton. Sir Philip stirred the logs in the hall to a blaze,while Anna sank into a deep chair and watched them. Her hands thatwere wearied by much ministration, lay over the arms of the chairin the firelight, and the firelight sought out the rings on herhands, and it played with the whiter flames in her diamonds. ThenSir Philip stood up, and he gazed at his wife, while she stared atthe logs not appearing to notice him; but Stephen, watching insilence from her corner, seemed to see a dark shadow that stole inbetween them—beyond this her vision was mercifully dim,otherwise she must surely have recognized that shadow.
2
On new year's eve Mrs. Antrim gave a dance in order, or so shesaid, to please Violet, who was still rather young to attend thehunt balls, but who dearly loved gaiety, especially dancing. Violetwas plump, pert and adolescent, and had lately insisted on puttingher hair up. She liked men, who in consequence always liked her,for like begets like when it comes to the sexes, and Violet wasfull of what people call 'allure', or in simpler language, ofsexual attraction. Roger was home for Christmas from Sandhurst, sothat he would be there to assist his mother. He was now nearlytwenty, a good-looking youth with a tiny moustache which hetentatively fingered. He assumed the grand air of the man of theworld who has actually weathered about nineteen summers. He washoping to join his regiment quite soon, which greatly augmented hisself-importance.
Could Mrs. Antrim have ignored Stephen Gordon's existence, shewould almost certainly have done so. She disliked the girl; she hadalways disliked her; what she called Stephen's 'queerness' arousedher suspicion—she was never quite clear as to what shesuspected, but felt sure it must be something outlandish: 'A youngwoman of her age to ride like a man, I call it preposterous!'declared Mrs. Antrim.
It can safely be said that Stephen at eighteen had in no wayoutgrown her dread of the Antrim; there was only one member of thatfamily who liked her, she knew, and that was the small, hen-peckedColonel. He liked her because, a fine horseman himself, he admiredher skill and her courage out hunting.
'It's a pity she's so tall, of course—' he would grumble,'but she does know a horse and how to stick on one. Now my childrenmight have been brought up at Margate, they're just about fitted toride the beach donkeys!'
But Colonel Antrim would not count at the dance; indeed in hisown house he very seldom counted. Stephen would have to endure Mrs.Antrim and Violet—and then Roger was home from Sandhurst.Their antagonism had never quite died, perhaps because it was toofundamental. Now they covered it up with a cloak of good manners,but these two were still enemies at heart, and they knew it. No,Stephen did not want to go to that dance, though she went in orderto please her mother. Nervous, awkward and apprehensive, Stephenarrived at the Antrims that night, little thinking that Fate, themost expert of tricksters, was waiting to catch her just round thecorner. Yet so it was, for during that evening Stephen met Martinand Martin met Stephen, and their meeting was great with portentfor them both, though neither of them could know it.
It all happened quite simply as such things will happen. It wasRoger who introduced Martin Hallam; it was Stephen who explainedthat she danced very badly; it was Martin who suggested that theysit out their dances. Then—how quickly it occurs if the thingis predestined—they suddenly knew that they liked each other,that some chord had been struck to a pleasant vibration; and thisbeing so they sat out many dances, and they talked for quite a longwhile that evening.
Martin lived in British Columbia, it seemed, where he ownedseveral farms and a number of orchards. He had gone out there afterthe death of his mother, for six months, but had stayed on for loveof the country. And now he was having a holiday inEngland—that was how he had got to know young Roger Antrim,they had met up in London and Roger had asked him to come down fora week, and so here he was—but it felt almost strange to beback again in England. Then he talked of the vastness of that newcountry that was yet so old; of its snow-capped mountains, of itscanyons and gorges, of its deep, princely rivers, of its lakes,above all of its mighty forests. And when Martin spoke of thosemighty forests, his voice changed, it became almost reverential;for this young man loved trees with a primitive instinct, with astrange and inexplicable devotion. Because he liked Stephen hecould talk of his trees, and because she liked him she could listenwhile he talked, feeling that she too would love his greatforests.
His face was very young, clean-shaven and bony; he had bony,brown hands with spatulate fingers; for the rest, he was tall witha loosely knit figure, and he slouched a little when he walked frommuch riding. But his face had a charming quality about it,especially when he talked of his trees; it glowed, it seemed to beinwardly kindled, and it asked for a real and heart-feltunderstanding of the patience and the beauty and the goodness oftrees—it was eager for your understanding. Yet in spite ofthis touch of romance in his make-up, which he could not keep outof his voice at moments, he spoke simply, as one man will speak toanother, very simply, not trying to create an impression. He talkedabout trees as some men talk of ships, because they love them andthe element they stand for. And Stephen, the awkward, the bashful,the tongue-tied, heard herself talking in her turn, quite freely,heard herself asking him endless questions about forestry, farmingand the care of vast orchards; thoughtful questions, unromantic butapt—such as one man will ask of another.
Then Martin wished to learn about her, and they talked of herfencing, her studies, her riding, and she told him about Rafterywho was named for the poet. And all the while she felt natural andhappy because here was a man who was taking her for granted, whoappeared to find nothing eccentric about her or her tastes, but whoquite simply took her for granted. Had you asked Martin Hallam toexplain why it was that he accepted the girl at her own valuation,he would surely have been unable to tell you—it had happened,that was all, and there the thing ended. But whatever the reason,he felt drawn to this friendship that had leapt so suddenly intobeing.
Before Anna left the dance with her daughter, she invited theyoung man to drive over and see them; and Stephen felt glad of thatinvitation, because now she could share her new friend with Morton.She said to Morton that night in her bedroom: 'I know you're goingto like Martin Hallam.'
1
Martin went to Morton, he went very often, for Sir Philip likedhim and encouraged the friendship. Anna liked Martin too, and shemade him feel welcome because he was young and had lost his mother.She spoilt him a little, as a woman will spoil who, having no sonmust adopt someone else's, so to Anna he went with all his smalltroubles, and she doctored him when he caught a bad chill outhunting. He instinctively turned to her in such things, but never,in spite of their friendship, to Stephen.
Yet now he and Stephen were always together, he was staying onand on at the hotel in Upton; ostensibly staying because of thehunting; in reality staying because of Stephen who was filling aniche in his life long empty, the niche reserved for the perfectcompanion. A queer, sensitive fellow this Martin Hallam, with hisstrange love of trees and primitive forests, not a man to make manyintimate friends, and in consequence a man to be lonely. He knewlittle about books and had been a slack student, but Stephen and hehad other things in common; he rode well, and he cared for andunderstood horses; he fenced well and would quite often now fencewith Stephen; nor did he appear to resent it when she beat him;indeed he seemed to accept it as natural, and would merely laugh athis own lack of skill. Out hunting these two would keep close toeach other, and would ride home together as far as Upton; orperhaps he would go to Morton with her, for Anna was always glad tosee Martin. Sir Philip gave him the freedom of the stables, andeven old Williams forbore to grumble:
''E be trusty, that's what 'e be,' declared Williams, 'and thehorses knows it and acts accordin'.'
But sport was not all that drew Stephen to Martin, for his mind,like hers, was responsive to beauty, and she taught him thecountryside that she loved, from Upton to Castle Mortoncommon—the common that lies at the foot of the hills. But farbeyond Castle Morton she took him. They would ride down the windinglane to Bromsberrow, then crossing the small stream at Clincher'sMill, jog home through the bare winter woods of Eastnor. And shetaught him the hills whose plentiful bosoms had made Anna think ofgreen-girdled mothers, mothers of sons, as she sat and watchedthem, great with the child who should have been her son. Theyclimbed the venerable Worcestershire Beacon that stands guardian ofall the seven Malverns, or wandered across the hills of the Wellsto the old British Camp above the Wye Valley. The Valley would liehalf in light, half in shadow, and beyond would be Wales and thedim Black Mountains. Then Stephen's heart would tighten a little,as it always had done because of that beauty, so that one day shesaid:
'When I was a child, this used to make me want to cry,Martin.'
And he answered: Some part of us always sheds tears when we seelovely things—they make us regretful.' But when she asked himwhy this should be, he shook his head slowly, unable to tellher.
Sometimes they walked through Hollybush woods, then on upRaggedstone, a hill grim with legend—its shadow would bringmisfortune or death to those it fell on, according to legend.Martin would pause to examine the thorn trees, ancient thorns thathad weathered many a hard winter. He would touch them with gentle,pitying fingers:
'Look, Stephen—the courage of these old fellows! They'reall twisted and crippled; it hurts me to see them, yet they go onpatiently doing their bit—have you ever thought about theenormous courage of trees? I have, and it seems to me amazing. TheLord dumps them down and they've just got to stick it, no matterwhat happens—that must need some courage!' And one day hesaid: 'Don't think me quite mad, but if we survive death then thetrees will survive it; there must be some sort of a forest heavenfor all the faithful—the faithful of trees. I expect theytake their birds along with them; why not? "And in death they werenot divided."' Then he laughed, but she saw that his eyes werequite grave, so she asked him:
'Do you believe in God, Martin?'
And he answered: 'Yes, because of His trees. Don't you?' 'I'mnot sure—'
Oh, my poor, blind Stephen! Look again, go on looking until youdo believe.'
They discussed many things quite simply together, for betweenthese two was no vestige of shyness. His youth met hers and walkedhand in hand with it, so that she knew how utterly lonely her ownyouth had been before the coming of Martin.
She said: 'You're the only real friend I've ever had, exceptFather—our friendship's so wonderful, somehow—we'relike brothers, we enjoy all the same sort of things.'
He nodded: 'I know, a wonderful friendship.'
The hills must let Stephen tell him their secrets, the secretsof by-paths most cunningly hidden; the secrets of small,unsuspected green hollows; the secrets of ferns that live only byhiding. She might even reveal the secrets of birds, and show himthe playground of shy, spring cuckoos.
'They fly quite low up here, one can see them; last year acouple flew right past me, calling. If you were not going away sosoon, Martin, we'd come later on—I'd love you to seethem.'
'And I'd love you to see my huge forests,' he told her, 'whycan't you come back to Canada with me? What rot it is, all thisdamned convention; we're such pals you and I, I'll be desperatelylonely—Lord, what a fool of a world we live in!'
And she said quite simply: 'I'd love to come with you.'
Then he started to tell her about his huge forests, so vast thattheir greenness seemed almost eternal. Great trees he told of,erect, towering firs, many centuries old and their girth that ofgiants. And then there were all the humbler tree-folk whom he spokeof as friends that were dear and familiar; the hemlocks that growby the courses of rivers, in love with adventure and clear runningwater; the slender white spruces that border the lakes; the redpines, that glow like copper in the sunset. Unfortunate trees thesebeautiful red pines, for their tough, manly wood is coveted bybuilders.
'But I won't have my roof-tree hacked from their sides,'declared Martin, 'I'd feel like a positive assassin!'
Happy days spent between the hills and the stables, happy daysfor these two who had always been lonely until now, and now thiswonderful friendship—there had never been anything like itfor Stephen. Oh, but it was good to have him beside her, so young,so strong and so understanding. She liked his quiet voice with itscareful accent, and his thoughtful blue eyes that moved ratherslowly, so that his glance when it came, cameslowly—sometimes she would meet his glance half-way, smiling.She who had longed for the companionship of men, for theirfriendship, their good-will, their toleration, she had it all nowand much more in Martin, because of his great understanding.
She said to Puddle one night in the schoolroom: 'I've grown fondof Martin—isn't that queer after only a couple of months offriendship? But he's different somehow—when he's gone I shallmiss him!'
And her words had the strangest effect on Puddle who quitesuddenly beamed at Stephen and kissed her—Puddle, who neverbetrayed her emotions, quite suddenly beamed at Stephen and kissedher.
2
People gossiped a little because of the freedom allowed Martinand Stephen by her parents; but on the whole they gossiped quitekindly, with a great deal of smiling and nodding of heads. Afterall the girl was just like other girls—they almost ceased toresent her. Meanwhile Martin continued to stay on in Upton, heldfast by the charm and the strangeness of Stephen—her verystrangeness it was that allured him, yet all the while he mustthink of their friendship, not even admitting that strangeness. Hedeluded himself with these thoughts of friendship, but Sir Philipand Anna were not deluded. They looked at each other almost shylyat first, then Anna grew bold, and she said to her husband:
'Is it possible the child is falling in love with Martin? Ofcourse he's in love with her. Oh, my dear, it would make me soawfully happy—' And her heart went out in affection toStephen, as it had not done since the girl was a baby.
Her hopes would go flying ahead of events; she would startmaking plans for her daughter's future. Martin must give up hisorchards and forests and buy Tenley Court that was now in themarket; it had several large farms and some excellent pasture,quite enough to keep any man happy and busy. Then Anna wouldsuddenly grow very thoughtful; Tenley Court was also possessed offine nurseries, big, bright, sunny rooms facing south, with theirbathroom, there were bars to the windows—it was all there andready.
Sir Philip shook his head and warned Anna to go slowly, but hecould not quite keep the great joy from his eyes, nor the hope fromhis heart. Had he been mistaken? Perhaps after all he had beenmistaken—the hope thudded ceaselessly now in his heart.
3
Came a day when winter must give place to spring, when thedaffodils marched across the whole country from Castle MortonCommon to Ross and beyond, pitching camps by the side of the river.When the hornbeam made patches of green in the hedges, and thehawthorn broke out into small, budding bundles; when the old cedartree on the lawn at Morton grew reddish-pink tips to its elegantfingers; when the wild cherry trees on the sides of the hills wereindustriously putting forth both leaves and blossoms; when Martinlooked into his heart and saw Stephen—saw her suddenly thereas a woman.
Friendship! He marvelled now at his folly, at his blindness, hiscoldness of body and spirit. He had offered this girl the coldhusks of his friendship, insulting her youth, her womanhood, herbeauty—for he saw her now with the eyes of a lover. To a mansuch as he was, sensitive, restrained, love came as a blindingrevelation. He knew little about women, and the little he did knowwas restricted to episodes that he thought best forgotten. On thewhole he had led a fairly chaste life—less from scruple thanbecause he was fastidious by nature. But now he was very deeply inlove, and those years of restraint took their toll of poor Martin,so that he trembled before his own passion, amazed at its strength,not a little disconcerted. And being by habit a quiet, reservedcreature, he must quite lose his head and become the reverse. Soimpatient was he that he rushed off to Morton very early onemorning to look for Stephen, tracking her down in the end at thestables, where he found her talking to Williams and Raftery.
He said: 'Never mind about Raftery, Stephen—let's go intothe garden, I've got something to tell you.' And she thought thathe must have had bad news from home, because of his voice and hiscurious pallor.
She went with him and they walked on in silence for a while,then Martin stood still, and began to talk quickly; he was sayingamazing, incredible things: Stephen, my dear—I do utterlylove you.' He was holding out his arms, while she shrank backbewildered: 'I love you, I'm deeply in love with you,Stephen—look at me, don't you understand me, beloved? I wantyou to marry me—you do love me, don't you?' And then, asthough she had suddenly struck him, he flinched: 'Good God! What'sthe matter, Stephen?'
She was staring at him in a kind of dumb horror, staring at hiseyes that were clouded by desire, while gradually over hercolourless face there was spreading an expression of the deepestrepulsion—terror and repulsion he saw on her face, andsomething else too, a look as of outrage. He could not believe thisthing that he saw, this insult to all that he felt to be sacred;for a moment he in his turn, must stare, then he came a stepnearer, still unable to believe. But at that she wheeled round andfled from him wildly, fled back to the house that had alwaysprotected; without so much as a word she left him, nor did she oncepause in her flight to look back. Yet even in this moment ofheadlong panic, the girl was conscious of something like amazement,amazement at herself; and she gasped as she ran: 'It'sMartin—Martin—' And again: 'It's Martin!'
He stood perfectly still until the trees hid her. He feltstunned, incapable of understanding. All that he knew was that hemust get away, away from Stephen, away from Morton, away from thethoughts that would follow after. In less than two hours he wasmotoring to London; in less than two weeks he was standing on thedeck of the steamer that would carry him back to his forests thatlay somewhere beyond the horizon.
1
No one questioned at Morton; they spoke very little. Even Annaforbore to question her daughter, checked by something that she sawin the girl's pale face.
But alone with her husband she gave way to her misgivings, toher deep disappointment: 'It's heartbreaking, Philip. What'shappened? They seemed so devoted to each other. Will you ask thechild? Surely one of us ought to—'
Sir Philip said quietly: 'I think Stephen will tell me.' Andwith that Anna had perforce to be content.
Very silently Stephen now went about Morton, and her eyes lookedbewildered and deeply unhappy. At night she would lie awakethinking of Martin, missing him, mourning him as though he weredead. But she could not accept this death without question, withoutfeeling that she was in some way blameworthy. What was she, whatmanner of curious creature, to have been so repelled by a loverlike Martin? Yet she had been repelled, and even her pity for theman could not wipe out that stronger feeling. She had driven himaway because something within her was intolerant of that new aspectof Martin.
Oh, but she mourned his good, honest friendship; he had takenthat from her, the thing she most needed—but perhaps afterall it had never existed except as a cloak for this other emotion.And then, lying there in the thickening darkness, she would shrinkfrom what might be waiting in the future, for all that had justhappened might happen again—there were other men in the worldbeside Martin. Fool, never to have visualized this thing before,never to have faced the possibility of it; now she understood herresentment of men when their voices grew soft and insinuating. Yes,and now she knew to the full the meaning of fear, and Martin itwas, who had taught her its meaning—her friend—the manshe had utterly trusted had pulled the scales from her eyes andrevealed it. Fear, stark fear, and the shame of suchfear—that was the legacy left her by Martin. And yet he hadmade her so happy at first, she had felt so contented, so naturalwith him; but that was because they had been like two men,companions, sharing each other's interests. And at this thought herbitterness would all but flow over; it was cruel, it was cowardlyof him to have deceived her, when all the time he had only beenwaiting for the chance to force this other thing on her.
But what was she?' Her thoughts slipping back to her childhood,would find many things in her past that perplexed her. She hadnever been quite like the other small children, she had always beenlonely and discontented, she had always been trying to be someoneelse—that was why she had dressed herself up as young Nelson.Remembering those days she would think of her father, and wouldwonder if now, as then, he could help her. Supposing she should askhim to explain about Martin? Her father was wise, and had infinitepatience—yet somehow she instinctively dreaded to ask him.Alone—it was terrible to feel so much alone—to feeloneself different from other people. At one time she had ratherenjoyed this distinction—she had rather enjoyed dressing upas young Nelson. Yet had she enjoyed it? Or had it been done assome sort of inadequate childish protest a But if so against whathad she been protesting when she strutted about the house,masquerading? In those days she had wanted to be a boy—hadthat been the meaning of the pitiful young Nelson? And what aboutnow? She had wanted Martin to treat her as a man, had expected itof him...The questions to which she could find no answers, wouldpile themselves up and up in the darkness; oppressing, stifling bysheer weight of numbers, until she would feel them getting herunder; 'I don't know—oh, God, I don't know!' she wouldmutter, tossing as though to fling off those questions.
Then one night towards dawn she could bear it no longer; herdread must give place to her need of consolation. She would ask herfather to explain her to herself; she would tell him her deepdesolation over Martin. She would say: Is there anything strangeabout me, Father, that I should have felt as I did about Martin?'And then she would try to explain very calmly what it was she hadfelt, the intensity of it. She would try to make him understand hersuspicion that this feeling of hers was a thing fundamental, muchmore than merely not being in love; much, much more than notwanting to marry Martin. She would tell him why she found herselfso utterly bewildered; tell him how she had loved Martin's strong,young body, and his honest brown face, and his slow thoughtfuleyes, and his careless walk—all these things she had loved.Then suddenly terror and deep repugnance because of that unforeseenchange in Martin, the change that had turned the friend into thelover—in reality it had been no more than that, the friendhad turned lover and had wanted from her what she could not givehim, or indeed any man, because of that deep repugnance. Yet thereshould have been nothing repugnant about Martin, nor was she achild to have felt such terror. She had known certain facts aboutlife for some time and they had not repelled her in otherpeople—not until they had been brought home to herself hadthese facts both terrified and repelled her.
She got up. No good in trying to sleep, those eternal questionskept stifling, tormenting. Dressing quickly she stole down thewide, shallow stairs to the garden door, then out into the garden.The garden looked unfamiliar in the sunrise, like a well-known facethat is suddenly transfigured. There was something aloof andawesome about it, as though it were lost in ecstatic devotion. Shetried to tread softly for she felt apologetic, she and her troubleswere there as intruders; their presence disturbed this strange hushof communion, this oneness with something beyond their knowledge,that was yet known and loved by the soul of the garden. Amysterious and wonderful thing this oneness, pregnant with comfortcould she know its true meaning—she felt this somewhere deepdown in herself; but try as she would her mind could not grasp it;perhaps even the garden was shutting her out of its prayers,because she had sent away Martin. Then a thrush began to sing inthe cedar, and his song was full of wild jubilation: Stephen, lookat me, look at me!' sang the thrush, 'I'm happy, happy, it's allvery simple!' There was something heartless about that singingwhich only served to remind her of Martin. She walked ondisconsolate, thinking deeply. He had gone, he would soon be backin his forests—she had made no effort to keep him beside herbecause he had wanted to be her lover...'Stephen, look at us, lookat us!' sang the birds, 'We're happy, happy, it's all very simple!'Martin walking in dim, green places—she could picture hislife away in the forests, a man's life, good with the goodness ofdanger, a primitive, strong, imperative thing—a man's life,the life that should have been hers—And her eyes filled withheavy, regretful tears, yet she did not quite know for what she wasweeping. She only knew that some great sense of loss, some greatsense of incompleteness possessed her, and she let the tearstrickle down her face, wiping them off one by one with herfinger.
And now she was passing the old potting shed where Collins hadlain in the arms of the footman. Choking back her tears she pausedby the shed, and tried to remember the girl's appearance. Greyeyes—no, blue, and a round-about figure—plump hands,with soft skin always puckered from soap-suds—a housemaid'sknee that had pained very badly: See that dent? That's thewater...It fair makes me sick.' Then a queer little girl dressed upas young Nelson: 'I'd like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, theway that Jesus was hurt for sinners...' The potting shed smellingof earth and dampness, sagging a little on one side,lop-sided—Collins lying in the arms of the footman, Collinsbeing kissed by him, wantonly, crudely—a broken flower pot inthe hand of a child—rage, deep rage—a great anguish ofspirit—blood on a face that was pale with amazement, verybright red blood that kept trickling and trickling—flight,wild, inarticulate flight, away and away, anyhow,anywhere—the pain of torn skin, the rip of tornstockings—
She had not remembered these things for years, she had thoughtthat all this had been quite forgotten; there was nothing to remindher of Collins these days but a fat, half-blind and pampered oldpony. Strange how these memories came back this morning; she hadlain in bed lately trying to recapture the childish emotionsaroused in her by Collins and had failed, yet this morning theycame back quite clearly. But the garden was full of a new memorynow; it was full of sorrowful memory of Martin. She turnedabruptly, and leaving the shed walked towards the lakes thatgleamed faintly in the distance.
Down by the lakes there was a sense of great stillness which thesongs of the birds could in no way lessen, for this place had thatcurious stillness of spirit that seems to interpenetrate sound. Aswan paddled about in front of his island, on guard, for his matehad a nest full of cygnets; from time to time he glanced crossly atStephen though he knew her quite well, but now there were cygnets.He was proud in his splendid, incredible whiteness, and paternitymade him feel overbearing, so that he refused to feed fromStephen's hand although she found a biscuit in her pocket.
'Coup, c-o-u-p!' she called, but he swung his neck sideways ashe swam—it was like a disdainful negation. 'Perhaps he thinksI'm a freak,' she mused grimly, feeling more lonely because of theswan.
The lakes were guarded by massive old beech trees, and the beechtrees stood ankle-deep in their foliage; a lovely and luminouscarpet of leaves they had spread on the homely brown earth ofMorton. Each spring came new little shuttles of greenness that intime added warp and woof to the carpet, so that year by year itgrew softer and deeper, and year by year it glowed moreresplendent. Stephen had loved this spot from her childhood, andnow she instinctively went to it for comfort, but its beauty onlyadded to her melancholy, for beauty can wound like a two-edgedsword. She could not respond to its stillness of spirit, since shecould not lull her own spirit to stillness.
She thought: 'I shall never be one with great peace any more, Ishall always stand outside this stillness—wherever there isabsolute stillness and peace in this world, I shall always standjust outside it.' And as though these thoughts were in some wayprophetic, she inwardly shivered a little.
Then what must the swan do but start to hiss loudly, just toshow her that he was really a father: 'Peter,' she reproached him,'I won't hurt your babies—can't you trust me? I fed you thewhole of last winter!'
But apparently Peter could not trust her at all, for he squawkedto his mate who came out through the bushes, and she hissed in herturn, flapping strong angry wings, which meant in mere language:Get out of this, Stephen, you clumsy, inadequate, ludicrouscreature; you destroyer of nests, you disturber of young, you greatwingless blot on a beautiful morning!' Then they both hissedtogether: Get out of this, Stephen!' So Stephen left them to thecare of their cygnets.
Remembering Raftery, she walked to the stables, where all wasconfusion and purposeful bustle. Old Williams was ruthlessly out onthe warpath; he was scolding: 'Drat the boy, what be 'e a-doin'??Come on, do! 'Urry up, get them two horses bridled, and don't goforgettin' their knee-caps this mornin'—and that bucket theredon't belong where it's standin', nor that broom! Did Jim take theroan to the blacksmith's? Gawd almighty, why not? 'Er shoes is likepaper! 'Ere, you Jim, don't you go on ignorin' my orders, if youdo—Come on, boy, got them two horses ready? Right, well then,up you go! You don't want no saddle, like as not you'd give 'im agall if you 'ad one!'
The sleek, good-looking hunters were led out inclothing—for the early spring mornings were still rathernippy—and among them came Raftery, slender and skittish; hewas wearing his hood, and his eyes peered out bright as a falcon'sfrom the two neatly braided eye-holes. From a couple more holes inthe top of his head-dress, shot his small, pointed ears, which nowworked with excitement.
'Old on!' bellowed Williams, 'What the 'ell be you doin'? Quick,shorten 'is bridle, yer not in a circus!' And then seeing Stephen:'Beg pardon, Miss Stephen, but it be a fair crime not to lead thathorse close, and 'im all corned up until 'he's fair dancin'!'
They stood watching Raftery skip through the gates, then oldWilliams said softly: ''E do be a wonder—more nor fifty oddyears 'ave I worked in the stables, and never no beast 'ave I lovedlike Raftery. But 'e's no common horse, 'e be some sort ofChristian, and a better one too than a good few I knowson—'
And Stephen answered: 'Perhaps he's a poet like his namesake; Ithink if he could write he'd write verses. They say all the Irishare poets at heart, so perhaps they pass on the gift to theirhorses.'
Then the two of them smiled, each a little embarrassed, buttheir eyes held great friendship the one for the other, afriendship of years now cemented by Raftery whom theyloved—and small wonder, for assuredly never did more gallantor courteous horse step out of stable.
'Oh, well,' sighed Williams, 'I be gettin' that old—andRaftery, 'e do be comin' eleven, but 'e don't feel it yet in 'islimbs the way I does—me rheumatics 'as troubled me awful thiswinter.'
She stayed on a little while, comforting Williams, then made herway back to the house, very slowly. 'Poor Williams,' she thought,'he is getting old, but thank the Lord nothing's the matter withRaftery.'
The house lay full in a great slant of sunshine; it looked asthough it was sunning its shoulders. Glancing up, she came eye toeye with the house, and she fancied that Morton was thinking abouther, for its windows seemed to be beckoning, inviting: Come home,come home, come inside quickly, Stephen!' And as though they hadspoken, she answered: 'I'm coming,' and she quickened her laggingsteps to a run, in response to this most compassionate kindness.Yes, she actually ran through the heavy white doorway under thesemicircular fanlight, and on up the staircase that led from thehall in which hung the funny old portraits of Gordons—menlong dead and gone but still wonderfully living, since theirthoughts had fashioned the comeliness of Morton; since their loveshad made children from father to son—from father to son untilthe advent of Stephen.
2
That evening she went to her father's study, and when he lookedup she thought she was expected.
She said: 'I want to talk to you, Father.'
And he answered: 'I know—sit close to me, Stephen.'
He shaded his face with his long, thin hand, so that she couldnot see his expression, yet it seemed to her that he knew quitewell why she had come to him in that study. Then she told him aboutMartin, told him all that had happened, omitting no detail, sparinghim nothing. She openly mourned the friend who had failed her, andherself she mourned for failing the lover—and Sir Philiplistened in absolute silence.
After she had spoken for quite a long time, she at length foundthe courage to ask her question: 'Is there anything strange aboutme, Father, that I should have felt as I did about Martin?'
It had come. It fell on his heart like a blow. The hand that wasshading his pale face trembled, for he felt a great trembling takehold of his spirit. His spirit shrank back and cowered in his body,so that it dared not look out on Stephen.
She was waiting, and now she was asking again: 'Father, is thereanything strange about me? I remember when I was a littlechild—I was never quite like all the otherchildren—'
Her voice sounded apologetic, uncertain, and he knew that thetears were not far from her eyes, knew that if he looked now hewould see her lips shaking, and the tears making ugly red stains onher eyelids. His loins ached with pity for this fruit of hisloins—an insufferable aching, an intolerable pity. He wasfrightened, a coward because of his pity, as he had been once longago with her mother. Merciful God! How could a man answer? Whatcould he say, and that man a father? He sat there inwardlygrovelling before her: 'Oh, Stephen, my child, my little, littleStephen.' For now in his pity she seemed to him little, little andutterly helpless again—he remembered her hands as the handsof a baby, very small, very pink, with minute perfectnails—he had played with her hands, exclaiming about them,astonished because of their neat perfection: 'Oh, Stephen, mylittle, little Stephen.' He wanted to cry out against God for thisthing; he wanted' to cry out: 'You have maimed my Stephen! What hadI done or my father before me, or my father's father, or hisfather's father? Unto the third and fourth generations...' AndStephen was waiting for his answer. Then Sir Philip set the lips ofhis spirit to the cup, and his spirit must drink the gall ofdeception: 'I will not tell her. You cannot ask it—there aresome things that even God should not ask.'
And now he turned round and deliberately faced her; smilingright into her eyes he lied glibly: 'My dear, don't be foolish,there's nothing strange about you, some day you may meet a man youcan love. And supposing you don't, well, what of it, Stephen?Marriage isn't the only career for a woman. I've been thinkingabout your writing just lately, and I'm going to let you go up toOxford; but meanwhile you mustn't get foolish fancies, that won'tdo at all—it's not like you, Stephen.' She was gazing at himand he turned away quickly: 'Darling, I'm busy, you must leave me,'he faltered.
Thank you,' she said very quietly and simply, 'I felt that I hadto ask you about Martin—'
3
After she had gone he sat on alone, and the lie was still bitterto his spirit as he sat there, and he covered his face for theshame that was in him—but because of the love that was in himhe wept.
1
There was gossip in plenty over Martin's disappearance, and tothis Mrs. Antrim contributed her share, even more than her share,looking wise and mysterious whenever Stephen's name was mentioned.Everyone felt very deeply aggrieved. They had been so eager towelcome the girl as one of themselves, and now this strangehappening—it made them feel foolish which in turn made themangry. The spring meets were heavy with tacitdisapproval—nice men like young Hallam did not run away fornothing; and then what a scandal if those two were not engaged;they had wandered all over the country together. This tacitdisapproval was extended to Sir Philip, and via him to Anna forallowing too much freedom; a mother ought to look after herdaughter, but then Stephen had always been allowed too muchfreedom. This, no doubt, was what came of her riding astride andfencing and all the rest of the nonsense; when she did meet a manshe took the bit between her teeth and behaved in a most amazingmanner. Of course, had there been a proper engagement—butobviously that had never existed. They marvelled, remembering theirown toleration, they had really been extremely broad-minded. Anextraordinary girl, she had always been odd, and now for somereason she seemed odder than ever. Not so much as a word was saidin her hearing that could possibly offend, and yet Stephen wellknew that her neighbours' good-will had been only fleeting, a thingentirely dependent upon Martin. He it was who had raised her statusamong them—he, the stranger, not even connected with theircounty. They had all decided that she meant to marry Martin, andthat fact had at once made them welcoming and friendly; andsuddenly Stephen longed intensely to be welcomed, and she wishedfrom her heart that she could have married Martin.
The strange thing was that she understood her neighbours in away, and was therefore too just to condemn them; indeed had naturebeen less daring with her, she might well have become very muchwhat they were—a breeder of children, an upholder of home, acareful and diligent steward of pastures. There was little of thetrue pioneer about Stephen, in spite of her erstwhile longing forthe forests. She belonged to the soil and the fruitfulness ofMorton, to its pastures and paddocks, to its farms and its cattle,to its quiet and gentlemanly ordered traditions, to the dignity andpride of its old red-brick house, that was yet without ostentation.To these things she belonged and would always belong by right ofthose past generations of Gordons whose thoughts had fashioned thecomeliness of Morton, whose bodies had gone to the making ofStephen. Yes, she was of them, those bygone people; they mightspurn her—the lusty breeders of sons that they hadbeen—they might even look down from Heaven with raisedeyebrows, and say: 'We utterly refuse to acknowledge this curiouscreature called Stephen.' But for all that they could not drain herof blood, and her blood was theirs also, so that do what they wouldthey could never completely rid themselves of her nor she ofthem—they were one in their blood.
But Sir Philip, that other descendant of theirs, found littleexcuse for his critical neighbours. Because he loved much he mustequally suffer, consuming himself at times with resentment. And nowwhen he and Stephen were out hunting he would be on his guard, veryanxious and watchful lest any small incident should occur todistress her, lest at any time she should find herself lonely. Whenhounds checked and the field collected together, he would makelittle jokes to amuse his daughter, he would rack his brain forthese poor little jokes, in order that people should see Stephenlaughing.
Sometimes he would whisper: 'Let 'em have it hot, Stephen, thatyoungster you're on loves a good bit of timber—don't mind me,I know you won't damage his knees, just you give 'em a lead andlet's see if they'll catch you!' And because it was seldom indeedthat they caught her, his sore heart would know a fleetingcontentment.
Yet people begrudged her even this triumph, pointing out thatthe girl was magnificently mounted: 'Anyone could get there on thatsort of horse,' they would murmur, when Stephen was out ofhearing.
But small Colonel Antrim, who was not always kind, would retortif he heard them: 'Damn it, no, it's the riding. The girl rides,that's the point; as for some of you others—' And then hewould let loose a flood of foul language. 'If some bloody foolsthat I know rode like Stephen, we'd have bloody well less to pay tothe farmers,' and much more he would say to the same effect, withrich oaths interlarding his every sentence—thefoulest-mouthed master in the whole British Isles he was said tobe, this small Colonel Antrim.
Oh, but he dearly loved a fine rider, and he cursed and he sworehis appreciation. Even in the presence of a sporting bishop oneday, he had failed to control his language; indeed, he had sworn inthe face of the bishop with enthusiasm, as he pointed to Stephen.An ineffectual and hen-pecked little fellow—in his home hewas hardly allowed to say 'damn'. He was never permitted to smoke acigar outside of his dark, inhospitable study. He must not breedNorwich canaries, which he loved, because they brought mice,declared Mrs. Antrim; he must not keep a pet dog in the house, andthe Pink 'Un was anathema because of Violet. His taste in art washeavily censored, even on the walls of his own water-closet, wherenothing might hang but a family group taken sixteen odd years agowith the children.
On Sundays he sat in an uncomfortable pew while his wife chantedpsalms in the voice of a peacock. 'Oh come, let us sing unto theLord,' she would chant, as she heartily rejoiced in the strength ofher salvation. All this and a great deal more he endured, indeedmost of his life was passed in endurance—had it not been forthose red-letter days out hunting, he might well have becomemelancholic from boredom. But those days, when he actually foundhimself master, went far to restore his anaemic manhood, and onthem he would speak the good English language as some deep-seatedcomplex knew it ought to be spoken—ruddily, roundly,explosively spoken, with elation, at times with totalabandon—especially if he should chance to remember Mrs.Antrim would he speak it with total abandon.
But his oaths could not save Stephen now from her neighbours,nothing could do that since the going of Martin—for quiteunknown to themselves they feared her; it was fear that arousedtheir antagonism. In her they instinctively sensed an outlaw, andtheirs was the task of policing nature.
2
In her vast drawing-room so beautifully proportioned, Anna wouldsit with her pride sorely wounded, dreading the thinly veiledquestions of her neighbours, dreading the ominous silence of herhusband. And the old aversion she had felt for her child wouldreturn upon her like the unclean spirit who gathered to himselfseven others more wicked, so that her last state was worse than herfirst, and at times she must turn away her eyes from Stephen.
Thus tormented, she grew less tactful with her husband, and nowshe was always plying him with questions: 'But why can't you tellme what Stephen said to you, Philip, that evening when she went toyour study?'
And he, with a mighty effort to be patient, would answer: 'Shesaid that she couldn't love Martin—there was no crime inthat. Leave the child alone, Anna, she's unhappy enough; why notlet her alone?' And then he would hastily change the subject.
But Anna could not let Stephen alone, could never keep off thetopic of Martin. She would talk at the girl until she grew crimson;and seeing this, Sir Philip would frown darkly, and when he and hiswife were alone in their bedroom he would often reproach her withviolence.
'Cruel—it's abominably cruel of you, Anna. Why in God'sname must you go on nagging Stephen?'
Anna's taut nerves would tighten to breaking, so that she, whenshe answered, must also speak with violence.
One night he said abruptly: Stephen won't marry—I don'twant her to marry; it would only mean disaster.'
And at this Anna broke out in angry protest. Why shouldn'tStephen marry? She wished her to marry. Was he mad? And what did hemean by disaster? No woman was ever complete withoutmarriage—what on earth did he mean by disaster He frowned andrefused to answer her question. Stephen, he said, must go up toOxford. He had set his heart on a good education for the child, whomight some day become a fine writer. Marriage wasn't the onlycareer for a woman. Look at Puddle, for instance; she'd been atOxford—a most admirable, well-balanced, sensible creature.Next year he was going to send Stephen to Oxford. Anna scoffed:'Yes, indeed, he might well look at Puddle! She was what came ofthis higher education—a lonely, unfulfilled, middle-agedspinster. Anna didn't want that kind of life for her daughter.
And then: It's a pity you can't be frank, Philip, about what wassaid that night in your study. I feel that there's something you'rekeeping back from me—it's so unlike Martin to behave as hehas done; there must have been something that you haven't told me,to have made him go off without even a letter—'
He flared up at once because he felt guilty: 'I don't care adamn about Martin!' he said hotly. 'All I care about is Stephen,and she's going to Oxford next year; she's my child as well asyours, Anna!'
Then quite suddenly Anna's self-control left her, and she lethim see into her tormented spirit; all that had lain unspokenbetween them she now put into crude, ugly words for his hearing:'You care nothing for me any more—you and Stephen areenleagued against me—you have been for years.' Aghast atherself; she must yet go on speaking: 'You and Stephen—oh,I've seen it for years—you and Stephen.' He looked at her,and there was warning in his eyes, but she babbled on wildly: 'I'veseen it for years—the cruelty of it; she's taken you from me,my own child—the unspeakable cruelty of it!'
Cruelty, yes, but not Stephen's, Anna—it's yours; for inall the child's life you've never loved her.'
Ugly, degrading, rather terrible half-truths; and he knew thewhole truth, yet he dared not speak it. It is bad for the soul toknow itself a coward, it is apt to take refuge in mere wordyviolence.
'Yes, you, her mother, you persecute Stephen, you torment her; Isometimes think you hate her!'
'Philip—good God!'
'Yes, I think you hate her; but be careful, Anna, for hatredbreeds hatred, and remember I stand for the rights of mychild—if you hate her you've got to hate me; she's my child.I won't let her face your hatred alone.'
Ugly, degrading, rather terrible half-truths. Their hearts achedwhile their lips formed recriminations. Their hearts burst intotears while their eyes remained dry and accusing, staring inhostility and anger. Far into the night they accused each other,they who before had never seriously quarrelled; and something verylike the hatred he spoke of leapt out like a flame that seared themat moments.
Stephen, my own child—she's come between us.'
'It's you who have thrust her between us, Anna.'
Mad, it was madness! They were such faithful lovers, and theirlove it was that had fashioned their child. They knew that it wasmadness and yet they persisted, while their anger dug out foritself a deep channel, so that future angers might more easilyfollow. They could not forgive and they could not sleep, forneither could sleep without the other's forgiveness, and the hatredthat leapt out at moments between them would be drowned in thetears that their hearts were shedding.
3
Like some vile and prolific thing, this first quarrel bredothers, and the peace of Morton was shattered. The house seemed tomourn, and withdraw into itself, so that Stephen went searching forits spirit in vain. 'Morton,' she whispered, where are you, Morton?I must find you, I need you so badly.'
For now Stephen knew the cause of their quarrels, and sherecognized the form of the shadow that had seemed to creep inbetween them at Christmas, and knowing, she stretched out her armsto Morton for comfort: 'My Morton, where are you? I need you.'
Grim and exceedingly angry grew Puddle, that little, grey box ofa woman in her schoolroom; angry with Anna for her treatment ofStephen, but even more deeply angry with Sir Philip, who knew thewhole truth, or so she suspected, and who yet kept that truth backfrom Anna.
Stephen would sit with her head in her hands: Oh, Puddle, it'smy fault; I've come in between them, and they're all I'vegot—they're my one perfect thing—I can't bearit—why have I come in between them?'
And Puddle would flush with reminiscent anger as her mindslipped back and back over the years to old sorrows, old miseries,long decently buried but now disinterred by this pitiful Stephen.She would live through those years again, while her spirit wouldcry out, unregenerate against their injustice.
Frowning at her pupil, she would speak to her sharply: 'Don't bea fool, Stephen. Where's your brain, where's your backbone? Stopholding your head and get on with your Latin. My God, child, you'llhave worse things than this to face later—life's not all beerand skittles, I do assure you. Now come along, do, and get on withthat Latin. Remember you'll soon be going up to Oxford.' But aftera while she might pat the girl's shoulder and say rather gruffly:'I'm not angry, Stephen—I do understand, my dear, I doreally—only somehow I've just got to make you have backbone.You're too sensitive, child, and the sensitive suffer—well, Idon't want to see you suffer, that's all. Let's go out for awalk—we've done enough Latin for today—let's walk overthe meadows to Upton.'
Stephen clung to this little, grey box of a woman as a drowningman will cling to a spar. Puddle's very hardness was somehowconsoling—it seemed concrete, a thing you could trust, couldrely on, and their friendship that had flourished as a greenbay-tree grew into something more stalwart and much more enduring.And surely the two of them had need of their friendship, for nowthere was little happiness at Morton; Sir Philip and Anna weredeeply unhappy—degraded they would feel by their ceaselessquarrels.
Sir Philip would think: 'I must tell her the truth—I musttell her what I believe to be the truth about Stephen.' He would goin search of his wife, but having found her would stand theretongue-tied, with his eyes full of pity.
And one day Anna suddenly burst out weeping, for no reasonexcept that she felt his great pity. Not knowing and not caring whyhe pitied, she wept, so that all he could do was to consoleher.
They clung together like penitent children. 'Anna forgiveme.'
'Forgive me, Philip—' For in between quarrels they weresometimes like children, naively asking each other'sforgiveness.
Sir Philip's resolution weakened and waned as he kissed thetears from her poor, reddened eyelids. He thought:'tomorrow—tomorrow I'll tell her—I can't bear to makeher more unhappy today.'
So the weeks drifted by and still he had not spoken; summer cameand went, giving place to the autumn. Yet one more Christmasvisited Morton, and still Sir Philip had not spoken.
1
February came bringing snowstorms with it, the heaviest knownfor many a year. The hills lay folded in swathes of whiteness, andso did the valleys at the foot of the hills, and so did thespacious gardens of Morton—it was all one vast panorama ofwhiteness. The lakes froze, and the beech trees had crystallinebranches, while their luminous carpet of leaves grew brittle sothat it crackled now underfoot, the only sound in the frozenstillness of that place that was always infinitely still. Peter,the arrogant swan, turned friendly, and he and his family nowwelcomed Stephen who fed them every morning and evening, and theyglad enough to partake of her bounty. On the lawn Anna set out atray for the birds, with chopped suet, seed, and small mounds ofbread-crumbs; and down at the stables old Williams spread straw inwide rings for exercising the horses who could not be taken beyondthe yard, so bad were the roads around Morton.
The gardens lay placidly under the snow, in no way perturbed ordisconcerted. Only one inmate of theirs felt anxious, and that wasthe ancient and wide-boughed cedar, for the weight of the snow madean ache in its branches—its branches were brittle like an oldman's bones; that was why the cedar felt anxious. But it could notcry out or shake off its torment; no, it could only endure withpatience, hoping that Anna would take note of its trouble, sinceshe sat in its shade summer after summer—since once long agoshe had sat in its shade dreaming of the son she would bear herhusband. And one morning Anna did notice its plight, and she calledSir Philip, who hurried from his study.
She said: 'Look, Philip! I'm afraid for my cedar—it's allweighted down—I feel worried about it.'
Then Sir Philip sent in to Upton for chain, and for stout padsof felt to support the branches; and he himself must direct thegardeners while they climbed into the tree and pushed off the snow;and he himself must see to the placing of the stout felt pads, lestthe branches be galled. Because he loved Anna who loved the cedar,he must stand underneath it directing the gardeners.
A sudden and horrible sound of rending. 'Sir, look out! SirPhilip, look out sir, it's giving!'
A crash and then silence—a horrible silence, far worsethan that horrible sound of rending.
'Sir Philip—oh, Gawd, it's over 'is chest! It's crushed in'is chest—it's the big branch wot's given! Some one go forthe doctor—go quick for Doctor Evans. Oh, Gawd, 'is mouth'sbleedin'—it's crushed in 'is chest—Won't nobody go forthe doctor?'
The grave, rather pompous voice of Mr. Hopkins: 'Steady, Thomas,it's no good losin' your head. Robert, you'd best slip over to thestables and tell Burton to go in the car for the doctor. You,Thomas, give me a hand with this bough—steady on—easeit off a bit to the right, now lift! Steady on, keep more to theright—now then, gently, gently, man—lift!'
Sir Philip lay very still on the snow, and the blood oozedslowly from between his lips. He looked monstrously tall as he layon that whiteness, very straight, with his long legs stretched outto their fullest, so that Thomas said foolishly: 'Don't 'e bebig—I don't know as I ever noticed before—'
And now someone came scuttling over the snow, panting,stumbling, hopping grotesquely—old Williams, hatless and inhis shirt sleeves—and as he came on he kept calling outsomething: 'Master, oh, Master!' And he hopped grotesquely as hecame on over the slippery snow. 'Master, Master—oh,Master!'
They found a hurdle, and with dreadful care they placed themaster of Morton upon it, and with dreadful slowness they carriedthe hurdle over the lawn, and in through the door that Sir Philiphimself had left standing ajar.
Slowly they carried him into the hall, and even more slowly histired eyes opened, and he whispered: 'Where's Stephen: Iwant—the child.'
And old Williams muttered thickly: 'She's comin',Master—she be comin' down the stairs; she's here, SirPhilip.'
Then Sir Philip tried to move, and he spoke quite loudly:'Stephen! Where are your I want you, child—'
She went to him, saying never a word, but she thought: 'He'sdying—my Father.'
And she took his large hand in hers and stroked it, but stillwithout speaking, because when one loves there is nothing left inthe world to say, when the best beloved lies dying. He looked ather with the pleading eyes of a dog who is dumb, but who yet asksforgiveness. And she knew that his eyes were asking forgiveness forsomething beyond her poor comprehension; so she nodded, and justwent on stroking his hand.
Mr. Hopkins asked quietly: 'Where shall we take him?' And asquietly Stephen answered: 'To the study.'
Then she herself led the way to the study, walking steadily,just as though nothing had happened, just as though when she gotthere she would find her father lolling back in his arm-chair,reading. But she thought all the while: 'He's dying—myFather—' Only the thought seemed unreal, preposterous. Itseemed like the thinking of somebody else, a thing so unreal as tobe preposterous. Yet when they had set him down in the study, herown voice it was that she heard giving orders.
'Tell Miss Puddleton to go at once to my Mother and break thenews gently—I'll stay with Sir Philip. One of you please senda housemaid to me with a sponge and some towels and a basin of coldwater. Burton's gone for Doctor Evans, you say? That's quite right.Now I'd like you to go up and fetch down a mattress, the one fromthe blue room will do—get it quickly. Bring some blankets aswell and a couple of pillows—and I may need a littlebrandy.'
They ran to obey, and before very long she had helped to lifthim on to the mattress. He groaned a little, then he actuallysmiled as he felt her strong arms around him. She kept wiping theblood away from his mouth, and her fingers were stained; she lookedat her fingers, but without comprehension—they could not behers—like her thoughts, they must surely be somebody else's.But now his eyes were growing more restless—he was lookingfor someone, he was looking for her mother.
'Have you told Miss Puddleton, Williams?' she whispered. The mannodded.
Then she said: 'Mother's coming, darling; you lie still,' andher voice was softly persuasive as though she were speaking to asmall, suffering child. 'Mother's coining; you lie quite still,darling.'
And she came—incredulous, yet wide-eyed with horror.'Philip, oh, Philip!' She sank down beside him and laid her whiteface against his on the pillow. 'My dear, my dear—it's mostterribly hurt you—try to tell me where it hurts; try to tellme, beloved. The branch gave—it was the snow—it fell onyou, Philip—but try to tell me where it hurts most,beloved.'
Stephen motioned to the servants and they went away slowly withbowed heads, for Sir Philip had been a good friend; they loved him,each in his or her way, each according to his or her capacity forloving.
And always that terrible voice went on speaking, terriblebecause it was quite unlike Anna's—it was toneless, and itasked and re-asked the same question: 'Try to tell me where ithurts most, beloved.'
But Sir Philip was fighting the battle of pain; of intense,irresistible, unmanning pain. He lay silent, not answeringAnna.
Then she coaxed him in words soft with memories of her country.'And you the loveliest man,' she whispered, 'and you with the lightof God in your eyes.' But he lay there unable to answer.
And now she seemed to forget Stephen's presence, for she spokeas one lover will speak with another—foolishly, fondly,inventing small names, as one lover will do for another. Andwatching them Stephen beheld a great marvel, for he opened his eyesand his eyes met her mother's, and a light seemed to shine overboth their poor faces, transfiguring them with somethingtriumphant, with love—thus those two rekindled the beacon fortheir child in the shadow of the valley of death.
2
It was late afternoon before the doctor arrived; he had been outall day and the roads were heavy. He had come the moment hereceived the news, come as fast as a car clogged with snow couldbring him. He did what he could, which was very little, for SirPhilip was conscious and wished to remain so; he would not permitthem to ease his pain by administering drugs. He could speak veryslowly.
'No—not that—something urgent—I want—tosay. No drugs—I know I'm—dying—Evans.'
The doctor adjusted the slipping pillows, then turning hewhispered carefully to Stephen. 'Look after your mother. He'sgoing, I think—it can't be long now. I'll wait in the nextroom. If you need me you've only got to call me.'
'Thank you,' she answered' 'if I need you, I'll call you.'
Then Sir Philip paid even to the uttermost farthing, paid withstupendous physical courage for the sin of his anxious and pitifulheart; and he drove and he goaded his ebbing strength to the makingof one great and terrible effort: 'Anna—it'sStephen—listen.' They were holding his hands.'It's—Stephen—our child—she's, she's—it'sStephen—not like—'
His head fell back rather sharply, and then lay very still uponAnna's bosom.
Stephen released the hand she was holding, for Anna had stoppedand was kissing his lips, desperately, passionately kissing hislips, as though to breathe back the life into his body. And nonemight be there to witness that thing, save God—the God ofdeath and affliction, Who is also the God of love. Turning away shestole out of their presence, leaving them alone in the darkeningstudy, leaving them alone with their deathless devotion—handin hand, the quick and the dead.
1
Sir Philip's death deprived his child of three things; ofcompanionship of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwartbarrier between her and the world, and above all of love—thatfaithful love that would gladly have suffered all things for hersake, in order to spare her suffering.
Stephen, recovering from the merciful numbness of shock andfacing her first deep sorrow, stood utterly confounded, as a childwill stand who is lost in a crowd, having somehow let go of thehand that has always guided. Thinking of her father, she realizedhow greatly she had leant on that man of deep kindness, how sureshe had felt of his constant protection, how much she had takenthat protection for granted. And so together with her constantgrieving, with the ache for his presence that never left her, camethe knowledge of what real loneliness felt like. She would marvel,remembering how often in his lifetime she had thought herselflonely, when by stretching out a finger she could touch him, whenby speaking she could hear his voice, when by raising her eyes shecould see him before her. And now also she knew the desolation ofsmall things, the power to give infinite pain that lies hidden inthe little inanimate objects that persist, in a book, in awell-worn garment, in a half-finished letter, in a favouritearmchair.
She thought: 'They go on—they mean nothing at all, and yetthey go on,' and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she mustalways touch them. 'How queer, this old arm-chair has out-livedhim, an old chair—' And feeling the creases in its leather,the dent in its back where her father's head had lain, she wouldhate the inanimate thing for surviving, or perhaps she would loveit and find herself weeping.
Morton had become a place of remembering that closed round herand held her in its grip of remembrance. It was pain, yet now morethan ever she adored it, every stone, every blade of grass in itsmeadows. She fancied that it too grieved for her father and wasturning to her for comfort. Because of Morton the days must go on,all their trifling tasks must be duly accomplished. At tunes shemight wonder that this should be so, might be filled with afleeting sense of resentment, but then she would think of her homeas a creature dependent upon her and her mother for its needs, andthe sense of resentment would vanish.
Very gravely she listened to the lawyer from London. 'The placegoes to your mother for her lifetime,' he told her; 'on her death,of course, it becomes yours, Miss Gordon. But your father made aseparate provision; when you're twenty-one, in about two years'time, you'll inherit quite a considerable income.'
She said: 'Will that leave enough money for Morton?' 'More thanenough,' he reassured her, smiling.
In the quiet old house there was discipline and order, death hadcome and gone, yet these things persisted. Like the well-worngarment and favourite chair, discipline and order had survived thegreat change, filling the emptiness of the rooms with a queer senseof unreality at times, with a new and very bewildering doubt as towhich was real, life or death. The servants scoured and swept anddusted. From Malvern, once a week, came a young clock-winder, andhe set the clocks with much care and precision so that when he hadgone they all chimed together—rather hurriedly they would allchime together, as though flustered by the great importance oftime. Puddle added up the books and made lists for the cook. Thetall under-footman polished the windows—the iridescent windowthat looked out on the lawns and the semicircular fanlight hepolished. In the gardens work progressed just as usual. Gardenerspruned and hoed and diligently planted. Spring gained in strengthto the joy of the cuckoos, trees blossomed, and outside SirPhilip's study glowed beds of the old-fashioned single tulips hehad loved above all the others. According to custom the bulbs hadbeen planted, and now, still according to custom, there weretulips. At the stables the hunters were turned out to grass, andthe ceilings and walls had a fresh coat of whitewash. Williams wentinto Upton to buy tape for the plaits which the grooms were nowengaged upon making; while beyond, in a paddock adjoining the beechwood, a couple of mares gave birth to strong foals—thus wereall things accomplished in their season at Morton.
But Anna, whose word was now absolute law, had become one ofthose who have done with smiling; a quiet, enduring, grief-strickenwoman, in whose eyes was a patient, waiting expression. She wasgentle to Stephen, yet terribly aloof; in their hour of great needthey must still stand divided these two, by the old, insidiousbarrier. Yet Stephen clung closer and closer to Morton; she haddefinitely given up all idea of Oxford. In vain did Puddle try toprotest, in vain did she daily remind her pupil that Sir Philip hadset his heart on her going; no good, for Stephen would alwaysreply:
'Morton needs me; Father would want me to stay, because hetaught me to love it.'
And Puddle was helpless. What could she do, bound as she was bythe tyranny of silence? She dared not explain the girl to herself,dared not say: 'For your own sake you must go to Oxford, you'llneed every weapon your brain can give you; being what you areyou'll need every weapon,' for then certainly Stephen would startto question, and her teacher's very position of trust would forbidher to answer those questions.
Outrageous, Puddle would feel it to be, that wilfully selfishtyranny of silence evolved by a crafty old ostrich of a world forits own wellbeing and comfort. The world hid its head in the sandsof convention, so that seeing nothing it might avoid Truth. It saidto itself: 'If seeing's believing, then I don't want tosee—if silence is golden, it is also, in this case, veryexpedient.' There were moments when Puddle would feel sorelytempted to shout out loud at the world.
Sometimes she thought of giving up her post, so weary was she offretting over Stephen. She would think: What's the good of myworrying myself sick? I can't help the girl, but I can helpmyself—seems to me it's a matter of pure self-preservation.'Then all that was loyal and faithful in her would protest: 'Betterstick it, she'll probably need you one day and you ought to be hereto help her.' So Puddle decided to stick it.
They did very little work, for Stephen had grown idle with griefand no longer cared for her studies. Nor could she find consolationin her writing, for sorrow will often do one of two things—itwill either release the springs of inspiration, or else it will dryup those springs completely, and in Stephen's case it had done thelatter. She longed for the comforting outlet of words, but now thewords would always evade her.
'I can't write any more, it's gone from me, Puddle—he'staken it with him.' And then would come tears, and the tears wouldgo splashing down on to the paper, blotting the poor inadequatelines that meant little or nothing as their author well knew, toher own added desolation.
There she would sit like a woebegone child, and Puddle wouldthink how childish she seemed in this her first encounter withgrief, and would marvel because of the physical strength of thecreature, that went so ill with those tears. And because her owntears were vexing her eyes she must often speak rather sharply toStephen. Then Stephen would go off and swing her large dumb-bells,seeking the relief of bodily movement, seeking to wear out hermuscular body because her mind was worn out by sorrow.
August came and Williams got the hunters in from grass. Stephenwould sometimes get up very early and help with the exercising ofthe horses, but in spite of this the old man's heart misgave him,she seemed strangely averse to discussing the hunting.
He would think: 'Maybe it's 'er father's death, but the instinctbe pretty strong in 'er blood, she'll be all right after 'er's 'ad'er first gallop.' And perhaps he might craftily point to Raftery.'Look, Miss Stephen, did ever you see such quarters? 'E's a mightyfine doer, keeps 'imself fit on grass! I do believe as 'e does iton purpose; I believe 'e's afraid 'e'll miss a day's huntin'.'
But the autumn slipped by and the winter was passing. Hounds metat the very gates of Morton, yet Stephen forbore to send thoseorders to the stables for which Williams was anxiously waiting.Then one morning in March he could bear it no longer, and hesuddenly started reproaching Stephen: 'Yer lettin' my 'orses gostale in their boxes. It's a scandal, Miss Stephen, and you such arider, and our stables the finest bar none in the county, and yerfather so almighty proud of yer ridin'!' And then: 'MissStephen—yer'll not give it up? Won't yer hunt Raftery dayafter to morrow? The 'ounds is meetin' quite near byUpton—Miss Stephen, say yer won't give it all up!'
There were actually tears in his worried old eyes, and so toconsole him she answered briefly: 'Very well then, I'll hunt theday after tomorrow.' But for some strange reason that she did notunderstand, this prospect had quite ceased to give herpleasure.
2
On a morning of high scudding clouds and sunshine, Stephen rodeRaftery into Upton, then over the bridge that spans the riverSevern, and on to the Meet at a neighbouring village. Behind hercame jogging her second horseman on one of Sir Philip's favouriteyoungsters, a raw-boned, upstanding, impetuous chestnut, now alleyes and ears for what might be coming; but beside her rode onlymemory and heartache. Yet from time to time she turned her headquickly as though someone must surely be there at her side.
Her mind was a prey to the strangest fancies. She pictured herfather very grave and anxious, not gay and light-hearted as hadbeen his wont when they rode to a Meet in the old days. And becausethis day was so vibrant with living it was difficult for Stephen totolerate the idea of death, even for a little red fox, and shecaught herself thinking: 'If we find, this morning, there'll be twoof us who are utterly alone, with every man's hand against us.'
At the Meet she was a prey to her self-conscious shyness, sothat she fancied people were whispering. There was no one now withbowed, patient shoulders to stand between her and those unfriendlypeople.
Colonel Antrim came up. 'Glad to see you out, Stephen.' But hisvoice sounded stiff because he was embarrassed—everyone feltjust a little embarrassed, as people will do in the face ofbereavement.
And then there was something so awkward about her, so aloof thatit checked every impulse of kindness. They, in their turn, feltshy, remembering Sir Philip, remembering what his death must havemeant to his daughter, so that more than one greeting remainedunspoken.
And again she thought grimly: 'Two of us will be alone, withevery man's hand against us.'
They found their fox in the very first cover and went away overthe wide, bare meadows. As Raftery leapt forward her curiousfancies gained strength, and now they began to obsess her. Shefancied that she was being pursued, that the hounds were behind herinstead of ahead, that the flushed, bright-eyed people were huntingher down, ruthless, implacable, untiring people—they weremany and she was one solitary creature with every man's handagainst her. To escape them she suddenly took her own line, puttingRaftery over some perilous places; but he, nothing loath, stretchedhis muscles to their utmost, landing safely—yet she alwaysimagined pursuit, and now it was the world that had turned againsther. The whole world was hunting her down with hatred, with afierce, remorseless will to destruction—the world against oneinsignificant creature who had nowhere to turn for pity orprotection. Her heart tightened with fear, she was terribly afraidof those flushed, bright-eyed people who were hard on her track.She who had never lacked physical courage in her life, was nowactually sweating with terror, and Raftery, divining her terror,sped on, faster and always faster.
Then Stephen saw something just ahead, and it moved. CheckingRaftery sharply she stared at the thing. A crawling, bedraggledstreak of red fur, with tongue lolling, with agonized lungs filledto bursting, with the desperate eyes of the hopelessly pursued,bright with terror and glancing now this way, now that as thoughlooking for something; and the thought came to Stephen; 'It'slooking for God Who made it.'
At that moment she felt an imperative need to believe that thestricken beast had a Maker, and her own eyes grew bright, but withblinding tears because of her mighty need to believe, a need thatwas sharper than physical pain, being born of the pain of thespirit. The thing was dragging its brush in the dust, it waslimping, and Stephen sprang to the ground. She held out her handsto the unhappy creature, filled with the will to succour andprotect it, but the fox mistrusted her merciful hands, and it creptaway into a little coppice. And now in a deathly and awful silencethe hounds swept past her, their muzzles to the ground. After themgalloped Colonel Antrim, crouching low in his saddle, avoiding thebranches, and after him came a couple of huntsmen with the few boldriders who had stayed that stiff run. Then a savage clamour brokeout in the coppice as the hounds gave tongue in their wildjubilation, and Stephen well knew that that sound meantdeath—very slowly she remounted Raftery.
Riding home, she felt utterly spent and bewildered. Her thoughtswere full of her father again—he seemed very near, incrediblynear her. For a moment she thought that she heard his voice, butwhen she bent sideways trying to listen, all was silence, exceptfor the tired rhythm of Raftery's hooves on the road. As her braingrew calmer, it seemed to Stephen that her father had taught herall that she knew. He had taught her courage and truth and honourin his life, and in death he had taught her mercy—the mercythat he had lacked he had taught her through the mighty adventureof death. With a sudden illumination of vision, she perceived thatall life is only one life, that all joy and all sorrow are indeedonly one, that all death is only one dying. And she knew thatbecause she had seen a man die in great suffering, yet with courageand love that are deathless, she could never again inflict wantondestruction or pain upon any poor, hapless creature. And so it wasthat by dying to Stephen, Sir Philip would live on in the attributeof mercy that had come that day to his child.
But the body is still very far from the spirit, and it clings tothe primitive joys of the earth—to the sun and the wind andthe good rolling grass-lands, to the swift elation of recklessmovement, so that Stephen, feeling Raftery between her strongknees, was suddenly filled with regret. Yes, in this her moment ofspiritual insight she was infinitely sad, and she said to Raftery:'We'll never hunt any more, we two, Raftery—we'll never goout hunting together any more.'
And because in his own way he had understood her, she felt hissides swell with a vast, resigned sigh; heard the creaking of dampgirth leather as he sighed because he had understood her. For thelove of the chase was still hot in Raftery, the love of splendid,unforeseen danger, the love of crisp mornings and frost-boundevenings, and of long, dusky roads that always led home. He waswise with the age-old wisdom of the beasts, it is true, but thatwisdom was not guiltless of slaying, and deep in his gentle andfaithful mind lurked a memory bequeathed him by some wild forbear.A memory of vast and unpeopled spaces, of fierce open nostrils andteeth bared in battle, of hooves that struck death with every sureblow, of a great untamed mane that streamed out like a banner, ofthe shrill and incredibly savage war-cry that accompanied thatgallant banner. So now he too felt infinitely sad, and he sigheduntil his strong girths started creaking, after which he stoodstill and shook himself largely, in an effort to shake offdepression.
Stephen bent forward and patted his neck. 'I'm sorry, sorry,Raftery,' she said gravely.
1
With the breaking up of the stables at Morton came the breakingup of their faithful servant. Old age took its toll of Williams atlast, and it got him under completely. Sore at heart and gone inboth wind and limb, he retired with a pension to his comfortablecottage; there to cough and grumble throughout the winter, or tosmoke disconsolate pipes through the summer, seated on a chair inhis trim little garden with a rug wrapped around his knees.
'It do be a scandal,' he was now for ever saying, 'and 'er sucha splendid woman to 'ounds!'
And then he would start remembering past glories, while his mindwould begin to grieve for Sir Philip. He would cry just a littlebecause he still loved him, so his wife must bring Williams astrong cup of tea.
'There, there, Arth-thur, you'll soon be meetin' the master; webe old me and you—it can't be long now.'
At which Williams would glare: 'I'm not thinkin' of'eaven—like as not there won't be no 'orses in 'eaven—Iwants the master down 'ere at me stables. Gawd knows they beneedin' a master!'
For now besides Anna's carriage horses, there were only fourinmates of those once fine stables: Raftery and Sir Philip's youngupstanding chestnut, a cob known as James, and the aged Collins whohad taken to vice in senile decay, and persisted in eating hisbedding.
Anna had accepted this radical change quite calmly, as she nowaccepted most things. She hardly ever opposed her daughter thesedays in matters concerning Morton. But the burden of arranging thesale had been Stephen's; one by one she had said good-bye to thehunters, one by one she had watched them led out of the yard, witha lump in her throat that had almost choked her, and when they weregone she had turned back to Raftery for comfort.
'Oh, Raftery, I'm so unregenerate—I minded so terriblyseeing them go! Don't let's look at their empty boxes—'
2
Another year passed and Stephen was twenty-one, a rich,independent woman. At any time now she could go where she chose,could do entirely as she listed. Puddle remained at her post; shewas waiting a little grimly for something to happen. But nothingmuch happened, beyond the fact that Stephen now dressed intailor-made clothes to which Anna had perforce to withdraw heropposition. Yet life was gradually reasserting its claims on thegirl, which was only natural, for the young may not be deliveredover to the dead, nor to grief that refuses consolation. She stillmourned her father, she would always mourn him, but at twenty-onewith a healthful body, there came a day when she noticed thesunshine, when she smelt the good earth and was thankful for it,when she suddenly knew herself to be alive and was glad, in despiteof death.
On one such morning early that June, Stephen drove her car intoUpton. She was meaning to cash a cheque at the bank, she wasmeaning to call at the local saddler's, she was meaning to buy anew pair of gloves—in the end, however, she did none of thesethings.
It was outside the butcher's that the dog fight started. Thebutcher owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had takenup his post in the doorway of the shop, as had long been hiscustom. Down the street, on trim but belligerent tiptoes, came avery small, snow-white West Highland terrier; perhaps he waslooking for trouble, and if so he certainly got it in less than twominutes. His yells were so loud that Stephen stopped the car andturned round in her seat to see what was happening. The butcher ranout to swell the confusion by shouting commands that no one obeyed;he was trying to grasp his dog by the tail which was short and notat all handy for grasping. And then, as it seemed from nowhere atall there suddenly appeared a very desperate young woman; she wascarrying her parasol as though it were a lance with which sheintended to enter the battle. Her wails of despair rose above thedog's yells:
'Tony! My Tony! Won't anyone stop them? My dog's being killed,won't any of you stop them?' And she actually tried to stop themherself, though the parasol broke at the first encounter.
But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, moreover,the Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out of thecar—it seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbedthe old rip by the scruff of the neck, while the butcher dashed offfor a bucket of water. The desperate young woman seized her dog bya leg; she pulled, Stephen pulled, they both pulled together. ThenStephen gave a punishing twist which distracted the Airedale, hewanted to bite her; having only one mouth he must let go of Tony,who was instantly clasped to his owner's bosom. The butcher arrivedon the scene with his bucket while Stephen was still clinging tothe Airedale's collar.
'I'm so sorry, Miss Gordon, I do hope you're not hurt?'
'I'm all right. Here, take this grey devil and thrash him; he'sno business to eat up a dog half his size.'
Meanwhile, Tony was dripping all over with gore, and hismistress, it seemed, had got herself bitten. She alternatelystruggled to staunch Tony's wounds and to suck her own hand whichwas bleeding freely.
'Better give me your dog and come across to the chemist, yourhand will want dressing,' remarked Stephen.
Tony was instantly put into her arms, with a rather pale smilethat suggested a breakdown.
It's quite all right now,' said Stephen quickly, very muchafraid the young woman meant to cry.
'Will he live, do you think?' inquired a weak voice.
Yes, of course; but your hand—come along to the chemist.''Oh, never mind that, I'm thinking of Tony!'
'He's all right. We'll take him straight off to the vet whenyour hand's been seen to; there's quite a good one.'
The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had beenbitten on two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by thepluck of this stranger, who set her small teeth and endured insilence. The hand bandaged they drove along to the vet, who wasfortunately in and could sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his frontpaws, while his mistress held his head as best she could in her ownmaimed condition She kept pressing his face against her shoulder,presumably so that he should not see the needle.
'Don't look, darling—you mustn't look at it, honey!'Stephen heard her whispering to Tony.
At last he too was carbolicked and bandaged, and Stephen hadtime to examine her companion. It occurred to her that she hadbetter introduce herself, so she said: 'I'm Stephen Gordon.'
And I'm Angela Crossby,' came the reply; 'we've taken TheGrange, just the other side of Upton.'
Angela Crossby was amazingly blonde, her hair was not so muchgolden as silver. She wore it cut short like a mediaeval page; itwas straight, and came just to the lobes of her ears, which at thattime of pompadours and much curling gave her an unusual appearance.Her skin was very white, and Stephen decided that this woman wouldnever have a great deal of colour, nor would her rather wide mouthbe red, it would always remain the tint of pale coral. All thecolour that she had seemed to lie in her eyes, which were large andfringed with long fair lashes. Her eyes were of rather an unusualblue that almost seemed to be tinted with purple, and their candidexpression was that of a child—very innocent it was, atrustful expression. And Stephen as she looked at those eyes feltindignant, remembering the gossip she had heard about theCrossby's.
The Crossby's, as she knew, were deeply resented. He had been animportant Birmingham magnate who had lately retired from somehardware concern, on account of his health, or so ran the gossip.His wife, it was rumoured, had been on the stage in New York, sothat her antecedents were doubtful—no one really knewanything at all about her, but her curious hair gave grounds forsuspicion. An American wife who had been an actress was a very badasset for Crossby. Nor was Crossby himself a prepossessing person;when judged by the county's standards, lie bounded. Moreover heshowed signs of unpardonable meanness. His subscription to the Hunthad been a paltry five guineas. He had written to say that his verypoor health would preclude his hunting, and had actually added thathe hoped the Hunt would keep clear of his coverts! And theneveryone felt a natural resentment that The Grange should have hadto be sacrificed for money—quite a small Tudor house it wasyet very perfect. But Captain Ramsay, its erstwhile owner, had diedrecently, leaving large debts behind him, so his heir, a youngcousin who lived in London, had promptly sold to the first wealthybidder—hence the advent of Mr. Crossby.
Stephen, looking at Angela, remembered these things, but theysuddenly seemed devoid of importance, for now those child-like eyeswere upon her, and Angela was saying: 'I don't know how to thankyou for saving my Tony, it was wonderful of you! If you hadn't beenthere they'd have let him get killed, and I'm just devoted toTony!'
Her voice had the soft, thick drawl of the South, an indolentvoice, very lazy and restful. It was quite new to Stephen, thatsoft Southern drawl, and she found it unexpectedly pleasant. Thenit dawned on the girl that this woman was lovely—she was likesome queer flower that had grown up in darkness, like some rare,pale flower without blemish or stain, and Stephen saidflushing:
'I was glad to help you—I'll drive you back to The Grange,if you'll let me?'
'Why, of course we'll let you,' came the prompt answer. 'Tonysays he'll be most grateful, don't you, Tony?' Tony wagged his tailrather faintly.
Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the car,where he lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the seatbeside herself, helping her carefully as she did so.
Presently Angela said: 'Thanks to Tony I've met you at last;I've been longing to meet you!' And she stared ratherdisconcertingly at Stephen, then smiled as though something she sawhad amused her.
Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet her.Feeling suddenly shy she became suspicious: 'Who told you aboutme?' she asked abruptly.
'Mrs. Antrim, I think—yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She saidyou were such a wonderful rider but that now, for some reason,you'd given up hunting. Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like aman. Do you fence like a man?'
'I don't know,' muttered Stephen.
'Well, I'll tell you whether you do when I've seen you; myfather was quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lotabout fencing in the States—perhaps some day, Miss Gordon,you'll let me see you?'
By now Stephen's face was the colour of a beetroot, and shegripped the wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longingto turn round and look at her companion, the desire to look at herwas almost overwhelming, but even her eyes seemed too stiff tomove, so she gazed at the long dusty road in silence.
'Don't punish the poor, wooden thing that way,' murmured Angela,'it can't help being just wood!' Then she went on talking as thoughto herself: 'What should I have done if that brute had killed Tony?He's a real companion to me on my walks—I don't know what I'ddo if it weren't for Tony, he's such a devoted, cute little fellow,and these days I'm kind of thrown back on my dog—it's amelancholy business walking alone, yet I've always been fond ofwalking—'
Stephen wanted to say: 'But I like walking too; let me come withyou sometimes as well as Tony.' Then suddenly mustering up hercourage, she jerked round in the seat and looked at this woman. Astheir eyes met and held each other for a moment, something vaguelydisturbing stirred in Stephen, so that the car made a dangerousswerve. 'I'm sorry,' she said quickly, 'that was rotten baddriving.'
But Angela did not answer.
3
Ralph Crossby was standing at the open doorway as the car swungup and came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was immaculatelydressed in a grey tweed suit that by rights should have beenshabby. But everything about him looked aggressively new, his veryhair had a quality of newness—it was thin brown hair thatshone as though polished.
'I wonder if he puts it out with his boots,' thought Stephen,surveying him with interest.
He was one of those rather indefinite men, who are neither shortnor tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, good-looking nor actuallyugly. As his wife would have said, had anybody asked her, he wasjust 'plain man,' which exactly described him, for his onlydistinctive features were his newness and the peevish expressionabout his mouth—his mouth was intensely peevish.
When he spoke his high-pitched voice sounded fretful. What onearth have you been doing? It's past two o'clock. I've been waitingsince one, the lunch must be ruined; I do wish you'd try and bepunctual, Angela!' He appeared not to notice Stephen's existence,for he went on nagging as though no one were present. 'Oh, I seethat damn dog of yours has been fighting again, I've a good mind togive him a thrashing; and what in God's name's the matter with yourhand—youdon't mean to say that you've got yourselfbitten? Really, Angela, this is a bit too bad!' His whole mannersuggested a personal grievance.
'Well,' drawled Angela, extending the bandaged hand forinspection, 'I've not been getting manicured, Ralph.' And her voicewas distinctly if gently provoking, so that he winced with quickirritation. Then she seemed quite suddenly to remember Stephen:'Miss Gordon, let me introduce my husband.'
He bowed, and pulling himself together: 'Thank you for drivingmy wife home, Miss Gordon, it was most kind, I'm sure.' But he didnot seem friendly, he kept glaring at Angela's dog-bitten hand, andhis tone, Stephen thought, was distinctly ungracious.
Getting out of the car she started her engine.
'Good-bye,' smiled Angela, holding out her hand, the left one,which Stephen grasped much too firmly. Good-bye—perhaps oneday you'll come to tea. We're on the telephone, Upton 25, ring upand suggest yourself some day quite soon.'
'Thanks awfully, I will,' said Stephen.
4
'Had a breakdown or something?' inquired Puddle brightly, as atthree o'clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom.
'No—but Mrs. Crossby's dog had a fight. She got bitten, soI drove her back to The Grange.'
Puddle pricked up her ears: 'What's she like? I've heardrumours—' 'Well, she's not at all like them,' snappedStephen.
There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, butconsideration does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddlemade a really bad break: 'She's pretty impossible, isn't she,Stephen? They say he unearthed her somewhere in New York; Mrs.Antrim says she was a music-hall actress. I suppose you wereobliged to give her a lift, but be careful, I believe she'sfearfully pushing.'
Stephen flared up like an emotional schoolgirl: 'I'm not goingto discuss her if that's your opinion; Mrs. Crossby is quite asmuch a lady as you are, or any of the others round here, for thatmatter. I'm sick unto death of your beastly gossip.' And turningabruptly she strode from the room.
'Oh, Lord!' murmured Puddle, frowning.
5
That evening Stephen rang up The Grange. 'Is that Upton 25? It'sMiss Gordon speaking—no, no, Miss Gordon, speaking fromMorton. How is Mrs. Crossby and how is the dog? I hope Mrs.Crossby's hand isn't very painful? Yes, of course I'll hold onwhile you go and inquire.' She felt shy, yet unusually daring.
Presently the butler came back and said gravely that Mrs.Crossby had just seen the doctor and had now gone to bed, as herhand was aching, but that Tony felt better and sent his love. Headded: 'Madam says would you come to tea on Sunday? She'd be veryglad indeed if you would.'
And Stephen answered: 'Will you thank Mrs. Crossby and tell herthat I'll certainly come on Sunday.' Then she gave the message allover again, very slowly, with pauses. 'Will—youthank—Mrs. Crossby and tell her—I'll certainlycome—on Sunday. Do you quite understand? Have I made it quiteclear? Say I'm coming to tea on Sunday.'
1
It was only five days till Sunday, yet for Stephen those fivedays seemed like as many years. Every evening now she rang up TheGrange to inquire about Angela's hand and Tony, so that she grewquite familiar with the butler, with his quality of voice, with hishabit of coughing, with the way he hung up the receiver.
She did not stop to analyse her feelings, she only knew that shefelt exultant—for no reason at all she was feeling exultant,very much alive and full of purpose, and she walked for miles aloneon the hills, unable to stay really quiet for a moment. She foundherself becoming acutely observant, and now she discovered allmanner of wonders; the network of veins on the leaves, forinstance, and the delicate hearts of the wild dog-roses, theuncertain shimmering flight of the larks as they fluttered upsinging, close to her feet. But above all she rediscovered thecuckoo—it was June, so the cuckoo had changed hisrhythm—she must often stand breathlessly still to listen:Cuckoo-kook, cuckoo-kook,' all over the hills; and at evening thesongs of blackbirds and thrushes.
Her wanderings would sometimes lead her to the places that sheand Martin had visited together, only now she could think of himwith affection, with toleration, with tenderness even. In a curiousway she now understood him as never before, and in consequencecondoned. It had just been some rather ghastly mistake, hismistake, yet she understood what he must have felt; and thinking ofMartin she might grow rather frightened—what if she shouldever make such a mistake? But the fear would be driven into thebackground by her sense of wellbeing, her fine exultation. The veryearth that she trod seemed exalted, and the green, growing thingsthat sprang out of the earth, and the birds, Cuckoo-kook,' all overthe hills—and at evening the songs of blackbirds andthrushes.
She became much more anxious about her appearance; for fivemornings she studied her face in the glass as shedressed—after all she was not so bad looking. Her hair spoilther a little, it was too thick and long, but she noticed withpleasure that at least it was wavy—then she suddenly admiredthe colour of her hair. Opening cupboard after cupboard she wentthrough her clothes. They were old, for the most part distinctlyshabby. She would go into Malvern that very afternoon and order anew flannel suit at her tailor's. The suit should be grey with alittle white pin stripe, and the jacket, she decided, must have abreast pocket. She would wear a black tie—no, better a greyone to match the new suit with the little white pin stripe. Sheordered not one new suit but three, and she also ordered a pair ofbrown shoes; indeed she spent most of the afternoon in orderingthings for her personal adornment. She heard herself beingridiculously fussy about details, disputing with her tailor overbuttons; disputing with her boot-maker over the shoes, theirthickness of sole, their amount of broguing; disputing regardingthe match of her ties with the young man who sold her handkerchiefsand neckties—for such trifles had assumed an enormousimportance; she had, in fact, grown quite long-winded aboutthem.
That evening she showed her smart neckties to Puddle, whosemanner was most unsatisfactory—she grunted.
And now someone seemed to be always near Stephen, someone forwhom these things were accomplished—the purchase of the threenew suits, the brown shoes, the six carefully chosen, expensiveneckties. Her long walks on the hills were a part of this person,as were also the hearts of the wild dog-roses, the delicate networkof veins on the leaves and the queer June break in the cuckoo'srhythm. The night with its large summer stars and its silence, waspregnant with a new and mysterious purpose, so that lying at themercy of that age-old purpose, Stephen would feel little shivers ofpleasure creeping out of the night and into her body. She would getup and stand by the open window, thinking always of AngelaCrossby.
2
Sunday came and with it church in the morning; then twointerminable hours after lunch, during which Stephen changed hernecktie three times, and brushed back her thick chestnut hair withwater, and examined her shoes for imaginary dust, and finally gavea hard rub to her nails with a nail pad snatched brusquely awayfrom Puddle.
When the moment for departure arrived at last, she said rathertentatively to Anna: 'Aren't you going to call on the Crossbys,Mother?'
Anna shook her head: 'No, I can't do that, Stephen—I gonowhere these days; you know that, my dear.'
But her voice was quite gentle, so Stephen said quickly: 'Well,then, may I invite Mrs. Crossby to Morton?'
Anna hesitated a moment, then she nodded: 'I supposeso—that is if you really wish to.'
The drive only took about twenty minutes, for now Stephen was sonervous that she positively flew. She who had been puffed up withelation and self-satisfaction was crumbling completely—inspite of her careful new necktie she was crumbling at the merethought of Angela Crossby. Arrived at The Grange she felt overlife-size; her hands seemed enormous, all out of proportion, andshe thought that the butler stared at her hands.
'Miss Gordon?' he inquired.
'Yes,' she mumbled, 'Miss Gordon.' Then he coughed as he did onthe telephone, and quite suddenly Stephen felt foolish.
She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long, opencasements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple-wood burnton the hearth, in spite of the act that the weather was warm, forAngela was always inclined to feel chilly—the result, so shesaid, of the English climate. The fire gave off rather a sweet,pungent odour—the odour of slightly damp logs and dry ashes.By way of a really propitious beginning, Tony barked until henearly burst his stitches, so that Angela, who was lying on thelounge, had perforce to get up in order to soothe him. An extremelyround bullfinch in an ornate brass cage was piping a tune with hiswings half extended. The tune sounded something like 'Pop goes theweasel.' At all events it was an impudent tune, and Stephen feltthat she hated that bullfinch. It took all of five minutes to calmdown Tony, during which Stephen stood apologetic but tongue-tied.She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry at this very ridiculousanti-climax.
Then Angela decided the matter by laughing: 'I'm so sorry, MissGordon, he's feeling peevish. It's quite natural, poor lamb, he hada bad night, he just hates being all sewn up like a bolster.'
Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony nowlicked, so that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela hadtorn her dress, and this seemed to distress her—she keptfingering the tear. 'Can I help?' inquired Stephen, hoping she'dsay no—which she did, quite firmly, after one look atStephen.
At last Angela settled down again on the lounge. 'Come and sitover here,' she suggested, smiling. Then Stephen sat down on theedge of a chair as though she were sitting in the PricklyCradle.
She forgot to inquire about Angela's dog-bite, though thebandaged hand was placed on a cushion; and she also forgot toadjust her new necktie, which in her emotion had slipped slightlycrooked. A thousand times in the last few days had she carefullyrehearsed this scene of their meeting, making up long and elaboratespeeches; assuming, in her mind, many dignified poses; and yetthere she sat on the edge of a chair as though it were the PricklyCradle.
And now Angela was speaking in her soft, Southern drawl: 'Soyou've found your way here at last,' she was saying. And then,after a pause: 'I'm so glad, Miss Gordon, do you know that yourcoming has given me real pleasure?'
Stephen said: 'Yes—oh, yes—' Then fell silent again,apparently intent on the carpet.
'Have I dropped my cigarette ash or something?' inquired herhostess, whose mouth twitched a little.
'I don't think so,' murmured Stephen, pretending to look, thenglancing up sideways at the impudent bullfinch.
The bullfinch was now being sentimental; he piped very low andwith great expression. 'O, Tannenbaum, O, Tannenbaum, wie grünsind Deine Natter,' he piped, hopping rather heavily from perch toperch, with one beady black orb fixed on Stephen.
Then Angela said: 'It's a curious thing, but I feel as thoughI've known you for ages. I don't want to behave as though we werestrangers—do you think that's very American of me? Ought I tobe formal and stand-offish and British? I will if you say so, but Idon't feel British.' And her voice, although quite steady andgrave, was somehow distinctly suggestive of laughter.
Stephen lifted troubled eyes to her face: 'I want very much tobe your friend if you'll have me,' she said; and then she flusheddeeply.
Angela held out her undamaged hand which Stephen took, but ingreat trepidation. Barely had it lain in her own for a moment, whenshe clumsily gave it back to its owner. Then Angela looked at herhand.
Stephen thought: 'Have I done something rude or awkward?' Andher heart thumped thickly against her side. She wanted to retrievethe lost hand and stroke it, but unfortunately it was now strokingTony. She sighed, and Angela, hearing that sigh, glanced up, asthough in inquiry.
The butler arrived, bringing in the tea.
Sugar?' asked Angela.
'No, thanks,' said Stephen; then she suddenly changed her mindthree lumps, please,' she had always detested tea withoutsugar.
The tea was too hot; it burnt her mouth badly. She grew scarletand her eyes began to water. To cover her confusion she swallowedmore tea, while Angela looked tactfully out of the window. But whenshe considered it safe to turn round, her expression, althoughstill faintly amused, had something about it that was tender.
And now she exerted all her subtlety and skill to make thisqueer guest of hers talk more freely, and Angela's subtlety was nomean thing, neither was her skill if she chose to exert it. Verygradually the girl became more at her ease; it was uphill work butAngela triumphed, so that in the end Stephen talked about Morton,and a very little about herself also. And somehow, although Stephenappeared to be talking, she found that she was learning many thingsabout her hostess; for instance, she learnt that Angela was lonelyand very badly in need of her friendship. Most of Angela's troublesseemed to centre round Ralph, who was not always kind and seldomagreeable. Remembering Ralph she could well believe this, and shesaid:
'I don't think your husband liked me.'
Angela sighed: Very probably not. Ralph never likes the people Ido; he objects to my friends on principle, I think.'
Then Angela talked more openly of Ralph. Just now he was stayingaway with his mother, but next week he would be returning to TheGrange, and then he was certain to be disagreeable: 'Whenever he'sbeen with his mother he's that way—she puts him against me, Inever know why—unless, of course, it's because I'm notEnglish. I'm the stranger within the gates, it may be that.' Andwhen Stephen protested, 'Oh, yes indeed, I'm quite often made tofeel like a stranger. Take the people round here, do you think theylike me?'
And Stephen, who had not yet learnt to dissemble, stared hard ather shoes, in embarrassed silence.
Just outside the door a dock boomed seven. Stephen started; shehad been there nearly three hours. 'I must go,' she said, gettingabruptly to her feet, 'you look tired, I've been making avisitation.'
Her hostess made no effort to retain her: 'Well,' she smiled,'come again, please come very often—that is if you won't findit dull, Miss Gordon; we're terribly quiet here at The Grange.'
3
Stephen drove home slowly, for now that it was over she feltlike a machine that had suddenly run down. Her nerves were relaxed,she was thoroughly tired, yet she rather enjoyed this unusualsensation. The hot June evening was heavy with thunder. Fromsomewhere in the distance came the bleating of sheep, and themelancholy sound seemed to blend and mingle with her mood, whichwas now very gently depressed. A gentle but persistent sense ofdepression enveloped her whole being like a soft, grey cloak; andshe did not wish to shake off this cloak, but rather to fold itmore closely around her.
At Morton she stopped the car by the lakes and sat staringthrough the trees at the glint of water. For a long while she satthere without knowing why, unless it was that she wished toremember. But she found that she could not even be certain of thekind of dress that Angela had worn—it had been of some softstuff, that much she remembered, so soft that it had easily torn,for the rest her memories of it were vague—though she verymuch wanted to remember that dress.
A faint rumble of thunder came out of the west, where the cloudswere banking up ominously purple. Some uncertain and ratherhysterical swallows flew high and then low at the sound of thethunder. Her sense of depression was now much less gentle, itincreased every moment, turning to sadness. She was sad in spiritand mind and body—her body felt dejected, she was sad allover. And now someone was whistling down by the stables, oldWilliams, she suspected, for the whistle was tuneless. The loss ofhis teeth had disgruntled his whistle; yes, she was sure that mustbe Williams. A horse whinnied as one bucket clanked againstanother—sounds came dearly this evening; they were wateringthe horses. Anna's young carriage horses would be pawing theirstraw, impatient because they were feeling thirsty.
Then a gate slammed. That would be the gate of the meadow wherethe heifers were pastured—it was yellow with king-cups. Oneof the men from the home farm was going his rounds, securing allgates before sunset. Something dropped on the bonnet of the carwith a ping. Looking up she met the eyes of a squirrel; he wasleaning well forward on his tiny front paws, peering crossly; hehad dropped his nut on the bonnet. She got out of the car andretrieved his supper, throwing it under his tree while he waited.Like a flash he was down and then back on his tree, devouring thenut with his legs well straddled.
All around were the homely activities of evening, the wateringof horses, the care of cattle—pleasant, peaceable things thatpreceded the peace and repose of the coming nightfall. And suddenlyStephen longed to share them, an immense need to share them leaptup within her, so that she ached with this urgent longing that wassomehow a part of her bodily dejection.
She drove on and left the car at the stables, then walked roundto the house, and when she got there she opened the door of thestudy and went in, feeling terribly lonely without her father.Sitting down in the old arm-chair that had survived him, she lether head rest where his head had rested; and her hands she laid onthe arms of the chair where his hands, as she knew, had lain timeswithout number. Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize his face,his kind face that had sometimes looked anxious; but the picturecame slowly and faded at once, for the dead must often give placeto the living. It was Angela Crossby's face that persisted asStephen sat in her father's old chair.
4
In the small panelled room that gave on to the herb-garden,Angela yawned as she stared through the window; then she suddenlylaughed out loud at her thoughts; then she suddenly frowned andspoke crossly to Tony.
She could not get Stephen out of her mind, and this irritatedwhile it amused her. Stephen was so large to be tongue-tied andfrightened—a curious creature, not devoid of attraction. In away—her own way—she was almost handsome; no, quitehandsome; she had fine eyes and beautiful hair. And her body wassupple like that of an athlete—narrow-hipped and wideshouldered, she should fence very well. Angela was anxious to seeher fence; she must certainly try to arrange it somehow.
Mrs. Antrim had conveyed a number of things, while actuallysaying very little; but Angela had no need of her hints, not nowthat she had come to know Stephen Gordon. And because she was idle,discontented and bored, and certainly not over-burdened withvirtue, she must let her thoughts dwell unduly on this girl, whileher curiosity kept pace with her thoughts.
Tony stretched and whimpered, so Angela kissed him, then she satdown and wrote quite a short little letter: 'Do come over to lunchthe day after tomorrow and advise me about the garden,' ran theletter. And it ended—after one or two casual remarks aboutgardens—with: 'Tony saysplease come, Stephen!'
1
On a beautiful evening three weeks later, Stephen took Angelaover Morton. They had had tea with Anna and Puddle, and Anna hadbeen coldly polite to this friend of her daughter's, but Puddle'smanner had been rather resentful—she deeply mistrusted AngelaCrossby. But now Stephen was free to show Angela Morton, and thisshe did gravely, as though something sacred were involved in thisfirst introduction to her home, as though Morton itself must feelthat the coming of this small, fair-haired woman was in some waymomentous. Very gravely, then, they went over the house—eveninto Sir Philip's old study.
From the house they made their way to the stables, and stillgrave, Stephen told her friend about Raftery. Angela listened,assuming an interest she was very far from feeling—she wastimid of horses, but she liked to hear the girl's rather gruffvoice, such an earnest young voice, it intrigued her. She wasthoroughly frightened when Raftery sniffed her and then blewthrough his nostrils as though disapproving, and she started backwith a sharp exclamation, so that Stephen slapped him on his glossygrey shoulder: 'Stop it, Raftery, come up!' And Raftery, disgusted,went and blew on his oats to express his hurt feelings.
They left him and wandered away through the gardens, and quitesoon poor Raftery was almost forgotten, for the gardens smeltsoftly of night-scented stock, and of other pale flowers that smellsweetest at evening, and Stephen was thinking that Angela Crossbyresembled such flowers—very fragrant and pale she was, soStephen said to her gently: 'You seem to belong to Morton.'
Angela smiled a slow, questioning smile: 'You think so,Stephen?' And Stephen answered: 'I do, because Morton and I areone,' and she scarcely understood the portent of her words; butAngela, understanding, spoke quickly:
'Oh, I belong nowhere—you forget I'm the stranger.'
'I know that you're you,' said Stephen.
They walked on in silence while the light changed and deepened,growing always more golden and yet more elusive. And the birds, wholoved that strange light, sang singly and then all together: 'We'rehappy, Stephen!'
And turning to Angela, Stephen answered the birds: 'Your beinghere makes me so happy.'
'If that's true, then why are you so shy of my name?'
'Angela—' mumbled Stephen.
Then Angela said: 'It's just over three weeks since wemet—how quickly our friendship's happened. I suppose it wasmeant, I believe in Kismet. You were awfully scared that first dayat The Grange; why were you so scared?'
Stephen answered slowly: 'I'm frightened now—I'mfrightened of you.'
'Yet you're stronger than I am—'
Yes, that's why I'm so frightened, you make me feelstrong—do you want to do that?'
Well—perhaps—you're so very unusual, Stephen.'
'Am I?'
'Of course, don't you know that you are? Why, you're altogetherdifferent from other people.'
Stephen trembled a little: 'Do you mind?' she faltered.
'I know that you're you,' teased Angela, smiling again, but shereached out and took Stephen's hand.
Something in the queer, vital strength of that hand stirred herdeeply, so that she tightened her fingers: What in the Lord's nameare you?' she murmured.
'I don't know. Go on holding like that to my hand—hold ittighter—I like the feel of your fingers.'
Stephen, don't be absurd!'
'Go on holding my hand, I like the feel of your fingers.''Stephen, you're hurting, you're crushing my rings!'
And now they were under the trees by the lakes, their feetfalling softly on the luminous carpet. Hand in hand they enteredthat place of deep stillness, and only their breathing disturbedthe stillness for a moment, then it folded back over theirbreathing.
'Look,' said Stephen, and she pointed to the swan called Peter,who had come drifting past on his own white reflection. 'Look,' shesaid, 'this is Morton, all beauty and peace—it drifts likethat swan does, on calm, deep water. And all this beauty and peaceis for you, because now you're a part of Morton.'
Angela said: 'I've never known peace, it's not in me—Idon't think I'd find it here, Stephen.' And as she spoke shereleased her hand, moving a little away from the girl.
But Stephen continued to talk on gently; her voice soundedalmost like that of a dreamer: 'Lovely, oh, lovely it is, ourMorton. On evenings in winter these lakes are quite frozen, and theice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come andstand here in the winter. And as we walk back we can smell the logfires long before we can see them, and we love that good smellbecause it means home, and our home is Morton—and we'rehappy, happy—we're utterly contented and at peace, we'refilled with the peace of this place—'
'Stephen—don't!'
'We're both filled with the old peace of Morton, because we loveeach other so deeply—and because we're perfect, a perfectthing, you and I—not two separate people but one. And ourlove has lit a great, comforting beacon, so that we need never beafraid of the dark any more—we can warm ourselves at ourlove, we can lie down together, and my arms will be roundyou—'
She broke off abruptly, and they stared at each other.
'Do you know what you're saying?' Angela whispered.
And Stephen answered: 'I know that I love you, and that nothingelse matters in the world.'
Then, perhaps because of that glamorous evening, with its spiritof queer, unearthly adventure, with its urge to strange,unendurable sweetness, Angela moved a step nearer to Stephen, thenanother, until their hands were touching. And all that she was, andall that she had been and would be again, perhaps even tomorrow,was fused at that moment into one mighty impulse, one imperativeneed, and that need was Stephen. Stephen's need was now hers, bysheer force of its blind and uncomprehending will toappeasement.
Then Stephen took Angela into her arms, and she kissed her fullon the lips, as a lover.
1
Through the long years of life that followed after, bringingwith them their dreams and disillusions, their joys and sorrows,their fulfilments and frustrations, Stephen was never to forgetthis summer when she fell quite simply and naturally in love, inaccordance with the dictates of her nature.
To her there seemed nothing strange or unholy in the love thatshe felt for Angela Crossby. To her it seemed an inevitable thing,as much a part of herself as her breathing; and yet it appearedtranscendent of self, and she looked up and onwards towards herlove—for the eyes of the young are drawn to the stars, andthe spirit of youth is seldom earth-bound.
She loved deeply, far more deeply than many a one who couldfearlessly proclaim himself a lover. Since this is a hard and sadtruth for the telling; those whom nature has sacrificed to herends—her mysterious ends that often lie hidden—aresometimes endowed with a vast will to loving, with an endlesscapacity for suffering also, which must go hand in hand with theirlove.
But at first Stephen's eyes were drawn to the stars, and she sawonly gleam upon gleam of glory. Her physical passion for AngelaCrossby had aroused a strange response in her spirit, so that sideby side with every hot impulse that led her at times beyond her ownunderstanding, there would come an impulse not of the body; a fine,selfless thing of great beauty and courage—she would gladlyhave given her body over to torment, have laid down her life ifneed be, for the sake of this woman whom she loved. And so blindedwas she by those gleams of glory which the stars fling into theeyes of young lovers, that she saw perfection where none existed;saw a patient endurance that was purely fictitious, and conceivedof a loyalty far beyond the limits of Angela's nature.
All that Angela gave seemed the gift of love; all that Angelawithheld seemed withheld out of honour: 'If only I were free,' shewas always saying, 'but I can't deceive Ralph, you know I can't,Stephen—he's ill.' Then Stephen would feel abashed andashamed before so much pity and honour.
She would humble herself to the very dust, as one who wasaltogether unworthy: 'I'm a beast, forgive me; I'm all, allwrong—I'm mad sometimes these days—yes, of course,there's Ralph.'
But the thought of Ralph would be past all bearing, so that shemust reach out for Angela's hand. Then, as likely as not, theywould draw together and start kissing, and Stephen would be utterlyundone by those painful and terribly sterile kisses.
'God!' she would mutter, 'I want to get away!'
At which Angela might weep: 'Don't leave me, Stephen! I'm solonely—why can't you understand that I'm only trying to bedecent to Ralph?' So Stephen would stay on for an hour, for twohours, and the next day would find her once more at The Grange,because Angela was feeling so lonely.
For Angela could never quite let the girl go. She herself wouldbe rather bewildered at moments—she did not love Stephen, shewas quite sure of that, and yet the very strangeness of it all wasan attraction. Stephen was becoming a kind of strong drug, a kindof anodyne against boredom. And then Angela knew her own power tosubdue; she could play with fire yet remain unscathed by it. Shehad only to cry long and bitterly enough for Stephen to growpitiful and consequently gentle.
'Stephen, don't hurt me—I'm awfully frightened when you'relike this—you simply terrify me, Stephen! Is it my fault thatI married Ralph before I met you? Be good to me, Stephen!' And thenwould come tears, so that Stephen must hold her as though she werea child, very tenderly, rocking her backwards and forwards.
They took to driving as far as the hills, taking Tony with them;he liked hunting the rabbits—and while he leapt wildly aboutin the air to land on nothing more vital than herbage, they wouldsit very close to each other and watch him. Stephen knew manyplaces where lovers might sit like this, unashamed, among thosecharitable hills. There were times when a numbness descended uponher as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her cheek lightly, shewould not respond, would not even look round, but would just go onstaring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt queerly uplifted, andturning to the woman who leant against her shoulder, she saidsuddenly one day:
'Nothing matters up here. You and I are so small, we're smallerthan Tony—our love's nothing but a drop in some vast sea oflove—it's rather consoling—don't you think so,beloved?'
But Angela shook her head: 'No, my Stephen; I'm not fond of vastseas, I'm of the earth earthy,' and then: 'Kiss me, Stephen.' SoStephen must kiss her many times, for the hot blood of youth stirsquickly, and the mystical sea became Angela's lips that so eagerlygave and took kisses.
But when they got back to The Grange that evening, Ralph wasthere—he was hanging about in the hall. He said: 'Had a niceafternoon, you two women? Been motoring Angela round the hills,Stephen, or what?'
He had taken to calling her Stephen, but his voice just nowsounded sharp with suspicion as his rather weak eyes peered atAngela, so that for her sake Stephen must lie, and liewell—nor would this be the first time either.
'Yes, thanks,' she lied calmly, 'we went over to Tewkesbury andhad another look at the abbey. We had tea in the town. I'm sorrywe're so late, the carburettor choked, I couldn't get it right atfirst, my car needs a good overhauling.'
Lies, always lies! She was growing proficient at the glib kindof lying that pacified Ralph, or at all events left him withnothing to say, nonplussed and at a distinct disadvantage. She wassuddenly seized with a kind of horror, she felt physically sick atwhat she was doing, Her head swam and she caught the jamb of thedoor for support—at that moment she remembered herfather.
2
Two days later as they sat alone in the garden at Morton,Stephen turned to Angela abruptly: 'I can't go on like this, it'svile—it's beastly, it's soiling us both—can't you seethat?'
Angela was startled: 'What on earth do you mean?'
'You and me—and then Ralph. I tell you it'sbeastly—I want you to leave him and come away with me.'
'Are you mad?'
'No, I'm sane. It's the only decent thing, it's the only cleanthing; we'll go anywhere you like, to Paris, to Egypt, or back tothe States. For your sake I'm ready to give up my home. Do you hearI'm ready to give up even Morton. But I can't go on lying about youto Ralph, I want him to know how much I adore you—I want thewhole world to know how I adore you. Ralph doesn't understand thefirst rudiments of loving, he's a nagging, mean-minded cur of aman, but there's one thing that even he has a right to, and that'sthe truth. I'm done with these lies—I shall tell him thetruth and so will you, Angela; and after we've told him we'll goaway, and we'll live quite openly together, you and I, which iswhat we owe to ourselves and our love.'
Angela stared at her, white and aghast: 'You are mad,' she saidslowly, 'you're raving mad. Tell him what? Have I let you become mylover? You know that I've always been faithful to Ralph; you knowperfectly well that there's nothing to tell him, beyond a fewrather schoolgirlish kisses. Can I help it if you're—what youobviously are? Oh, no, my dear, you're not going to tell Ralph.You're not going to let all hell loose around me just because youwant to save your own pride by pretending to Ralph that you've beenmy lover. If you're willing to give up your home I'm not willing tosacrifice mine, understand that, please. Ralph's not much of a man,but he's better than nothing, and I've managed him so far withoutany trouble. The great thing with him is to blaze a false trail,that distracts his mind, it works like a charm. He'll follow anytrail that I want him to follow—you leave him to me, I knowmy own husband a darned sight better than you do, Stephen, and Iwon't have you interfering in my home.' She was terriblyfrightened, too frightened to choose her words to consider theireffect upon Stephen, to consider anyone but Angela Crossby whostood in such dire and imminent peril. So she said yet again, onlynow she spoke loudly: 'I won't have you interfering in myhome!'
Then Stephen turned on her, white with passion:'You—you—' she stuttered, 'you're unspeakably cruel.You know how you make me suffer and suffer because I love you theway I do; and because you like the way I love you, you drag thelove out of me day after day—Can't you understand that I loveyou so much that I'd give up Morton? Anything I'd give up—I'dgive up the whole world. Angela, listen; I'd take care of youalways. Angela, I'm rich—I'd take care of you always. Whywon't you trust me? Answer me—why? Don't you think me fit tobe trusted?'
She spoke wildly, scarcely knowing what she said; she only knewthat she needed this woman with a need so intense, that worthy orunworthy, Angela was all that counted at that moment. And now shestood up, very tall, very strong, yet a little grotesque in herpitiful passion, so that looking at her Angela trembled—therewas something rather terrible about her. All that was heavy in herface sprang into view, the strong line of the jaw, the squaremassive brow, the eyebrows too thick and too wide for beauty; shewas like some curious, primitive thing conceived in a turbulent ageof transition.
'Angela, come very far away—anywhere, only come with mesoon—tomorrow.'
Then Angela forced herself to think quickly, and she said justfive words: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?'
She did not look at the girl as she said it—that she couldnot do, perhaps out of something that, for her, was the nearest shewould ever come to pity. There ensued a long, almost breathlesssilence, while Angela waited with her eyes turned away. A leafdropped, and she heard its minute, soft falling, heard the creak ofthe branch that had let fall its leaf as a breeze passed over thegarden.
Then the silence was broken by a quiet, dull voice, that soundedto her like the voice of a stranger: 'No—' it said veryslowly, 'no—I couldn't marry you, Angela.' And when Angela atlast gained the courage to look up, she found that she was sittingthere alone.
1
For three weeks they kept away from each other, neither writingnor making any effort to meet. Angela's prudence forbade her towrite: 'Littera scripta manet'—a good motto, and one to whichit was wise to adhere when dealing with a firebrand like Stephen.Stephen had given her a pretty bad scare, she realized thenecessity for caution; still, thinking over that incredible scene,she found the memory rather exciting. Deprived of her anodyneagainst boredom, she looked upon Ralph with unfriendly eyes; whilehe, poor, inadequate, irritable devil, with his vague suspicionsand his chronic dyspepsia, did little enough to divert hiswife—his days and a fairly large part of his nights as well,were now spent in nagging.
He nagged about Tony who, as ill luck would have it, had decidedthat the garden was rampant with moles: 'If you can't keep thatbloody dog in order, he goes. I won't have him digging cratersround my roses!' Then would come a long list of Tony's misdeedsfrom the time he had left the litter. He nagged about the largepopulation of green-fly, deploring the existence of their sexualorgans: 'Nature's a fool! Fancy procreation being extended to thatsort of vermin!' And then he would grow somewhat coarse as he dwelton the frequent conjugal excesses of green-fly. But most of all henagged about Stephen, because this as he knew, irritated his wife:'How's your freak getting on? I haven't seen her just lately; haveyou quarrelled or what? Damn good thing if you have. She'sappalling; never saw such a girl in my life; comes swaggering roundhere with her legs in breeches. Why can't she ride like an ordinarywoman? Good Lord, it's enough to make any man see red; that sort ofthing wants putting down at birth, I'd like to institute statelethal chambers!'
Or perhaps he would take quite another tack and complain thatrecently he had been neglected: 'Late for every damnedmeal—running round with that girl—you don't care whathappens to me any more. A lot you care about my indigestion! I'vegot to eat any old thing these days from cow hide to bricks. Well,you listen to me, that's not what I pay for; get that into yourhead! I pay for good meals to be served on time;on time, doyou hear? And I expect my wife to be in her rightful place at mytable to see that the omelette's properly prepared. What's thematter with you that you can't go along and make it yourself? Whenwe were first married you always made my omelettes yourself: Iwon't eat yellow froth with a few strings of parsley in it—itreminds me of the dog when he's sick; it's disgusting! And I won'tgo on talking about it either, the next time it happens I'll sackthe cook. Damn it all, you were glad enough of my help when I foundyou practically starving in New York—but now you're for everracing off with that girl. It's all this damned animal's fault thatyou met her!' He would kick out sideways at the terrified Tony, whohad lately been made to stand proxy for Stephen.
But worst of all was it when Ralph started weeping, because, ashe said, his wife did not love him any more, and because, as he didnot always say, he felt ill with his painful, chronic dyspepsia.One day he must make feeble love through his tears: 'Angela, comehere—put your arms around me—come and sit on my kneethe way you used to.' His wet eyes looked dejected yet rathergreedy: 'Put your arms around me, as though you cared—' Hewas always insistent when most ineffectual.
That night he appeared in his best silk pyjamas—the pinkones that made his complexion look sallow. He climbed into bed withthe sly expression that Angela hated—it was so pornographic.'Well, old girl, don't forget that you've got a man about thehouse; you haven't forgotten it, have you?' After which followedone or two flaccid embraces together with much arrogant masculinebragging; and Angela, sighing as she lay and endured, quitesuddenly thought of Stephen.
2
Pacing restlessly up and down her bedroom, Stephen would bethinking of Angela Crossby—haunted, tormented by Angela'swords that day in the garden: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?' andthen by those other pitiless words: 'Can I help it ifyou're—what you obviously are?'
She would think with a kind of despair: What am I, in God'sname—some kind of abomination?' And this thought would fillher with a very great anguish, because, loving much, her loveseemed to her sacred. She could not endure that the slur of thosewords should come anywhere near her love. So now night after nightshe must pace up and down, beating her mind against a blindproblem, beating her spirit against a blank wall—theimpregnable wall of non-comprehension: 'Why am I as I am—andwhat am I?' Her mind would recoil while her spirit grew faint. Agreat darkness would seem to descend on her spirit—therewould be no light wherewith to lighten that darkness.
She would think of Martin, for now surely she loved just as hehad loved—it all seemed like madness. She would think of herfather, of his comfortable words: 'Don't be foolish, there'snothing strange about you.' Oh, but he must have been pitifullymistaken—he had died still very pitifully mistaken. She wouldthink yet again of her curious childhood, going over each detail inan effort to remember. But after a little her thoughts must plungeforward once more, right into her grievous present. With a shockshe would realize how completely this coming of love had blindedher vision; she had stared at the glory of it so long that notuntil now had she seen its black shadow. Then would come the mostpoignant suffering of all, the deepest, the final humiliation.Protection—she could never offer protection to the creatureshe loved: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?' She could neither protectnor defend nor honour by loving; her hands were completely empty.She who would gladly have given her life, must go empty-handed tolove, like a beggar. She could only debase what she longed toexalt, defile what she longed to keep pure and untarnished.
The night would gradually change to dawn; and the dawn wouldshine in at the open windows, bringing with it the intolerablesinging of birds: 'Stephen, look at us, look at us, we're happy!'Away in the distance there would be a harsh crying, the wild, harshcrying of swans by the lakes—the swan called Peterprotecting, defending his mate against some unwelcome intruder.From the chimneys of Williams' comfortable cottage smoke wouldrise—very dark—the first smoke of the morning. Home,that meant home and two people together, respected because of theirhonourable living. Two people who had had the right to love intheir youth, and whom old age had not divided. Two poor and yetinfinitely enviable people, without stain, without shame in theeyes of their fellows. Proud people who could face the worldunafraid, having no need to fear the world's execration.
Stephen would fling herself down on the bed, completelyexhausted by the night's bitter vigil.
3
There was someone who went every step of the way with Stephenduring those miserable weeks, and this was the faithful and anxiousPuddle, who could have given much wise advice had Stephen onlyconfided in her. But Stephen hid her trouble in her heart for thesake of Angela Crossby.
With an ever-increasing presage of disaster, Puddle now stuck tothe girl like a leech, getting little enough in return for hertrouble—Stephen deeply resented this close supervision:'Can't you leave me alone? No, of course I'm not ill!' she wouldsay, with a quick spurt of temper.
But Puddle, divining her illness of spirit together with itscause, seldom left her alone. She was frightened by something inStephen's eyes; an incredulous, questioning, wounded expression, asthough she were trying to understand why it was that she must be sogrievously wounded. Again and again Puddle cursed her own folly forhaving shown such open resentment of Angela Crossby; the result wasthat now Stephen never discussed her, never mentioned her nameunless Puddle clumsily dragged it in, and then Stephen would changethe subject. And now more than ever Puddle loathed and despised theconspiracy of silence that forbade her to speak frankly. Theconspiracy of silence that had sent the girl forth unprotected,right into the arms of this woman. A vain, shallow woman in searchof excitement, and caring less than nothing for Stephen.
There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and oneevening she came to a great resolution. She would go to the girland say: 'Iknow. I know all about it, you can trust me,Stephen.' And then she would counsel and try to give courage:'You're neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad; you're as mucha part of what people call nature as anyone else; only you'reunexplained as yet—you've not got your niche in creation. Butsome day that will come, and meanwhile don't shrink from yourself,but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do thebest you can with your burden. But above all be honourable. Clingto your honour for the sake of those others who share the sameburden. For their sakes show the world that people like you andthey can be quite as selfless and fine as the rest of mankind. Letyour life go to prove this—it would be a really greatlife-work, Stephen.'
But the resolution waned because of Anna, who would surely joinhands with the conspiracy of silence. She would never condone suchfearless plain-speaking. If it came to her knowledge she would turnPuddle out bag and baggage, and that would leave Stephen alone. No,she dared not speak plainly because of the girl for whose sake sheshould now, above all, be outspoken. But supposing the day shouldarrive when Stephen herself thought fit to confide in her friend,then Puddle would take the bull by the horns: 'Stephen, Iknow. You can trust me, Stephen.' If only that day were nottoo long in coming—
For none knew better than this little grey woman, the agony ofmind that must be endured when a sensitive, highly organized natureis first brought face to face with its own affliction. None knewbetter the terrible nerves of the invert, nerves that are alwayslying in wait. Super-nerves, whose response is only equalled by thestrain that calls that response into being. Puddle was wellacquainted with these things—that was why she was deeplyconcerned about Stephen.
But all she could do, at least for the present, was to be verygentle and very patient: 'Drink this cocoa, Stephen, I made itmyself—And then with a smile, 'I put four lumps ofsugar!'
Then Stephen was pretty sure to turn contrite: 'Puddle—I'ma brute—you're so good to me always.'
'Rubbish! I know you like cocoa made sweet, that's why I put inthose four lumps of sugar. Let's go for a really long walk, shallwe, dear? I've been wanting a really long walk now for weeks.'
Liar—most kind and self-sacrificing liar! Puddle hatedlong walks, especially with Stephen who strode as though wearingseven league boots and whose only idea of a country walk was totake her own line across ditches and hedges—yes, indeed, amost kind and self-sacrificing liar! For Puddle was not quite soyoung as she had been; at times her feet would trouble her alittle, and at times she would get a sharp twinge in her knee,which she shrewdly suspected to be rheumatism. Nevertheless shemust keep close to Stephen because of the fear that tightened herheart—the fear of that questioning, wounded expression whichnow never left the girl's eyes for a moment. So Puddle got out hermost practical shoes—her heaviest shoes which were said to bedamp-proof—and limped along bravely by the side of hercharge, who as often as not ignored her existence.
There was one thing in all this that Puddle found amazing, andthat was Anna's apparent blindness. Anna appeared to notice nochange in Stephen, to feel no anxiety about her. As always, thesetwo were gravely polite to each other, and as always they neverintruded. Still, it did seem to Puddle an incredible thing that thegirl's own mother should have noticed nothing. And yet so it was,for Anna had gradually been growing more silent and moreabstracted. She was letting the tide of life carry her gentlytowards that haven on which her thoughts rested. And this blindnessof hers troubled Puddle sorely, so that anger must often give wayto pity.
She would think: 'God help her, the sorrowful woman; she knowsnothing—why didn't he tell her? It was cruel!' And then shewould think: 'Yes, but God help Stephen if the day ever comes whenher mother does know—what will happen on that day toStephen?'
Kind and loyal Puddle; she felt torn to shreds between thosetwo, both so worthy of pity. And now in addition she must betormented by memories dug out of their graves byStephen—Stephen, whose pain had called up a dead sorrow thatfor long had lain quietly and decently buried. Her youth would comeback and stare into her eyes reproachfully, so that her finestvirtues would seem little better than dust and ashes. She wouldsigh, remembering the bitter sweetness, the valiant hopelessness ofher youth—and then she would look at Stephen.
But one morning Stephen announced abruptly: 'I'm going out.Don't wait lunch for me, will you.' And her voice permitted of noargument or question.
Puddle nodded in silence. She had no need to question, she knewonly too well where Stephen was going.
4
With head bowed by her mortification of spirit, Stephen rodeonce more to The Grange. And from time to time as she rode sheflushed deeply because of the shame of what she was doing. But fromtime to time her eyes filled with tears because of the pain of herlonging.
She left the cob with a man at the stables, then made her wayround to the old herb-garden; and there she found Angela sittingalone in the shade with a book which she was not reading.
Stephen said: 'I've come back.' And then without waiting: 'I'lldo anything you want, if you'll let me come back.' And even as shespoke those words her eyes fell.
But Angela answered: 'You had to come back—because I'vebeen wanting you, Stephen.'
Then Stephen went and knelt down beside her, and she hid herface against Angela's knee, and the tears that had never so much asonce fallen during all the hard weeks of their separation, gushedout of her eyes. She cried like a child, with her face againstAngela's knee.
Angela let her cry on for a while, then she lifted thetear-stained face and kissed it: 'Oh, Stephen, Stephen, get used tothe world—it's a horrible place full of horrible people, butit's all there is, and we live in it, don't wee So we've just gotto do as the world does, my Stephen.' And because it seemed strangeand rather pathetic that this creature should weep, Angela wasstirred to something very like love for a moment: 'Don't cry anymore—don't cry, honey,' she whispered, 'we're together;nothing else really matters.'
And so it began all over again.
5
Stephen stayed on to lunch, for Ralph was in Worcester. He camehome a good two hours before teatime to find them together amonghis roses; they had followed the shade when it left theherb-garden.
'Oh, it's you!' he exclaimed as his eye lit on Stephen; and hisvoice was naively disappointed, so full of dismay at herreappearance, that just for a second she felt sorry for him.
'Yes, it's me—' she replied, not quite knowing what tosay.
He grunted, and went off for his pruning knife, with which hewas soon amputating roses. But in spite of his mood he remained agood surgeon, cutting dexterously, always above the leaf-bud, forthe man was fond of his roses. And knowing this, Stephen must playon that fondness, since now it was her business to cajole him intofriendship. A degrading business, but it had to be done forAngela's sake, lest she suffer through loving. Unthinkablethat—'Could you marry me, Stephen?'
'Ralph, look here,' she called, 'Mrs. John Laing's got broken!We may be in time if we bind her with bass.'
'Oh, dear, has she?' He came hurrying up as he spoke, 'Do godown to the shed and get me some, will you?'
She got him the bass and together they bound her, thepink-cheeked full-bosomed Mrs. John Laing.
'There,' he said, as he snipped off the ends of her bandage,'that ought to set your leg for you, madam!'
Near by grew a handsome Frau Karl Druschki, and Stephen praisedher luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure at thepraise. He was like a father of beautiful children, always eager tohear them admired by a stranger, and she made a note of this in hermind: 'He likes one to praise his roses.'
He wanted to talk about Frau Karl Druschki: 'She's a beauty!There's something so wonderfully cool—as you say, it's thewhiteness—' Then before he could stop himself: 'She remindsme of Angela, somehow.' The moment the words were out he wasfrowning, and Stephen stared hard at Frau Karl Druschki.
But as they passed from border to border, his brow cleared:'I've spent over three hundred,' he said proudly, 'never saw such amess as this garden was in when I bought the place—had to digin fresh soil for the roses just here, these are all new plants; Imotored half across England to get them. See that hedge of York andLancasters there? They didn't cost much because they're out offashion. But I like them, they're small but rather distinguished Ithink—there's something so armorial about them.'
She agreed: 'Yes, I'm awfully fond of them too,' and shelistened quite gravely while he explained that they dated as farback as the Wars of the Roses.
'Historical, that's what I mean,' he explained. 'I likeeverything old, you know, except women.'
She thought with an inward smile of his newness.
Presently he said in a tone of surprise: 'I never imagined thatyou'd care about roses.'
'Yes, why not? We've got quite a number at Morton. Why don't youcome over tomorrow and see them?'
'Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?' he inquired.
'I think so.'
'Mine don't. I can't make it out. This year of course they'vebeen damaged by green-fly. Just come here and look at thesestandards, will you? They're being devoured alive by the brutes!'And then as though he were talking to a friend who would understandhim: 'Roses seem good to me—you know what I mean, there'svirtue about them—the scent and the feel and the way theygrow. I always had some on the desk in my office, they seemed tobrighten up the whole place, no end.'
He started to ink in the names on the labels with a goldfountain-pen which he took from his pocket. 'Yes,' he murmured, ashe bent his face over the labels, 'yes, I always had three or fouron my desk. But Birmingham's a foul sort of place for roses.'
And hearing him, Stephen found herself thinking that all men hadsomething simple about them; something that took pleasure in thethings that were blameless, that longed, as it were, to contactwith Nature. Martin had loved huge, primitive trees; and even thismean little man loved his roses.
Angela came strolling across the lawn: 'Come, you two,' shecalled gaily, 'tea's waiting in the hall!'
Stephen flinched: 'Come, you two—' the words jarred onher; and she knew that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralphwas out of earshot for a moment she whispered:
'You were clever about his roses!'
At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regrethis erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which madeAngela nervous—she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, whichwere usually accompanied by attacks of bad temper.
Long after they had all finished tea he lingered, until Angelasaid: 'Oh, Ralph, that lawn mower. Pratt asked me to tell you thatit won't work at all; he thinks it had better go back to themakers. Will you write about it now before the post goes?'
'I suppose so—' he muttered; but he left the roomslowly.
Then they looked at each other, and drew close together,guiltily, starting at every sound: 'Stephen—be careful forGod's sake—Ralph—'
So Stephen's hands dropped from Angela's shoulders, and she sether lips hard, for no protest must pass them any more; they had noright to protest.
1
That autumn the Crossbys went, up to Scotland, and Stephen wentto Cornwall with her mother. Anna was not well, she needed achange, and the doctor had told them of Watergate Bay, that was whythey had gone to Cornwall. To Stephen it mattered very little whereshe went, since she was not allowed to join Angela in Scotland.Angela had put her foot down quite firmly: 'No, my dear, itwouldn't do. I know Ralph would make hell. I can't let you followus up to Scotland.' So that there, perforce, the matter hadended.
And now Stephen could sit and gloom over her trouble while Annaread placidly, asking no questions. She seldom worried her daughterwith questions, seldom even evinced any interest in herletters.
From time to time Puddle would write from Morton, and then Annawould say, recognizing the writing: 'Is everything all right?'
And Stephen would answer: 'Yes, Mother, Puddle says everything'sall right.' As indeed it was—at Morton.
But from Scotland news seemed to come very slowly. Stephen'sletters would quite often go unanswered; and what answers shereceived were unsatisfactory, for Angela's caution was a verystrict censor. Stephen herself must write with great care, shediscovered, in order to pacify that censor.
Twice daily she visited the hotel porter, a kind, red-faced manwith a sympathy for lovers.
'Any letters for me?' she would ask, trying hard to appearrather bored at the mere thought of letters.
'No, miss.'
'There's another post in at seven?'
'Yes, miss.'
'Well—thank you.'
She would wander away, leaving the porter to think to himself:'She don't look like a girl as would have a young man, but younever can tell. Anyhow she seems anxious—I do hope it's allright for the poor young lady.' He grew to take a real interest inStephen, and would sometimes talk to his wife about her: 'Have younoticed her, Alice? A queer-looking girl, very tall, wears a collarand tie—you know, mannish. And she seems just to change hersuit of an evening—puts on a dark one—never wearsevening dress. The mother's still a beautiful woman; but thegirl—I dunno, there's something about her—anyhow I'msurprised she's got a young man; though she must have, the way shewatches the posts, I sometimes feel sorry for her.'
But her calls at his office were not always fruitless: 'Anyletters for me?'
'Yes, miss, there's just one.'
He would look at her with a paternal expression, glad enough tothink that her young man had written; and Stephen, divining histhoughts from his face, would feel embarrassed and angry. Snatchingher letters she would hurry to the beach, where the rocks provideda merciful shelter, and where no one seemed likely to lookpaternal, unless it should be an occasional sea-gull.
But as she read, her heart would feel empty; something sharplike a physical pain would go through her: 'Dear Stephen. I'm sorryI've not written before, but Ralph and I have been fearfully busy.We're having a positive social orgy up here, I'm so glad he tookthis large shoot...' That was the sort of thing Angela wrote thesedays—perhaps because of her caution.
However, one morning an unusually long letter arrived, tellingall about Angela's doings: 'By the way, we've met the Antrim boy,Roger. He's been staying with some people that Ralph knows quitewell, the Peacocks, they've got a wonderful old castle; I think Imust have told you about them.' Here followed an elaboratedescription of the castle, together with the ancestral tree of thePeacocks. Then: 'Roger has talked quite a lot about you; he says heused to tease you when you were children. He says that you wantedto fight him one day—that made me laugh awfully, it's so likeyou, Stephen! He's a good-looking person and rather a nice one. Hetells me that his regiment's stationed at Worcester, so I've askedhim to come over to The Grange when he likes. It must be prettydreary, I imagine, in Worcester...
Stephen finished the letter and sat staring at the sea for amoment, after which she got up abruptly. Slipping the letter intoher pocket she buttoned her jacket; she was feeling cold. What sheneeded was a walk, a really long walk. She set out briskly in thedirection of Newquay.
2
During those long, anxious weeks in Cornwall, it was borne in onStephen as never before how wide was the gulf between her and hermother, how completely they two must always stand divided. Yetlooking at Anna's quiet ageing face, the girl would be struckafresh by its beauty, a beauty that seemed to have mollified theyears, to have risen triumphant over time and grief. And now as inthe days of her childhood, that beauty would fill her with a kindof wonder; so calm it was, so assured, so complete—then hermother's deep eyes, blue like distant mountains, and now with thatfar-away look in their blueness, as though they were gazing intothe distance. Stephen's heart would suddenly tighten a little; asense of great loss would descend upon her, together with the senseof not fully understanding just what she had lost or why she hadlost it—she would stare at Anna as a thirsty traveller in thedesert will stare at a mirage of water.
And one evening there came a preposterous impulse—theimpulse to confide in this woman within whose most gracious andperfect body her own anxious body had lain and quickened. Shewanted to speak to that motherhood, to implore, nay, compel itsunderstanding. To say, 'Mother, I need you. I've lost myway—give me your hand to hold in the darkness.' But good God,the folly, the madness of it! The base betrayal of such aconfession! Angela delivered over, betrayed—the unthinkablefolly, the madness of it.
Yet sometimes as Anna and she sat together looking out at themisty Cornish coast-line, hearing the dull, heavy throb of the seaand the calling of sea-gulls the one to the other—as they satthere together it would seem to Stephen that her heart was so fullof Angela Crossby, all the bitterness, all the sweetness of her,that the mother-heart beating close by her own must surely, in itsturn, be stirred to beat faster, for had she not once shelteredunder that heart? And so extreme was her need becoming, that nowshe must often find Anna's cool hand and hold it a moment or two inher own, trying to draw from it some consolation.
But the touch of that cool, pure hand would distress her,causing her spirit to ache with longing for the simple and uprightand honourable things that had served many simple and honourablepeople. Then all that to some might appear uninspiring, would seemto her very fulfilling and perfect. A pair of lovers walking by armin arm just a quiet engaged couple, neither comely nor clever norburdened with riches; just a quiet, engaged couple—would inher envious eyes be invested with a glory and pride passing allunderstanding. For were Angela and she those fortunate lovers, theycould stand before Anna happy and triumphant. Anna, the mother,would smile and speak gently, tolerant because of her own days ofloving. Wherever they went older folk would remember, andremembering would smile on their love and speak gently. To knowthat the whole world was glad of your gladness, must surely bringheaven very near to the world.
One night Anna looked across at her daughter: 'Are you tired, mydear? You seem a bit fagged.'
The question was unexpected, for Stephen was supposed not toknow what it meant to feel fagged, her physical health and strengthwere proverbial. Was it possible then that her mother had divinedat long last her utter weariness of spirit? Quite suddenly Stephenfelt shamelessly childish, and she spoke as a child who wantscomforting.
'Yes, I'm dreadfully tired.' Her voice shook a little; 'I'mtired out—I'm dreadfully tired,' she repeated. With amazementshe heard. herself making this weak bid for pity, and yet she couldnot resist it. Had Anna held out her arms at that moment, she mightsoon have learnt about Angela Crossby.
But instead she yawned: 'It's this air, it's too woolly. I'll bevery glad when we get back to Morton. What's the time? I'm almostasleep already—let's go up to our beds, don't you think so,Stephen?'
It was like a cold douche; and a good thing too for the girl'sself-respect. She pulled herself together: 'Yes, come on, it's pastten. I detest this soft air.' And she flushed, remembering thatweak bid for pity.
3
Stephen left Cornwall without a regret; everything about it hadseemed to her depressing. Its rather grim beauty which at any othertime would have deeply appealed to her virile nature, had but addedto the gloom of those interminable weeks spent apart from AngelaCrossby. For her perturbation had been growing apace, she wasconstantly oppressed by doubts and vague fears; bewildered,uncertain of her own power to hold; uncertain, too, of Angela'swill to be held by this dangerous yet bloodless loving. Herdefrauded body had been troubling her sorely, so that she hadtramped over beach and headland, cursing the strength of the youththat was in her, trying to trample down her hot youth and onlysucceeding in augmenting its vigour.
But now that the ordeal had come to an end at last, she began tofeel less despondent. In a week's time Angela would get back fromScotland; then at least the hunger of the eyes could beappeased—a terrible thing that hunger of the eyes for thesight of the well-loved being. And then Angela's birthday wasdrawing near, which would surely provide an excuse for a present.She had sternly forbidden the giving of presents, even humblekeepsakes, on account of Ralph—still, a birthday wasdifferent, and in any case Stephen was quite determined to risk it.For the impulse to give that is common to all lovers, was in herattaining enormous proportions, so that she visualized Angeladecked in diadems worthy of Cleopatra; so that she sat and staredat her bank book with eyes that grew angry when they lit on herbalance. What was the good of plenty of money if it could not bespent on the person one loved? Well, this time it should be sospent, and spent largely; no limit was going to be set to thispresent!
An unworthy and tiresome thing money, at best, but it can atleast ease the heart of the lover. When he lightens his purse helightens his heart, though this can hardly be accounted a virtue,for such giving is perhaps the most insidious form ofself-indulgence that is known to mankind.
4
Stephen had said quite casually to Anna: 'Suppose we stay threeor four days in London on our way back to Morton? You could do someshopping.' Anna had agreed, thinking of her house linen whichwanted renewing; but Stephen had been thinking of the jewellers'shops in Bond Street.
And now here they actually were in London, established at aquiet and expensive hotel; but the problem of Angela's birthdaypresent had, it seemed, only just begun for Stephen. She had notthe least idea what she wanted, or what Angela wanted, which wasfar more important; and she did not know how to get rid of hermother, who appeared to dislike going out unaccompanied. For threedays of the four Stephen fretted and fumed; never had Anna seemedso dependent. At Morton they now led quite separate lives, yet herein London they were always together. Scheme as she might she couldfind no excuse for a solitary visit to Bond Street. However, on themorning of the fourth and last day, Anna succumbed to a devastatingheadache.
Stephen said: 'I think I'll go and get some air, if you reallydon't need me—I'm feeling energetic!'
'Yes, do—I don't want you to stay in,' groaned Anna, whowas longing for peace and an aspirin tablet.
Once out on the pavement Stephen hailed the first taxi she met;she was quite absurdly elated. 'Drive to the Piccadilly end of BondStreet,' she ordered, as she jumped in and slammed the door. Thenshe put her head quickly out of the window: 'And when you get tothe corner, please stop. I don't want you to drive along BondStreet, I'll walk. I want you to stop at the Piccadillycorner.'
But when she was actually standing on the corner—theleft-hand corner—she began to feel doubtful as to which sideof Bond Street she ought to tackle first. Should she try the rightside or keep to the left? She decided to try the right side.Crossing over, she started to walk along slowly. At everyjeweller's shop she stood still and gazed at the wares displayed inthe window. Now she was worried by quite a new problem, the problemof stones, there were so many kinds. Emeralds or rubies or perhapsjust plain diamonds? Well, certainly neither emeralds norrubies—Angela's colouring demanded whiteness.Whiteness—she had it! Pearls—no, one pearl, oneflawless pearl and set as a ring. Angela had once described such aring with envy, but alas, it had been born in Paris.
People stared at the masculine-looking girl who seemed so intentupon feminine adornments. And someone, a man, laughed and nudgedhis companion: 'Look at that! What is it?'
'My God! What indeed?'
She heard them and suddenly felt less elated as she made her wayinto the shop.
She said rather loudly: 'I want a pearl ring.'
'A pearl ring? What kind, madam?'
She hesitated, unable now to describe what she did want: 'Idon't quite know—but it must be a large one.'
'For yourself?' And she thought that the man smiled alittle.
Of course he did nothing of the kind; but she stammered:'No—oh, no—it's not for myself, it's for a friend.She's asked me to choose her a large pearl ring: To her own earsthe words sounded foolish and flustered.
There was nothing in that shop that fulfilled her requirements,so once more she must face the guns of Bond Street. Now shequickened her steps and found herself striding; modifying her paceshe found herself dawdling; and always she was conscious of peoplewho stared, or whom she imagined were staring. She felt sure thatthe shop assistants looked doubtful when she asked for a large andflawless pearl ring; and catching a glimpse of her reflection in aglass, she decided that naturally they would lookdoubtful—her appearance suggested neither pearls nor theirprice. She slipped a surreptitious hand into her pocket, gainingcourage from the comforting feel of her cheque book.
When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted, shecrossed over quickly and made her way back towards her originalcorner. By now she was rather depressed and disgruntled. Supposingthat she did not find what she wanted in Bond Street? She had noidea where else to look—her knowledge of London was far fromextensive. But apparently the gods were feeling propitious, for alittle further on she paused in front of a small, and as shethought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact it was anything buthumble, hence the bars half-way up its unostentatious window. Thenshe stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl thatlooked like a round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slendercirclet of platinum—some sort of celestial marble! It wasjust such a ring as Angela had seen in Paris, and had since neverceased to envy.
The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, andwore glasses with tortoiseshell rims: 'Yes, madam, it's a very finespecimen indeed. The setting's French, just a thin band ofplatinum, there's nothing to detract from the beauty of thepearl.'
He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephenlet it rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against herskin, which by contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten.
Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancingcuriously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quiteunperturbed, so he said: 'Will you try the effect of the ring onyour finger?'
At this, however, his customer flushed: 'It wouldn't go anywherenear my finger!'
'I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.'
'Thanks, but it's not for me—it's for a friend.'
'Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves?Is her hand large or small do you think?'
Stephen answered promptly: 'It's a very small hand,' thenimmediately looked and felt rather self-conscious.
And now the old gentleman was openly staring: 'Excuse me,' hemurmured, 'an extraordinary likeness...' Then more boldly: 'Do youhappen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, whodied—it must be about two years ago—from some accident?I believe a tree fell—'
'Oh, yes, I'm his daughter,' said Stephen.
He nodded and smiled: 'Of course, of course, you couldn't beanything but his daughter.'
'You knew my father?' she inquired, in surprise.
'Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In thosedays Sir Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearlstuds while he was at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins—abit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at Oxford. But what may interestyou is the fact that I nude your mother's engagement ring for him;a large half-hoop of very fine diamonds—'
'Did you make that ring?'
'I did, Miss Gordon. I remember quite well his showing me aminiature of Lady Anna—I remember his words. He said: "She'sso pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger."You see, he'd known me ever since he was at Eton, that's why hespoke of your mother to me—I felt deeply honoured. Ah,yes—dear, dear—your father was young then and very muchin love...'
She said suddenly: 'Is this pearl as pure as those diamonds?'And he answered: 'It's without a blemish.'
Then she found her cheque book and he gave her his pen withwhich to write out the very large cheque.
'Wouldn't you like some reference?' she inquired, as she glancedat the sum for which he must trust her.
But at this he laughed: 'Your face is your reference, if I maybe allowed to say so, Miss Gordon.'
They shook hands because he had known her father, and she leftthe shop with the ring in her pocket. As she walked down the streetshe was lost in thought, so that if people stared she no longernoticed. In her ears kept sounding those words from the past, thosewords of her father's when long, long ago he too had been a younglover: She's so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touchher finger.'
1
When they got back to Morton there was Puddle in the hall, withthat warm smile of hers, always just a little mocking yet pitifultoo, that queer composite smile that made her face so arresting.And the sight of this faithful little grey woman brought home toStephen the fact that she had missed her. She had missed her, shefound, out of all proportion to the size of the creature, whichseemed to have diminished. Coming back to it after those weeks ofabsence, Puddle's smallness seemed to be even smaller, and Stephencould not help laughing as she hugged her. Then she suddenly liftedher right off her feet with as much ease as though she had been ababy.
Morton smelt good with its log fires burning, and Morton lookedgood with the goodness of home. Stephen sighed with something verylike contentment: 'Lord! I'm so glad to be back again, Puddle. Imust have been a cat in my last incarnation; I hate strangeplaces—especially Cornwall.'
Puddle smiled grimly. She thought that she knew why Stephen hadhated Cornwall.
After tea Stephen wandered about the house, touching first this,then that, with affectionate fingers. But presently she went off tothe stables with sugar for Collins and carrots for Raftery; andthere in his spacious, hay-scented loose box, Raftery was waitingfor Stephen. He made a queer little sound in his throat, and hissoft Irish eyes said: 'You're home, home, home. I've grown tiredwith waiting, and with wishing you home.'
And she answered: 'Yes, I've come back to you, Raftery.'
Then she threw her strong arm around his neck, and they talkedtogether for quite a long while—not in Irish or English butin a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds andmany small movements, that meant much more than words.
'Since you went I've discovered a wonderful thing,' he told her,'I've discovered that for me you are God. It's like that sometimeswith us humbler people, we may only know God through His humanimage.'
'Raftery,' she murmured, 'oh, Raftery, my dear—I was soyoung when you came to Morton. Do you remember that first day outhunting when you jumped the huge hedge in our big north paddock?What a jump! It ought to go down to history. You were splendidlycool and collected about it. Thank the Lord you were—I wasonly a kid, all the same it was very foolish of us, Raftery.'
She gave him a carrot, which he took with contentment from thehand of his God, and proceeded to munch. And she watched him munchit, contented in her turn, hoping that the carrot was succulent andsweet; hoping that his innocent cup of pleasure might be full tothe brim and overflowing. Like God indeed, she tended his needs,mixing the evening meal in his manger, holding the water bucket tohis lips while he sucked in the cool, clear, health-giving water. Agroom came along with fresh trusses of straw which he opened andtossed among Raftery's bedding; then he took off the smart blue andred day clothing, and buckled him up in a warm night blanket.Beyond in the far loose box by the window, Sir Philip's youngchestnut kicked loudly for supper.
'Woa horse! Get up there! Stop kicking them boards!' And thegroom hurried off to attend to the chestnut.
Collins, who had spat out his two lumps of sugar, was now busyindulging his morbid passion. His sides were swollen well night tobursting—blown out like an air balloon was old Collins fromthe evil and dyspeptic effects of the straw, plus his own woefullack of molars. He stared at Stephen with whitish-blue eyes thatsaw nothing, and when she touched him he grunted—adiscourteous sound which meant: 'Leave me alone!' So after a mildreproof she left him to his sins and his indigestion.
Last but not least, she strolled down to the home of thetwo-legged creature who had once reigned supreme in those princelybut now depleted stables. And the lamplight streamed out throughuncurtained windows to meet her, so that she walked on lamplight. Aslim streak of gold led right up to the porch of old Williams'comfortable cottage. She found him sitting with the Bible on hisknees, peering crossly down at the Scriptures through his glasses.He had taken to reading the Scriptures aloud to himself—amelancholy occupation. He was at this now. As Stephen entered shecould hear him mumbling from Revelation: 'And the heads of thehorses were as the heads of lions; and out of their mouths issuedfire and smoke and brimstone.'
He looked up, and hastily twitched off his glasses: 'MissStephen!'
'Sit still—stop where you are, Williams.'
But Williams had the arrogance of the humble. He was proud ofthe stern traditions of his service, and his pride forbade him tosit in her presence, in spite of their long and kind years offriendship. Yet when he spoke he must grumble a little, as thoughshe were still the very small child who had swaggered round thestables rubbing her chin, imitating his every expression andgesture.
'You didn't ought to have no 'orses, Miss Stephen, the way youruns off and leaves them,' he grumbled. Raftery's been off 'is feedthese last days. I've been talkin' to that Jim what you sets suchstore by! Impudent young blight, 'e answered me back like as thoughI'd no right to express me opinion. But I says to 'im: "You justwait, lad," I says, "You wait until I gets 'old of MissStephen!"'
For Williams could never keep clear of the stables, and couldnever refrain from nagging when he got there. Deposed he might be,but not yet defeated even by old age, as grooms knew to their cost.The tap of his heavy oak stick in the yard was enough to send Jimand his underling flying to hide curry-combs and brushes out ofsight. Williams needed no glasses when it came to disorder.
'Be this place 'ere a stable or be it a pigsty, I wonder e' wasnow his habitual greeting.
His wife came bustling in from the kitchen: Sit down, MissStephen,' and she dusted a chair.
Stephen sat down and glanced at the Bible where it lay, stillopen, on the table.
'Yes,' said Williams, dourly, as though she had spoken, 'I'mreduced to readin' about 'eavenly 'orses. A nice endin' that for aman like me, what's been in the service of Sir Philip Gordon,what's 'ad 'is legs across the best 'unters as ever was seen inthis county or any! And I don't believe in them lion-headed beastsbreathin' fire and brimstone, it's all agin nature. Whoever it waswrote them Revelations, can't never have been inside of a stable. Idon't believe in no 'eavenly 'orses neither—there won't be no'orses in 'eaven; and a good thing too, judgin' by thedescription.'
'I'm surprised at you, Arth-thur, bein' so disrespectful to TheBook!' his wife reproached him gravely.
'Well, it ain't no encyclopaedee to the stable, and that's asure thing,' grinned Williams.
Stephen looked from one to the other. They were old, very old,fast approaching completion. Quite soon, their circle would becomplete, and then Williams would be able to tackle Saint John onthe points of those heavenly horses.
Mrs. Williams glanced apologetically at her: 'Excuse 'im, MissStephen, 'e's gettin' rather childish. 'E won't read no prettyparts of the Book; all e'll read is them parts about chariots andsuch-like. All what's to do with 'orses 'e reads; and then 'e's sounbelievin'—it's aw-ful!' But she looked at her mate with theeyes of a mother, very gentle and tolerant eyes.
And Stephen, seeing those two together, could picture them asthey must once have been, in the halcyon days of their youthfulvigour. For she thought that she glimpsed through the dust of theyears, a faint flicker of the girl who had lingered in the laneswhen the young man Williams and she had been courting. And lookingat Williams as he stood before her twitching and bowed, she thoughtthat she glimpsed a faint flicker of the youth, very stalwart andcomely, who had bent his head downwards and sideways, as he walkedand whispered and kissed in the lanes. And because they were oldyet undivided, her heart ached; not for them but rather forStephen. Her youth seemed as dross when compared to theirhonourable age; because they were undivided.
She said: 'Make him sit down, I don't want him to stand.' Andshe got up and pushed her own chair towards him.
But old Mrs. Williams shook her white head slowly: 'No, MissStephen, 'e wouldn't sit down in your presence. Beggin' yourpardon, it would 'urt Arth-thur's feelin's to be made to sit down;it would make 'im feel as 'is days of service was really over.'
'I don't need to sit down,' declared Williams.
So Stephen wished them both a good night, promising to comeagain very soon; and Williams hobbled out to the path which was nowquite golden from border to border, for the door of the cottage wasstanding wide open and the glow from the lamp streamed over thepath. Once more she found herself walking on lamplight, whileWilliams, bareheaded, stood and watched her departure. Then herfeet were caught up and entangled in shadows again, as she made herway under the trees.
But presently came a familiar fragrance—logs burning onthe wide, friendly hearths of Morton. Logs burning—quite soonthe lakes would be frozen—'and the ice looks like slabs ofgold in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in thewinter...and as we walk back we can smell the log fires long beforewe can see them, and we love that good smell because it means home,and our home is Morton...because it means home and our home isMorton...
Oh, intolerable fragrance of log fires burning!
1
Angela did not return in a week, she had decided to remainanother fortnight in Scotland. She was staying now with thePeacocks, it seemed, and would not get back until after herbirthday. Stephen looked at the beautiful ring as it gleamed in itslittle white velvet box, and her disappointment and chagrin werechildish.
But Violet Antrim, who had also been staying with the Peacocks,had arrived home full of importance. She walked in on Stephen oneafternoon to announce her engagement to young Alec Peacock. She wasso much engaged and so haughty about it that Stephen, whose nerveswere already on edge, was very soon literally itching to slap her.Violet was now able to look down on Stephen from the height of hernewly gained knowledge of men—knowing Alec she felt that sheknew the whole species.
'It's a terrible pity you dress as you do, my dear,' sheremarked, with the manner of sixty, 'a young girl's so much moreattractive when she's soft—don't you think you could softenyour clothes just a little? I mean you do want to get married,don't you! No woman's complete until she is married. After all, nowoman can really stand alone, she always needs a man to protecther.'
Stephen said: 'I'm all right—getting on nicely, thankyou!'
'Oh, no, but you can't be!' Violet insisted. 'I was talking toAlec and Roger about you, and Roger was saying it's an awfulmistake for women to get false ideas into their heads. He thinksyou've got rather a bee in your bonnet; he told Alec that you'd bequite a womanly woman if you'd only stop trying to ape what you'renot.' Presently she said, staring rather hard: 'That Mrs.Crossby—do you really like her? Of course I know you'refriends and all that—But why are you friends? You've gotnothing in common. She's what Roger calls a thorough man's woman. Ithink myself she's a bit of a climber. Do you want to be used as ascaling ladder for storming the fortifications of the county? ThePeacocks have known old Crossby for years, he's a wonderful shotfor an ironmonger, but they don't care for her very much Ibelieve—Alec says she's man-mad, whatever that means, anyhowshe seems desperately keen about Roger.'
Stephen said: 'I'd rather we didn't discuss Mrs. Crossby,because, you see, she's my friend.' And her voice was as icy coldas her hands.
'Oh, of course if you're feeling like that about it—'laughed Violet, 'no, but honest, she is keen on Roger.'
When Violet had gone, Stephen sprang to her feet, but her senseof direction seemed to have left her, for she struck her head apretty sharp blow against the side of a heavy bookcase. She stoodswaying with her hands pressed against her temples. Angela andRoger Antrim—those two—but it couldn't be, Violet hadbeen purposely lying. She loved to torment, she was like herbrother, a bully, a devil who loved to torment—it couldn'tbe—Violet had been lying.
She steadied herself and leaving the room and the house, wentand fetched her car from the stables. She drove to the telegraphoffice at Upton: 'Come back, I must see you at once,' she wired,taking great care to prepay the reply, lest Angela should find anexcuse for not answering.
The clerk counted the words with her stump of a pencil, then shelooked at Stephen rather strangely.
2
The next morning came Angela's frigid answer: 'Coming homeMonday fortnight not one day sooner please no more wires Ralph verymuch upset.'
Stephen tore the thing into a hundred fragments and then hurledit away. She was suddenly shaking all over with uncontrollableanger.
3
Right up to the moment of Angela's return that hot angersupported Stephen. It was like a flame that leapt through herveins, a flame that consumed and yet stimulated, so that shepurposely fanned the fire from a sense of self-preservation.
Then came the actual day of arrival. Angela must be in London bynow, she would certainly have travelled by the night express. Shewould catch the 12.47 to Malvern and then motor to Upton—itwas nearly twelve. It was afternoon. At 3.17 Angela's train wouldarrive at Great Malvern—it had arrived now—in abouttwenty minutes she would drive past the very gates of Morton.Half-past four. Angela must have got home; she was probably havingtea in the parlour—in the little oak parlour with its pipingbullfinch whose cage always stood near the casement window. A longtime ago, a lifetime ago, Stephen had blundered into that parlour,and Tony had barked, and the bullfinch had piped a sentimental oldGerman tune—but that was surely a lifetime ago. Five o'clock.Violet Antrim had obviously lied; she had lied on purpose totorment Stephen—Angela and Roger—it couldn't be; Violethad lied because she liked to torment. A quarter-past five. Whatwas Angela doing now? She was near, just a few milesaway—perhaps she was ill, as she had not written; yes, thatmust be it, of course Angela was ill. The persistent, aching hungerof the eyes. Anger, what was it? A folly, a delusion, a weaknessthat crumbled before that hunger. And Angela was only a few milesaway.
She went up to her room and unlocked a drawer from which shetook the little white case. Then she slipped the case into herjacket pocket.
4
Sim found Angela helping her maid to unpack; they appeared to beall but snowed under by masses of soft, inadequate garments. Thebedroom smelt strongly of Angela's scent, which was heavy yetslightly pungent.
She glanced up from a tumbled heap of silk stockings: 'Hallo,Stephen!' Her greeting was casually friendly.
Stephen said: 'Well, how are you after all these weeks? Did youhave a good journey down from Scotland?'
The maid said: 'Shall I wash your new crepe de Chine nightgowns,ma'am? Or ought they to go to the cleaners?'
Then, somehow, they all fell silent.
To break this suggestive and awkward silence, Stephen inquiredpolitely after Ralph.
'He's in London on business for a couple of days; he's allright, thanks,' Angela answered briefly, and she turned once moreto sorting her stockings.
Stephen studied her. Angela was not looking well, her mouth hada childish droop at the corners; there were quite new shadows, too,under her eyes, and these shadows accentuated her pallor. And asthough that earnest gaze made her nervous, she suddenly bundled thestockings together with a little sound of impatience.
'Come on, let's go down to my room!' And turning to her maid:'I'd rather you washed the new nightgowns, please.'
They went down the wide oak stairs without speaking, and intothe little oak-panelled parlour. Stephen closed the door; then theyfaced each other.
'Well, Angela?'
'Well, Stephen?' And after a pause: 'What on earth made you sendthat absurd telegram? Ralph got hold of the thing and began to askquestions. You are such an almighty fool sometimes—you knewperfectly well that I couldn't come back. Why will you behave asthough you were six, have you no common sense? What's it all about?Your methods are not only infantile—they're dangerous.'
Then taking Angela firmly by the shoulders, Stephen turned herso that she faced the light. She put her question with youthfulcrudeness: 'Do you find Roger Antrim physically attractive—doyou find that he attracts you that way more than I do?' She waitedcalmly, it seemed, for her answer.
And because of that distinctly ominous calm, Angela was scared,so she blustered a little: 'Of course I don't! I resent suchquestions; I won't allow them even from you, Stephen. God knowswhere you get your fantastic ideas! Have you been discussing mewith that girl Violet? If you have, I think it's simply outrageous!She's quite the most evil-minded prig in the county. It was notvery gentlemanly of you, my dear, to discuss my affairs with ourneighbours, was it?'
'I refused to discuss you with Violet Antrim,' Stephen told her,still speaking quite calmly. But she clung to her point: 'Was itall a mistake? Is there no one between us except your husband?Angela, look at me—I will have the truth.'
For answer Angela kissed her.
Stephen's strong but unhappy arms went round her, and suddenlystretching out her hand she switched off the little lamp on thetable, so that the room was lit only by firelight. They could notsee each other's faces very clearly any more, because there wasonly firelight. And Stephen spoke such words as a lover will speakwhen his heart is burdened to breaking; when his doubts must bowdown and be swept away before the unruly flood of his passion.There in that shadowy, firelit room, she spoke such words as lovershave spoken ever since the divine, sweet madness of God flung thethought of love into Creation.
But Angela suddenly pushed her away: 'Don't, don't—I can'tbear it—it's too much, Stephen. It hurts me—I can'tbear this thing—for you. It's all wrong, I'm not worth it,anyhow it's all wrong. Stephen, it's making me—can't youunderstand? It's too much—' She could not, she dared notexplain. 'If you were a man—' She stopped abruptly, and burstinto uncontrollable weeping.
And somehow this weeping was different from any that had gonebefore, so that Stephen trembled. There was something frightenedand desolate about it; it was like the sobbing of a terrifiedchild. The girl forgot her own desolation in her pity and the needthat she felt to comfort. More strongly than ever before she feltthe need to protect this woman, and to comfort.
She said, grown suddenly passionless and gentle: 'Tellme—try to tell me what's wrong, beloved. Don't be afraid ofmaking me angry—we love each other, and that's all thatmatters. Try to tell me what's wrong, and then let me help you;only don't cry like this—I can't endure it.'
But Angela hid her face in her hands: 'No, no, it's nothing; I'monly so tired. It's been a fearful strain these last months. I'mjust a weak, human creature, Stephen—sometimes I think we'vebeen worse than mad. I must have been mad to have allowed you tolove me like this—one day you'll despise and hate me. It's myfault, but I was so terribly lonely that I let you come into mylife, and now—oh, I can't explain, you wouldn't understand;how could you understand, Stephen?'
And so strangely complex is poor human nature, that Angelareally believed in her feelings. At that moment of sudden fear andremorse, remembering those guilty weeks in Scotland, she believedthat she felt compassion and regret for this creature who lovedher, and whose ardent loving had paved the way for another. In herweakness she could not part from the girl, not yet—there wassomething so strong about her. She seemed to combine the strengthof a man with the gentler and more subtle strength of a woman. Andthinking of the crude young animal Roger, with his brusque, ratherbrutal appeal to the senses, she was filled with a kind ofregretful shame, and she hated herself for what she had done, andfor what she well knew she would do again, because of that urge topassion.
Feeling humble, she groped for the girl's kind hand; then shetried to speak lightly: 'Would you always forgive this verymiserable sinner, Stephen?'
Stephen said, not apprehending her meaning, 'If our love is asin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinningas ours.'
They sat down close together. They were weary unto death, andAngela whispered: 'Put your arms around me again—but gently,because I'm so tired. You're a kind lover, Stephen—sometimesI think you're almost too kind.'
And Stephen answered: 'It's not kindness that makes me unwillingto force you—I can't conceive of that sort of love.'
Angela Crossby was silent.
But now she was longing for the subtle easement of confession,so dear to the soul of woman. Her self-pity was augmented by hersense of wrong-doing—she was thoroughly unstrung, almost illwith self pity—so that lacking the courage to confess thepresent, she let her thoughts dwell on the past. Stephen had alwaysforborne to question, and therefore that past had never beendiscussed, but now Angela felt a great need to discuss it. She didnot analyse her feelings; she only knew that she longed intenselyto humble herself, to plead for compassion, to wring from thequeer, strong, sensitive being who loved her, some hope of ultimateforgiveness. At that moment, as she lay there in Stephen's arms,the girl assumed an enormous importance. It was strange, but thevery fact of betrayal appeared to have strengthened her will tohold her, and Angela stirred, so that Stephen said softly:
'Lie still—I thought you were fast asleep.'
And Angela answered: 'No, I'm not asleep, dearest. I've beenthinking. There arc some things I ought to tell you. You've neverasked me about my past life—why haven't you, Stephen?'
'Because,' said Stephen, 'I knew that some day you'd tell me.'Then Angela began at the very beginning. She described a Colonialhome in Virginia. A grave, grey house, with a columned entrance,and a garden that looked down on deep, running water, and thatwater had rather a beautiful name—it was called the PotomacRiver. Up the side of the house grew magnolia blossoms, and manyold trees gave their shade to its garden. In summer the fire-flieslit lamps on those trees, shifting lamps that moved swiftly amongthe branches. And the hot summer darkness was splashed withlightning, and the hot summer air was heavy with sweetness.
She described her mother who had died when Angela wastwelve—a pathetic, inadequate creature; the descendant ofwomen who had owned many slaves to minister to their most trivialrequirements: 'She could hardly put on her own stockings andshoes,' smiled Angela, as she pictured that mother.
She described her father, George Benjamin Maxwell—acharming, but quite incorrigible spendthrift. She said: 'He livedin past glories, Stephen. Because he was a Maxwell—a Maxwellof Virginia—he wouldn't admit that the Civil War had deprivedus all of the right to spend money. God knows, there was littleenough of it left—the War practically ruined the old Southerngentry! My grandma could remember those days quite well; shescraped lint from her sheets for our wounded soldiers. If Grandmahad lived, my life might have been different—but she died acouple of months after Mother.'
She described the eventual cataclysm, when the home had beensold up with everything in it, and she and her father had set outfor New York—she just seventeen and he broken andailing—to rebuild his dissipated fortune. And because she wasnow painting a picture of real life, untinged by imagination, herwords lived, and her voice grew intensely bitter.
'Hell—it was hell! We went under so quickly. There weredays when I hadn't enough to eat. Oh, Stephen, the filth, theunspeakable squalor—the heat and the cold and the hunger andthe squalor. God, how I hate that great hideous city! It's amonster, it crushes you down, it devours—even now I couldn'tgo back to New York without feeling a kind of unreasoning terror.Stephen, that damnable city broke my nerve. Father got calmly outof it all by dying one day—and that was so like him! He'd hadabout enough, so he just lay down and died; but I couldn't do thatbecause I was young—and I didn't want to die, either. Ihadn't the least idea what I could do, but I knew that I wassupposed to be pretty and that good-looking girls had a chance onthe stage, so I started out to look for a job. My God! Shall I everforget it!'
And now she described the long, angular streets, miles and milesof streets; miles and miles of faces all strange andunfriendly—faces like masks. Then the intimate faces ofwould-be employers, too intimate when they peered into herown—faces that had suddenly thrown off their masks.
Stephen, are you listening? I put up a fight, I swear it! Iswear I put up a fight—I was only nineteen when I got myfirst job—nineteen's not so awfully old, is it, Stephen?'
Stephen said: Go on,' and her voice sounded husky.
Oh, my dear—it's so dreadfully hard to tell you. The paywas rotten, not enough to live on—I used to think that theydid it on purpose, lots of the girls used to think that waytoo—they never gave us quite enough to live on. You see, Ihadn't a vestige of talent, I could only dress up and try to lookpretty. I never got a real speaking part, I just danced, not well,but I'd got a good figure.' She paused and tried to look up throughthe gloom, but Stephen's face was hidden in shadow. Well then,darling—Stephen, I want to feel your arms, hold mecloser—well then I—there was a man who wantedme—not as you want me, Stephen, to protect and care for me;God no, not that way! And I was so poor and so tired and sofrightened; why sometimes my shoes would let in the slush becausethey were old and I hadn't the money to buy myself newones—try to think of that, darling. And I'd cry when I washedmy hands in the winter because they'd be bleeding from brokenchilblains. Well, I couldn't stay the course any longer, that'sall...
The little gilt dock on the desk ticked loudly. Tick, tick!Tick, tick! An astonishing voice to come from so small and fragilea body. Somewhere out in the garden a dog barked—Tony,chasing imaginary rabbits through the darkness.
'Stephen!'
'Yes, my dear?'
'Have you understood me?'
'Yes—oh, yes, I've understood you. Go on.'
'Well then, after a while he turned round and left me, and Ijust had to drag along as I had done, and I sort of crockedup—couldn't sleep at night, couldn't smile and look happywhen I went on to dance—that was how Ralph found me—hesaw me dance and came round to the back, the way some men do. Iremember thinking that Ralph didn't look like that sort of man; helooked—well, just like Ralph, not a bit like that sort ofman. Then he started sending me flowers; never presents or anythinglike that, just flowers with his card. And we had lunch together agood few times, and he talked about that other man who'd left me.He said he'd like to go out with a horse-whip—imagine Ralphtrying to horse-whip a man! They knew each other quite well, Idiscovered; you see, they were both in the hardware business. Ralphwas out after some big contract for his firm, that was why hehappened to be in New York—and one day he asked me to marryhim, Stephen. I suppose he was really in love with me then, anyhowI thought it was wonderful of him—I thought he was verybroadminded and noble. Good God! He's had his pound of flesh since;it gave him the hold over me that he wanted. We were married beforewe sailed for Europe. I wasn't in love, but what could I do? I'dnowhere to turn and my health was crocking; lots of our girls endedup in the hospital wards—I didn't want to end up that way.Well, so you see why I've got to be careful how I act; he'sterribly and awfully suspicious. He thinks that because I took alover when I was literally down and out, I'm likely to do the samething now. He doesn't trust me, it's natural enough, but sometimeshe throws it all up in my face, and when he does that, my God, howI hate him! But oh, Stephen, I could never go through it allagain—I haven't got an ounce of fight left in me. That's why,although Ralph's no cinch as a husband, I'd be scared to death ifhe really turned nasty. He knows that, I think, so he's not afraidto bully—he's bullied me many a time over you—but ofcourse you're a woman so he couldn't divorce me—I expectthat's really what makes him so angry. All the same, when you askedme to leave him for you, I hadn't the courage to face that either.I couldn't have faced the public scandal that Ralph would havemade; he'd have hounded us down to the ends of the earth, he'd havebranded us, Stephen. I know him, he's revengeful, he'd stop atnothing, that weak sort of man is often that way. It's as thoughwhat Ralph lacks in virility, he tries to make up for by beingrevengeful. My dear, I couldn't go under again—I couldn't beone of those apologetic people who must always exist just under thesurface, only coming up for a moment, like fish—I've beenthrough that particular hell. I want life, and yet I'm alwaysafraid. Every time that Ralph looks at me I feel frightened,because he knows that I hate him most when he tries to makelove—' She broke off abruptly.
And now she was crying a little to herself, letting the tearstrickle down unheeded. One of them splashed on to Stephen's coatsleeve and lay there, a small, dark blot on the cloth, while thepatient arms never faltered.
'Stephen, say something—say you don't hate me!'
A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Stephenstared down into Angela's face. It was marred by weeping; it lookedalmost ugly, splotched and reddened as it was by her weeping. Andbecause of that pitiful, blemished face, with the pitiful weaknessthat lay behind it, the unworthiness even, Stephen loved her sodeeply at that moment, that she found no adequate words.
'Say something—speak to me, Stephen!'
Then Stephen gently released her arms, and she found the littlewhite box in her pocket: 'Look, Angela, I got you this for yourbirthday—Ralph can't bully you about it, it's a birthdaypresent.'
'Stephen—my dear!'
'Yes—I want you to wear it always, so that you'll rememberhow much I love you. I think you forgot that just now when youtalked about hating—Angela, give me your hand, the hand thatused to bleed in the winter.'
So the pearl that was pure as her mother's diamonds were pure,Stephen slipped on to Angela's finger. Then she sat very still,while Angela gazed at the pearl wide-eyed, because of its beauty.Presently she lifted her wondering face, and now her lips werequite close to Stephen's, but Stephen kissed her instead on theforehead. You must rest,' she said, 'you're simply worn out. Can'tyou sleep if I keep you safe in my arms?'
For at moments such is the blindness and folly, yet withal theredeeming glory of love.
1
Ralph said very little about the ring. What could he say? Apresent given to his wife by the daughter of a neighbour—anunusually costly present of course—still, after all, whatcould he say? He took refuge in sulky silence. But Stephen wouldsee him staring at the pearl, which Angela wore on her right-handthird finger, and his weak little eyes would look redder thanusual, perhaps with anger—one could never quite tell from hiseyes whether he was tearful or angry.
And because of those eyes with their constant menace, Stephenmust play her conciliatory role; and this she must do in spite ofhis rudeness, for now he was openly rude and hostile. And hebullied. It was almost as though he took pleasure in bullying hiswife when Stephen was present; her presence seemed to arouse in theman everything that was ill-bred, petty and cruel. He would makethinly-veiled allusions to the past, glancing sideways at Stephenthe while he did so; and one day when she flushed to the roots ofher hair with rage to see Angela humble and fearful, he laughedloudly: 'I'm just a plain tradesman, you know; if you don't like myways then you'd better not come here.' Catching Angela's eye,Stephen tried to laugh too.
A soul-sickening business. She would feel degraded; she wouldfeel herself gradually losing all sense of pride, of common decencyeven, so that when she returned in the evening to Morton she wouldnot want to look the old house in the eyes. She would not want toface those pictures of Gordons that hung in its hall, and must turnaway, lest they by their very silence rebuke this descendant oftheirs who was so unworthy. Yet sometimes it seemed to her that sheloved more intensely because she had lost so much—there wasnothing left now but Angela Crossby.
2
Watching this deadly decay that threatened all that was fine inher erstwhile pupil, Puddle must sometimes groan loudly in spirit;she must even argue with God about it. Yes, she must actually arguewith God like Job; and remembering his words in affliction, shemust speak those words on behalf of Stephen: 'Thine hands have mademe and fashioned me together round about; yet Thou dost destroyme.' For now in addition to everything else, she had learnt of theadvent of Roger Antrim. Not that Stephen had confided in her, farfrom it, but gossip has a way of travelling quickly. Roger spentmost of his leisure at The Grange. She had heard that he was alwaysgoing over from Worcester. So now. Puddle, who had not been muchgiven to prayer in the past, must argue with God, like Job. Andperhaps, since God probably listens to the heart rather than to thelips, He forgave her.
3
Stupid with misery and growing more inept every day, Stephenfound herself no match for Roger. He was calm, self-assured,insolent and triumphant, and his love of tormenting had not wanedwith his manhood. Roger was no fool; he put two and two togetherand his masculine instinct deeply resented this creature who mightchallenge his right of possession. Moreover that masculine instinctwas outraged. He would stare at Stephen as though she were a horsewhom he strongly suspected of congenital unsoundness, and then hewould let his eyes rest on Angela's face. They would be the eyes ofa lover, possessive, demanding, insistent eyes—if Ralph didnot happen to be present. And into Angela's eyes there would comean expression that Stephen had seen many times. A mist would slowlycloud over their blueness; they would dim, as though they werehiding something. Then Stephen would be seized with a violenttrembling, so that she could not stand any more but must sit withher hands clasped tightly together, lest those trembling handsbetray her to Roger. But Roger would have seen already, and wouldsmile his slow, understanding, masterful smile.
Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly, andtheir youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable thing;the instinctive repulsion of two human bodies, the one for theother, which neither could help—not now that those bodieswere stirred by a woman. Then into this vortex of secret emotionwould come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen to Roger and then athis wife, and his eyes would be red—one never knew whetherfrom tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque triangle fora moment, those three who must share a common desire. But after alittle the two male creatures who hated each other, would beshamefully united in the bond of their deeper hatred of Stephen;and divining this, she in turn would hate.
4
It could not go on without some sort of convulsion, and thatChristmas was a time of recriminations. Angela's infatuation wasgrowing, and she did not always hide this from Stephen. Letterswould arrive in Roger's handwriting, and Stephen, half-crazy withjealousy by now, would demand to see them. She would be refused,and a scene would ensue.
'That man's your lover! Have I gone starving only forthis—that you should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show methat letter!'
'How dare you suggest that Roger's my lover! But if he were it'sno business of yours.'
'Will you show me that letter?'
'I will not.'
'It's from Roger.'
'You're intolerable. You can think what you please.'
'What am I to think?' Then because of her longing. 'Angela, forGod's sake don't treat me like this—I can't bear it. When youloved me it was easier to bear—I endured it for your sake,but now—listen, listen...' Stark naked confessions draggedfrom lips that grew white the while they confessed: 'Angela,listen...
And now the terrible nerves of the invert, those nerves that arealways lying in wait, gripped Stephen. They ran like live wiresthrough her body, causing a constant and ruthless torment, so thatthe sudden closing of a door or the barking of Tony would fall likea blow on her shrinking flesh. At night in her bed she must coverher ears from the ticking of the clock, which would sound likethunder in the darkness.
Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext oranother—she must see her dentist; she must fit a new dress.'Well then, let me come with you.'
'Good heavens, why? I'm only going to the dentist!'
'All right, I'll come too.'
'You'll do nothing of the kind.' Then Stephen would know whyAngela was going.
All that day she would be haunted by insufferable pictures.Whatever she did, wherever she went, she would see them together,Angela and Roger...She would think: 'I'm going mad! I can see themas clearly as though they were here before me in the room.' Andthen she would cover her eyes with her hands, but this would onlystrengthen the pictures.
Like some earth-bound spirit she would haunt The Grange on thepretext of taking Tony for a walk. And there, as likely as not,would be Ralph wandering about in his bare rose garden. He wouldglance up and see her perhaps, and then—most profound shameof all—they would both look guilty, for each would know theloneliness of the other, and that loneliness would draw themtogether for the moment; they would be almost friends in theirhearts.
'Angela's gone up to London, Stephen.'
'Yes, I know. She's gone up to fit her new dress.'
Their eyes would drop. Then Ralph might say sharply: 'If you'reafter the dog, he's in the kitchen,' and turning his back, he mightmake a pretence of examining his standard rose-trees.
Calling Tony, Stephen would walk into Upton, then along themist-swept bank of the river. She would stand very still staringdown at the water, but the impulse would pass, and whistling thedog, she would turn and go hurrying back to Upton.
Then one afternoon Roger came with his car to take Angela for adrive through the hills. The New Year was slipping into the spring,and the air smelt of sap and much diligent growing. A warm Februaryhad succeeded the winter. Many birds would be astir on those hillswhere lovers might sit unashamed—where Stephen had satholding Angela clasped in her arms, while she eagerly took and gavekisses. And remembering these things Stephen turned and left them,unable just then to endure any longer. Going home, she made her wayto the lakes, and there she quite suddenly started weeping. Herwhole body seemed to dissolve itself in weeping; and she flungherself down on the kind earth of Morton, shedding tears as ofblood. There was no one to witness those tears except the whiteswan called Peter.
5
Terrible, heart-breaking months. She grew gaunt with herunappeased love for Angela Crossby. And now she would sometimesturn in despair to the thought of her useless and unspent money.Thoughts would come that were altogether unworthy, but neverthelessthose thoughts would persist. Roger was not rich; she was richalready and some day she would be even richer.
She went up to London and chose new clothes at a West Endtailor's; the man in Malvern who had made for her father wasgetting old, she would have her suits made in London in future. Sheordered herself a rakish red car; a long-bodied, sixty horsepowerMétallurgique. It was one of the fastest cars of its year,and it certainly cost her a great deal of money. She bought twelvepairs of gloves, some heavy silk stockings, a square sapphire scarfpin and a new umbrella. Nor could she resist the lure of pyjamasmade of white crêpe de Chine which she spotted in BondStreet. The pyjamas led to a man's dressing-gown ofbrocade—an amazingly ornate garment. Then she had her nailsmanicured but not polished and from that shop she carried awaytoilet water and a box of soap that smelt of carnations and somecuticle cream for the care of her nails. And last but not least,she bought a gold bag with a clasp set in diamonds for Angela.
All told she had spent a considerable sum, and this gave her afleeting satisfaction. But on her way back in the train to Malvern,she gazed out of the window with renewed desolation. Money couldnot buy the one thing that she needed in life; it could not buyAngela's love.
6
That night she stared at herself in the glass; and even as shedid so she hated her body with its muscular shoulders, its smallcompact breasts, and its slender flanks of an athlete. All her lifeshe must drag this body of hers like a monstrous fetter imposed onher spirit. This strangely ardent yet sterile body that mustworship yet never be worshipped in return by the creature of itsadoration. She longed to maim it, for it made her feel cruel; itwas so white, so strong and so self-sufficient; yet withal so poorand unhappy a thing that her eyes filled with tears and her hateturned to pity. She began to grieve over it, touching her breastswith pitiful fingers, stroking her shoulders, letting her handsslip along her straight thighs—Oh, poor and most desolatebody!
Then she, for whom Puddle was actually praying at that moment,must now pray also, but blindly; finding few words that seemedworthy of prayer, few words that seemed to encompass hermeaning—for she did not know the meaning of herself: But sheloved, and loving groped for the God who had fashioned her, evenunto this bitter loving.
1
Stephen's troubles had begun to be aggravated by Violet, who wasalways driving over to Morton, ostensibly to talk about Alec, inreality to collect information as to what might be happening at TheGrange. She would stay for hours, very skilfully pumping while shedropped unwelcome hints anent Roger.
'Father's going to cut down his allowance,' she declared, 'if hedoesn't stop hanging about that woman. Oh, I'm sorry! I alwaysforget she's your friend—' Then looking at Stephen withinquisitive eyes: 'But I can't understand that friendship of yours;for one thing, how can you put up with Crossby?' And Stephen knewthat yet once again county gossip was rife about her.
Violet was going to be married in September, they would thenlive in London, for Alec was a barrister. Their house, it seemed,was already bespoken: 'A perfect duck of a house in Belgravia,'where Violet intended to entertain largely on the strength of thebountiful parent Peacock. She was in the highest possible fettlethese days, invested with an enormous importance in her own eyes,as also in those of her neighbours. Oh, yes, the whole world smiledbroadly on Violet and her Alec: 'Such a charming young couple,'said the world, and at once proceeded to shower them with presents.Apostle tea-spoons arrived in their dozens, so did coffee-pots,cream-jugs and large fish slices; to say nothing of a heavy silverbowl from the Hunt, and a massive salver from the grateful Scottishtenants.
On the wedding day not a few eyes would be wet at the sight ofso youthful a man and maiden 'joined together in an honourableestate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency,' For suchancient traditions—in spite of the fact that man's innocencycould not even survive one bite of an apple shared with awoman—are none the less apt to be deeply moving. There theywould kneel, the young newly wed, ardent yet sanctified by ablessing, so that all, or at least nearly all, they would do, mustbe considered both natural and pleasing to a God in the image ofman created. And the fact that this God, in a thoughtless moment,had created in His turn those pitiful thousands who must stand forever outside His blessing, would in no way disturb the largecongregation or their white surpliced pastor, or the couple whoknelt on the gold-braided, red velvet cushions. And afterwardsthere would be plentiful champagne to warm the cooling blood of theelders, and much shaking of hands and congratulating, and many kindsmiles for the bride and her bridegroom. Some might even murmur afleeting prayer in their hearts, as the two departed: 'God blessthem!'
So now Stephen must actually learn at first hand how straightcan run the path of true love, in direct contradiction to thetime-honoured proverb. Must realize more clearly than ever, thatlove is only permissible to those who are cut in every respect tolife's pattern; must feel like some ill-conditioned pariah, hidingher sores under lies and pretences. And after those visits ofViolet Antrim's, her spirits would be at a very low ebb, for shehad not yet gained that steel-bright courage which can only beforged in the furnace of affliction, and which takes many wearyyears in the forging.
2
The splendid new motor arrived from London, to the great delightand excitement of Burton. The new suits were completed and worn bytheir owner, and Angela's costly gold bag was received withapparent delight, which seemed rather surprising considering hererstwhile ban upon presents. Yet could Stephen have known it, thiswas not so surprising after all, for the bag infuriated Ralph,thereby distracting his facile attention for the moment fromsomething that was far more dangerous.
Filled with an ever-increasing need to believe, Stephen listenedto Angela Crossby: 'You know there's nothing between me andRoger—if you don't, then you above all people ought to,' andher blue, childlike eyes would look up at Stephen, who could neverresist the appeal of their blueness.
And as though to bear out the truth of her words, Roger now cameto The Grange much less often; and when he did come he was quietlyfriendly, not at all lover-like if Stephen was present, so thatgradually her need to believe had begun to allay her worst fears.Yet she knew with the true instinct of the lover, that Angela wassecretly unhappy. She might try to appear light-hearted andflippant, but her smiles and her jests could not deceiveStephen.
'You're miserable. What is it?'
And Angela would answer: 'Ralph's been vile to me again—'But she would not add that Ralph was daily becoming more suspiciousand more intolerant of Roger Antrim, so that now her deadly fear ofher husband was always at war with her passion.
Sometimes it seemed to the girl that Angela used her as a whipwherewith to lash Ralph. She would lead Stephen on to show signs ofaffection which would never have been permitted in the past.Ralph's little red eyes would look deeply resentful, and getting uphe would slouch from the room. They would hear the front door beingclosed, and would know that he had gone for a walk with Tony. Yetwhen they were alone and in comparative safety, there would besomething crude, almost cruel in their kisses; a restless,dissatisfied, hungry thing—their lips would seem bent onscourging their bodies. Neither of them would find deliverance norease from the ache that was in them, for each would be kissing witha well-nigh intolerable sense of loss, with a passionate knowledgeof separation. After a little they would sit with bent heads, notspeaking because of what might not be spoken; not daring to lookeach other in the eyes nor to touch each other, lest they shouldcry out against this preposterous lovemaking.
Completely confounded, Stephen racked her brains for anythingthat might give them both a respite. She suggested that Angelashould see her fence with a celebrated London fencing master whomshe had bribed to come down to Morton. She tried to arouse aninterest in the car, the splendid new car that had cost so muchmoney. She tried to find out if Angela had an ungratified wish thatmoney could fulfil.
'Only tell me what I can do,' she pleaded, but apparently therewas nothing.
Angela came several times to Morton and dutifully attended thefencing lessons. But they did not go well, for Stephen wouldglimpse her staring abstractedly out of the window; then the sly,agile foil with its blunt-tipped nose, would slip in underStephen's guard and shame her.
They would sometimes go far afield in the car, and one nightthey stopped at an inn and had dinner—Angela ringing up herhusband with the old and now threadbare excuse of a breakdown. Theydined in a quiet little room by themselves; the scents of thegarden came in through the window—warm, significant scents,for now it was May and many flowers multiplied in that garden.Never before had they done such a thing as this, they had neverdined all alone at a wayside inn miles away from their homes, justthey two, and Stephen stretched out her hand and covered Angela'swhere it rested very white and still on the table. And Stephen'seyes held an urgent question, for now it was May and the blood ofyouth leaps and strains with the sap in early summer. The airseemed breathless, since neither would speak, afraid of disturbingthe thick, sweet silence—but Angela shook her head veryslowly. Then they could not eat, for each was filled with the sameand yet with a separate longing; so after a while they must get upand go, both conscious of a sense of painful frustration.
They drove back on a road that was paved with moonlight, andpresently Angela fell fast asleep like an unhappy child—shehad taken her hat off and her head lay limply against Stephen'sshoulder. Seeing her thus, so helpless in sleep, Stephen feltstrangely moved, and she drove very slowly, fearful of waking thewoman who slept like a child with her fair head against hershoulder. The car climbed the steep hill from Ledbury town, andpresently there lay the wide Wye valley whose beauty had saddened aqueer little girl long before she had learnt the pain of allbeauty. And now the valley was bathed in whiteness, while here andthere gleamed a roof or a window, but whitely, as though all thegood valley folk had extinguished their lamps and retired to theircouches. Far away, like dark clouds coming up out of Wales, roserange upon range of the old Black Mountains, with the tip ofGadrfawr peering over the others, and the ridge of Pen-cerrig-calchsharp against the skyline. A little wind ruffled the bracken on thehillsides, and Angela's hair blew across her closed eyes so thatshe stirred and sighed in her sleep. Stephen bent down and began tosoothe her.
Then from out of that still and unearthly night, there creptupon Stephen an unearthly longing. A longing that was not any moreof the body but rather of the weary and home-sick spirit thatendured the chains of that body. And when she must drive past thegates of Morton, the longing within her seemed beyond all bearing,for she wanted to lift the sleeping woman in her arms and carry herin through those gates; and carry her in through the heavy whitedoor; and carry her up the wide, shallow staircase, and lay herdown on her own bed, still sleeping, but safe in the good care ofMorton.
Angela suddenly opened her eyes. Where am I?' she muttered,stupid with sleep. Then after a moment her eyes filled with tears,and there she sat all huddled up, crying.
Stephen said gently: 'It's all right, don't cry.'
But Angela went on crying.
1
Like a river that has gradually risen to flood, until it sweepseverything before it, so now events rose and gathered in strengthtowards their inevitable conclusion. At the end of May Ralph mustgo to his mother, who was said to be dying at her house inBrighton. With all his faults he had been a good son, and theredness of his eyes was indeed from real tears as he kissed hiswife good-bye at the station on his way to his dying mother. Thenext morning he wired that his mother was dead, but that he couldnot get home for a couple of weeks. As it happened, he gave theactual day and hour of his return, so that Angela knew it.
The relief of his unexpectedly long absence went to Stephen'shead; she grew much more exacting, suggesting all sorts of intimateplans. Supposing they went for a few days to London? Supposing theymotored to Symond's Yat and stayed at the little hotel by theriver? They might even push on to Abergavenny and from there motorup and explore the Black Mountains—why not? It was gloriousweather.
'Angela, please come away with me, darling—just for a fewdays—we've never done it, and I've longed to so often. Youcan't refuse, there's nothing on earth to prevent your coming.'
But Angela would not make up her mind, she seemed suddenlyanxious about her husband: 'Poor devil, he was awfully fond of hismother. I oughtn't to go, it would look so heartless with the oldwoman dead and Ralph so unhappy—'
Stephen said bitterly: 'What about me? Do you think I'm neverunhappy?'
So the time slipped by in heartaches and quarrels, for Stephen'staut nerves were like spurs to her temper, and she stormed orreproached in her dire disappointment:
'You pretend that you love me and yet you won't come—andI've waited so long—oh, my God, how I've waited! But you'reutterly cruel. And I ask for so little, just to have you with mefor a few days and nights just to sleep with you in my arms; justto feel you beside me when I wake up in the morning—I want toopen my eyes and see your face, as though we belonged to eachother. Angela, I swear I wouldn't torment you—we'd be just aswe are now, if that's what you're afraid of. You must know, afterall these months, that you can trust me—'
But Angela set her lips and refused: 'No, Stephen, I'm sorry,but I'd rather not come.'
Then Stephen would feel that life was past bearing, andsometimes she must ride rather wildly for miles—now onRaftery, now on Sir Philip's young chestnut. All alone she wouldride in the early mornings, getting up from a sleepless nightunrefreshed, yet terribly alive because of those nerves thattortured her luckless body. She would get back to Morton stillunable to rest, and a little later would order the motor and driveherself across to The Grange, where Angela would usually bedreading her coming.
Her reception would be cold: 'I'm fairly busy, Stephen—Imust pay off all these bills before Ralph gets home'; or: 'I've gota foul headache, so don't scold me this morning; I think if you didthat I just couldn't bear it!' Stephen would flinch as thoughstruck in the face; she might even turn round and go back toMorton.
Came the last precious day before Ralph's return, and that daythey did spend quite peaceably together, for Angela seemed bentupon soothing. She went out of her way to be gentle to Stephen, andStephen, quick as always to respond, was very gentle in her turn.But after they had dined in the little herb garden—takingadvantage of the hot, still weather—Angela developed one ofher headaches.
Oh, my Stephen—oh, darling, my head's too awful. It mustbe the thunder—it's been coming on all day. What a perfectlydamnable thing to happen, on our last evening too—but I knowthis kind well; I'll just have to give in and go to my bed. I'lltake a cachet and then try to sleep, so don't ring me up when youget back to Morton. Come to-morrow—come early. I'm somiserable, darling, when I think that this is our last peacefulevening—'
'I know. But are you all right to be left?'
'Yes, of course. All I need is to get some sleep. You won'tworry, will you? Promise, my Stephen!'
Stephen hesitated. Quite suddenly Angela was looking very ill,and her hands were like ice. Swear you'll telephone to me if youcan't get to sleep, then I'll come back at once.'
'Yes, but don't do that, will you, unless I ring up—Ishould hear you, of course, and that would wake me and start myhead throbbing.' Then as though impelled, in spite of herself bythe girl's strange attraction, she lifted her face: 'Kiss me...oh,God...Stephen!'
'I love you so much—so much—' whispered Stephen.
2
It was past ten o'clock when she got back to Morton: 'Has AngelaCrossby rung up?' she inquired of Puddle, who appeared to have beenwaiting in the hall.
'No, she hasn't!' snapped Puddle, who was getting to the stagewhen she hated the mere name of Angela Crossby. Then she added:'You look like nothing on earth; in your place I'd go to bed atonce, Stephen.'
'You go to bed, Puddle, if you're tired—where'sMother?'
'In her bath. For heaven's sake do come to bed! I can't bear tosee you looking as you do these days.'
'I'm all right.'
'No, you're not, you're all wrong. Go and look at yourface.'
'I don't very much want to, it doesn't attract me,' smiledStephen.
So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to sitwith a book in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angelashould ring. And there, like the faithful creature she was, shemust sit on all through the night, patiently waiting. But when thefirst tinges of dawn greyed the window and the panes of thesemicircular fanlight, she left her chair stiffly to pace up anddown, filled with a longing to be near this woman, if only to standand keep watch in her garden—Snatching up a coat she went outto her car.
3
She left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up thedrive, taking cart to tread softly. The air had an indefinablesmell of dew and of very newly born morning. The tall, ornate Tudorchimneys of the house stood out gauntly against a brightening sky,and as Stephen crept into the small herb garden, one tentative birdhad already begun singing—but his voice was still ratherhusky from sleep. She stood there and shivered in her heavy coat;the long night of vigil had devitalized her. She was sometimes likethis now—she would shiver at the least provocation, the leastsign of fatigue, for her splendid physical strength was giving,worn out by its own insistence.
She dragged the coat more closely around her, and stared at thehouse which was reddening with sunrise. Her heart beat anxiously,fearfully even, as though in some painful anticipation of she knewnot what—every window was dark except one or two that werefired by the sunrise. How long she stood there she never knew, itmight have been moments, it might have been a life-time; and thensuddenly there was something that moved—the little oak doorthat led into that garden. It moved cautiously, opening inch byinch, until at last it was standing wide open, and Stephen saw aman and a woman who turned to clasp as though neither of them couldendure to be parted from the arms of the other; and as they clungthere together and kissed, they swayed unsteadily—drunk withloving.
Then, as sometimes happens in moments of great anguish, Stephencould only remember the grotesque. She could only remember aplump-bosomed housemaid in the arms of a coarsely amorous footman,and she laughed and she laughed like a creaturedemented—laughed and laughed until she must gasp for breathand spit blood from, her tongue, which had somehow got bitten inher efforts to stop her hysterical laughing; and some of the bloodremained on her chin, jerked there by that agonized laughter.
Pale as death, Roger Antrim stared out into the garden, and histiny moustache looked quite black—like an ink stain smearedabove his tremulous mouth by some careless schoolboy finger.
And now Angela's voice came to Stephen, but faintly. She wassaying something—what was she saying? It soundly absurdly asthough it were a prayer—' Christ!' Thensharply—razor-sharp it sounded as it cut through the air:'You, Stephen!'
The laughter died abruptly away, as Stephen turned and walkedout of the garden and down the short drive that led to the gates ofthe Grange, where the motor was waiting. Her face was a mask, quitewithout expression. She moved stiffly, yet with a curiousprecision; and she swung up the handle and started the powerfulengine without any apparent effort.
She drove at great speed but with accurate judgment, for now hermind felt as clear as spring water, and yet there were strangelittle gaps in her mind—she had not the least idea where shewas going. Every road for miles around Upton was familiar, yet shehad not the least idea where she was going. Nor did she know howlong she drove, nor when she stopped to procure fresh petrol. Thesun rose high and hot in the heavens; it beat down on her withoutwarming her coldness, for always she had the sense of a dead thingthat lay close against her heart and oppressed it. Acorpse—she was carrying a corpse about with her. Was it thecorpse of her love for Angela? If so that love was more terribledead—oh, far more terrible dead than living.
The first stars were shining, but as yet very faintly, when shefound herself driving through the gates of Morton. Heard Puddle'svoice calling: 'Wait a minute. Stop. Stephen!' Saw Puddle barringher way in the drive, a tiny yet dauntless figure.
She pulled up with a jerk: 'What's the matter What is it?''Where have you been?'
'I—don't know, Puddle.'
But Puddle had clambered in beside her: 'Listen, Stephen,' andnow she was talking very fast, 'listen, Stephen—isit—is it Angela Crossby It is. I can see the thing in yourface. My God, what's that woman done to you, Stephen?'
Then Stephen, in spite of the corpse against her heart, orperhaps because of it, defended the woman: 'She's done nothing atall—it was all my fault, but you wouldn't understand—Igot very angry and then I laughed and couldn't stoplaughing—' Steady, go steady! She was telling too much:'No—it wasn't that exactly. Oh, you know my vile temper, italways goes off at half cock for nothing. Well, then I just droveround and round the country until I cooled down. I'm sorry, Puddle,I ought to have rung up, of course you've been anxious.'
Puddle gripped her arm: 'Stephen, listen, it's yourmother—she thinks that you started quite early for Worcester,I lied—I've been nearly distracted, child. If you hadn't comesoon, I'd have had to tell her that I didn't know where you were.You must never,never go off without a word like thisagain—But I do understand, oh, I do indeed, Stephen.'
But Stephen shook her head: 'No, my dear, you couldn't—andI'd rather not tell you, Puddle.'
'Some day you must tell me,' said Puddle, 'because—well,because I do understand, Stephen.'
4
That night the weight against Stephen's heart, with its icycoldness, melted; and it flowed out in such a torrent of grief thatshe could, not stand up against that torrent, so that drowningthough she was she found pen and paper, and she wrote to AngelaCrossby.
What a letter! All the pent-up passion of months, all theterrible, rending, destructive frustrations must burst forth fromher heart: 'Love me, only love me the way I love you. Angela, forGod's sake, try to love me a little—don't throw me away,because if you do I'm utterly finished. You know how I love you,with my soul and my body; if it's wrong, grotesque,unholy—have pity. I'll be humble. Oh, my darling, I am humblenow; I'm just a poor, heart-broken freak of a creature who lovesyou and needs you much more than its life, because life's worsethan death, ten times worse without you. I'm some awfulmistake—God's mistake—I don't know if there are anymore like me, I pray not for their sakes, because it's pure hell.But oh, my dear, whatever I am, I just love you and love you. Ithought it was dead, but it wasn't. It's alive—so terriblyalive tonight in my bedroom...' And so it went on for page afterpage.
But never a word about Roger Antrim and what she had seen thatmorning in the garden. Some fine instinct of utterly selflessprotection towards this woman had managed to survive all theanguish and all the madness of that day. The letter was a terribleindictment against Stephen, a complete vindication of AngelaCrossby.
5
Angela went to her husband's study, and she stood before himutterly shaken, utterly appalled at what she would do, yet utterlyand ruthlessly determined to do it from a primitive instinct ofself-preservation. In her ears she could still hear that terriblelaughter—that uncanny, hysterical, agonized laughter. Stephenwas mad, and God only knew what she might do or say in a moment ofmadness, and then—but she dared not look into the future.Cringing in spirit and trembling in body, she forgot the girl'sfaithful and loyal devotion, her will to forgive, her desire toprotect, so clearly set forth in that pitiful letter.
She said: 'Ralph, I want to ask your advice. I'm in an awfulmess—it's Stephen Gordon. You think I've been carrying onwith Roger—good Lord, if you only knew what I've enduredthese past few months! I have seen a great deal of Roger, Iadmit—quite innocently of course—still, all the same,I've seen him—I thought it would show her that I'mnot—that I'm not—' For one moment her voice seemedabout to fail her, then she went on quite firmly: 'that I'm not apervert; that I'm not that sort of degenerate creature.'
He sprang up: 'What?' he bellowed.
'Yes, I know, it's too awful. I ought to have asked your adviceabout it, but I really did like the girl just at first, and afterthat, well—I set out to reform her. Oh, I know, I've beencrazy, worse than crazy if you like; it was hopeless right from thevery beginning. If I'd only known more about that sort of thing I'dhave come to you at once, but I'd never met it. She was ourneighbour, too, which made it more awkward, and not onlythat—her position in the county—oh, Ralph, youmust help me, I'm completely bewildered. How on earth doesone answer this sort of thing? It's quite mad—I believe thegirl's half mad herself.'
And she handed him Stephen's letter.
He read it slowly, and as he did so his weak little eyes grewliterally scarlet—puffy and scarlet all over their lids, andwhen he had finished reading that letter he turned and spat on theground. Then Ralph's language became a thing to forget; everyfilthy invective learnt in the slums of his youth and later on inthe workshops, he hurled against Stephen and all her kind. Hecalled down the wrath of the Lord upon them. He deplored thenon-existence of the stake, and racked his brains for indecenttortures. And finally: 'I'll answer this letter, yes, by God Iwill! You leave her to me, I know how I'm going to answer thisletter!'
Angela asked him, and now her voice shook: 'Ralph, what will youdo to her—to Stephen?'
He laughed loudly: 'I'll hound her out of the county before I'vedone—and with luck out of England; the same as I'd hound youout if I thought that there'd ever been anything between you twowomen. It's damned lucky for you that she wrote this letter, damnedlucky, otherwise I might have my suspicions. You've got off thistime, but don't try your reforming again—you're not cut outto be a reformer. If there's any of that Lamb of God stuff wantedI'll see to it myself and don't you forget it!' He slipped theletter into his pocket, 'I'll sec to it myself next time—withan axe!'
Angela turned and went out of the study with bowed head. She wassaved through this great betrayal, yet most strangely bitter shefound her salvation, and most shameful the price she paid for hersafety. So, greatly daring, she went to her desk and with tremblingfingers took a sheet of paper. Then she wrote in her large, ratherchildish handwriting: 'Stephen—when you know what I've done,forgive me.'
1
Two days later Anna Gordon sent for her daughter. Stephen foundher sitting quite still in that vast drawing-room of hers, which asalways smelt faintly of orris-root, beeswax and violets. Her thin,white hands were folded in her lap, closely folded over a couple ofletters; and it seemed to Stephen that all of a sudden she saw inher mother a very old woman—a very old woman with terribleeyes, pitiless, hard and deeply accusing, so that she could butshrink from their gaze, since they were the eyes of her mother.
Anna said: 'Lock the door, then come and stand here.'
In absolute silence Stephen obeyed her. Thus it was that thosetwo confronted each other, flesh of flesh, blood of blood, theyconfronted each other across the wide gulf set between them.
Then Anna handed her daughter a letter: 'Read this,' she saidbriefly. And Stephen read:
DEAR LADY ANNA,
With deep repugnance I take up my pen, for certain things won'tbear thinking about, much less being written. But I feel that I oweyou some explanation of my reasons for having come to the decisionthat I cannot permit your daughter to enter my house again, or mywife to visit Morton. I enclose a copy of your daughter's letter tomy wife, which I feel is sufficiently dear to make it unnecessaryfor me to write further, except to add that my wife is returningthe two costly presents given her by Miss Gordon.
I remain, Yours very truly,
RALPH CROSSBY.
Stephen stood as though turned to stone for a moment, not somuch as a muscle twitched; then she handed the letter back to hermother without speaking, and in silence Anna received it.'Stephen—when you know what I've done, forgive me.' Thechildish scrawl seemed suddenly on fire, it seemed to scorchStephen's fingers as she touched it in her pocket—so this waswhat Angela had done. In a blinding flash the girl saw it all; themiserable weakness, the fear of betrayal, the terror of Ralph andof what he would do should he learn of that guilty night withRoger. Oh, but Angela might have spared her this, this last woundto her loyal and faithful devotion; this last insult to all thatwas best and most sacred in her love—Angela had fearedbetrayal at the hands of the creature who loved her!
But now her mother was speaking again: 'And this—read thisand tell me if you wrote it, or if that man's lying.' And Stephenmust read her own misery jibing at her from those pages in RalphCrossby's stiff and clerical handwriting.
She looked up: 'Yes, Mother, I wrote it.'
Then Anna began to speak very slowly as though nothing of whatshe would say must be lost; and that slow, quiet voice was moredreadful than anger: All your life I've felt very strangely towardsyou', she was saying, 'I've felt a kind of physical repulsion, adesire not to touch or to be touched by you—a terrible thingfor a mother to feel—it has often made me deeply unhappy.I've often felt that I was being unjust, unnatural—but now Iknow that my instinct was right; it is you who are unnatural, notI...'
'Mother—stop!'
'It is you who are unnatural, not I. And this thing that you areis a sin against creation. Above all is this thing a sin againstthe father who bred you, the father whom you dare to resemble. Youdare to look like your father, and your face is a living insult tohis memory, Stephen. I shall never be able to look at you nowwithout thinking of the deadly insult of your face and your body tothe memory of the father who bred you. I can only thank God thatyour father died before he was asked to endure this great shame. Asfor you, I would rather see you dead at my feet than standingbefore me with this thing upon you—this unspeakable outragethat you call love in that letter which you don't deny havingwritten. In that letter you say things that may only be saidbetween man and woman, and coming from you they are vile and filthywords of corruption—against nature, against God who creatednature. My gorge rises; you have made me feel physicallysick—'
'Mother—you don't know what you're saying—you're mymother—'
'Yes, I am your mother, but for all that, you seem to me like ascourge. I ask myself what I have ever done to be dragged down intothe depths by my daughter. And your father—what had he everdone? And you have presumed to use the word love in connection withthis—with these lusts of your body; these unnatural cravingsof your unbalanced mind and undisciplined body—you have usedthat word. I have loved—do you heart I have loved yourfather, and your father loved me. That waslove.'
Then, suddenly, Stephen knew that unless she could, indeed, dropdead at the feet of this woman in whose womb she had quickened,there was one thing that she dared not let pass unchallenged, andthat was this terrible slur upon her love. And all that was in herrose up to refute it; to protect her love from such unbearablesoiling. It was part of herself, and unless she could save it, shecould not save herself any more. She must stand or fall by thecourage of that love to proclaim its right to toleration.
She held up her hand, commanding silence; commanding that slow,quiet voice to cease speaking, and she said: 'As my father lovedyou, I loved. As a man loves a woman, that was how Iloved—protectively, like my father. I wanted to give all Ihad in me to give. It made me feel terribly strong...and gentle. Itwas good, good,good—I'd have laid down my life athousand times over for Angela Crossby. If I could have I'd havemarried her and brought her home—I wanted to bring her homehere to Morton. If I loved her the way a man loves a woman, it'sbecause I can't feel that I am a woman. All my life I've never feltlike a woman, and you know it—you say you've always dislikedme, that you've always felt a strange physical repulsion...I don'tknow what I am; no one's ever told me that I'm different and yet Iknow that I'm different—that's why, I suppose, you've felt asyou have done. And for that I forgive you, though whatever it is,it was you and my father who made this body—but what I willnever forgive is your daring to try to make me ashamed of my love.I'm not ashamed of it, there's no shame in me.' And now she wasstammering a little wildly, 'Good and—and fine it was,' shestammered, 'the best part of myself—I gave all and I askednothing in return—I just went on hopelessly loving—'she broke off, she was shaking from head to foot, and Anna's coldvoice fell like icy water on that angry and sorely tormentedspirit.
'You have spoken, Stephen. I don't think there's much more thatneeds to be said between us except this, we two cannot livetogether at Morton—not now, because I might grow to hate you.Yes, although you are my child I might grow to hate you. The sameroof mustn't shelter us both any more; one of us mustgo—which of us shall it bet' And she looked at Stephen andwaited.
Morton! They could not both live at Morton. Something seemed tocatch hold of the girl's heart and twist it. She stared at hermother, aghast for a moment, while Anna stared back—she waswaiting for her answer.
But quite suddenly Stephen found her manhood and she said: 'Iunderstand. I'll leave Morton.'
Then Anna made her daughter sit down beside her, while shetalked of how this thing might be accomplished in a way that wouldcause the least possible scandal: 'For the sake of your father'shonourable name, I must ask you to help me, Stephen.' It wasbetter, she said, that Stephen should take Puddle with her, ifPuddle would consent to go. They might live in London or somewhereabroad, on the pretext that Stephen wished to study. From time totime Stephen would come back to Morton and visit her mother, andduring those visits they two would take care to be seen togetherfor appearances' sake, for the sake of her father. She could takefrom Morton whatever she needed, the horses, and anything else shewished. Certain of the rent-roll would be paid over to her, shouldher own income prove insufficient. All things must be done in a waythat was seemly—no undue haste, no suspicion of a breachbetween mother and daughter: 'For the sake of your father I askthis of you, not for your sake or mine, but for his. Do you consentto this, Stephen?'
And Stephen answered: 'Yes, I consent.'
Then Anna said: 'I'd like you to leave me now—I feel tiredand I want to be alone for a little—but presently I shallsend for Puddle to discuss her living with you in the future.'
So Stephen got up, and she went away, leaving Anna Gordonalone.
2
As though drawn there by some strong natal instinct, Stephenwent straight to her father's study; and she sat in the oldarm-chair that had survived him; then she buried her face in herhands.
All the loneliness that had gone before was as nothing to thisnew loneliness of spirit. An immense desolation swept down uponher, an immense need to cry out and claim understanding forherself, an immense need to find an answer to the riddle of herunwanted being. All around her were grey and crumbling ruins, andunder those ruins her love lay bleeding; shamefully wounded byAngela Crossby, shamefully soiled and defiled by her mother—apiteous, suffering, defenceless thing, it lay bleeding under theruins.
She felt blind when she tried to look into the future, stupefiedwhen she tried to look back on the past. She must go—she wasgoing away from Morton: 'From Morton—I'm going away fromMorton,' the words thudded drearily in her brain: 'I'm going awayfrom Morton.'
The grave, comely house would not know her any more, nor thegarden where she had heard the cuckoo with the dawningunderstanding of a child, nor the lakes where she had kissed AngelaCrossby for the first time—full on the lips as a lover. Thegood, sweet-smelling meadows with their placid cattle, she wasgoing to leave them; and the hills that protected poor, unhappylovers—the merciful hills; and the lanes with their sleepydog-roses at evening; and the little, old township ofUpton-on-Severn with its battle-scarred church and its yellowishriver; that was where she had first seen Angela Crossby...
The spring would come sweeping across Castle Morton, bringingstrong, clean winds to the open common. The spring would comesweeping across the whole valley, from the Cotswold Hills right upto the Malverns; bringing daffodils by their hundreds andthousands, bringing bluebells to the beech wood down by the lakes,bringing cygnets for Peter the swan to protect; bringing sunshineto warm the old bricks of the house—but she would not bethere any more in the spring. In summer the roses would not be herroses, nor the luminous carpet of leaves in the autumn, nor thebeautiful winter forms of the beech trees: 'And on evenings inwinter these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabsof gold in the sunset, when, you and I come and stand here in thewinter...' No, no, not that memory, it was too much—'when youand I come and stand here in the winter...
Getting up, she wandered about the room, touching its kind andfamiliar objects; stroking the desk, examining a pen, grown rustyfrom long disuse as it lay there; then she opened a little drawerin the desk and took out the key of her father's locked book-case.Her mother had told her to take what she pleased—she wouldtake one or two of her father's books. She had never examined thisspecial book-case, and she could not have told why she suddenly didso. As she slipped the key into the lock and turned it, the actionseemed curiously automatic. She began to take out the volumesslowly and with listless fingers, scarcely glancing at theirtitles. It gave her something to do, that was all—she thoughtthat she was trying to distract her attention. Then she noticedthat on a shelf near the bottom was a row of books standing behindthe others; the next moment she had one of these in her hand, andwas looking at the name of the author: Krafft Ebing—she hadnever heard of that author before. All the same she opened thebattered old book, then she looked more closely, for there on itsmargins were notes in her father's small, scholarly hand and shesaw that her own name appeared in those notes—She began toread, sitting down rather abruptly. For a long time she read; thenwent back to the book-case and got out another of those volumes,and another...The sun was now setting behind the hills; the gardenwas growing dusky with shadows. In the study there was little lightleft to read by, so that she must take her book to the window andmust bend her face closer over the page; but still she read on andon in the dusk.
Then suddenly she had got to her feet and was talkingaloud—she was talking to her father: 'You knew! All the timeyou knew this thing, but because of your pity you wouldn't tell me.Oh, Father—and there are so many of us—thousands ofmiserable, unwanted people, who have no right to love, no right tocompassion because they're maimed, hideously maimed andugly—God's cruel; He let us get flawed in the making.'
And then, before she knew what she was doing, she had found herfather's old, well-worn Bible. There she stood demanding a signfrom heaven—nothing less than a sign from heaven shedemanded. The Bible fell open near the beginning. She read: 'Andthe Lord set a mark upon Cain...
Then Stephen hurled the Bible away, and she sank down completelyhopeless and beaten, rocking her body backwards and forwards with akind of abrupt yet methodical rhythm: 'And the Lord set a mark uponCain, upon Cain...' she was rocking now in rhythm to those words,'And the Lord set a mark upon Cain—upon Cain—upon Cain.And the Lord set a mark upon Cain...'
That was how Puddle came in and found her, and Puddle said:'Where you go, I go, Stephen. All that you're suffering at thismoment I've suffered. It was when I was very young likeyou—but I still remember.'
Stephen looked up with bewildered eyes: 'Would you go with Cainwhom God marked?' she said slowly, for she had not understoodPuddle's meaning, so she asked her once more: 'Would you go withCaine?'
Puddle put an arm round Stephen's bowed shoulders, and she said:'You've got work to do—come and do it! Why, just because youare what you are, you may actually find that you've got anadvantage. You may write with a curious double insight—writeboth men and women from a personal knowledge. Nothing's completelymisplaced or wasted, I'm sure of that—and we're all part ofnature. Some day the world will recognize this, but meanwhilethere's plenty of work that's waiting. For the sake of all theothers who are like you, but less strong and less gifted perhaps,many of them, it's up to you to have the courage to make good, andI'm here to help you to do it, Stephen.'
1
A pale glint of sunshine devoid of all warmth lay over the wideexpanse of the river, touching the funnel of a passing tug thattore at the water like a clumsy harrow; but a field of water is notfor the sowing and the river closed back in the wake of the tug,deftly obliterating all traces of its noisy and foolish passing.The trees along the Chelsea Embankment bent and creaked in a sharpMarch wind. The wind was urging the sap in their branches to flowwith a more determined purpose, but the skin of their bodies wasblackened and soot-clogged so that when touched it left soot on thefingers, and knowing this they were always disheartened andtherefore a little slow to respond to the urge of thewind—they were city trees which are always somewhatdisheartened. Away to the right against a toneless sky stood thetall factory chimneys beloved of young artists—especiallythose whose skill is not great, for few can go wrong over factorychimneys—while across the stream Battersea Park still lookedmisty as though barely convalescent from fog.
In her large, long, rather low-ceilinged study whose casementwindows looked over the river, sat Stephen with her feet stretchedout to the fire and her hands thrust in her jacket pockets. Hereyelids drooped, she was all but asleep although it was earlyafternoon. She had worked through the night, a deplorable habit andone of which Puddle quite rightly disapproved, but when the spiritof work was on her it was useless to argue with Stephen.
Puddle looked up from her embroidery frame and pushed herspectacles on to her forehead the better to see the drowsy Stephen,for Puddle's eyes had grown very long-sighted so that the roomlooked blurred through her glasses.
She thought: 'Yes, she's changed a good deal in these twoyears—' then she sighed half in sadness and half incontentment. 'All the same she is making good,' thought Puddle,remembering with a quick thrill of pride that the long-limbedcreature who lounged by the fire had suddenly sprung into somethinglike fame thanks to a fine first novel.
Stephen yawned, and readjusting her spectacles Puddle resumedher wool-work.
It was true that the two long years of exile had left theirtraces on Stephen's face; it had grown much thinner and moredetermined, some might have said that the face had hardened, forthe mouth was less ardent and much less gentle, and the lips nowdrooped at the corners. The strong rather massive line of the jawlooked aggressive these days by reason of its thinness. Faintfurrows had come between the thick brows and faint shadows showedat times under the eyes; the eyes themselves were the eyes of awriter, always a little tired in expression. Her complexion waspaler than it had been in the past, it had lost the look of windand sunshine—the open-air look—and the fingers of thehand that slowly emerged from her jacket pocket were heavilystained with nicotine—she was now a voracious smoker. Herhair was quite short. In a mood of defiance she had suddenly walkedoff to the barber's one morning and had made him crop it dose likea man's. And mightily did the fashion become her, for now the fineshape of her head was unmarred by the stiff clumpy plait in thenape of her neck. Released from the torment imposed upon it thethick auburn hair could breathe and wave freely, and Stephen hadgrown fond and proud of her hair—a hundred strokes must ithave with the brush every night until it looked burnished. SirPhilip also had been proud of his hair in the days of his youthfulmanhood.
Stephen's life in London had been one long endeavour, for workto her had become a narcotic. Puddle it was who had found the flatwith the casement windows that looked on the river, and Puddle itwas who now kept the accounts, paid the rent, settled bills andmanaged the servants; all these details Stephen calmly ignored andthe faithful Puddle allowed her to do so. Like an ageing andanxious Vestal Virgin she tended the holy fire of inspiration,feeding the flame with suitable food—good grilled meat, lightpuddings and much fresh fruit, varied by little painstakingsurprises from Jackson's or Fortnum & Mason. For Stephen'sappetite was not what it had been in the vigorous days of Morton;now there were times when she could not eat, or if she must eat shedid so protesting, fidgeting to go back to her desk. At such timesPuddle would steal into the study with a tin of Brand'sEssence—she had even been known to feed the recalcitrantauthor piecemeal, until Stephen must laugh and gobble up the jellyfor the sake of getting on with her writing.
Only one duty apart from her work had Stephen never for a momentneglected, and that was the care and the welfare of Raftery. Thecob had been sold, and her father's chestnut she had given away toColonel Antrim, who had sworn not to let the horse out of his handsfor the sake of his life-long friend, Sir Philip—but Rafteryshe had brought up to London. She herself had found and rented hisstable with comfortable rooms above for Jim, the groom she hadtaken from Morton. Every morning she rode very early in the Park,which seemed a futile and dreary business, but now only thus couldthe horse and his owner contrive to be together for a little.Sometimes she fancied that Raftery sighed as she cantered him roundand round the Row, and then she would stoop down and speak to himsoftly:
'My Raftery, I know, it's not Castle Morton or the hills or thebig, green Severn Valley—but I love you.'
And because he had understood her he would throw up his head andbegin to prance sideways, pretending that he still felt veryyouthful, pretending that he was wild with delight at the prospectof cantering round the Row. But after a while these two sorryexiles would droop and move forward without much spirit. Each in aseparate way would divine the ache in the other, the ache that wasMorton, so that Stephen would cease to urge the beast forward, andRaftery would cease to pretend to Stephen. But when twice a year ather mother's request, Stephen must go back to visit her home, thenRaftery went too, and his joy was immense when he felt the goodspringy turf beneath him, when he sighted the red brick stables ofMorton, when he rolled in the straw of his large, airy loose box.The years would seem to slip from his shoulders, he grew sleeker,he would look like a five-year-old—yet to Stephen thesevisits of theirs were anguish because of her love for Morton. Shewould feel like a stranger within the gates, an unwanted strangerthere only on sufferance. It would seem to her that the old housewithdrew itself from her love very gravely and sadly, that itswindows no longer beckoned, invited: 'Come home, come home, comeinside quickly, Stephen!' And she would not dare to proffer herlove, which would burden her heart to breaking.
She must now pay many calls with her mother, must attend all theformal social functions—this for the sake of appearances,lest the neighbours should guess the breach between them. She mustkeep up the fiction that she found in a city the stimulus necessaryto her work, she who was filled with a hungry longing for the greenof the hills, for the air of wide spaces, for the mornings and thenoontides and the evenings of Morton. All these things she must dofor the sake of her father, aye, and for the sake of Morton.
On her first visit home Anna had said very quietly one day:'There's something, Stephen, that I think I ought to tell youperhaps, though it's painful to me to reopen the subject. There hasbeen no scandal—that man held his tongue—you'll be gladto know this because of your father. And Stephen—the Crossbyshave sold The Grange and gone to America, I believe—' she hadstopped abruptly, not looking at Stephen, who had nodded, unable toanswer.
So now there were quite different folk at The Grange, folk verymuch more to the taste of the county—Admiral Carson and hisapple-checked wife who, childless herself, adored Mothers'Meetings. Stephen must sometimes go to The Grange with Anna, wholiked the Carsons. Very grave and aloof had Stephen become; tooreserved, too self-assured, thought her neighbours. They supposedthat success had gone to her head, for no one was now allowed todivine the terrible shyness that made social intercourse such amiserable torment. Life had already taught Stephen one thing, andthat was that never must human beings be allowed to suspect that acreature fears them. The fear of the one is a spur to the many, forthe primitive hunting instinct dies hard—it is better to facea hostile world than to turn one's back for a moment.
But at least she was spared meeting Roger Antrim, and for thisshe was most profoundly thankful. Roger had gone with his regimentto Malta, so that they two did not see each other. Violet wasmarried and living in London in the 'perfect duck of a house inBelgravia'. From time to time she would blow in on Stephen, but notoften, because she was very much married with one baby already andanother on the way. She was somewhat subdued and much less maternalthan she had been when first she met Alec.
If Anna was proud of her daughter's achievement she said nothingbeyond the very few words that must of necessity be spoken: 'I'm soglad your book has succeeded, Stephen.'
'Thank you, mother—'
Then as always these two fell silent. Those long and eloquentsilences of theirs were now of almost daily occurrence when theyfound themselves together. Nor could they look each other in theeyes any more, their eyes were for ever shifting, and sometimesAnna's pale cheeks would flush very slightly when she was alonewith Stephen—perhaps at her thoughts.
And Stephen would think: 'It's because she can't helpremembering.'
For the most part, however, they shunned all contact by commonconsent, except when in public. And this studied avoidance tore attheir nerves; they were now wellnigh obsessed by each other, forever secretly laying their plans in order to avoid a meeting. Thusit was that these obligatory visits to Morton were a pretty badstrain on Stephen. She would go back to London unable to sleep,unable to eat, unable to write, and with such a despairing andsickening heartache for the grave old house the moment she had leftit, that Puddle would have to be very severe in order to pull hertogether.
'I'm ashamed of you, Stephen; what's happened to your courage?You don't deserve your phenomenal success; if you go on like this,God help the new book. I suppose you're going to be a one-bookauthor!'
Scowling darkly, Stephen would go to her desk—she had nowish to be a one-book author.
2
Yet as everything comes as grist to the mill of those who arcdestined from birth to be writers—poverty or riches, good orevil, gladness or sorrow, all grist to the mill—so the painof Morton burning down to the spirit in Stephen had kindled abright, hot flame, and all that she had written she had written byits light, seeing exceedingly clearly. As though in a kind ofself-preservation, her mind had turned to quite simple people,humble people sprung from the soil, from the same kind soil thathad nurtured Morton. None of her own strange emotions had touchedthem, and yet they were part of her own emotions; a part of herlonging for simplicity and peace, a part of her curious craving forthe normal. And although at this time Stephen did not know it,their happiness sprung from her moments of joy; their sorrows fromthe sorrow she had known and still knew; their frustrations fromher own bitter emptiness; their fulfilments from her longing to befulfilled. These people had drawn life and strength from theircreator. Like infants they had sucked at her breasts ofinspiration, and drawn from them blood, waxing wonderfully strong;demanding, compelling thereby recognition. For surely thus only arefine books written, they must somehow partake of the miracle ofblood—the strange and terrible miracle of blood, the giver oflife, the purifier, the great final expiation.
3
But one thing there was that Puddle still feared, and this wasthe girl's desire for isolation. To her it appeared like a weaknessin Stephen; she divined the bruised humility of spirit that nowunderlay this desire for isolation, and she did her best tofrustrate it. It was Puddle who had forced the embarrassed Stephento let in the Press photographers, and Puddle it was who had giventhe details for the captions that were to appear with the pictures:'If you choose to behave like a hermit crab I shall use my ownjudgment about what I say!'
'I don't care a tinker's darn what you say! Now leave me inpeace do, Puddle.'
It was Puddle who answered the telephone calls: 'I'm afraid MissGordon will be busy working—what name did you say? Oh,TheLiterary Monthly! I see—well suppose you come onWednesday.' And on Wednesday there was old Puddle waiting to waylaythe anxious young man who had been commanded to dig up some copyabout the new novelist, Stephen Gordon. Then Puddle had smiled atthe anxious young man and had shepherded him into her own littlesanctum, and had given him a comfortable chair, and had stirred thefire the better to warm him. And the young man had noticed hercharming smile and had thought how kind was this ageing woman, andhow damned hard it was to go tramping the streets in quest oferratic, unsociable authors.
Puddle had said, still smiling kindly: 'I'd hate you to go backwithout your copy, but Miss Gordon's been working overtime lately,I dare not disturb her, you don't mind, do you? Now if you couldpossibly make shift with me—I really do know a great dealabout her; as a matter of fact I'm her ex-governess, so I really doknow quite a lot about her.'
Out had come notebook and copying pencil; it was easy to talk tothis sympathetic woman: 'Well, if you could give me someinteresting details—say, her taste in books and herrecreations, I'd be awfully grateful. She hunts, I believe?'
'Oh, not now!'
'I see—well then, shedid hunt. And wasn't herfather Sir Philip Gordon who had a place down in Worcestershire andwas killed by a falling tree or something? What kind of a pupil didyou find Miss Gordon? I'll send her my notes when I've worked themup, but I really would like to see her, you know.' Then being afairly sagacious young man: 'I've just readThe Furrow, it'sa wonderful book!'
Puddle talked glibly while the young man scribbled, and when atlast he was just about going she let him out on to the balcony fromwhich he could look in Stephen's study.
'There she is at her desk! What more could you ask?' she saidtriumphantly, pointing to Stephen whose hair was literally standingon end, as is sometimes the way with youthful authors. She evenmanaged occasionally to make Stephen see the journalistsherself:
4
Stephen got up, stretched, and went to the window. The sun hadretreated behind the clouds; a kind of brown twilight hung over theEmbankment, for the wind had now dropped and a fog was threatening.The discouragement common to all fine writers was upon her, she washating what she had written. Last night's work seemed inadequateand unworthy; she decided to put a blue pencil through it and torewrite the chapter from start to finish. She began to give way toa species of panic; her new book would be a ludicrous failure, shefelt it, she would never again write a novel possessing the qualityofThe Furrow.The Furrow had been the result ofshock to which she had, strangely enough, reacted by a kind ofunnatural mental vigour. But now she could not react any more, herbrain felt like over-stretched elastic, it would not spring back,it was limp, unresponsive. And then there was something else thatdistracted, something she was longing to put into words yet thatshamed her so that it held her tongue-tied. She lit a cigarette andwhen it was finished found another and kindled it at the stump.
'Stop embroidering that curtain, for God's sake, Puddle. Isimply can't stand the sound of your needle; it makes a boomingnoise like a drum every time you prod that tightly stretchedlinen.'
Puddle looked up: 'You're smoking too much.'
'I dare say I am. I can't write any more.'
'Since when?'
'Ever since I began this new book.'
'Don't be such a fool!'
'But it's God's truth, I tell you—I feel flat, it's a kindof spiritual dryness. This new book is going to be a failure,sometimes I think I'd better destroy it.' She began to pace up anddown the room, dull-eyed yet tense as a tightly-drawn bowstring.
'This comes of working all night,' Puddle murmured.
'I must work when the spirit moves me,' snapped Stephen.
Puddle put aside her wool work embroidery. She was not muchmoved by this sudden depression, she had grown quite accustomed tothese literary moods, yet she looked a little more closely atStephen and something that she saw in her face disturbed her.
'You look tired to death; why not lie down and rest?'
'Rot! I want to work.'
'You're not fit to work. You look all on edge, somehow. What'sthe matter with you?' And then very gently: Stephen, come here andsit down by me, please, I must know what's the matter.'
Stephen obeyed as though once again they two were back in theold Morton schoolroom, then she suddenly buried her face in herhands: 'I don't want to tell you—why must I, Puddle?'
'Because,' said Puddle, 'I've a right to know; your career'svery dear to me, Stephen.'
Then suddenly Stephen could not resist the blessed relief ofconfiding in Puddle once more, of taking this great new trouble tothe faithful and wise little grey-haired woman whose hand had beenstretched out to save in the past. Perhaps yet again that handmight find the strength that was needful to save her.
Not looking at Puddle, she began to talk quickly: 'There'ssomething I've been wanting to tell you, Puddle—it's about mywork, there's something wrong with it. I mean that my work could bemuch more vital; I feel it, I know it, I'm holding it back in someway, there's something I'm always missing. Even inTheFurrow I feel I missed something—I know it was fine, butit wasn't complete because I'm not complete and I never shallbe—can't you understand? I'm not complete...' She paused,unable to find the words she wanted, then blundered on againblindly: 'There's a great chunk of life that I've never known, andI want to know it, I ought to know it if I'm to become a reallyfine writer. There's the greatest thing perhaps in the world, andI've missed it—that's what's so awful, Puddle, to know thatit exists everywhere, all round me, to be constantly near it yetalways held back—to feel that the poorest people in thestreets, the most ignorant people, know more than I do. And I dareto take up my pen and write, knowing less than these poor men andwomen in the street! Why haven't I got a right to it, Puddle? Can'tyou understand that I'm strong and young, so that sometimes thisthing that I'm missing torments me, so that I can't concentrate onmy work any more? Puddle, help me—you were young yourselfonce.'
'Yes, Stephen—a long time ago I was young...
'But can't you remember back for my sake?' And now her voicesounded almost angry in her distress: 'It's unfair, it's unjust.Why should I live in this great isolation of spirit andbody—why should I, why? Why have I been afflicted with a bodythat must never be indulged, that must always be repressed until itgrows much stronger than my spirit because of this unnaturalrepression? What have I done to be so cursed? And now it'sattacking my holy of holies, my work—I shall never be a greatwriter because of my maimed and insufferable body—' She fellsilent, suddenly shy and ashamed, too much ashamed to go onspeaking.
And there sat Puddle as pale as death and as speechless, havingno comfort to offer—no comfort, that is, that she dared tooffer—while all her fine theories about making good for thesake of those others; being noble, courageous, patient, honourable,physically pure, enduring because it was right to endure, theterrible birthright of the invert—all Puddle's fine theorieslay strewn around her like the ruins of some false and flimsytemple, and she saw at that moment but one thing clearly—truegenius in chains, in the chains of the flesh, a fine spirit subjectto physical bondage. And as once before she had argued with God onbehalf of this sorely afflicted creature, so now she inwardly criedyet again to the Maker whose will had created Stephen: 'Thine handshave made me and fashioned me together and round about; yet Thoudost destroy me.' Then into her heart crept a bitterness very hardto endure: 'Yet Thou dost destroy me—'
Stephen looked up and saw her face: 'Never mind,' she saidsharply, 'it's all right, Puddle—forget it!'
But Puddle's eyes filled with tears, and seeing this, Stephenwent to her desk. Sitting down she groped for her manuscript: 'I'mgoing to turn you out now, I must work. Don't wait for me if I'mlate for dinner.'
Very humbly Puddle crept out of the study.
1
Soon after the New Year, nine months later, Stephen's secondnovel was published. It failed to create the sensation that thefirst had created, there was something disappointing about it. Onecritic described this as: 'A lack of grip,' and his criticism, onthe whole, was a fair one. However, the Press was disposed to bekind, remembering the merits ofThe Furrow.
But the heart of the Author knoweth its own sorrows and isseldom responsive to false consolation, so that when Puddle said:'Never mind, Stephen, you can't expect every book to beTheFurrow—and this one is full of literary merit.' Stephenreplied as she turned away: I was writing a novel, my dear, not anessay.'
After this they did not discuss it any more, for what was theuse of fruitless discussion? Stephen knew well and Puddle knew alsothat this book fell far short of its author's powers. Thensuddenly, that spring, Raftery went very lame, and everything elsewas forgotten.
Raftery was aged, he was now eighteen, so that lameness in himwas not easy of healing. His life in a city had tried him sorely,he had missed the light, airy stables of Morton, and the cruel-hardbed that lay under the tan of the Row had jarred his legsbadly.
The vet shook his head and looked very grave: 'He's an agedhorse, you know, and of course in his youth you hunted him prettyfreely—it all counts. Everyone comes to the end of theirtether, Miss Gordon. Yes, at times I'm afraid it is painful.' Then,seeing Stephen's face: 'I'm awfully sorry not to give a morecheerful diagnosis.'
Other experts arrived. Every good vet in London was consulted,including Professor Hobday. No cure, no cure, it was always thesame, and at times, they told Stephen, the old horse suffered; butthis she well knew—she had seen the sweat break out darkly onRaftery's shoulders.
So one morning she went into Raftery's loosebox, and she sentthe groom Jim out of the stable, and she laid her check against thebeast's neck, while he turned his head and began to nuzzle. Thenthey looked at each other very quietly and gravely, and inRaftery's eyes was a strange, new expression—a kind ofhalf-anxious, protesting wonder at this thing men call pain: 'Whatis it, Stephen?'
She answered, forcing back her hot tears: 'Perhaps, for you, thebeginning, Raftery...'
After a while she went to his manger and let the fodder slipthrough her fingers; but he would not eat, not even to please her,so she called the groom back and ordered some gruel. Very gentlyshe readjusted the clothing that had slipped to one side, first theunder-blanket, then the smart blue rug that was braided inred—red and blue, the old stable colours of Morton.
The groom Jim, now a thick-set stalwart young man, stared at herwith sorrowful understanding, but he did not speak; he was almostas dumb as the beasts whom his life had been passed intending—even dumber, perhaps, for his language consisted ofwords, having no small sounds and small movements such as Rafteryused when he spoke with Stephen, and which meant so much more thanwords.
She said: 'I'm going now to the station to order a horse-box forto-morrow, I'll let you know the time we start, later. And wrap himup well; put on plenty of clothing for the journey, please, hemustn't feel cold.'
The man nodded. She had not told him their destination, but heknew it already; it was Morton. Then the great clumsy fellow mustpretend to be busy with a truss of fresh straw for the horse'sbedding, because his face had turned a deep crimson, because hiscoarse lips were actually trembling—and this was not reallyso very strange, for those who served Raftery loved him.
2
Raftery stepped quietly into his horse-box and Jim with greatdeftness secured the halter, then he touched his cap and hurriedaway to his third-class compartment, for Stephen herself wouldtravel with Raftery on his last journey back to the fields ofMorton. Sitting down on the seat reserved for a groom she openedthe little wooden window into the box, whereupon Raftery's muzzlecame up and his face looked out of the window. She fondled thesoft, grey plush of his muzzle. Presently she took a carrot fromher pocket, but the carrot was rather hard now for his teeth, soshe bit off small pieces and these she gave him in the palm of herhand; then she watched him eat them uncomfortably, slowly, becausehe was old, and this seemed so strange, for old age and Rafterywent very ill together.
Her mind slipped back and back over the years until itrecaptured the coming of Raftery—grey-coated and slender, andhis eyes as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage as bright asan Irish sunrise, and his heart as young as the wild, eternallyyoung heart of Ireland. She remembered what they had said to eachother. Raftery had said: 'I will carry you bravely, I will serveyou all the days of my life.' She had answered: 'I will care foryou night and day, Raftery—all the days of your life.' Sheremembered their first run with the hounds together—she ayoungster of twelve, he a youngster of five. Great deeds they haddone on that day together, at least they had seemed like greatdeeds to them—she had had a kind of fire in her heart as shegalloped astride of Raftery. She remembered her father, hisprotective look, so broad, so kind, so patiently protective; andtowards the end it had stooped a little as though out of kindnessit carried a burden. Now she knew whose burden that back had beenbearing so that it stooped a little. He had been very proud of thefine Irish horse, very proud of his small and courageous rider:'Steady, Stephen!' but his eyes had been bright like Raftery's.'Steady on, Stephen, we're coming to a. stiff one!' but once theywere over he had turned round and smiled, as he had done in thedays when the impudent Collins had stretched his inadequate legs totheir utmost to keep up with the pace of the hunters.
Long ago, it all seemed a long time ago. A long road it seemed,leading where? She wondered. Her father had gone away into itsshadows, and now after him, limping a little, went Raftery; Rafterywith hollows above his eyes and down his grey neck that had oncebeen so firm; Raftery whose splendid white teeth were now yellowedand too feeble to bite up his carrot.
The train jogged and swayed so that once the horse stumbled.Springing up, she stretched out her hand to soothe him. He seemedglad of her hand: 'Don't be frightened, Raftery. Did that hurt youRaftery acquainted with pain on the road that led into theshadows.
Presently the hills showed over on the left, but a long way off,and when they came nearer they were suddenly very near on theright, so near that she saw the white houses on them. They lookeddark; a kind of still, thoughtful darkness brooded over the hillsand their low white houses. It was always so in the laterafternoons, for the sun moved across to the wide WyeValley—it would set on the western side of the hills, overthe wide Wye Valley. The smoke from the chimney-stacks bentdownwards after rising a little and formed a blue haze, for the airwas heavy with spring and dampness. Leaning from the window shecould smell the spring, the time of mating, the time of fruition.When the train stopped a minute outside the station she fanciedthat she heard the singing of birds; very softly it came but thesound was persistent—yes, surely, that was the singing ofbirds...
3
They took Raftery in an ambulance from Great Malvern in order tospare him the jar of the roads. That night he slept in his ownspacious loosebox, and the faithful Jim would not leave him thatnight; he sat up and watched while Raftery slept in so deep a bedof yellow-gold straw that it all but reached his knees whenstanding. A last inarticulate tribute this to the most gallanthorse, the most courteous horse that ever stepped out ofstable.
But when the sun came up over Bredon, flooding the breadth ofthe Severn Valley, touching the slopes of the Malvern Hills thatstand opposite Bredon across the valley, gilding the old red bricksof Morton and the weather-vane on its quiet stables, Stephen wentinto her father's study and she loaded his heavy revolver.
Then they led Raftery out and into the morning; they led himwith care to the big north paddock and stood him beside the mightyhedge that had set the seal on his youthful valour. Very still hestood with the sun on his flanks, the groom, Jim, holding thebridle.
Stephen said: 'I'm going to send you away, a long way away, andI've never left you except for a little while since you came when Iwas a child and you were quite young—but I'm going to sendyou a long way away because of your pain. Raftery, this is death;and beyond, they say, there's no more suffering.' She paused, thenspoke in a voice so low that the groom could not hear her: 'Forgiveme, Raftery.'
And Raftery stood there looking at Stephen, and his eyes were assoft as an Irish morning, yet as brave as the eyes that looked intohis. Then it seemed to Stephen that he had spoken, that Raftery hadsaid: 'Since to me you are God, what have I to forgive you,Stephen?'
She took a step forward and pressed the revolver high up againstRaftery's smooth, grey forehead. She fired, and he dropped to theground like a stone, lying perfectly still by the mighty hedge thathad set the seal on his youthful valour.
But now there broke out a great crying and wailing: 'Oh, me! Oh,me! They've been murderin' Raftery! Shame, shame, I says, on the'and what done it, and 'im no common horse but a Christian...' Thenloud sobbing as though some very young child had fallen down andhurt itself badly. And there in a small, creaky, wicker bath-chairsat Williams, being bumped along over the paddock by a youthfulniece, who had come to Morton to take care of the old and nowfeeble couple; for Williams had had his first stroke thatChristmas, in addition to which he was almost childish. God onlyknew who had told him this thing; the secret had been verycarefully guarded by Stephen, who, knowing his love for the horse,had taken every precaution to spare him. Yet now here he was withhis face all twisted by the stroke and the sobs that kept onrising. He was trying to lift his half-paralysed hand which keptdropping back on to the arm of the bath-chair; he was trying to getout of the bath-chair and run to where Raftery lay stretched out inthe sunshine; he was trying to speak again, but his voice had grownthick so that no one could understand him. Stephen thought that hismind had begun to wander, for now he was surely not screaming'Raftery' any more, but something that sounded like: 'Master!' andagain, 'Oh, Master, Master!'
She said: 'Take him home,' for he did not know her; 'take himhome. You'd no business to bring him here at all—it's againstmy orders, Who told him about it?'
And the young girl answered: 'It seemed 'e just knowed—itwas like as though Raftery told 'im...
Williams looked up with his blurred, anxious eyes. 'Who be you?'he inquired. Then he suddenly smiled through his tears. 'It be goodto be seein' you, Master—seems like a long while...' Hisvoice was now clear but exceedingly small, a small, far-away thing.If a doll had spoken, its voice might have sounded very much as theold man's did at that moment.
Stephen bent over him. 'Williams, I'm Stephen—don't youknow me? It's Miss Stephen. You must go straight home and get backto bed—it's still rather cold on these early springmornings—to please me, Williams, you must go straight home.Why, your hands are frozen!'
But Williams shook his head and began to remember. 'Raftery,' hemumbled, 'something's 'appened to Raftery.' And his sobs and histears broke out with fresh vigour, so that his niece, frightened,tried to stop him.
'Now uncle be qui-et I do be-seech 'e! It's so bad for 'ecarryin' on in this wise. What will auntie say when she sees 'e allmucked up with weepin', and yer poor nose all red and dir-ty? I'llbe takin' e' 'ome as Miss Stephen 'ere says. Now, uncle dear, do bequi-et!'
She lugged the bath-chair round with a jolt and trundled it,lurching, towards the cottage. All the way back down the big northpaddock Williams wept and wailed and tried to get out, but hisniece put one hefty young hand on his shoulder; with the other sheguided the lurching bath-chair.
Stephen watched them go, then she turned to the groom. 'Bury himhere,' she said briefly.
4
Before she left Morton that same afternoon, she went once moreinto the large, bare stables. The stables were now completelyempty, for Anna had moved her carriage horses to new quartersnearer the coachman's cottage.
Over one loosebox was a warped oak board bearing Collin'sstudbook title, 'Marcus,' in red and blue letters; but the paintwas dulled to a ghostly grey by encroaching mildew, while a spiderhad spun a large, purposeful web across one side of Collins'manger. A cracked, sticky wine bottle lay on the floor; no doubtused at some time for drenching Collins, who had died in a fit ofviolent colic a few months after Stephen herself had left Morton.On the window-sill of the farthest loosebox stood a curry comb andcouple of brushes; the comb was being eaten by rust, the brusheshad lost several clumps of bristles. A jam pot of hoof-polish, nowhard as stone, clung tenaciously to a short stick of firewood whichtime had petrified into the polish. But Raftery's loosebox smeltfresh and pleasant with the curious dry, clean smell of new straw.A deep depression towards the middle showed where his body had lainin sleep, and seeing this Stephen stooped down and touched it for amoment. Then she whispered: 'Sleep peacefully, Raftery.'
She could not weep, for a great desolation too deep for tearslay over her spirit—the great desolation of things that pass,of things that pass away in our lifetime. And then of what good,after all, are our tears, since they cannot hold back this passingaway—no, not for so much as a moment? She looked round hernow at the empty stables, the unwanted, uncared for stables ofMorton. So proud they had been that were now so humbled; and theyhad the feeling of all disused places that have once teemed withlife, they felt pitifully lonely. She closed her eyes so as not tosee them. Then the thought came to Stephen that this was the end,the end of her courage and patient endurance—that this wassomehow the end of Morton. She must not see the place any more; shemust, she would, go a long way away. Raftery had gone a long wayaway—she had sent him beyond all hope of recall—but shecould not follow him over that merciful frontier, for her God wasmore stern than Raftery's; and yet she must fly from her love forMorton. Turning, she hurriedly left the stables.
5
Anna was standing at the foot of the stairs. 'Are you leavingnow, Stephen?'
'Yes—I'm going, Mother.'
'A short visit!'
'Yes, I must get back to work.'
'I see...' Then after a long, awkward pause: 'Where would youlike him buried?'
'In the large north paddock where he died—I've toldJim.'
'Very well, I'll see that they carry out your orders.' Shehesitated, as though suddenly shy of Stephen again, as she had beenin the past; but after a moment she went on quickly: 'Ithought—I wondered, would you like a small stone with hisname and some sort of inscription on it, just to mark theplace?'
'If you'd care to put one—I shan't need any stone toremember.'
The carriage was waiting to drive her to Malvern. 'Good-bye,Mother.'
Good-bye—I shall put up that stone.'
'Thanks, it's a very kind thought of yours.'
Anna said: 'I'm so sorry about this, Stephen.'
But Stephen had hurried into the brougham—the door dosed,and she did not hear her mother.
1
At an old-fashioned, Kensington luncheon party, not very longafter Raftery's death, Stephen met and renewed her acquaintancewith Jonathan Brockett, the playwright. Her mother had wished herto go to this luncheon, for the Carringtons were old familyfriends, and Anna insisted that from time to time her daughtershould accept their invitations. At their house it was that Stephenhad first seen this young man, rather over a year ago. Brockett wasa connection of the Carringtons; had he not been Stephen mightnever have met him, for such gatherings bored him exceedingly, andtherefore it was not his habit to attend them. But on that occasionhe had not been bored, for his sharp, grey eyes had lit uponStephen; and as soon as he well could, the meal being over, he hadmade his way to her side and had remained there. She had found himexceedingly easy to talk to, as indeed he had wished her to findhim.
This first meeting had led to one or two rides in the Rowtogether, since they both rode early. Brockett had joined her quitecasually one morning; after which he had called, and had talked toPuddle as if he had come on purpose to see her and heronly—he had charming and thoughtful manners towards allelderly people. Puddle had accepted him while disliking hisclothes, which were always just a trifle too careful; moreover shehad disapproved of his cuff-links—platinum links set withtiny diamonds. All the same, she had made him feel very welcome,for to her it had been any port in a storm just then—shewould gladly have welcomed the devil himself, had she thought thathe might rouse Stephen.
But Stephen was never able to decide whether Jonathan Brockettattracted or repelled her. Brilliant he could be at certain times,yet curiously foolish and puerile at others; and his hands were aswhite and soft as a woman's—she would feel a queer littlesense of outrage creeping over her when she looked at his hands.For those hands of his went so ill with him somehow; he was tall,broad-shouldered, and of an extreme thinness. His clean-shaven facewas slightly sardonic and almost disconcertingly clever; aninquisitive face too—one felt that it pried into everyone'ssecrets without shame or mercy. It may have been genuine liking onhis part or mere curiosity that had made him persist in thrustinghis friendship on Stephen. But whatever it had been it had takenthe form of ringing her up almost daily at one time; of worryingher to lunch or dine with him, of inviting himself to her flat inChelsea, or what was still worse, of dropping in on her wheneverthe spirit moved him. His work never seemed to worry him at all,and Stephen often wondered when his fine plays got written, forBrockett very seldom if ever discussed them and apparently veryseldom wrote them; yet they always appeared at the 'critical momentwhen their author had run short of money.
Once, for the sake of peace, she had dined with him in a speciesof glorified cellar. He had just then discovered the queer littleplace down in Seven Dials, and was very proud of it; indeed he wasmaking it rather the fashion among certain literary people. He hadtaken a great deal of trouble that evening to make Stephen feelthat she belonged to these people by right of her talent, and hadintroduced her as 'Stephen Gordon, the author ofTheFurrow.' But all the while he had secretly watched her with hissharp and inquisitive eyes. She had felt very much at ease withBrockett as they sat at their dimly-lit table, perhaps because herinstinct divined that this man would never require of her more thanshe could give—that the most he would ask for at any timewould be friendship.
Then one day he had casually disappeared, and she heard that hehad gone to Paris for some months, as was often his custom when theclimate of London had begun to get on his nerves. He had driftedaway like thistledown, without so much as a word of warning. He hadnot said good-bye nor had he written, so that Stephen felt that shehad never known him, so completely did he go out of her life duringhis sojourn in Paris. Later on she was to learn, when she knew himbetter, that these disconcerting lapses of interest, amounting asthey did to a breach of good manners, were highly characteristic ofthe man, and must of necessity be accepted by all who acceptedJonathan Brockett.
And now here he was back again in England, and sitting next toStephen at the Carringtons' luncheon. And as though they had metbut a few hours ago, he took her up calmly just where he had lefther.
'May I come in tomorrow?'
'Well—I'm awfully busy.'
'But I want to come, please; I can talk to Puddle.'
'I'm afraid she'll be out.'
'Then I'll just sit and wait until she comes in; I'll be quietas a mouse.'
Oh, no, Brockett, please don't; I should know you were there andthat would disturb me.'
'I see. A new book?'
'Well, no—I'm trying to write some short stories; I've gota commission fromThe Good Housewife.'
Sounds thrifty. I hope you're getting well paid.' Then after arather long pause: 'How's Raftery?'
For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quickintuition, regretted his question. 'Not...not...' he stammered.
Yes,' she said slowly, 'Raftery's dead—he went lame. Ishot him.' He was silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, stillwithout speaking, pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by thelook in his eyes, so sorrowful it was, and so understanding. He hadliked the old horse, for he liked all dumb creatures. But Raftery'sdeath could mean nothing to him; yet his sharp, grey eyes had nowsoftened with pity because she had had to shoot Raftery.
She thought: 'What a curious fellow he is. At this moment Isuppose he actually feels something almost like grief—it's mygrief he's getting—and tomorrow, of course, he'll forget allabout it.'
Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot ofemotion into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze akind of emotional beef-tea from all those with whom life broughthim into contact—a strong brew, and one that served tosustain and revivify his inspiration.
2
For ten days Stephen heard nothing more, of Brockett; then herang up to announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat thatvery same evening.
You'll get awfully little to eat,' warned Stephen, who was tiredto death and did not want him.
'Oh, all right, I'll bring some dinner along,' he said blithely,and with that he hung up the receiver.
At a quarter-past eight he arrived, late for dinner and loadedlike a pack-mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he hadspoilt his new reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had oozedthrough a box containing the lobster salad.
He thrust the box into Stephen's hands. 'Here, you takeit—it's dripping. Can I have a wash rag?' But after a momenthe forgot the new gloves. 'I've raided Fortnum &Mason—such fun—I do love eating things out of cardboardboxes. Hullo, Puddle darling! I sent you a plant. Did you get it? Anice little plant with brown bobbles. It smells good, and it's gota ridiculous name like an old Italian dowager or something. Wait aminute—what's it called? Oh, yes, a baroniait's so humble tohave such a pompous name! Stephen, do be careful—don't rockthe lobster about like that. I told you the thing wasdripping—
He dumped his parcels on to the hall table.
'I'll take them along to the kitchen,' smiled Puddle.
'No, I will,' said Brockett, collecting them again, 'I'll do thewhole thing; you leave it to me. I adore other people'skitchens.'
He was in his most foolish and tiresome mood—the mood whenhis white hands made odd little gestures, when his laugh was toohigh and his movements too small for the size of hisbroad-shouldered, rather gaunt body. Stephen had grown to dread himin this mood; there was something almost aggressive about it; itwould seem to her that he thrust it upon her, showing off like achild at a Christmas party.
She said sharply: 'If you'll wait, I'll ring for the maid.' ButBrockett bad already invaded the kitchen.
She followed, to find the cook looking offended.
'I want lots and lots of dishes,' he announced. Thenunfortunately he happened to notice the parlourmaid's washing, justback from the laundry.
'Brockett, what on earth are you doing?'
He had put on the girl's ornate frilled cap, and was busilytying on her small apron. He paused for a moment. 'How do I look?What a perfect duck of an apron!'
The parlourmaid giggled and Stephen laughed. That was the worstof Jonathan Brockett, he could make you laugh in spite ofyourself—when you most disapproved you found yourselflaughing.
The food he had brought was the oddest assortment; lobster,caramels, pâté de foie gras, olives, a tin ofrich-mixed biscuits and a Camembert cheese that was smellingloudly. There was also a bottle of Rose's lime-juice and another ofready-made cocktails. He began to unpack the things one by one,clamouring for plates and entrée dishes. In the process hemade a great mess on the table by upsetting most of the lobstersalad.
He swore roundly. 'Damn the thing, it's too utterly bloody! It'sruined my gloves, and now look at the table!' In grim silence thecook repaired the damage.
This mishap appeared to have damped his ardour, for he sighedand removed his cap and apron. 'Can anyone open this bottle ofolives? And the cocktails? Here, Stephen, you can tackle thecheese; it seems rather shy, it won't leave its kennel.' In the endit was Stephen and the cook who must do all the work, whileBrockett sat down on the floor and gave them ridiculous orders.
3
Brockett it was who ate most of the dinner, for Stephen was tooovertired to feel hungry; while Puddle, whose digestion was notwhat it had been, was forced to content herself with a cutlet. ButBrockett ate largely, and as he did so he praised himself and hisfood between mouthfuls.
Clever of me to have discovered the pâté—I'mso sorry for the geese though, aren't you, Stephen? The awful thingis that it's simply delicious—I wish I knew the esotericmeaning of these mixed emotions!' And he dug with a spoon at theside that appeared to contain the most truffles.
From time to time he paused to inhale the gross littlecigarettes he affected. Their tobacco was black, their paper wasyellow, and they came from an unpropitious island where, asBrockett declared, the inhabitants died in shoals every year ofsome tropical fever. He drank a good deal of the Rose's lime-juice,for this strong, rough tobacco always made him thirsty. Whisky wentto his head and wine to his liver, so that on the whole he wasforced to be temperate; but when he got home he would brew himselfcoffee as viciously black as his tobacco.
Presently he said with a sigh of repletion: 'Well, you two, I'vefinished—let's go into the study.'
As they left the table he seized the mixed biscuits and thecaramel creams, for he dearly loved sweet things. He would often goout and buy himself sweets in Bond Street, for solitaryconsumption.
In the study he sank down on to the divan. 'Puddle dear, do youmind if I put my feet up? It's my new boot-maker, he's given me acorn on my right little toe. It's too heart-breaking. It was such abeautiful toe,' he murmured; 'quite perfect—the one toewithout a blemish!'
After this he seemed disinclined to talk. He had made himself anest with the cushions, and was smoking, and nibbling rich-mixedbiscuits, routing about in the tin for his favourites. But his eyeskept straying across to Stephen with a puzzled and rather anxiousexpression.
At last she said: 'What's the matter, Brockett? Is my necktiecrooked?'
'No—it's not your necktie; it's something else.' He sat upabruptly. 'As I came here to 'say it, I'll get the thing over!'
'Fire away, Brockett.'
'Do you think you'll hate me if I'm frank?'
'Of course not. Why should I hate you?'
'Very well then, listen.' And now his voice was so grave thatPuddle put down her embroidery. 'You listen to me, you, StephenGordon. Your last book was inexcusably bad. It was no more likewhat we all expected, had a right to expect of you afterTheFurrow, than that plant I sent Puddle is like an oaktree—I won't even compare it to that little plant, for theplant's alive; your book isn't. Oh, I don't mean to say that it'snot well written; it's well written because you're just a bornwriter—you feel words, you've a perfect ear for balance, anda very good all-round knowledge of English. But that's not enough,not nearly enough; all that's a mere suitable dress for a body. Andthis time you've hung the dress on a dummy—a dummy can't stirour emotions, Stephen. I was talking to Ogilvy only last night. Hegave you a good review, he told me, because he's got such a respectfor your talent that he didn't want to put on the damper. He's likethat—too merciful I always think—they've all been toomerciful to you, my dear. They ought to have literally skinned youalive—that might have helped to show you your danger. My God!and you wrote a thing likeThe Furrow! What's happened?What's undermining your work? Because whatever it is, it's deadly!it must be some kind of horrid dry rot. Ah, no, it's too bad and itmustn't go on—we've got to do something, quickly.'
He paused, and she stared at him in amazement. Until now she hadnever seen this side of Brockett, the side of the man that belongedto his art, to all art—the one thing in life herespected.
She said: 'Do you really mean what you're saying?'
'I mean every word,' he told her.
Then she asked him quite humbly: 'What must I do to save mywork?' for she realized that he had been speaking the stark, bittertruth; that indeed she had needed no one to tell her that her lastbook had been altogether unworthy—a poor, lifeless thing,having no health in it.
He considered. 'It's a difficult question, Stephen. Your owntemperament is so much against you. You're so strong in some waysand yet so timid—such a mixture—and you're terriblyfrightened of life. Now why? You must try to stop being frightened,to stop hiding your head. You need life, you need people. Peopleare the food that we writers live on; get out and devour them,squeeze them dry, Stephen!'
'My father once told me something like that—not quite inthose words—but something very like it.'
'Then your father must have been a sensible man,' smiledBrockett. 'Now I had a perfect beast of a father. Well, Stephen,I'll give you my advice for what it's worth—you want a realchange. Why not go abroad somewhere? Get right away for a bit fromyour England. You'll probably write it a damned sight better whenyou're far enough off to see the perspective. Start withParis—it's an excellent jumping-off place. Then you might goacross to Italy or Spain—go anywhere, only do get a move on!No wonder you're atrophied here in London. I can put you wise aboutpeople in Paris. You ought to know Valérie Seymour, forinstance. She's very good fun and a perfect darling; I'm sure you'dlike her, every one does. Her parties are a kind of humanbran-pie—you just plunge in your fist and see what happens.You may draw a prize or you may draw blank, but it's always worthwhile to go to her parties. Oh, but good Lord, there are so manythings that stimulate one in Paris.'
He talked on about Paris for a little while longer, then he gotup to go. 'Well, good-bye, my dears, I'm off. I've given myselfindigestion. And do look at Puddle, she's blind with fury; Ibelieve she's going to refuse to shake hands! Don't be angry,Puddle—I'm very well-meaning.'
Yes, of course,' answered Puddle, but her voice soundedcold.
4
After he had gone they stared at each other, then Stephen said,What a queer revelation. Who would have thought that Brockett couldget so worked up? His moods are kaleidoscopic.' She waspurposefully forcing herself to speak lightly.
But Puddle was angry, bitterly angry. Her pride was wounded tothe quick for Stephen. The man's a perfect fool!' she said gruffly.'And I didn't agree with one word he said. I expect he's jealous ofyour work, they all are. They're a mean-minded lot, these writingpeople.'
And looking at her Stephen thought sadly, She's tired—I'mwearing her out in my service. A few years ago she'd never havetried to deceive me like this—she's losing courage.' Aloudshe said: 'Don't be cross with Brockett, he meant to be friendly,I'm quite sure of that. My work will buck up—I've beenfeeling slack lately, and it's told on my writing—I supposeit was bound to.' Then the merciful lie, 'But I'm not a bitfrightened!'
5
Stephen rested her head on her hand as she sat at herdesk—it was well past midnight. She was heartsick as only awriter can be whose day has been spent in useless labour. All thatshe had written that day she would destroy, and now it was wellpast midnight. She turned, looking wearily round the study, and itcame upon her with a slight sense of shock that she was seeing thisroom for the very first time, and that everything in it wasabnormally ugly. The flat had been furnished when her mind had beentoo much afflicted to care in the least what she bought, and nowall her possessions seemed clumsy or puerile, from the small,foolish chairs to the large, roll-top desk there was nothingpersonal about any of them. How had she endured this room for solong? Had she really written a fine book in it? Had she sat in itevening after evening and come back to it morning after morning tThen she must have been blind indeed—what a place for anyauthor to work in! She had taken nothing with her from Morton butthe hidden books found in her father's study; these she had taken,as though in a way they were hers by some intolerable birthright;for the rest she had shrunk from depriving the house of its ancientand honoured possessions.
Morton—so quietly perfect a thing, yet the thing of allothers that she must fly from, that she must forget; but she couldnot forget it in these surroundings; they reminded by contrast.Curious what Brockett had said that evening about putting the seabetween herself and England...In view of her own half-formed planto do so, his words had come as a kind of echo of her thoughts; itwas almost as though he had peeped through a secret keyhole intoher mind, had been spying upon her trouble. By what right did thiscurious man spy upon her—this man with the soft, white handsof a woman, with the movements befitting those soft, white hands,yet so ill-befitting the rest of his body? By no right; and howmuch had the creature found out when his eye had been pressed tothat secret keyhole? Clever—Brackett was fiendishlyclever—all his whims and his foibles could not disguise it.His face gave him away, a hard, clever face with sharp eyes thatwere glued to other people's keyholes. That was why Brockett wrotesuch fine plays, such cruel plays; he fed his genius on live fleshand blood. Carnivorous genius. Moloch, fed upon live flesh andblood! But she, Stephen, had tried to feed her inspiration uponherbage, the kind, green herbage of Morton. For a little while suchfood had sufficed, but now her talent had sickened, was dyingperhaps—or had she too fed it on blood, her heart's bloodwhen she had writtenThe Furrow If so, her heart would notbleed any more—perhaps it could not—perhaps it was dry.A dry, withered thing; for she did not feel love these days whenshe thought of Angela Crossby—that must mean that her hearthad died within her. A gruesome companion to have, a deadheart.
Angela Crossby—and yet there were times when she longedintensely to see this woman, to hear her speak, to stretch out herarms and clasp them around the woman's body—not gently, notpatiently as in the past, but roughly, brutally even.Beastly—it was beastly! She felt degraded. She had no love tooffer Angela Crossby, not now, only something that, lay like astain on the beauty of what had once been love. Even this memorywas marred and defiled, by herself even more than by AngelaCrossby.
Came the thought of that unforgettable scene with her mother. 'Iwould rather see you dead at my feet.' Oh, yes—very easy totalk about death, but not so easy to manage the dying. 'We twocannot live together at Morton...One of us must go, which of usshall it be?' The subtlety, the craftiness of that question whichin common decency could have but one answer! Oh, well she had goneand would go even farther. Raftery was dead, there was nothing tohold her, she was free—what a terrible thing could befreedom. Trees were free when they were uprooted by the wind; shipswere free when they were torn from their moorings; men were freewhen they were cast out of their homes—free to starve, freeto perish of cold and hunger.
At Morton there lived an ageing woman with sorrowful eyes now alittle dim from gazing for so long into the distance. Only once,since her gaze had been fixed on the dead, had this woman turned itfull on her daughter; and then her eyes had been changed intosomething accusing, ruthless, abominably cruel. Through lookingupon what had seemed abominable to them, they themselves had becomean abomination. Horrible! And yet how dared they accuse? What righthad a mother to abominate the child that had sprung from her ownsecret moments of passion? She the honoured, the fulfilled, thefruitful, the loving and loved, had despised the fruit of her love.Its fruit? No, rather its victim.
She thought of her mother's protected life that had never had toface this terrible freedom. Like a vine that clings to a warmsouthern wall it had clung to her father—it still clung toMorton. In the spring had come gentle and nurturing rains, in thesummer the strong and health-giving sunshine, in the winter a deep,soft covering of snow—cold yet protecting the delicatetendrils. All, all she had had. She had never gone empty of love inthe days of her youthful ardour; had never known longing, shame,degradation, but rather great joy and great pride in her loving.Her love had been pure in the eyes of the world, for she had beenable to indulge in it with honour. Still with honour, she had bornea child to her mate—but a child who, unlike her, must gounfulfilled all her days, or else live in abject dishonour. Oh, buta hard and pitiless woman this mother must be for all her softbeauty; shamelessly finding shame in her offspring. 'I would rathersee you dead at my feet...' 'Too late, too late, your love gave melife. Here am I the creature you made through your loving; by yourpassion you created the thing that I am. Who are you to deny me theright to love? But for you I need never have known existence.'
And now there crept into Stephen's brain the worst torment ofall, a doubt of her father. He had known and knowing he had nottold her; he had pitied and pitying had not protected; he hadfeared and fearing had saved only himself. Had she had a coward fora father? She sprang up and began to pace the room. Notthis—she could not face this new torment. She had stained herlove, the love of a lover—she dared not stain this one thingthat remained, the love of the child for the father. If this lightwent out the engulfing darkness would consume her, destroying herentirely. Man could not live by darkness alone, one point of lighthe must have for salvation—one point of light. The mostperfect Being of all had cried out for light in Hisdarkness—even He, the most perfect Being of all. And then asthough in answer to prayer, to some prayer that her trembling lipshad not uttered, came the memory of a patient, protective back,bowed as though bearing another's burden. Came the memory ofhorrible, soul-sickening pain: 'No—not that—somethingurgent—I want—to say. No drugs—I knowI'm—dying—Evans.' And again a heroic and torturedeffort: 'Anna—it's Stephen—listen.' Stephen suddenlyheld out her arms to this man who, though dead, was still herfather.
But even in this blessed moment of easement, her heart hardenedagain at the thought of her mother. A fresh wave of bitternessflooded her soul so that the light seemed all but extinguished;very faintly it gleamed like the little lantern on a buoy that istossed by tempest. Sitting down at her desk she found pen andpaper.
She wrote: 'Mother, I am going abroad quite soon, but I shallnot see you to say good-bye, because I don't want to come back toMorton. These visits of mine have always been painful, and now mywork is beginning to suffer—that I cannot allow; I live onlyfor my work and so I intend to guard it in future. There can now beno question of gossip or scandal, for everyone knows that I am awriter and as such may have occasion to travel. But in any case Icare very little these days for the gossip of neighbours. Fornearly three years I have borne your yoke—I have tried to bepatient and understanding. I have tried to think that your yoke wasa just one, a just punishment, perhaps, for my being what I am, thecreature whom you and my father created; but now I am going to bearit no longer. If my father had lived he would have shown pity,whereas you showed me none, and yet you were my mother. In my hourof great need you utterly failed me; you turned me away like someunclean thing that was unfit to live any longer at Morton. Youinsulted what to me seemed both natural and sacred. I went, but nowI shall not come back any more to you or to Morton. Puddle will bewith me because she loves me; if I'm saved at all it is she who hassaved me, and so for as long as she wishes to throw in her lot withme I shall let her. Only one thing more; she will send you ouraddress from time to time, but don't write to me, Mother, I amgoing away in order to forget, and your letters would only remindme of 'Morton.'
She read over what she had written, three times, finding nothingat all that she wished to add, no word of tenderness, or of regret.She felt numb and then unbelievably lonely, but she wrote theaddress in her firm handwriting: 'The Lady Anna Gordon,' she wrote,'Morton Hall, Near Upton-on-Severn.' And when she wept, as shepresently must do, covering her face with her large, brown hands,her spirit felt unrefreshed by this weeping, for the hot, angrytears seemed to scorch her spirit. Thus was Anna Gordon baptizedthrough her child as by fire, unto the loss of their mutualsalvation.
1
It was Jonathan Brockett who had recommended the little hotel inthe Rue St. Roch, and when Stephen and Puddle arrived one eveningthat June, feeling rather tired and dejected, they found theirsitting-room bright with roses—roses for Puddle—and onthe table two boxes of Turkish cigarettes for Stephen. Brockett,they learnt, had ordered these things by writing specially fromLondon.
Barely had they been in Paris a week, when Jonathan Brockettturned up in person: 'Hallo, my dears, I've come over to see you.Everything all right? Are you being looked after?' He sat down inthe only comfortable chair and proceeded to make himself charmingto Puddle. It seemed that his flat in Paris being let, he had triedto get rooms at their hotel but had failed, so had gone instead tothe Meurice. 'But I'm not going to take you to lunch there,' hetold them, 'the weather's too fine, we'll go to Versailles.Stephen, ring up and order your car, there's a darling! By the way,how is Burton getting on? Does he remember to keep to the right andto pass on the left?' His voice sounded anxious. Stephen reassuredhim good-humouredly, she knew that he was apt to be nervous inmotors.
They lunched at the Hôtel des Reservoirs, Brockett takinggreat pains to order special dishes. The waiters were zealous, theyevidently knew him: Oui, monsieur, tout de suite—àl'instant, monsieur!' Other clients were kept waiting whileBrackett was served, and Stephen could see that this pleased him.All through the meal he talked about Paris with ardour, as a lovermight talk of a mistress.
'Stephen, I'm not going back for ages. I'm going to make yousimply adore her. You'll see, I'll make you adore her so much thatyou'll find yourself writing like a heaven-born genius. There'snothing so stimulating as love—you've got to have an affairwith Paris!' Then looking at Stephen rather intently, 'I supposeyou're capable of falling in love?'
She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his question, but shethought: 'He's putting his eye to the keyhole. His curiosity'spositively childish at times,' for she saw that his face hadfallen.
Oh, well, if you don't want to tell me—' he grumbled.
'Don't be silly! There's nothing to tell,' smiled Stephen. Butshe made a mental note to be careful. Brockett's curiosity wasalways most dangerous when apparently merely childish.
With quick tact he dropped the personal note. No good trying toforce her to confide, he decided, she was too damn clever to giveherself away, especially before the watchful old Puddle. He sentfor the bill and when it arrived, went over it item by item,frowning.
'Maitre d'hôtel!'
'Oui, monsieur?'
'You've made a mistake; only one liqueur brandy—and here'sanother mistake, I ordered two portions of potatoes, not three; Ido wish to God you'd be careful!' When Brockett felt cross healways felt mean. 'Correct this at once, it's disgusting!' he saidrudely. Stephen sighed, and hearing her Brockett looked upunabashed: 'Well, why pay for what we've not ordered?' Then hesuddenly found his temper again and left a very large tip for thewaiter.
2
There is nothing more difficult to attain to than the art ofbeing a perfect guide. Such an art, indeed, requires a real artist,one who has a keen perception for contrasts, and an eye for thelarge effects rather than for details, above all one possessed ofimagination; and Brockett, when he chose, could be such aguide.
Having waved the professional guides to one side, he himselftook them through a part of the palace, and his mind re-peopled theplace for Stephen so that she seemed to see the glory of thedancers led by the youthful Roi Soleil; seemed to hear the rhythmof the throbbing violins, and the throb of the rhythmic dancingfeet as they beat down the length of the Galerie des Glaces; seemedto see those other mysterious dancers who followed step by step, inthe long line of mirrors. But most skilfully of all did he recreatefor her the image of the luckless queen who came after; as thoughfor some reason this unhappy woman must appeal in a personal way toStephen. And true it was that the small, humble rooms which thequeen had chosen out of all that vast palace, moved Stephenprofoundly—so desolate they seemed, so full of unhappythoughts and emotions that were even now only half forgotten.
Brockett pointed to the simple garniture on the mantelpiece ofthe little salon, then he looked at Stephen: 'Madame de Lamballegave those to the queen,' he murmured softly.
She nodded, only vaguely apprehending his meaning.
Presently they followed him out into the gardens and stoodlooking across the Tapis Vert that stretches its quarter mile ofgreenness towards a straight, lovely line of water.
Brockett said, very low, so that Puddle should not hear him:'Those two would often come here at sunset. Sometimes they wererowed along the canal in the sunset—can't you imagine it,Stephen? They must often have felt pretty miserable, poor souls;sick to death of the subterfuge and pretences. Don't you ever gettired of that sort of thing? My God, I do!' But she did not answer,for now there was no mistaking his meaning.
Last of all he took them to the Temple d'Amour, where it restsamid the great silence of the years that have long lain upon thedead hearts of its lovers; and from there to the Hameau, built bythe queen for a whim—the tactless and foolish whim of atactless and foolish but loving woman—by the queen who mustplay at being a peasant, at a time when her downtrodden peasantswere starving. The cottages were badly in need of repair; amelancholy spot it looked, this Hameau, in spite of the birds thatsang in its trees and the golden glint of the afternoonsunshine.
On the drive back to Paris they were all very silent. Puddle wasfeeling too tired to talk, and Stephen was oppressed by a sense ofsadness—the vast and rather beautiful sadness that may cometo us when we have looked upon beauty, the sadness that aches inthe heart of Versailles. Brockett was content to sit oppositeStephen on the hard little let-down seat of her motor. He mighthave been comfortable next to the driver, but instead he preferredto sit opposite Stephen, and he too was silent, surreptitiouslywatching the expression of her face in the gathering twilight.
When he left them he said with his cold little smile: 'Tomorrow,before you've forgotten Versailles, I want you to come to theConciergerie. It's very enlightening—cause and effect.'
At that moment Stephen disliked him intensely. All the same hehad stirred her imagination.
3
In the weeks that followed, Brockett showed Stephen just as muchof Paris as he wished her to see, and this principally consisted ofthe tourist's Paris. Into less simple pastures he would guide herlater on, always provided that his interest lasted. For thepresent, however, he considered it wiser to tread delicately likeAgag. The thought of this girl had begun to obsess him to a veryunusual extent. He who had prided himself on his skill in ferretingout other people's secrets, was completely baffled by this youthfulabnormal. That she was abnormal he had no doubt whatever, but whathe was keenly anxious to find out was just how her own abnormalitystruck her—he felt pretty sure that she worried about it. Andhe genuinely liked her. Unscrupulous he might be in his vivisectionof men and women; cynical too when it came to his pleasures,himself an invert, secretly hating the world which he knew hatedhim in secret; and yet in his way he felt sorry for Stephen, andthis amazed him, for Jonathan Brockett had long ago, as he thought,done with pity. But his pity was a very poor thing at best, itwould never defend and never protect her; it would always go downbefore any new whim, and his whim at the moment was to keep her inParis.
All unwittingly Stephen played into his hands, while having noillusions about him. He represented a welcome distraction thathelped her to keep her thoughts off England. And because underBrockett's skilful guidance she developed a fondness for thebeautiful city, she felt tolerant of him at moments, almostgrateful she felt, grateful too towards Paris. And Puddle also feltgrateful.
The strain of the sudden complete rupture with Morton had toldon the faithful little grey woman. She would scarcely have knownhow to counsel Stephen had the girl come to her and asked for hercounsel. Sometimes she would lie awake now at nights thinking ofthat ageing and unhappy mother in the great silent house, and thenwould come pity, the old pity that had come in the past forAnna—she would pity until she remembered Stephen. Then Puddlewould try to think very calmly, to keep the brave heart that hadnever failed her, to keep her strong faith in Stephen'sfuture—only now there were days when she felt almost old,when she realized that indeed she was ageing. When Anna would writeher a calm, friendly letter, but with never so much as a mention ofStephen, she would feel afraid, yes, afraid of this woman, and atmoments almost afraid of Stephen. For none might know from thoseguarded letters what emotions lay in the heart of their writer; andnone might know from Stephen's set face when she recognized thewriting, what lay in her heart. She would turn away, asking noquestions about Morton.
Oh, yes, Puddle felt old and actually frightened, both of whichsensations she deeply resented; so being what she was, anindomitable fighter, she thrust out her chin and ordered a tonic.She struggled along through the labyrinths of Paris beside theuntiring Stephen and Brockett; through the galleries of theLuxembourg and the Louvre; up the Eiffel Tower—in a lift,thank heaven; down the Rue de la Paix, up the hill toMontmartre—sometimes in the car but quite often on foot, forBrockett wished Stephen to learn her Paris—and as likely asnot, ending up with rich food that disagreed badly with the tiredPuddle. In the restaurants people would stare at Stephen, andalthough the girl would pretend not to notice, Puddle would knowthat in spite of her calm, Stephen was inwardly feeling resentful,was inwardly feeling embarrassed and awkward. And then because shewas tired, Puddle too would feel awkward when she noticed thosepeople staring.
Sometimes Puddle must really give up and rest, in spite of theaggressive chin and the tonic. Then all alone in the Paris hotel,she would suddenly grow very homesick for England—absurd ofcourse, and yet there it was, she would feel the sharp tug ofEngland. At such moments she would long for ridiculous things; apenny bun in the train at Dover; the good red faces of Englishporters—the old ones with little stubby side-whiskers;Harrods Stores; a properly upholstered armchair; bacon and eggs;the sea front at Brighton. All alone and via these ridiculousthings, Puddle would feel the sharp tug of England.
And one evening her weary mind must switch back to the earliestdays of her friendship with Stephen. What a lifetime ago it seemedsince the days when a lanky colt of a girl of fourteen had beenlicked into shape in the schoolroom at Morton. She could hear herown words: 'You've forgotten something, Stephen; the books can'twalk to the bookcase, but you can, so suppose that you take themwith you,' and then: 'Even my brain won't stand your complete lackof method.' Stephen fourteen—that was twelve years ago. Inthose years she, Puddle, had grown very tired, tired with trying tosee some way out, some way of escape, of fulfilment for Stephen.And always they seemed to be toiling, they two, down an endlessroad that had no turning; she an ageing woman herself unfulfilled;Stephen still young and as yet still courageous—but the daywould come when her youth would fail, and her courage, because ofthat endless toiling.
She thought of Brockett, Jonathan Brockett, surely an unworthycompanion for Stephen; a thoroughly vicious and cynical man, adangerous one too because he was brilliant. Yet she, Puddle, wasactually grateful to this man; so dire were their straits that shewas grateful to Brockett. Then came the remembrance of that otherman, Martin Hallam—she had had such high hopes. He had beenvery simple and honest and good—Puddle felt that there wasmuch to be said for goodness. But for such as Stephen men likeMartin Hallam could seldom exist; as friends they would fail her,while she in her turn would fail them as lover. Then what remained?Jonathan Brockett? Like to like. No, no, an intolerable thought!Such a thought as that was an outrage on Stephen. Stephen washonourable and courageous; she was steadfast in friendship andselfless in loving; intolerable to think that her only companionsmust be men and women like Jonathan Brockett—andyet—after all what else? What remained? Loneliness, or worsestill, far worse because it so deeply degraded the spirit, a lifeof perpetual subterfuge, of guarded opinions and guarded actions,of lies of omission if not of speech, of becoming an accomplice inthe world's injustice by maintaining at all times a judicioussilence, making and keeping the friends one respected, on falsepretences, because if they knew they would turn aside, even thefriends one respected.
Puddle abruptly controlled her thoughts; this was no way to behelpful to Stephen. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.Getting up she went into her bedroom where she bathed her face andtidied her hair.
'I look scarcely human,' she thought ruefully, as she stared ather own reflection in the glass; and indeed at that moment shelooked more than her age.
4
It was not until nearly the middle of July that Brockett tookStephen to Valérie Seymour's. Valérie had been awayfor some time, and was even now only passing through Paris en routefor her villa at St. Tropez.
As they drove to her apartment on the Quai Voltaire, Brockettbegan to extol their hostess, praising her wit, her literarytalent. She wrote delicate satires and charming sketches of Greekmaeurs—the latter were very outspoken, but thenValérie's life was very outspoken—she was, saidBrockett, a kind of pioneer who would probably go down to history.Most of her sketches were written in French, for among other thingsValérie was bilingual; she was also quite rich, an Americanuncle had had the foresight to leave her his fortune; she was alsoquite young, being just over thirty, and according to Brockett,good-looking. She lived her life in great calmness of spirit, fornothing worried and few things distressed her. She was firmlyconvinced that in this ugly age one should strive to the top ofone's bent after beauty. But Stephen might find her a bit of afree-lance, she was libre penseuse when it came to the heart; herlove affairs would fill quite three volumes, even after they hadbeen expurgated. Great men had loved her, great writers had writtenabout her, one had died, it was said, because she refused him, butValérie was not attracted to men—yet as Stephen wouldsee if she went to her parties, she had many devoted friends amongmen. In this respect she was almost unique, being what she was, formen did not resent her. But then of course all intelligent peoplerealized that she was a creature apart, as would Stephen the momentshe met her.
Brockett babbled away, and as he did so his voice took on theeffeminate timbre that Stephen always hated and dreaded: 'Oh, mydear!' he exclaimed with a high little laugh. 'I'm so excited aboutthis meeting of yours, I've a feeling it may be momentous. Whatfun!' And his soft, white hands grew restless making their foolishgestures.
She looked at him coldly, wondering the while how she couldtolerate this young man—why indeed, she chose to endurehim.
5
The first thing that struck Stephen about Valérie's flatwas its large and rather splendid disorder. There was somethingblissfully unkempt about it, as though its mistress were too muchengrossed in other affairs to control its behaviour. Nothing wasquite where it ought to have been, and much was where it ought notto have been, while over the whole lay a faint layer ofdust—even over the spacious salon. The odour of somebody'sOriental scent was mingling with the odour of tuberoses in asixteenth-century chalice. On a divan, whose truly regalproportions occupied the best part of a shadowy alcove, lay a boxof Fuller's peppermint creams and a lute, but the strings of thelute were broken.
Valérie came forward with a smile of welcome. She was notbeautiful nor was she imposing, but her limbs were very perfectlyproportioned, which gave her a fictitious look of tallness. Shemoved well, with the quiet and unconscious grace that sprang fromthose perfect proportions. Her face was humorous, placid andworldly; her eyes very kind, very blue, very lustrous. She wasdressed all in white, and a large white fox skin was clasped roundher slender and shapely shoulders. For the rest she had masses ofthick fair hair, which was busily ridding itself of its hairpins;one could see at a glance that it hated restraint, like the flat itwas in rather splendid disorder.
She said: 'I'm so delighted to meet you at last, Miss Gordon, docome and sit down. And please smoke if you want to,' she addedquickly, glancing at Stephen's tell-tale fingers.
Brockett said: 'Positively, this is too splendid! I feel thatyou're going to be wonderful friends.'
Stephen thought: 'So this is Valérie Seymour.'
No sooner were they seated than Brockett began to ply theirhostess with personal questions. The mood that had incubated in themotor was now become extremely aggressive, so that he fidgetedabout on his chair, making his little inadequate gestures.'Darling, you're looking perfectly lovely! But do tell me, whathave you done with Polinska? Have you drowned her in the bluegrotto at Capri? I hope so, my dear, shewas such a bore andso dirty! Do tell me about Polinska. How did she behave when yougot her to Capri? Did she bite anybody before you drowned her? Ialways felt frightened; I loathe being bitten!'
Valérie frowned: 'I believe she's quite well.'
'Then you have drowned her, darling!' shrilled Brockett.
And now he was launched on a torrent of gossip about people ofwhom Stephen had never even heard: 'Pat's been deserted—haveyou heard that, darling? Do you think she'll take the veil orcocaine or something One never quite knows what may happen nextwith such an emotional temperament, does one? Arabella's skippedoff to the Lido with Jane Grigg. The Grigg's just come into potsand pots of money, so I hope they'll be deliriously happy and sillywhile it lasts—I mean the money...Oh, and have you heardabout Rachel Morris? They say...' He flowed on and on like a brookin spring flood, while Valérie yawned and looked bored,making monosyllabic answers.
And Stephen as she sat there and smoked in silence, thoughtgrimly: 'This is all being said because of me. Brockett wants tolet me see that he knows what I am, and he wants to letValérie Seymour know too—I suppose this is making mewelcome.' She hardly knew whether to feel outraged or relieved thathere, at least, was no need for pretences.
But after a while she began to fancy that Valérie's eyeshad become appraising. They were weighing her up and secretlyapproving the result, she fancied. A slow anger possessed her.Valérie Seymour was secretly approving, not because herguest was a decent human being with a will to work, with awell-trained brain, with what might some day become a fine talent,but rather because she was seeing before her all the outwardstigmata of the abnormal—verily the wounds of One nailed to across—that was why Valérie sat there approving.
And then, as though these bitter thoughts had reached her,Valérie suddenly smiled at Stephen. Turning her back on thechattering Brockett, she started to talk to her guest quite gravelyabout her work, about books in general, about life in general; andas she did so Stephen began to understand better the charm thatmany had found in this woman; a charm that lay less in physicalattraction than in a great courtesy and understanding, a great willto please, a great impulse towards beauty in all itsforms—yes, therein lay her charm. And as they talked on itdawned upon Stephen that here was no mere libertine in love'sgarden, but rather a creature born out of her epoch, a paganchained to an age that was Christian, one who would surely say withPierre Louys: 'Le monde moderne succombe sous un envahissement delaideur.' And she thought that she discerned in those luminouseyes, the pale yet ardent light of the fanatic.
Presently Valérie Seymour asked her how long she would beremaining in Paris.
And Stephen answered: 'I'm going to live here,' feelingsurprised at the words as she said them, for not until now had shemade this decision.
Valérie seemed pleased: 'If you want a house, I know ofone in the Rue Jacob; it's a tumbledown place, but it's got a finegarden. Why not go and see it? You might go tomorrow. Of courseyou'll have to live on this side, the Rive Gauche is the onlypossible Paris.
'I should like to see the old house,' said Stephen.
So Valérie went to the telephone there and then andproceeded to call up the landlord. The appointment was made foreleven the next morning. 'It's rather a sad old house,' she warned,'no one has troubled to make it a home for some time, but you'llalter all that if you take it, because I suppose you'll make ityour home.'
Stephen flushed: 'My home's in England,' she said quickly, forher thoughts had instantly flown back to Morton.
But Valérie answered: 'One may have two homes—manyhomes. Be courteous to our lovely Paris and give it the privilegeof being your second home—it will feel very honoured, MissGordon.' She sometimes made little ceremonious speeches like this,and coming from her, they sounded strangely old-fashioned.
Brockett, rather subdued and distinctly pensive as sometimeshappened if Valérie had snubbed him, complained of a painabove his right eye: 'I must take some phenacetin,' he said sadly,'I'm always getting this curious pain above my right eye—doyou think it's the sinus?' He was very intolerant of all pain.
His hostess sent for the phenacetin, and Brockett gulped down acouple of tablets: 'Valérie doesn't love me any more,' hesighed, with a woebegone look at Stephen. 'I do call it hard, butit's always what happens when I introduce my best friends to eachother—they forgather at once and leave me in the cold; butthen, thank heaven, I'm very forgiving.'
They laughed and Valérie made him get on to the divanwhere he promptly lay down on the lute.
'Oh God!' he moaned, 'now I've injured my spine—I'm sobadly upholstered.' Then he started to strum on the one soundstring of the lute.
Valérie went over to her untidy desk and began to writeout a list of addresses: 'These may be useful to you, MissGordon.'
Stephen!' exclaimed Brockett. 'Call the poor woman Stephen!''May I?'
Stephen acquiesced: 'Yes, please do.'
Very well then, I'm Valérie. Is that a bargain?'
'The bargain is sealed,' announced Brockett. With extraordinaryskill he was managing to strum 'O Sole Mio' on the single string,when he suddenly stopped: 'I knew there was something—yourfencing Stephen, you've forgotten your fencing. We meant to askValérie for Buisson's address; they say he's the finestmaster in Europe.'
Valérie looked up: 'Does Stephen fence, then?'
'Does she fence! She's a marvellous, champion fencer.'
'He's never seen me fence,' explained Stephen, 'and I'm neverlikely to be a champion.'
'Don't you believe her, she's trying to be modest. I've heardthat she fences quite as finely as she writes,' he insisted. Andsomehow Stephen felt touched, Brockett was trying to show off hertalents.
Presently she offered him a lift in the car, but he shook hishead: 'No, thank you, dear one, I'm staying.' So she wished themgoodbye; but as she left them she heard Brockett murmuring toValérie Seymour, and she felt pretty sure that she caughther own name.
6
Well what did you think of Miss Seymour?' inquired Puddle, whenStephen got back about twenty minutes later.
Stephen hesitated: 'I'm not perfectly certain. She was veryfriendly, but I couldn't help feeling that she liked me because shethought me—oh, well, because she thought me what I am,Puddle. But I may have been wrong—she was awfully friendly.Brockett was at his very worst though, poor devil! His environmentseems to go to his head.' She sank down wearily on to a chair: Oh,Puddle, Puddle, it's a hell of a business.'
Puddle nodded.
Then Stephen said rather abruptly: 'All the same, we're going tolive here in Paris. We're going to look at a house tomorrow, an oldhouse with a garden in the Rue Jacob.'
For a moment Puddle hesitated, then she said: 'There's only onething against it. Do you think you'll ever be happy in a city?You're so fond of the life that belongs to the country.'
Stephen shook her head: 'That's all past now, my dear; there'sno country for me away from Morton. But in Paris I might make somesort of a home, I could work here—and then of course thereare people...
Something started to hammer in Puddle's brain: 'Like to like!Like to like! Like to like!' it hammered.
1
Stephen bought the house in the Rue Jacob, because as she walkedthrough the dim, grey archway that led from the street to thecobbled courtyard, and saw the deserted house standing before her,she knew at once that there she would live. This will happensometimes, we instinctively feel in sympathy with certaindwellings.
The courtyard was sunny and surrounded by walls. On the right ofthis courtyard some iron gates led into the spacious, untidygarden, and woefully neglected though this garden had been, thetrees that it still possessed were fine ones. A marble fountainlong since choked with weeds, stood in the centre of what had beena lawn. In the farthest corner of the garden some hand had erecteda semicircular temple, but that had been a long time ago, and nowthe temple was all but ruined.
The house itself would need endless repairs, but its rooms wereof careful and restful proportions. A fine room with a window thatopened on the garden would be Stephen's study; she could writethere in quiet; on the other side of the stone-paved hall was asmaller but comfortable salle a manger; while past the stonestaircase a little round room in a turret would be Puddle'sparticular sanctum. Above there were bedrooms enough and to spare:there was also the space for a couple of bathrooms. The day afterStephen had seen this house, she had written agreeing topurchase.
Valérie rang up before leaving Paris to inquire howStephen had liked the old house, and when she heard that she hadactually bought it, she expressed herself as being delighted.
We'll be quite close neighbours now,' she remarked, 'but I'm notgoing to bother you until you evince, not even when I get back inthe autumn. I know you'll be literally snowed under with workmenfor months, you poor dear, I feel sorry for you. But when you can,do let me come and see you—meanwhile if I can help you atall...' And she gave her address at St. Tropez.
And now for the first time since leaving Morton, Stephen turnedher mind to the making of a home. Through Brockett she found ayoung architect who seemed anxious to carry out all herinstructions. He was one of those very rare architects who refrainfrom thrusting their views on their clients. So into the ancient,deserted house in the Rue Jacob streamed an army of workmen, andthey hammered and scraped and raised clouds of dust from earlymorning, all day until evening—smoking harsh caporal as theyjoked or quarrelled or idled or spat or hummed snatches of song.And amazingly soon, wherever one trod one seemed to be treading onwet cement or on dry, gritty heaps of brick dust and rubble, sothat Puddle would complain that she spoilt all her shoes, whileStephen would emerge with her neat blue serge shoulders quite grey,and with even her hair thickly powdered.
Sometimes the architect would come to the hotel in the eveningand then would ensue long discussions. Bending over the littlemahogany table, he and Stephen would study the plans intently, forshe wished to preserve the spirit of the place intact, despitealterations. She decided to have an Empire study with grey wallsand curtains of Empire green, for she loved the great roomy writingtables that had come into being with the first Napoleon. The wallsof the salle à manger should be white and the curtainsbrown, while Puddle's round sanctum in its turret should have wallsand paintwork of yellow, to give the illusion of sunshine. And soabsorbed did Stephen become in these things, that she scarcely hadtime to notice Jonathan Brockett's abrupt departure for a mountaintop in the Austrian Tyrol. Having suddenly come to the end of hisfinances, he must hasten to write a couple of plays that could beproduced in London that winter. He sent her three or four picturepostcards of glaciers, after which she heard nothing more fromhim.
At the end of August, when the work was well under way, she andPuddle fared forth in the motor to visit divers villages and townsin quest of old furniture, and Stephen was surprised to find howmuch she enjoyed it. She would catch herself whistling as she droveher car, and when they got back to some humble auberge in theevening, she would want to eat a large supper. Every morning shediligently swung her dumb-bells; she was getting into condition forfencing. She had not fenced at all since leaving Morton, havingbeen too much engrossed in her work while in London; but now shewas going to fence before Buisson, so she diligently swung herdumb-bells. During these two months of holiday-making she grew fondof the wide-eyed, fruitful French country, even as she had grownfond of Paris. She would never love it as she loved the hills andthe stretching valleys surrounding Morton, for that love wassomehow a part of her being, but she gave to this France, thatwould give her a home, a quiet and very sincere affection. Herheart grew more grateful with every mile, for hers was above all agrateful nature.
They returned to Paris at the end of October. And now came theselecting of carpets and curtains; of fascinating blankets from theMagasin de Blanc—blankets craftily dyed to match any bedroom;of fine linen, and other expensive things, including the copperbatterie de cuisine, which latter, however, was left to Puddle. Atlast the army of workmen departed, its place being taken by aBreton menage—brown-faced folk, strong-limbed and capablelooking—a mother, father and daughter. Pierre, the butler,had been a fisherman once, but the sea with its hardness hadprematurely aged him. He had now been in service for several years,having contracted rheumatic fever which had weakened his heart andmade him unfit for the strenuous life of a fisher. Pauline hiswife, was considerably younger, and she it was who would reign inthe kitchen, while their daughter Adèle, a girl of eighteen,would help both her parents and look after the housework.
Adèle was as happy as a blackbird in springtime; shewould often seem just on the verge of chirping. But Pauline hadstood and watched the great storms gather over the sea while hermen were out fishing; her father had lost his life through the seaas had also a brother, so Pauline smiled seldom. Dour she was, witha predilection for dwelling in detail on people's misfortunes. Asfor Pierre, he was stolid, kind and pious, with the eyes of a manwho has looked on vast spaces. His grey stubbly hair was cut shortto his head en brosse, and he had an ungainly figure. When hewalked he straddled a little as though he could never believe in ahouse without motion. He liked Stephen at once, which was verypropitious, for one cannot buy the goodwill of a Breton.
Thus gradually chaos gave place to order, and on the morning ofher twenty-seventh birthday, on Christmas Eve, Stephen moved intoher home in the Rue Jacob on the old Rive Gauche, there to starther new life in Paris.
2
All alone in the brown and white salle à manger, Stephenand Puddle ate their Christmas dinner. And Puddle had bought asmall Christmas tree and had trimmed it, then hung it with colouredcandles. A little wax Christ-child bent downwards and sideways fromHis branch, as though He were looking for His presents—onlynow there were not any presents. Rather clumsily Stephen lit thecandles as soon as the daylight had almost faded. Then she andPuddle stood and stared at the tree, but in silence, because theymust both remember. But Pierre, who like all who have known thesea, was a child at heart, broke into loud exclamations. Oh, commec'est beau, l'arbre de Noel!' he exclaimed, and he fetched the dourPauline along from the kitchen, and she too exclaimed; then theyboth fetched Adèle and they all three exclaimed: 'Commec'est beau, l'arbre de Noel!' So, that after all the little waxChrist-child did not very much miss His presents.
That evening Pauline's two brothers arrived—they werePoilus stationed just outside Paris—and they brought alongwith them another young man, one Jean, who was ardently courtingAdèle. Very soon came the sound of singing and laughter fromthe kitchen, and when Stephen went up to her bedroom to look for abook, there was Adèle quite flushed and with very brighteyes because of this Jean—in great haste she turned down thebed and then flew on the wings of love back to the kitchen.
But Stephen went slowly downstairs to her study where Puddle wassitting in front of the fire, and she thought that Puddle sat thereas though tired; her hands were quite idle, and after a momentStephen noticed that she was dozing. Very quietly Stephen openedher book, unwilling to rouse the little grey woman who looked sosmall in the huge leather chair, and whose head kept guiltilynodding. But the book seemed scarcely worth troubling to read, sothat presently Stephen laid it aside and sat staring into theflickering logs that hummed and burnt blue because it was frosty.On the Malvern Hills there would probably be snow; deep snow mightbe capping the Worcestershire Beacon. The air up at British Campwould be sweet with the smell of winter and openspaces—little lights would be glinting far down in thevalley. At Morton the lakes would be still and frozen, so Peter theswan would be feeling friendly—in winter he had always fedfrom her hand—he must be old now, the swan called Peter.Coup! C-o-u-p! and Peter waddling towards her. He, who was allgliding grace on the water, would come awkwardly waddling towardsher hand for the chunk of dry bread that she held in her fingers.Jean with his Adèle along in the kitchen—anice-looking boy he was, Stephen had seen him—they wereyoung, and both were exceedingly happy, for their parents approved,so some day they would marry. Then children would come, too many,no doubt, for Jean's slender purse, and yet in this life one mustpay for one's pleasures—they would pay with their children,and this appeared perfectly fair to Stephen. She thought that itseemed a long time ago since she herself had been a small child,romping about on the floor with her father, bothering Williams downat the stables, dressing up as young Nelson and posing for Collinswho had sometimes been cross to young Nelson. She was nearlythirty, and what had she done? Written one good novel and one verybad one, with a few mediocre short stories thrown in. Oh, well, shewas going to start writing again quite soon—she had an ideafor a novel. But she sighed, and Puddle woke up with a start.
'Is that you, my dear a Have I been asleep?'
Only for a very few minutes, Puddle.'
Puddle glanced at the new gold watch on her wrist; it had been aChristmas present from Stephen. 'It's past ten o'clock—Ithink I'll turn in.'
'Do. Why not? I hope Adèle's filled your hot-waterbottle; she's rather light-headed over her Jean.'
'Never mind, I can fill it myself,' smiled Puddle.
She went, and Stephen sat on by the fire with her eyes halfdosed and her lips set firmly. She must put away all these thoughtsof the past and compel herself to think of the future. Thisbrooding over things that were past was all wrong; it was futile,weak-kneed and morbid. She had her work, work that cried out to bedone, but no more unworthy books must be written. She must showthat being the thing she was, she could climb to success over allopposition, could climb to success in spite of a world that wastrying its best to get her under. Her mouth grew hard; hersensitive lips that belonged by rights to the dreamer, the lover,took on a resentful and bitter line which changed her whole faceand made it less comely. At that moment the striking likeness toher father appeared to have faded out of her face.
Yes, it was trying to get her under, this world with its mightyself-satisfaction, with its smug rules of conduct, all made to bebroken by those who strutted and preened themselves on being whatthey considered normal. They trod on the necks of those thousandsof others who, for God knew what reason, were not made as theywere; they prided themselves on their indignation, on what theyproclaimed as their righteous judgments. They sinned grossly; evenvilely at times, like lustful beasts—but yet they werenormal! And the vilest of them could point a finger of scorn ather, and be loudly applauded.
'God damn them to hell!' she muttered.
Along in the kitchen there was singing again. The young men'svoices rose tuneful and happy, and with them blended Adèle'syoung voice very sexless as yet, like the voice of a choirboy.Stephen got up and opened the door, then stood quite still andlistened intently. The singing soothed her overstrained nerves asit flowed from the hearts of these simple people. For she did notbegrudge them their happiness; she did not resent young Jean withhis Adèle, or Pierre who had done a man's work in his time,or Pauline who was often aggressively female. Bitter she had grownin these years since Morton, but not bitter enough to resent thesimple. And then as she listened they suddenly stopped for a littlebefore they resumed their singing, and when they resumed it thetune was sad with the sadness that dwells in the souls of most men,above all in the patient soul of the peasant.
'Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué?'
She could hear the soft Breton words quite clearly.
'Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Pour nous dire la Messe
Quand la nuit sera bien tombée
Je tiendrai ma promesse.'
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Sans nappe de fine toile?'
'Notre Doux Seigneur poserai
Sur un morceau de voile.'
'Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Sans chandelle et sans cierge?'
'Les astres seront allumés
Par Madame la Vierge.'
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbe,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Sans orgue résonnante?'
'Jesus touchera le clavier
Des vagues mugissantes.'
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Si l'Ennemi nous trouble?'
Une seule fois je vous bénirai,
Les Bleus bénirai double!'
Closing the study door behind her, Stephen thoughtfully climbedthe stairs to her bedroom.
1
With the New Year came flowers from Valérie Seymour, anda little letter of New Year's greeting. Then she paid a ratherceremonious call and was entertained by Puddle and Stephen. Beforeleaving she invited them both to luncheon, but Stephen refused onthe plea of her work.
'I'm hard at it again.'
At this Valérie smiled. Very well then, a bientôt.You know where to find me, ring up when you're free, which I hopewill be soon.' After which she took her departure.
But Stephen was not to see her again for a very considerabletime, as it happened. Valérie was also a busywoman—there are other affairs beside the writing ofnovels.
Brockett was in London on account of his plays. He wrote seldom,though when he did so he was cordial, affectionate even; but now hewas busy with success, and with gathering in the shekels. He hadnot lost interest in Stephen again, only just at the moment she didnot fit in with his brilliant and affluent scheme of existence.
So once more she and Puddle settled down together to a life thatwas strangely devoid of people, a life of almost completeisolation, and Puddle could not make up her mind whether she feltrelieved or regretful. For herself she cared nothing, her anxiousthoughts were as always centred in Stephen. However, Stephenappeared quite contented—she was launched on her book and waspleased with her writing. Paris inspired her to do good work, andas recreation she now had her fencing—twice every week shenow fenced with Buisson, that severe but incomparable master.
Buisson had been very rude at first: 'Hideous, affreux,horriblement English!' he had shouted, quite outraged by Stephen'sstyle. All the same he took a great interest in her. 'You writebooks; what a pity! I could make you a fine fencer. You have theman's muscles, and the long, graceful lunge when you do notremember that you are a Briton and become—what you say? ah,mais oui, self-conscious. I wish that I had find you outsooner—however, your muscles are young still, pliant.' Andone day he said: 'Let me feel the muscles,' then proceeded to passhis hands down her thighs and across her strong loins: Tiens,tiens!' he murmured.
After this he would sometimes look at her gravely with a puzzledexpression; but she did not resent him, nor his rudeness, nor histechnical interest in her muscles. Indeed, she liked the crosslittle man with his bristling black beard and his peppery temper,and when he remarked a propos of nothing: 'We are all greatimbeciles about nature. We make our own rules and call them lanature; we say she do this, she do that—imbeciles! She dowhat she please and then make the long nose.' Stephen felt neithershy nor resentful.
These lessons were a great relaxation from work, and thanks tothem her health grew much better. Her body, accustomed to severeexercise, had resented the sedentary life in London. Now, however,she began to take care of her health, walking for a couple of hoursin the Bois every day, or exploring the tall, narrow streets thatlay near her home in the Quarter. The sky would look bright at theend of such streets by contrast, as though it were seen through atunnel. Sometimes she would stand gazing into the shops of thewider and more prosperous Rue des Saints Pères; the oldfurniture shops; the crucifix shop with its dozens of crucifiedChrists in the window—so many crucified ivory Christs! Shewould think that one must surely exist for every sin committed inParis. Or perhaps she would make her way over the river, crossingby the Pont des Arts. And one morning, arrived at the Rue desPetits Champs, what must she suddenly do but discover the PassageChoiseul, by just stepping inside for shelter, because it hadstarted raining.
Oh, the lure of the Passage Choiseul, the queer, rather gawkyattraction of it. Surely the most hideous place in all Paris, withits roof of stark wooden ribs and glass panes—the roof thatlooks like the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. Thechocolate smell of the patisserie—the big one where people gowho have money. The humbler, student smell of Lavrut, where one'sgrey rubber bands are sold by the gramme and are known as:'Bracelets de caoutchouc.' Where one buys premièrequalité blotting paper of a deep ruddy tint and thestiffness of cardboard, and thin but inspiring manuscript booksbound in black, with mottled, shiny blue borders. Where pencils andpens are found in their legions, of all makes, all shapes, allcolours, all prices; while outside on the trustful trays in thePassage, lives Gomme Onyx, masquerading as marble, and as likely torub a hole in your paper. For those who prefer the reading of booksto the writing of them there is always Lemerre with his splendiddisplay of yellow bindings. And for those undisturbed byimagination, the taxidermist's shop is quite near thecorner—they can stare at a sad and moth-eaten flamingo, twosquirrels, three parrots and a dusty canary. Some are tempted bythe cheap corduroy at the draper's, where it stands in great rollsas though it were carpet. Some pass on to the little stampmerchant, while a few dauntless souls even enter thechemist's—that shamelessly anatomical chemist's, whose waresdo not figure in school manuals on the practical uses ofrubber.
And up and down this Passage Choiseul, pass innumerable idle andbusy people, bringing in mud and rain in the winter, bringing indust and heat in the summer, bringing in God knows how manythoughts, some of which cannot escape with their owners. The veryair of the Passage seems heavy with all these imprisonedthoughts.
Stephen's thoughts got themselves entrapped with the others, buthers, at the moment, were those of a schoolgirl, for her eye hadsuddenly lit on Lavrut, drawn thereto by the trays of ornateindia-rubber. And once inside, she could not resist the 'Braceletsde caoutchouc,' or the blotting paper as red as a rose, or themanuscript books with the mottled blue borders. Growing reckless,she gave an enormous order for the simple reason that these thingslooked different. In the end she actually carried away one of thoseinspiring manuscript books, and then got herself driven home by ataxi, in order the sooner to fill it.
2
That spring, in the foyer of the ComédieFrançaise, Stephen stumbled across a link with the past inthe person of a middle-aged woman. The woman was stout and worepince-nez; her sparse brown hair was already greying; her face,which was long, had a double chin, and that face seemed vaguelyfamiliar to Stephen. Then suddenly Stephen's two hands were seizedand held fast in those of the middle-aged woman, while a voicegrown loud with delight and emotion was saying: 'Mais oui, c'est mapetite Stévenne!'
Back came a picture of the schoolroom at Morton, with a batteredred book on its ink-stained table—the BibliothéqueRose—'Les Petites Files Modeles', 'Les Bons Enfants', andMademoiselle Duphot.
Stephen said: 'To think—after all these years!'
Ah, quelle joie! Quelle joie!' babbled Mademoiselle Duphot.
And now Stephen was being embraced on both cheeks, then held atarm's length for a better inspection. 'But how tall, how strong youare, ma petite Stévenne. You remember what I say, that wemeet in Paris? I say when I go, "But you come to Paris when yougrow up bigger, my poor little baby!" I keep looking and looking,but I knowed you at once. I say, "Oui certainement, that is mapetite Stévenne, no one 'ave such another face what I love,it could only belong to Stévenne," I say. And now voila! Iam correct and I find you.'
Stephen released herself firmly but gently, replying in Frenchto calm Mademoiselle, whose linguistic struggles increased everymoment.
'I'm living in Paris altogether,' she told her; 'you must comeand see me—come to dinner tomorrow; 35, Rue Jacob.' Then sheintroduced Puddle who had been an amused spectator.
The two ex-guardians of Stephen's young mind shook hands witheach other very politely, and they made such a strangely contrastedcouple that Stephen must smile to see them together. The one was sosmall, so quiet, and so English; the other so portly, so tearful,so French in her generous, if somewhat embarrassing emotion.
As Mademoiselle regained her composure, Stephen was able toobserve her more closely, and she saw that her face was excessivelychildish—a fact which she, when a child, had not noticed. Itwas more the face of a foal than a horse—an innocent,new-born foal.
Mademoiselle said rather wistfully: 'I will dine with muchpleasure tomorrow evening, but when will you come and see me in myhome? It is in the Avenue de la Grande Armée, a smallapartment, very small but so pretty—it is pleasant to haveone's treasures around one. The bon Dieu has been very good to me,Stévenne, for my Aunt Clothilde left me a little money whenshe died; it has proved a great consolation.'
'I'll come very soon,' promised Stephen.
Then Mademoiselle spoke at great length of her aunt, and ofMaman who had also passed on into glory; Maman, who had had herchicken on Sunday right up to the very last moment, Dieu merci!Even when her teeth had grown loose in the gums, Maman had askedfor her chicken on Sunday. But alas, the poor sister who once madelittle bags out of beads for the shops in the Rue de la Paix, andwho had such a cruel and improvident husband—the poor sisterhad now become totally blind, and therefore dependent onMademoiselle Duphot. So after all Mademoiselle Duphot still worked,giving lessons in French to the resident English; and sometimes shetaught the American children who were visiting Paris with theirparents. But then it was really far better to work; one might growtoo fat if one remained idle.
She beamed at Stephen with her gentle brown eyes. 'They are notas you were, ma chère petite Stévenne, not clever andfull of intelligence, no; and at times I almost despair of theiraccent. However, I am not at all to be pitied, thanks to AuntClothilde and the good little saints who surely inspired her toleave me that money.'
When Stephen and Puddle returned to their stalls, Mademoiselleclimbed to a humbler seat somewhere under the roof, and as shedeparted she waved her plump hand at Stephen.
Stephen said: 'She's so changed that I didn't know her just atfirst, or else perhaps I'd forgotten. I felt terribly guilty,because after you came I don't think I ever answered her letters.It's thirteen years since she left...
Puddle nodded. 'Yes, it's thirteen years since I took her placeand forced you to tidy that abominable schoolroom!' And shelaughed. All the same, I like her,' said Puddle.
3
Mademoiselle Duphot admired the house in the Rue Jacob and sheate very largely of the rich and excellent dinner. Quite regardlessof her increasing proportions, she seemed drawn to all those thingsthat were fattening.
'I cannot resist,' she remarked with a smile, as she reached forher fifth marron glace.
They talked a Paris, of its beauty, its charm. Then Mademoisellespoke yet again of her Maman and of Aunt Clothilde who had leftthem the money, and of Julie, her blind sister.
But after the meal she quite suddenly blushed. 'Oh,Stévenne, I have never inquired for your parents! What mustyou think of such great impoliteness? I lose my head the moment Isee you and grow selfish. I want you to know about me and my Maman;I babble about my affairs. What must you think of such greatimpoliteness? How is that kind and handsome Sir Philip? And yourmother, my dear, how is Lady Anna?'
And now it was Stephen's turn to grow red. 'My father died...Shehesitated, then finished abruptly, 'I don't live with my mother anymore, I don't live at Morton.'
Mademoiselle gasped. 'You no longer live...' she began, thensomething in Stephen's face warned her kind but bewildered guestnot to question. 'I am deeply grieved to hear of your father'sdeath, my dear,' she said very gently.
Stephen answered: 'Yes—I shall always miss him.'
There ensued a long, rather painful silence, during whichMademoiselle Duphot felt awkward. What had happened between themother and daughter? It was all very strange, very disconcerting.And Stephen, why was she exiled from Morton? But Mademoiselle couldnot cope with these problems, she knew only that she wanted Stephento be happy, and her kind brown eyes grew anxious, for she did notfeel certain that Stephen was happy. Yet she dared not ask for anexplanation, so instead she clumsily changed the subject.
'When will you both come to tea with me, Stévenne?'
'We'll come tomorrow if you like,' Stephen told her.
Mademoiselle Duphot left rather early; and all the way home toher apartment her mind felt exercised about Stephen.
She thought: She was always a strange little child, but so dear.I remember her when she was little, riding her pony astride like aboy; and how proud he would seem, that handsome SirPhilip—they would look more like father and son, those two.And now—is she not still a little bit strange?'
But these thoughts led her nowhere for, Mademoiselle Duphot wasquite unacquainted with the bypaths of nature. Her innocent mindwas untutored and trustful; she believed in the legend of Adam andEve, and no careless mistakes had been made in their garden!
4
The apartment in the Avenue de la Grande Armée was astidy as Valérie's had been untidy. From the miniaturekitchen to the miniature salon, everything shone as though recentlypolished, for here in spite of restricted finances, no dust wasallowed to harbour.
Mademoiselle Duphot beamed on her guests as she herself openedthe door to admit them. 'For me this is very real joy,' shedeclared. Then she introduced them to her sister Julie, whose eyeswere hidden behind dark glasses.
The salon was literally stuffed with what Mademoiselle haddescribed as her 'treasures'. On its tables were innumerableuseless objects which appeared for the most part to be mementoes.Coloured prints of Bouguereaus hung on the walls, while the chairswere upholstered in a species of velvet so hard as to be ratherslippery to sit on, yet that when it was touched felt rough to thefingers. The woodwork of these inhospitable chairs had been coatedwith varnish until it looked sticky. Over the little inadequatefireplace smiled a portrait of Maman when she was quite young.Maman, dressed in tartan for some strange reason, but in tartanthat had never hob-nobbed with the Highlands—a present thisportrait had been from a cousin who had wished to become anartist.
Julie extended a white, groping hand. She was like her sisteronly very much thinner, and her face had the closed rather blankexpression that is sometimes associated with blindness.
'Which is Stévenne?' she inquired in an anxious voice; 'Ihave heard so much about Stévenne!'
Stephen said: 'Here I am,' and she grasped the hand, pitiful ofthis woman's affliction.
But Julie smiled broadly. 'Yes, I know it is you from thefeel,'—she had started to stroke Stephen'scoat-sleeve—'my eyes have gone into my fingers these days. Itis strange, but I seem to see through my forgers.' Then she turnedand found Puddle whom she also stroked. 'And now I know both ofyou,' declared Julie.
The tea when it came was that straw-coloured liquid which mayeven now be met with in Paris.
'English tea bought especially for you, my Stévenne,'remarked Mademoiselle proudly. 'We drink only coffee, but I said tomy sister, Stévenne likes the good tea, and so, no doubt,does Mademoiselle Puddle. At four o'clock they will not wantcoffee—you observe how well I remember your England!'
However, the cakes proved worthy of France, and Mademoiselle atethem as though she enjoyed them. Julie ate very little and did nottalk much. She just sat there and listened, quietly smiling; andwhile she listened she crocheted lace as though, as she said, shecould see through her fingers. Then Mademoiselle Duphot explainedhow it was that those delicate hands had becomes so skilful,replacing the eyes which their ceaseless labour had robbed of theblessèd privilege of sight—explained so simply yetwith such conviction, that Stephen must marvel to hear her.
'It is all our little Therèse,' she told Stephen. 'Youhave heard of her? Ah, but what a pity! Our Therèse was anun at the Cannel at Lisieux, and she said: "I will let fall ashower of roses when I die." She died not so long ago, but alreadyher Cause has been presented at Rome by the Very Reverend FatherRodrigo! That is very wonderful, is it not, Stévenne? Butshe does not wait to become a saint; ah, but no, she is young andtherefore impatient. She cannot wait, she has started already to domiracles for all those who ask her. I asked that Julie should notbe unhappy through the loss of her eyes—for when she is idleshe is always unhappy—so our little Therèse has put apair of new eyes in her fingers.'
Julie nodded. 'It is true,' she said very gravely; 'before thatI was stupid because of my blindness. Everything felt very strange,and I stumbled about like an old blind horse. I was terriblystupid, far more so than many. Then one night Véroniqueasked Therèse to help me, and the next day I could find myway round our room. From then on my fingers saw what they touched,and now I can even make lace quite well because of this sight in myfingers.' Then turning to the smiling Mademoiselle Duphot: 'But whydo you not show her picture to Stévenne?
So Mademoiselle Duphot went and fetched the small picture ofTherèse, which Stephen duly examined, and the face that shesaw was ridiculously youthful—round with youth it still was,and yet very determined. Seem Therèse looked as though ifshe really intended to become a saint, the devil himself would behard put to it to stop her. Then Puddle must also examine thepicture, while Stephen was shown some relics, a piece of the habitand other things such as collect in the wake of sainthood.
When they left, Julie asked them to come again; she said: 'Comeoften, it will give us such pleasure.' Then she thrust on herguests twelve yards of coarse lace which neither of them liked tooffer to pay for.
Mademoiselle murmured: 'Our home is so humble forStévenne; we have very little to offer.' She was thinking ofthe house in the Rue Jacob, a grand house, and then too sheremembered Morton.
But Julie, with the strange insight of the blind, or perhapsbecause of those eyes in her fingers, answered quickly: 'She willnot care, Véronique, I cannot feel that sort of pride inyour Stévenne.'
5
After their first visit they went very often to Mademoiselle'smodest little apartment, Mademoiselle Duphot and her quiet blindsister were indeed their only friends now in Paris, for Brockettwas in America on business, and Stephen had not rung upValérie Seymour.
Sometimes when Stephen was busy with her work, Puddle would makeher way there all alone. Then she and Mademoiselle would gettalking about Stephen's childhood, about her future, but guardedly,for Puddle must be careful to give nothing away to the kind, simplewoman. As for Mademoiselle, she too must be careful to accept alland ask no questions. Yet in spite of the inevitable gaps andrestraints, a real sympathy sprang up between them, for each sensedin the other a valuable ally who would fight a good fight on behalfof Stephen. And now Stephen would quite often send her car to takethe blind Julie for a drive beyond Paris, Julie would sniff the airand tell Burton that through smelling their greenness she could seethe trees; he would listen to her broken and halting English with asmile—they were a queer lot these French. Or perhaps he woulddrive the other Mademoiselle up to Montmartre for early Mass on aSunday. She belonged to something to do with a heart; it all seemedrather uncanny to Burton. He thought of the Vicar who had playedsuch fine cricket, and suddenly felt very homesick for Morton.Fruit would find its way to the little apartment, together withcakes and large marron glacés. Then Mademoiselle Duphotwould become frankly greedy, eating sweets in bed while she studiedher booklets on the holy and very austere Thérèse,who had certainly not eaten marrons glacés.
'Thus the spring, that gentle yet fateful spring of 1914,slipped into the summer. With the budding of flowers and thesinging of birds it slipped quietly on towards great disaster;while Stephen, whose book was now nearing completion, worked harderthan ever in Paris.
1
War. The incredible yet long predicted had come to pass. Peoplewoke in the morning with a sense of disaster, but these were theold who, having known war, remembered. The young men of France, ofGermany, of Russia, of the whole world, looked round them amazedand bewildered; yet with something that stung as it leapt in theirveins, filling them with a strange excitement—the bitter andruthless potion of war that spurred and lashed at theirmanhood.
They hurried through the streets of Paris, these young men; theycollected in bars and cafes; they stood gaping at the ominousgovernment placards summoning their youth and strength to thecolours.
They talked fast, very fast, they gesticulated: 'C'est laguerre! C'est la guerre!' they kept repeating.
Then they answered each other: 'Oui, c'est la guerre.'
And true to her traditions the beautiful city sought to hidestark ugliness under beauty, and she decked herself as though for awedding; her flags streamed out on the breeze in their thousands.With the paraphernalia and pageantry of glory she sought todisguise the true meaning of war.
But where children had been playing a few days before, troopswere now encamped along the Champs Elysées. Their horsesnibbled the bark from the trees and pawed at the earth, makinglittle hollows; they neighed to each other in the watches of thenight, as though in some fearful anticipation. In by-streets theunreasoning spirit of war broke loose in angry and futile actions;shops were raided because of their German names and their wareshurled out to lie in the gutters. Around every street corner someimaginary spy must be lurking, until people tilted at shadows.
'C'est la guerre,' murmured women, thinking of their sons.
Then they answered each other: 'Oui, c'est la guerre.'
Pierre said to Stephen: 'They will not take me because of myheart!' And his voice shook with anger, and the anger brought tearswhich actually splashed the jaunty stripes of his liverywaistcoat.
Pauline said: 'I gave my father to the sea and my eldestbrother. I have still two young brothers, they alone are left and Igive them to France. Bon Dieu! It is terrible being a woman, onegives all!' But Stephen knew from her voice that Pauline felt proudof being a woman.
Adèle said: 'Jean is certain to get promotion, he saysso, he will not long remain a Poilu. When he comes back he may be acaptain—that will be fine. I shall marry a captain! War, hesays, is better than piano-tuning, though I tell him he has a fineear for music. But Mademoiselle should just see him now in hisuniform! We all think he looks splendid.'
Puddle said: 'Of course England was bound to come in, and thankGod we didn't take too long about it!'
Stephen said: 'All the young men from Morton will go—everydecent man in the country will go.' Then she put away herunfinished novel and sat staring dumbly at Puddle.
2
England, the land of bountiful pastures, of peace, of motheringhills, of home. England was fighting for her right to existence.Face to face with dreadful reality at last, England was pouring hermen into battle, her army was even now marching across France.Tramp, tramp; tramp, tramp; the tread of England whose men woulddefend her right to existence.
Anna wrote from Morton. She wrote to Puddle, but now Stephentook those letters and read them. The agent had enlisted and so hadthe bailiff Old Mr. Percival, agent in Sir Philip's lifetime, hadcome back to help with Morton. Jim the groom, who had stayed onunder the coachman after Raftery's death, was now talking of going;he wanted to get into the cavalry, of course, and Anna was usingher influence for him. Six of the gardeners had joined up already,but Hopkins was past the prescribed age limit; he must do his smallbit by looking after his grape vines—the grapes would be sentto the wounded in London. There were now no men-servants left inthe house, and the home farm was short of a couple of hands. Annawrote that she was proud of her people, and intended to pay thosewho had enlisted half wages. They would fight for England, but shecould not help feeling that in a way they would be fighting forMorton. She had offered Morton to the Red Cross at once, and theyhad promised to send her convalescent cases. It was rather isolatedfor a hospital, it seemed, but would be just the place forconvalescents. The Vicar was going as an army chaplain; Violet'shusband, Alec, had joined the Flying Corps; Roger Antrim wassomewhere in France already; Colonel Antrim had a job at thebarracks in Worcester.
Came an angry scrawl from Jonathan Brockett, who had rushed backto England post-haste from the States: 'Did you ever know anythingquite so stupid as this war? It's upset my apple-cartcompletely—can't write jingo plays about St. George and thedragon, and I'm sick to death of "Business as usual!" Ain't goingto be no business, my dear, except killing, and blood always makesme feel faint.' Then the postscript: 'I've just been and gone anddone it! Please send me tuck-boxes when I'm sitting in a trench; Ilike caramel creams and of course mixed biscuits.' Yes, evenJonathan Brockett would go—it was fine in a way that heshould have enlisted.
Morton was pouring out its young men, who in their turn mightpour out their life-blood for Morton. The agent, the bailiff; intraining already. Jim the groom, inarticulate, rather stupid, butwanting to join the cavalry—Jim who had been at Morton sinceboyhood. The gardeners, kindly men smelling of soil, men of peacewith a peaceful occupation; six of these gardeners had gonealready, together with a couple of lads from the home farm. Therewere no men servants left in the house. It seemed that the oldtraditions still held, the traditions of England, the traditions ofMorton.
The Vicar would soon play a sterner game than cricket, whileAlec must put away his law books and take unto himself a pair ofwings—funny to associate wings with Alec. Colonel Antrim hadhastily got into khaki, and was cursing and swearing, no doubt, atthe barracks. And Roger—Roger was somewhere in Francealready, justifying his manhood. Roger Antrim, who had been sointolerably proud of that manhood—well, now he would get achance to prove it!
But Jonathan Brockett, with the soft white hands, and thefoolish gestures, and the high little laugh—even he couldjustify his existence, for they had not refused 'him when he wentto enlist. Stephen had never thought to feel envious of a man likeJonathan Brockett.
She sat smoking, with his letter spread out before her on thedesk, his absurd yet courageous letter, and somehow it humbled herpride to the dust, for she could not so justify her existence.Every instinct handed down by the men of her race, every decentinstinct of courage, now rose to mock her so that all that was malein her make-up seemed to grow more aggressive, aggressive perhapsas never before, because of this new frustration. She felt appalledat the realization of her own grotesqueness; she was nothing but afreak abandoned on a kind of no-man's-land at this moment ofsplendid national endeavour. England was calling her men intobattle, her women to the bedsides of the wounded and dying, andbetween these two chivalrous, surging forces she, Stephen, mightwell be crushed out of existence—of less use to her country,she was, than Brockett. She stared at her bony masculine hands,they had never been skilful when it came to illness; strong theymight be, but rather inept; not hands wherewith to succour thewounded. No, assuredly her job, if job she could find, would notlie at the bedsides of the wounded. And yet, good God, one must dosomething!
Going to the door she called in the servants: 'I'm leaving forEngland in a few days,' she told them, 'and while I'm away you'lltake care of this house. I have absolute confidence in you.'
Pierre said: 'All things shall be done as you would wish,Mademoiselle.' And she knew that it would be so.
That evening she told Puddle of her decision, and Puddle's facebrightened: 'I'm so glad, my dear, when war comes one ought tostand by one's country.'
'I'm afraid they won't want my sort...' Stephen muttered.
Puddle put a firm little hand over hers: 'I wouldn't be too sureof that, this war may give your sort of woman her chance. I thinkyou may find that they'll need you, Stephen.'
3
There were no farewells to be said in Paris except those toBuisson and Mademoiselle Duphot.
Mademoiselle Duphot shed a few tears: 'I find you only to loseyou, Stévenne. Ah, but how many friends will be parted,perhaps for ever, by this terrible war—and yet what elsecould we do? We are blameless!'
In Berlin people were also saying: 'What else could we do? Weare blameless.'
Julie's hand lingered on Stephen's arm: 'You feel so strong,'she said, sighing a little, 'it is good to be strong and courageousthese days, and to have one's eyes—alas, I am quiteuseless.'
'No one is useless who can pray, my sister,' reprovedMademoiselle almost sternly.
And indeed there were many who thought as she did, the churcheswere crowded all over France. A great wave of piety swept throughParis, filling the dark confessional boxes, so that the priests hadnow some ado to cope with such shoals of penitent people—themore so as every priest fit to fight had been summoned to join thearmy. Up at Montmartre the church of the Sacré Coeur echoedand re-echoed with the prayers of the faithful, while those prayersthat were whispered with tears in secret, hung like invisibleclouds round its altars.
'Save us, most Sacred Heart of Jesus. Have pity upon us, havepity upon France. Save us, O Heart of Jesus!'
So all day long must the priests sit and hear the time-honouredsins of body and spirit; a monotonous hearing because of itssameness since nothing is really new under the sun, least of allour manner of sinning. Men who had not been to Mass for years, nowbegan to remember their first Communion; thus it was that many ahardy blasphemer, grown suddenly tongue-tied and rather sheepish,clumped up to the altar in his new army boots, having made anembarrassed confession.
Young clericals changed into uniform and marched side by sidewith the roughest Poilus, to share in their hardships, their hopes,their terrors, their deeds of supremest valour. Old men bowed theirheads and gave of the strength which no longer animated theirbodies, gave of that strength through the bodies of their sons whowould charge into battle shouting and singing. Women of all agesknelt down and prayed, since prayer has long been the refuge ofwomen. 'No one is useless who can pray, my sister.' The women ofFrance had spoken through the lips of the humble MademoiselleDuphot.
Stephen and Puddle said good-bye to the sisters, then went on toBuisson's Academy of Fencing, where they found him engaged upongreasing his foils.
He looked up, Ah, it's you. I must go on greasing. God knowswhen I shall use these again, tomorrow I join my regiment.' But hewiped his hands on a stained overall and sat down, after clearing achair for Puddle. 'An ungentlemanly war it will be,' he grumbled.Will I lead my men with a sword? Ah, but no! I will lead my menwith a dirty revolver in my hand. Parbleu! Such is modern warfare!A machine could do the whole cursed thing better—we shall allbe nothing but machines in this war. However, I pray that we maykill many Germans.'
Stephen lit a cigarette while the master glared, he wasevidently in a very vile temper: 'Go on, go on, smoke your heart tothe devil, then come here and ask me to teach you fencing! Yousmoke in lighting one from the other, you remind me of yourhorrible Birmingham chimneys—but of course a womanexaggerates always,' he concluded, with an evident wish to annoyher.
Then he made a few really enlightening remarks about Germans ingeneral, their appearance, their morals, above all their personalhabits—which remarks were more seemly in French than theywould be in English. For, like Valérie Seymour, this man wasfilled with a loathing for the ugliness of his epoch, an uglinessto which he felt the Germans were just now doing their best tocontribute. Buisson's heart was not buried in Mitylene, but ratherin the glories of a bygone Paris, where a gentleman lived by theskill of his rapier and the graceful courage that lay behindit.
'In the old days we killed very beautifully,' sighed Buisson,'now we merely slaughter or else do not kill at all, no matter howgross the insult.'
However, when they got up to go, he relented: 'War is surely avery necessary evil, it thins down the imbecile populations whohave murdered their most efficacious microbes. People will not die,very well, here comes war to mow them down in their tens ofthousands. At least for those of us who survive, there will be morebreathing-space, thanks to the Germans—perhaps they too are anecessary evil.'
Arrived at the door Stephen turned to look back. Buisson wasonce more greasing his foils, and his fingers moved slowly yet withgreat precision—he might almost have been a beauty doctorengaged upon massaging ladies' faces.
Preparations for departure did not take very long, and in lessthan a week's time Stephen and Puddle had shaken hands with theirBreton servants and were driving at top speed en route for Havre,from whence they would cross to England.
4
Puddle's prophecy proved to have been correct, work was verysoon forthcoming for Stephen. She joined The London AmbulanceColumn, which was well under way by that autumn; and presentlyPuddle herself got a job in one of the Government departments. Sheand Stephen had taken a small service flat in Victoria, and herethey would meet when released from their hours of duty. But Stephenwas obsessed by her one idea, which was, willy-nilly, to get out tothe front, and many and varied were the plans and discussions thatwere listened to by the sympathetic Puddle. An ambulance hadmanaged to slip over to Belgium for a while and had done some veryfine service. Stephen had hit on a similar idea, but in her casethe influence required had been lacking. In vain did she offer toform a Unit at her own expense; the reply was polite but always thesame, a monotonous reply: England did not send women to thefront-line trenches. She disliked the idea of joining the throngwho tormented the patient passport officials with demands to besent to France at once, on no matter how insufficient a pretext.What was the use of her going to France unless she could find therethe work that she wanted? She preferred to stick to her job inEngland.
And now quite often while she waited at the stations for thewounded, she would see unmistakable figures—unmistakable toher they would be at first sight, she would single them out of thecrowd as by instinct. For as though gaining courage from the terrorthat is war, many a one who was even as Stephen, had crept out ofher hole and come into the daylight, come into the daylight andfaced her country: 'Well, here I am, will you take me or leave me?'And England had taken her, asking no questions—she was strongand efficient, she could fill a man's place, she could organizetoo, given scope for her talent. England had said: 'Thank you verymuch. You're just what we happen to want...at the moment.'
So, side by side with more fortunate women, worked Miss Smithwho had been breeding dogs in the country; or Miss Oliphant who hadbeen breeding nothing since birth but a litter of hefty complexes;or Miss Tring who had lived with a very dear friend in the humblerpurlieus of Chelsea. One great weakness they all had, it must beadmitted, and this was for uniforms—yet why not? The goodworkman is worthy of his Sam Browne belt. And then too, theirnerves were not at all weak, their pulses beat placidly through theworst air raids, for bombs do not trouble the nerves of the invert,but rather that terrible silent bombardment from the batteries ofGod's good people.
Yet now even really nice women with hairpins often found theirless orthodox sisters quite useful. It would be: 'Miss Smith, dojust start up my motor—the engine's so cold I can't get thething going'; or: 'Miss Oliphant, do glance through these accounts,I've got such a rotten bad head for figures'; or 'Miss Tring, may Iborrow your British Warm? The office is simply arctic thismorning!'
Not that those purely feminine women were less worthy of praise,perhaps they were more so, giving as they did of their best withoutstint—for they had no stigma to live down in the war, no needto defend their right to respect. They rallied to the call of theircountry superbly, and may it not be forgotten by England. But theothers—since they too gave of their best, may they also notbe forgotten. They might look a bit odd, indeed some of them did,and yet in the streets they were seldom stared at, though theystrode a little, perhaps from shyness, or perhaps from a slightlyself-conscious desire to show off, which is often the same thing asshyness. They were part of the universal convulsion and were beingaccepted as such, on their merits. And although their Sam Brownebelts remained swordless, their hats and their caps withoutregimental badges, a battalion was formed in those terrible yearsthat would never again be completely disbanded. War and death hadgiven them a right to life, and life tasted sweet, very sweet totheir palates. Later on would come bitterness, disillusion, butnever again would such women submit to being driven back to theirholes and corners. They had found themselves—thus thewhirligig of war brings in its abrupt revenges.
5
Time passed; the first year of hostilities became the secondwhile Stephen still hoped, though no nearer to her ambition. Try asshe might she could not get to the front; no work at the actualfront seemed to be forthcoming for women.
Brockett wrote wonderfully cheerful letters. In every letter wasa neat little list telling Stephen what he wished her to send him;but the sweets he loved were getting quite scarce, they were nolonger always so easy to come by. And now he was asking forHoubigant soap to be included in his tuck-box.
'Don't let it get near the coffee fondants or it may make themtaste like it smells,' he cautioned, 'and do try to send me twobottles of hair-wash, "Eau Athénienne", I used to buy it atTruefitt's.' He was on a perfectly damnable front, they had senthim to Mesopotamia.
Violet Peacock, who was now a V.A.D. with a very imposing RedCross on her apron, occasionally managed to catch Stephen at home,and then would come reams of tiresome gossip. Sometimes she wouldbring her over-fed children along, she was stuffing them up likecapons. By fair means or foul Violet always managed to obtainillicit cream for her nursery—she was one of those motherswho reacted to the war by wishing to kill off the useless aged.
'What's the good of them? Eating up the food of the nation!' shewould say, 'I'm going all out on the young, they'll be needed tobreed from.' She was very extreme, her perspective had been upsetby the air raids.
Raids frightened her as did the thought of starvation, and whenfrightened she was apt to grow rather sadistic, so that now shewould want to rush off and inspect every ruin left by the Germanmarauders. She had also been the first to applaud the dreadfuldescent of a burning Zeppelin.
She bored Stephen intensely with her ceaseless prattle aboutAlec, who was one of London's defenders, about Roger, who had gotthe Military Cross and was just on the eve of becoming a major,about the wounded whose faces she sponged every morning, and whoseemed so pathetically grateful.
From Morton came occasional letters for Puddle; they were morein the nature of reports now these letters. Anna had such and sucha number of cases; the gardeners had been replaced by young women;Mr. Percival was proving very devoted, he and Anna were holding theestate well together; Williams had been seriously ill withpneumonia. Then a long list of humble names from the farms, fromamong Anna's staff or from cottage homesteads, together with thosefrom such houses as Morton—for the rich and the poor were indeath united. Stephen would read that long list of names, so manyof which she had known since her childhood, and would realize thatthe stark arm of war had struck deep at the quiet heart of theMidlands.
1
A stump of candle in the neck of a bottle flickered once ortwice and threatened to go out. Getting up, Stephen found a freshcandle and lit it, then she returned to her packing-case upon whichhad been placed the remnants of a chair minus its legs andarms.
The room had once been the much prized salon of a large andprosperous villa in Compiègne, but now the glass was gonefrom its windows; there remained only battered and splinteredshutters which creaked eerily in the bitter wind of a March nightin 1918. The walls of the salon had fared little better than itswindows, their brocade was detached and hanging, while a recentrainstorm had lashed through the roof making ugly splotches on thedelicate fabric—a dark stain on the ceiling was perpetuallydripping. The remnants of what had once been a home, little brokentables, an old photograph in a tarnished frame, a child's woodenhorse, added to the infinite desolation of this villa that nowhoused the Breakspeare Unit—a Unit composed of Englishwomen,that had been serving in France just over six months, attached tothe French Army Ambulance Corps.
The place seemed full of grotesquely large shadows cast byfigures that sat or sprawled on the floor. Miss Peel in her Jaegersleeping-bag snored loudly, then choked because of her cold. MissDelmé-Howard was gravely engaged upon making the best of adifficult toilet—she was brushing out her magnificent hairwhich gleamed in the light of the candle. Miss Bless was sewing abutton on her tunic; Miss Thurloe was peering at a half-finishedletter; but most of the women who were herded together in this, thesafest place in the villa and none too safe at that be it said,were apparently sleeping quite soundly. An uncanny stillness haddescended on the town; after many hours of intensive bombardment,the Germans were having a breathing-space before training theirbatteries once more upon Compiègne.
Stephen stared down at the girl who lay curled up at her feet inan army blanket. The girl slept the sleep of complete exhaustion,breathing heavily with her head on her arm; her pale and rathertriangular face was that of someone who was still very young, notmuch more than nineteen or twenty. The pallor of her skin wasaccentuated by the short black lashes which curled back abruptly,by the black arched eyebrows and dark brown hair—sleek hairwhich grew to a peak on the forehead, and had recently been bobbedfor the sake of convenience. For the rest her nose was slightlytip-tilted, and her mouth resolute considering her youth; the lipswere well-modelled and fine in texture, having deeply indentedcorners. For more than a minute Stephen considered the immaturefigure of Mary Llewellyn. This latest recruit to the BreakspeareUnit had joined it only five weeks ago, replacing a member who wassuffering from shell-shock. Mrs. Breakspeare had shaken her headover Mary, but in these harassed days of the German offensive shecould not afford to remain shorthanded, so in spite of manymisgivings she had kept her.
Still shaking her head she had said to Stephen: 'Needs must whenthe Boches get busy, Miss Gordon! Have an eye to her, will your Shemay stick it all right, but between you and me I very much doubtit. You might try her out as your second driver.' And so far MaryLlewellyn had stuck it.
Stephen looked away again, dosing her eyes, and after a whileforgot about Mary. The events that had preceded her own coming toFrance began to pass through her brain in procession. Her chief inThe London Ambulance Column, through whom she had first met Mrs.Claude Breakspeare—a good sort, the chief, she had been astaunch friend. The great news that she, Stephen, had been acceptedand would go to the front as an ambulance driver. Then Puddle'sgrave face: 'I must write to your mother, this means that you willbe in real danger.' Her mother's brief letter: 'Before you leave Ishould very much like you to come and see me,' the rest of theletter mere polite empty phrases. The impulse to resist, thelonging to go, culminating in that hurried visit to Morton. Mortonso changed and yet so changeless. Changed because of thoseblue-clad figures, the lame, the halt and the partially blinded whohad sought its peace and its kindly protection. Changeless becausethat protection and peace belonged to the very spirit of Morton.Mrs. Williams a widow; her niece melancholic ever since the groomJim had been wounded and missing—they had married while hehad been home on leave, and quite soon the poor soul was expectinga baby. Williams now dead of his third and last stroke, afterhaving survived pneumonia. The swan called Peter no longer glidingacross the lake on his white reflection, and in his stead anunmannerly offspring who struck out with his wings and tried tobite Stephen. The family vault where her father layburied—the vault was in urgent need of repair—' No menleft, Miss Stephen, we're that short of stonemasons; her ladyship'sbin complainin' already, but it don't be no use complainin' thesetimes.' Raftery's grave a slab of rough granite: 'In memory of agentle and courageous friend, whose name was Raftery, after thepoet.' Moss on the granite half effacing the words; the thick hedgegrowing wild for the want of clipping. And her mother—a womanwith snow-white hair and a face that was worn almost down to thespirit; a woman of quiet but uncertain movements, with a new trickof twisting the rings on her fingers. 'It was good of you to come.''You sent for me, Mother.' Long silences filled with therealization that all they dared hope for was peace betweenthem—too late to go back—they could not retrace theirsteps even though there was now peace between them. Then those lastpoignant moments in the study together—memory, the old roomwas haunted by it—a man dying with love in his eyes that wasdeathless—a woman holding him in her arms, speaking the wordssuch as lovers will speak to each other. Memory—they're theone perfect thing about me. Stephen, promise to write when you'reout in France, I shall want to hear from you.' 'I promise, Mother.'The return to London; Puddle's anxious voice: 'Well, how was she?''Very frail, you must go to Morton.' Puddle's sudden and almostfierce rebellion: 'I would rather not go, I've made my choice,Stephen.' 'But I ask this for my sake. I'm worried abouther—even if I weren't going away, I couldn't go back now andlive at Morton—our living together would make us remember.''I remember, too, Stephen, and what I remember is hard to forgive.It's hard to forgive an injury done to someone one loves...'Puddle's face, very white, very stern—strange to hear suchwords as these on the kind lips of Puddle. 'I know, I know, butshe's terribly alone, and I can't forget that my father loved her.'A long silence, and then: 'I've never yet failed you—andyou're right—I must go to Morton.'
Stephen's thoughts stopped abruptly. Someone had come in and wasstumping down the room in squeaky trench boots. It was Blakeneyholding the time-sheet in her hand—funny old monosyllabicBlakeney, with her curly white hair cropped as close as an Uhlan's,and her face that suggested a sensitive monkey.
'Service, Gordon; wake the kid!Howard—Thurloe—ready?' They got up and hustled intotheir trench coats, found their gas masks and finally put on theirhelmets.
Then Stephen shook Mary Llewellyn very gently: 'It's time.' Maryopened her clear, grey eyes: 'Who? What?' she stammered. 'It'stime. Get up, Mary.'
The girl staggered to her feet, still stupid with fatigue.Through the cracks in the shutters the dawn showed faintly.
2
The grey of a bitter, starved-looking morning. The town like amortally wounded creature, torn by shells, gashed open by bombs.Dead streets—streets of death—death in streets andtheir houses; yet people still able to sleep and stillsleeping.
'Stephen.'
'Yes, Mary?'
'How far is the Poste?'
'I think about thirty kilometres; why?'
'Oh, nothing—I only wondered.'
The long stretch of an open country road. On either side of theroad wire netting hung with pieces of crudely painted rag—acamouflage to represent leaves. A road bordered by rag leaves ontall wire hedges. Every few yards or so a deep shell-hole.
'Are they following, Mary? Is Howard all right?'
The girl glanced back: 'Yes, it's all right, she's coming.'
They drove on in silence for a couple of miles. The morning wasterribly cold; Mary shivered. 'What's that?' It was rather afoolish question for she knew what it was, knew only too well!
'They're at it again,' Stephen muttered.
A shell burst in a paddock, uprooting some trees. 'All right,Mary?'
'Yes—look out! We're coming to a crater!' They skimmed itby less than an inch and dashed on, Mary suddenly moving nearer toStephen.
'Don't joggle my arm, for the Lord's sake, child!'
'Did I? I'm sorry.'
Yes—don't do it again,' and once more they drove forwardin silence. Farther down the road they were blocked by a farm cart:'Militaires! Militaires! Militaires!' Stephen shouted.
Rather languidly the farmer got down and went to the heads ofhis thin, stumbling horses. 'Il faut vivre,' he explained, as hepointed to the cart, which appeared to be full of potatoes.
In a field on the right worked three very old women; they werehoeing with a diligent and fatalistic patience. At any moment astray shell might burst and then, presto! little left of the veryold women. But what will you? There is war—there has been warso long—one must eat, even under the noses of the Germans;the bon Dieu knows this. He alone can protect—so meanwhileone just goes on diligently hoeing. A blackbird was singing tohimself in a tree, the tree was horribly maimed and blasted; allthe same he had known it the previous spring and so now, in spiteof its wounds, he had found it. Came a sudden lull when they heardhim distinctly.
And Mary saw him: 'Look,' she said, 'there's a blackbird!' Justfor a moment she forgot about war.
Yet Stephen could now very seldom forget, and this was becauseof the girl at her side. A queer, tight feeling would come roundher heart, she would know the fear that can go hand in hand withpersonal courage, the fear for another.
But now she looked down for a moment and smiled: 'Bless thatblackbird for letting you see him, Mary.' She knew that Mary lovedlittle wild birds, that indeed she loved all the humblercreatures.
They turned into a lane and were comparatively safe, but theroar of the guns had grown much more insistent. They must benearing the Poste de Secours, so they spoke very little because ofthose guns, and after a while because of the wounded.
3
The Poste de Secours was a ruined auberge at the crossroads,about fifty yards behind the trenches. From what had once been itsspacious cellar, they were hurriedly carrying up the wounded,maimed and mangled creatures who, a few hours ago, had been youngand vigorous men. None too gently the stretchers were lowered tothe ground beside the two waiting ambulances—none too gentlybecause there were so many of them, and because there must come atime in all wars when custom stales even compassion.
The wounded were patient and fatalistic, like the very old womenback in the field. The only difference between them being that themen had themselves become as a field laid bare to a ruthless andbloody hoeing. Some of them had not even a blanket to protect themfrom the biting cold of the wind. A Poilu with a mighty wound inthe belly, must lie with the blood congealing on the bandage. Nextto him lay a man with his face half blown away, who, God alone knewwhy, remained conscious. The abdominal case was the first to behandled, Stephen herself helped to lift his stretcher. He wasprobably dying, but he did not complain inasmuch as he wanted hismother. The voice that emerged from his coarse, bearded throat wasthe voice of a child demanding its mother. The man with theterrible face tried to speak, but when he did so the sound was nothuman. His bandage had slipped a little to one side, so thatStephen must step between him and Mary, and hastily readjust thebandage.
'Get back to the ambulance! I shall want you to drive.' Insilence Mary obeyed her.
And now began the first of those endless journeys from the Postede Secours to the Field Hospital. For twenty-four hours they wouldply back and forth with their light Ford ambulances. Drivingquickly because the lives of the wounded might depend on theirspeed, yet with every nerve taut to avoid, as far as might be, thejarring of the hazardous roads full of ruts and shell-holes.
The man with the shattered face started again, they could hearhim above the throb of the motor. For a moment they stopped whileStephen listened, but his lips were not there...an intolerablesound.
'Faster, drive faster, Mary!'
Pale, but with firmly set, resolute mouth, Mary Llewellyn drovefaster.
When at last they reached the Field Hospital, the bearded Poiluwith the wound in his belly was lying very placidly on hisstretcher; his hairy chin pointing slightly upward. He had ceasedto speak as a little child—perhaps, after all, he had foundhis mother.
The day went on and the sun shone out brightly, dazzling thetired eyes of the drivers. Dusk fell, and the roads grewtreacherous and vague. Night came—they dared not risk havinglights, so that they must just stare and stare into the darkness.In the distance the sky turned ominously red, some stray shellsmight well have set fire to a village, that tall column of flamewas probably the church; and the Roches were punishingCompiègne again, to judge from the heavy sounds ofbombardment. Yet by now there was nothing real in the world butthat thick and almost impenetrable darkness, and the ache of theeyes that must stare and stare, and the dreadful, patient pain ofthe wounded—there had never been anything else in the worldbut black night shot through with the pain of the wounded.
4
On the following morning the two ambulances crept back to theirbase at the villa in Compiègne. It had been a tough job,long hours of strain, and to make matters worse the reliefs hadbeen late, one of them having had a breakdown. Moving stiffly, andwith red rimmed and watering eyes, the four women swallowed largecups of coffee; then just as they were they lay down on the floor,wrapped in their trench coats and army blankets. In less than aquarter of an hour they slept. Though the villa shook and rockedwith the bombardment.
1
There is something that mankind can never destroy in spite of anunreasoning will to destruction, and this is its own idealism, thatintegral part of its very being. The ageing and the cynical maymake wars, but the young and the idealistic must fight them, andthus there are bound to come quick reactions, blind impulses notalways comprehended. Men will curse as they kill, yet accomplishdeeds of self-sacrifice, giving their lives for others; poets willwrite with their pens dipped in blood, yet will write not of deathbut of life eternal; strong and courteous friendships will be born,to endure in the face of enmity and destruction. And so persistentis this urge to the ideal, above all in the presence of greatdisaster, that mankind, the wilful destroyer of beauty, mustimmediately strive to create new beauties, lest it perish from asense of its own desolation; and this urge touched the Celtic soulof Mary.
For the Celtic soul is the stronghold of dreams, of longingscome down the dim paths of the ages; and within it there dwells avague discontent, so that it must for ever go questing. And now asthough drawn by some hidden attraction, as though stirred by someirresistible impulse, quite beyond the realms of her ownunderstanding, Mary turned in all faith and all innocence toStephen. Who can pretend to interpret fate, either his own fate orthat of another? Why should this girl have crossed Stephen's path,or indeed Stephen hers, if it came to that matter? Was not theworld large enough for them both? Perhaps not—or perhaps theevent of their meeting had already been written upon tablets ofstone by some wise if relentless recording finger.
An orphan from the days of her earliest childhood, Mary hadlived with a married cousin in the wilds of Wales; an unwantedmember of a none too prosperous household. She had little educationbeyond that obtained from a small private school in a neighbouringvillage. She knew nothing of life or of men and women; and evenless did she know of herself, of her ardent, courageous, impulsivenature. Thanks to the fact that her cousin was a doctor, forced tomotor over a widely spread practice, she had learnt to drive andlook after his car by filling the post of an unpaidchauffeur—she was, in her small way, a good mechanic. But thewar had made her much less contented with her narrow life, andalthough at its outbreak Mary had been not quite eighteen, she hadfelt a great longing to be independent, in which she had met withno opposition. However, a Welsh village is no field for endeavour,and thus nothing had happened until by a fluke she had suddenlyheard of the Breakspeare Unit via the local parson, an old friendof its founder—he himself had written to recommend Mary. Andso, straight from the quiet seclusion of Wales, this girl hadmanaged the complicated journey that had finally got her over toFrance, then across a war-ravaged, dislocated country. Mary wasneither so frail nor so timid as Mrs. Breakspeare had thoughther.
Stephen had felt rather bored just at first at the prospect ofteaching the new member her duties, but after a while it came topass that she missed the girl when she was not with her. And aftera while she would find herself observing the way Mary's hair grew,low on the forehead, the wide setting of her slightly oblique greyeyes, the abrupt sweep back of their heavy lashes; and these thingswould move Stephen, so that she must touch the girl's hair for amoment with her fingers. Fate was throwing them continuallytogether, in moments of rest as in moments of danger; they couldnot have escaped this even had they wished to, and indeed they didnot wish to escape it. They were pawns in the ruthless andcomplicated game of existence, moved hither and thither on theboard by an unseen hand, yet moved side by side, so that they grewto expect each other.
'Mary, are you there?'
A superfluous question—the reply would be always the same.'I'm here, Stephen.'
Sometimes Mary would talk of her plans for the future whileStephen listened, smiling as she did so.
'I'll go into an office, I want to be free.'
'You're so little, you'd get mislaid in an office.'
'I'm five foot five!'
Are you really, Mary? You feel little somehow.'
That's because you're so tall. I do wish I could grow abit!'
'No, don't wish that, you're all right as you are—it'syou, Mary.'
Mary would want to be told about Morton, she was never tired ofhearing about Morton. She would make Stephen get out thephotographs of her father, of her mother whom Mary thought lovely,of Puddle, and above all of Raftery. Then Stephen must tell her ofthe life in London, and afterwards of the new house in Paris; musttalk of her own career and ambitions, though Mary had not readeither of her novels—there had never been a librarysubscription.
But at moments Stephen's face would grow clouded because of thethings that she could not tell her; because of the little untruthsand evasions that must fill up the gaps in her strangelife-history. Looking down into Mary's clear, grey eyes, she wouldsuddenly flush through her tan, and feel guilty; and that feelingwould reach the girl and disturb her, so that she must holdStephen's hand for a moment.
One day she said suddenly: 'Are you unhappy?'
'Why on earth should I be unhappy?' smiled Stephen.
All the same there were nights now when Stephen lay awake evenafter her arduous hours of service, hearing the guns that werecoming nearer, yet not thinking of them, but always of Mary. Agreat gentleness would gradually engulf her like a soft sea mist,veiling reef and headland. She would seem to be drifting quietly,serenely towards some blessed and peaceful harbour. Stretching outa hand she would stroke the girl's shoulder where she lay, butcarefully in case she should wake her. Then the mist would lift:'Good God! What am I doing?' She would sit up abruptly, disturbingthe sleeper.
'Is that you, Stephen?'
Yes, my dear, go to sleep.'
Then a cross, aggrieved voice: 'Do shut up, you two. It's rottenof you, I was just getting off! Why must you always persist intalking!'
Stephen would lie down again and would think: 'I'm a fool, I goout of my way to find trouble. Of course I've grown fond of thechild, she's so plucky, almost anyone would grow fond of Mary. Whyshould I have affection and friendship? Why should I have a realhuman interest? I can help her to find her feet after the war if weboth come through—I might buy her a business.' That gentlemist, hiding both reef and headland; it would gather again blurringall perception, robbing the past of its crude, ugly outlines.'After all, what harm can it do the child to be fond of me?' It wasso good a thing to have won the affection of this youngcreature.
2
The Germans got perilously near to Compiègne, and theBreakspeare Unit was ordered to retire. Its base was now at aruined château on the outskirts of an insignificant village,yet not so very insignificant either—it was stuffed to theneck with ammunition. Nearly all the hours that were spent off dutymust be passed in the gloomy, damp-smelling dug-outs whichconsisted of cellars, partly destroyed but protected by sandbags onheavy timbers. Like foxes creeping out of their holes, the membersof the Unit would creep into the daylight, their uniforms coveredwith mould and rubble, their eyes blinking, their hands cold andnumb from the dampness—so cold and so numb that the startingup of motors would often present a real problem.
At this time there occurred one or two small mishaps; Blessbroke her wrist while cranking her engine; Blakeney and threeothers at a Poste de Secours, were met by a truly terrificbombardment and took cover in what had once been a brick-field,crawling into the disused furnace. There they squatted forsomething over eight hours, while the German gunners played hit ashit can with the tall and conspicuous chimney. When at last theyemerged, half stifled by brick-dust, Blakeney had got somethinginto her eye, which she rubbed; the result was acuteinflammation.
Howard had begun to be irritating, with her passion for tendingher beautiful hair. She would sit in the corner of her dug-out ascalmly as though she were sitting at a Bond Street hairdresser's;and having completed the ritual brushing, she would gaze at herselfin a pocket mirror. With a bandage over her unfortunate eye,Blakeney looked more like a monkey than ever, a sick monkey, andher strictly curtailed conversation was not calculated to enliventhe Unit. She seemed almost entirely bereft of speech these days,as though reverting to species. Her one comment on life was: Oh, Idunno...' always said with a jaunty rising inflexion. It meanteverything or nothing as you chose to take it, and had long beenher panacea for the ills of what she considered a stupid Creation.'Oh, I dunno...' And indeed she did not; poor, old, sensitive,monosyllabic Blakeney. The Poilu who served out the Unit'srations—cold meat, sardines, bread and sour redPinard—was discovered by Stephen in the very act ofattempting to unload an aerial bomb. He explained with a smile thatthe Germans were sly in their methods of loading: 'I cannotdiscover just how it is done.' Then he showed his lefthand—it was minus one of the fingers: 'That,' he told her,still smiling, 'was caused by a shell, a quite little shell, whichI was also unloading.' And when she remonstrated none too gently,he sulked: 'But I wish to give this one to Maman!'
Everyone had begun to feel the nerve strain, except perhapsBlakeney, who had done with all feeling. Shorthanded by two, theremaining members of the Unit must now work like veritableniggers—on one occasion Stephen and Mary worked for seventyhours with scarcely a respite. Strained nerves are invariablyfollowed by strained tempers, and sudden, hot quarrels would breakout over nothing. Bless and Howard loathed each other for two days,then palled up again, because of a grievance that had recently beenevolved against Stephen. For everyone knew that Stephen andBlakeney were by far the best drivers in the Breakspeare Unit, andas such should be shared by all the members in turn; but poorBlakeney was nursing a very sore eye, while Stephen still continuedto drive only with Mary. They were splendidly courageous andgreat-hearted women, every one of them, glad enough as a rule tohelp one another to shoulder burdens, to be tolerant and kind whenit came to friendships. They petted and admired their youngestrecruit, and most of them liked and respected Stephen, all the samethey had now grown childishly jealous, and this jealousy reachedthe sharp ears of Mrs. Breakspeare.
Mrs. Breakspeare sent for Stephen one morning; she was sittingat a Louis Quinze writing-table which had somehow survived thewreck of the château and was now in her gloomy, officialdug-out. Her right band reposed on an ordnance, map, she lookedlike a very maternal general. The widow of an officer killed in thewar, and the mother of two large sons and three daughters, she hadled the narrow, conventional life that is common to women inmilitary stations. Yet all the while she must have been filling hersubconscious reservoir with knowledge, for she suddenly blossomedforth as leader with a fine understanding of human nature. So nowshe looked over her ample bosom not unkindly, but ratherthoughtfully at Stephen.
Sit down, Miss Gordon. It's about Llewellyn, whom I asked you totake on as second driver. I think the time has now arrived when sheought to stand more on her own in the Unit. She must take herchance like everyone else, and not cling quite so close—don'tmisunderstand me, I'm most grateful for all you've done for thegirl—but of course you are one of our finest drivers, andfine driving counts for a great deal these days, it may mean lifeor death, as you yourself know. And—well—it seemsscarcely fair to the others that Mary should always go out withyou. No, it certainly is not quite fair to the others.'
Stephen said: 'Do you mean that she's to go out with every onein turn—with Thurloe for instance?' And do what she would toappear indifferent, she could not quite keep her voice fromtrembling.
Mrs. Breakspeare nodded: 'That's what I do mean.' Then she saidrather slowly: 'These are strenuous times, and such times are aptto breed many emotions which are purely fictitious, purely mushroomgrowths that spring up in a night and have no roots at all, exceptin our imaginations. But I'm sure you'll agree with me, MissGordon, in thinking it our duty to discourage anything in thenature of an emotional friendship, such as I fancy Mary Llewellynis on the verge of feeling for you. It's quite natural of course, akind of reaction, but not wise—no, I cannot think it wise. Itsavours a little too much of the schoolroom and might lead toridicule in the Unit. Your position is far too important for that;I look upon you as my second in command.'
Stephen said quietly: 'I quite understand. I'll go at once andspeak to Blakeney about altering Mary Llewellyn's time-sheet.'
'Yes, do, if you will,' agreed Mrs. Breakspeare; then shestooped and studied her ordnance map, without looking again atStephen.
3
If Stephen had been fearful for Mary's safety before, she wasnow ten times more so. The front was in a condition of flux and thePostes de Secours were continually shifting. An Allied ambulancedriver had been fired on by the Germans, after having arrived atthe spot where his Poste had been only the previous evening. Therewas very dose fighting on every sector; it seemed truly amazingthat no grave casualties had so far occurred in the Unit. For nowthe Allies had begun to creep forward, yard by yard, mile by mile,very slowly but surely; refreshed by a splendid transfusion ofblood from the youthful veins of a great child-nation.
Of all the anxieties on Mary's account that now beset Stephen,Thurloe was the gravest; for Thurloe was one of those irritatingdrivers who stake all on their own inadequate judgment. She wasbrave to a fault, but inclined to show off when it came to a matterof actual danger. For long hours Stephen would not know what hadhappened, and must often leave the base before Mary had returned,still in doubt regarding her safety.
Grimly, yet with unfailing courage and devotion, Stephen nowwent about her duties. Every day the risks that they all took grewgraver, for the enemy, nearing the verge of defeat, was less thanever a respecter of persons. Stephen's only moments of comparativepeace would be when she herself drove Mary. And as though the girlmissed some vitalizing force, some strength that had been hithertohers to draw on, she flagged and Stephen would watch her flaggingduring their brief spell together off duty, and would know thatnothing but her Celtic pluck kept Mary Llewellyn from a breakdown.And now, because they were so often parted, even chance meetingsbecame of importance. They might meet while preparing their cars inthe morning, and if this should happen they would draw closetogether for a moment, as though finding comfort in nearness.
Letters from home would arrive for Stephen, and these she wouldwant to read to Mary. In addition to writing, Puddle sent food,even luxuries sometimes of a pre-war nature. To obtain them shemust have used bribery and corruption, for food of all kinds hadgrown scarce in England. Puddle, it seemed, had a mammoth war mapinto which she stuck pins with gay little pennants. Every time thelines moved by so much as a yard, out would come Puddle's pins togo in at fresh places; for since Stephen had left her to go to thefront, the war had become very personal to Puddle.
Anna also wrote, and from her Stephen learnt of the death ofRoger Antrim. He had been shot down while winning his V.C. Throughsaving the life of a wounded captain. All alone he had gone over tono-man's-land and had rescued his friend where he lay unconscious;receiving a bullet through the head at the moment of flinging thewounded man into safety. Roger—so lacking in understanding,so crude, so cruel and remorseless a bully—Roger had beenchanged in the twinkling of an eye into something superb becauseutterly selfless. Thus it was that the undying urge of mankindtowards the ideal had come upon Roger. And Stephen as she sat thereand read of his passing, suddenly knew that she wished him well,that his courage had wiped one great bitterness out of her heartand her life for ever. And so by dying as he had died, Roger, allunknowing, had fulfilled the law that must be extended to enemy andfriend alike—the immutable law of service.
4
Events gathered momentum. By the June of that year 700,000United States soldiers, strong and comely men plucked from theirnative prairies, from their fields of tall corn, from their farmsand their cities, were giving their lives in defence of freedom onthe blood-soaked battlefields of France. They had little to gainand much to lose; it was not their war, yet they helped to fight itbecause they were young and their nation was young, and the idealsof youth are eternally hopeful.
In July came the Allied counter-offensive, and now in her momentof approaching triumph France knew to the full her greatdesolation, as it lay revealed by the retreating armies. For notonly had there been a holocaust of homesteads, but the country wasstrewn with murdered trees, cut down in their hour of most perfectleafing; orchards struck to the ground, an orgy of destruction, asthe mighty forces rolled back like a tide, to recoil onthemselves—incredulous, amazed, maddened by the outrage ofcoming disaster. For mad they must surely have been, since no manis a more faithful lover of trees than the German.
Stephen as she drove through that devastated country would findherself thinking of Martin Hallam—Martin who had touched theold thorns on the hills with such respectful and pitiful fingers:'Have you ever thought about the enormous courage of trees? I haveand it seems to me amazing. The Lord dumps them down and they'vejust got to stick it, no matter what happens—that must needsome courage.' Martin had believed in a heaven for trees, a forestheaven for all the faithful; and looking at those pitiful, leafycorpses, Stephen would want to believe in that heaven. Until latelyshe had not thought of Martin for years, he belonged to a past thatwas better forgotten, but now she would sometimes wonder about him.Perhaps he was dead, smitten down where she stood, for many hadperished where they stood, like the orchards. It was strange tothink that he might have been here in France, have been fightingand have died quite near her. But perhaps he had not been killedafter all—she had never told Mary about Martin Hallam.
All roads of thought seemed to lead back to Mary; and thesedays, in addition to fears for her safety, came a growing distressat what she must see—far more terrible sights than thepatient wounded. For everywhere now lay the wreckage of war,sea-wrack spewed up by a poisonous ocean—putrefying,festering in the sun; breeding curruption to man's seed of folly.Twice lately, while they had been driving together, they had comeupon sights that Stephen would have spared her. There had been thatshattered German gun-carriage with its stiff, dead horses and itsthree dead gunners—horrible death, the men's faces had beenblack like the faces of negroes, black and swollen from gas, or wasit from putrefaction? There had been the deserted and woundedcharger with its fore-leg hanging as though by a rag. Near by hadbeen lying a dead young Uhlan, and Stephen had shot the beast withhis revolver, but Mary had suddenly started sobbing: Oh, God! Oh,God! It was dumb—it couldn't speak. It's so awful somehow tosee a thing suffer when it can't ask you why!' She had sobbed along time, and Stephen had not known how to console her.
And now the Unit was creeping forward in the wake of thesteadily advancing Allies. Billets would be changed as the basemoved on slowly from devastated village to village. There seldomseemed to be a house left with a roof, or with anything much beyondits four walls, and quite often they must lie staring up at thestars, which would stare back again, aloof and untroubled. At aboutthis time they grew very short of water, for most of the wells weresaid to have been poisoned; and this shortage of water was a veryreal torment, since it strictly curtailed the luxury of washing.Then what must Bless do but get herself hit while locating theposition of a Poste de Secours which had most inconsideratelyvanished. Like the Allied ambulance driver she was shot at, but inher case she happened to stop a bullet—it was only a fleshwound high up in the arm, yet enough to render her useless for amoment. She had had to be sent back to hospital, so once again theUnit was short-handed.
It turned hot, and in place of the dampness and the cold, camedays and nights that seemed almost breathless; days when thewounded must lie out in the sun, tormented by flies as they waitedtheir turn to be lifted into the ambulances. And as thoughmisfortunes attracted each other, as though indeed they werehunting in couples, Stephen's face was struck by a splinter ofshell, and her right cheek cut open rather badly. It was neatlystitched up by the little French doctor at the Poste de Secours,and when he had finished with his needle and dressings, he bowedvery gravely: 'Mademoiselle will carry an honourable scar as a markof her courage,' and he bowed yet again, so that in the end Stephenmust also bow gravely. Fortunately, however, she could still do herjob, which was all to the good for the short-handed Unit.
5
On an autumn afternoon of blue sky and sunshine, Stephen had theCroix de Guerre pinned on her breast by a white-haired andwhite-moustached general. First came the motherly Mrs. ClaudeBreakspeare, whose tunic looked much too tight for her bosom, thenStephen and one or two other members of that valiant and untiringUnit. The general kissed each one in turn on both cheeks, whileoverhead hovered a fleet of Aces; troops presented arms, veterantroops tried in battle, and having the set look of war in theireyes—for the French have a very nice taste in such matters.And presently Stephen's bronze Croix de Guerre would carry threeminiature stars on its ribbon and, each star would stand for amention in despatches.
That evening she and Mary walked over the fields to a littletown not very far from their billets. They paused for a moment towatch the sunset, and Mary stroked the new Croix de Guerre; thenshe looked straight up into Stephen's eyes, her mouth shook, andStephen saw that she was crying. After this they must walk hand inhand for a while. Why not? There was no one just then to seethem.
Mary said: 'All my life I've been waiting for something.'
'What was it, my dear?' Stephen asked her gently.
And Mary answered: 'I've been waiting for you, and it's seemedsuch a dreadful long time, Stephen.'
The barely healed wound across Stephen's cheek flushed darlky,for what could she find to answer?
'For me?' she stammered.
Mary nodded gravely: 'Yes, for you. I've always been waiting foryou; and after the war you'll send me away.' Then she suddenlycaught hold of Stephen's sleeve: 'Let me come with you—don'tsend me away, I want to be near you...I can't explain...but I onlywant to be near you, Stephen. Stephen—say you won't send meaway...
Stephen's hand closed over the Croix de Guerre, but the metal ofvalour felt cold to her fingers; dead and cold it felt at thatmoment, as the courage that had set it upon her breast. She staredstraight ahead of her into the sunset, trembling because of whatshe would answer.
Then she said very slowly: 'After the war—no, I won't sendyou away from me, Mary.'
1
The most stupendous and heartbreaking folly of our times drewtowards its abrupt conclusion. By November the Unit was stationedat St. Quentin in a little hotel, which although very humble,seemed like paradise after the dug-outs.
A morning came when a handful of the members were together inthe coffee-room, huddled round a fire that was principally composedof damp brushwood. At one moment the guns could be hearddistinctly, the next, something almost unnatural hadhappened—there was silence, as though death had turned onhimself, smiting his own power of destruction. No one spoke, theyjust sat and stared at each other with faces entirely devoid ofemotion; their faces looked blank, like so many masks from whichhad been sponged every trace of expression—and theywaited—listening to that silence.
The door opened and in walked an untidy Poilu; his manner wascasual, his voice apathetic: 'Eh bien, mesdames, c'estl'Armistice.' But his shining brown eyes were not at all apathetic.'Oui, c'est l'Armistice,' he repeated coolly; then he shrugged, asa man might do who would say: 'What is all this to me?' After whichhe grinned broadly in spite of himself, he was still very young,and turning on his heel he departed.
Stephen said: So it's over,' and she looked at Mary, who hadjumped up, and was looking in her turn at Stephen.
Mary said: This means...' but she stopped abruptly.
Bless said: 'Got a match, anyone? Oh, thanks!' And she gropedfor her white-metal cigarette case.
Howard said: 'Well, the first thing I'm going to do is to get myhair properly shampooed in Paris.'
Thurloe laughed shrilly, then she started to whistle, kickingthe recalcitrant fire as she did so.
But funny, old, monosyllabic Blakeney with her curly white haircropped as close as an Uhlan's—Blakeney who had long ago donewith emotions—quite suddenly laid her arms on the table andher head on her arms, and she wept, and she wept.
2
Stephen stayed with the Unit right up to the eve of itsdeparture for Germany, then she left it, taking Mary Llewellyn withher. Their work was over; remained only the honour of joining thearmy's triumphal progress, but Mary Llewellyn was completely wornout, and Stephen had no thought except for Mary.
They said farewell to Mrs. Claude Breakspeare, to Howard andBlakeney and the rest of their comrades. And Stephen knew, asindeed did they also, that a mighty event had slipped into thepast, had gone from them into the realms of history—somethingterrible yet splendid, a oneness with life in its titanic struggleagainst death. Not a woman of them all but felt vaguely regretfulin spite of the infinite blessing of peace, for none could knowwhat the future might hold of trivial days filled with trivialactions. Great wars will be followed by great discontents—thepruning knife has been laid to the tree, and the urge to growthrobs through its mutilated branches.
3
The house in the Rue Jacob was en fete in honour of Stephen'sarrival. Pierre had rigged up an imposing flagstaff', from whichwaved a brand new tricolour commandeered by Pauline from theneighbouring baker; flowers had been placed in the study vases,while Adèle had contrived to produce the word 'welcome' inimmortelles, as the piece de resistance, and had hung it above thedoorway.
Stephen shook hands with them all in turn, and she introducedMary, who also shook hands. Then Adèle must start to gabbleabout Jean, who was quite safe although not a captain; and Paulinemust interrupt her to tell of the neighbouring baker who had losthis four sons, and of one of her brothers who had lost his rightleg—her face very dour and her voice very cheerful, as wasalways the way when she told of misfortunes. And presently she mustalso deplore the long straight scar upon Stephen's cheek: 'Oh, lapauvre! Pour une dame c'est un vrai désastre!' But Pierremust point to the green and red ribbon in Stephen's lapel: 'C'estla Croix de Guerre!' so that in the end they all gathered round toadmire that half-inch of honour and glory.
Oh, yes, this home-coming was as friendly and happy as goodwilland warm Breton hearts could make it. Yet Stephen was oppressed bya sense of restraint when she took Mary up to the charming bedroomoverlooking the garden, and she spoke abruptly.
'This will be your room.'
'It's beautiful, Stephen.'
After that they were silent, perhaps because there was so muchthat might not be spoken between them:
The dinner was served by a beaming Pierre, an excellent dinner,more than worthy of Pauline; but neither of them managed to eatvery much—they were far too acutely conscious of each other.When the meal was over they went into the study where, in spite ofthe abnormal shortage of fuel, Adèle had managed to build ahuge fire which blazed recklessly half up the chimney. The roomsmelt slightly of hothouse flowers, of leather, of old wood andvanished years, and after a while of cigarette smoke.
Then Stephen forced herself to speak lightly: 'Come and sit overhere by the fire,' she said, smiling.
So Mary obeyed, sitting down beside her, and she laid a handupon Stephen's knee; but Stephen appeared not to notice that hand,for she just let it lie there and went on talking.
'I've been thinking, Mary, hatching all sorts of schemes. I'dlike to get you right away for a bit, the weather seems prettyawful in Paris. Puddle once told me about Teneriffe, she went thereages ago with a pupil. She stayed at a place called Orotava; it'slovely, I believe—do you think you'd enjoy it? I might manageto hear of a villa with a garden, and then you could just slackabout in the sunshine.'
Mary said, very conscious of the unnoticed hand: 'Do you reallywant to go away, Stephen? Wouldn't it interfere with your writing?'Her voice, Stephen thought, sounded strained and unhappy.
Of course I want to go,' Stephen reassured her, 'I'll work allthe better for a holiday. Anyhow, I must see you looking more fit,'and she suddenly laid her hand over Mary's.
The strange sympathy which sometimes exists between two humanbodies, so that a touch will stir many secret and perilousemotions, closed down on them both at that moment of contact, andthey sat unnaturally still by the fire, feeling that in theirstillness lay safety. But presently Stephen went on talking, andnow she talked of purely practical matters. Mary must go for afortnight to her cousins, she had better go almost at once, andremain there while Stephen herself went to Morton. Eventually theywould meet in London and from there motor straight away toSouthampton, for Stephen would have taken their passages, and ifpossible found a furnished villa, before she went down to Morton.She talked on and on, and as she did so her fingers tightened andrelaxed abruptly on the hand that she had continued to hold, sothat Mary imprisoned those nervous fingers in her own, and Stephenmade no resistance.
Then Mary, like many another before her, grew as happy as shehad been downhearted; for the merest trifles are often enough tochange the trend of mercurial emotions such as beset the heart inits youth; and she looked at Stephen with gratitude in her eyes,and with something far more fundamental of which she herself wasunconscious. And now she began to talk in her turn. She could typefairly well, was a very good speller; she would type Stephen'sbooks, take care of her papers, answer her letters, look after thehouse, even beard the lugubrious Pauline in her kitchen. Nextautumn she would write to Holland for bulbs—they must havelots of bulbs in their city garden, and in summer they ought tomanage some roses—Paris was less cruel to flowers thanLondon. Oh, and might she have pigeons with wide, white tails? Theywould go so well with the old marble fountain.
Stephen listened, nodding from time to time. Yes, of course shecould have her white fan-tail pigeons, and her bulbs and her roses,could have anything she pleased, if only she would get quite welland be happy.
At this Mary laughed: 'Oh, Stephen, my dear—don't you knowthat I'm really terribly happy?'
Pierre came in with the evening letters; there was one from Annaand another from Puddle. There was also a lengthy epistle fromBrockett who was praying, it seemed, for demobilization. Oncereleased, he must go for a few weeks to England, but after that hewas coming to Paris.
He wrote: 'I'm longing to see you again and ValérieSeymour. By the way, how goes it? Valérie writes that younever rang her up. It's a pity you're so unsociable, Stephen;unwholesome, I call it, you'll be bagging a shell like a hermitcrab, or growing hairs on your chin, or a wart on your nose, orworse still a complex. You might even take to a few nasty habitstowards middle life—better read Ferenczi! Why were you sobeastly to Valérie, I wonder. She is such a darling and shelikes you so much, only the other day she wrote: "When you seeStephen Gordon give her my love, and tell her that nearly allstreets in Paris lead sooner or later to Valérie Seymour."You might write her a line, and you might write to me—alreadyI'm finding your silence suspicious. Are you in love? I'm justcrazy to know, so why deny me that innocent pleasure? After all,we're told to rejoice with those who rejoice—may I send mycongratulations? Vague but exciting rumours have reached me. And bythe way, Valérie's very forgiving, so don't feel shy abouttelephoning to her. She's one of those highly developed souls whobob up serenely after a snubbing, as do I, your devotedBrockett.'
Stephen glanced at Mary as she folded the letter: 'Isn't it timeyou went off to bed?'
'Don't send me away.'
'I must, you're so tired. Come on, there's a good child, youlook tired and sleepy.'
'I'm not a bit sleepy!'
'All the same it's high time.'
'Are you coming?'
'Not yet, I must answer some letters.'
Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then Stephenlooked away quickly: 'Good night, Mary.'
'Stephen...won't you kiss me good night? It's our first nighttogether here in your home. Stephen, do you know that you've neverkissed me?'
The clock chimed ten, a rose on the desk fell apart, itsoverblown petals disturbed by that almost imperceptible vibration.Stephen's heart brat thickly.
'Do you want me to kiss you?'
'More than anything else in the world,' said Mary.
Then Stephen suddenly came to her senses, and she managed tosmile: 'Very well, my dear,' She kissed the girl quietly on hercheek. 'And now you really must go to bed, Mary.'
After Mary had gone she tried to write letters; a few lines toAnna, announcing her visit; a few lines to Puddle and toMademoiselle Duphot—the latter she felt that she hadshamefully neglected. But in none of these letters did she mentionMary. Brockett's effusion she left unanswered. Then she took herunfinished novel from its drawer, but it seemed very dreary andunimportant, so she laid it aside again with a sigh, and lockingthe drawer put the key in her pocket.
And now she could no longer keep it at bay, the great joy, thegreat pain in her heart that was Mary. She had only to call andMary would come, bringing all her faith, her youth and her ardour.Yes, she had only to call, and yet—would she ever be cruelenough to call Mary? Her mind recoiled at that word; why cruel? Sheand Mary loved and needed each other. She could give the girlluxury, make her secure so that she need never fight for herliving; she should have every comfort that money could buy. Marywas not strong enough to fight for her living. And then she,Stephen, was no longer a child to be frightened and humbled by thissituation. There was many another exactly like her in this verycity, in every city; and they did not all live out crucified lives,denying their bodies, stultifying their brains, becoming thevictims of their own frustrations. On the contrary, they livednatural lives—lives that to them were perfectly natural. Theyhad their passions like everyone else, and why not? They weresurely entitled to their passions? They attracted too, that was theirony of it, she herself had attracted Mary Llewellyn—thegirl was quite simply and openly in love. 'All my life I've beenwaiting for something...' Mary had said that, she had said: 'Allmy' life I've been waiting for something...I've been waiting foryou.'
Men—they were selfish, arrogant, possessive. What couldthey do for Mary Llewellyn? What could a man give that she couldnot? A child? But she would give Mary such a love as would becomplete in itself without children. Mary would have no room in herheart, in her life, for a child, if she came to Stephen. All thingsthey would be the one to the other, should they stand in thatlimitless relationship; father, mother, friend, and lover, allthings—the amazing completeness of it; and Mary, the child,the friend, the beloved. With the terrible bonds of her dualnature, she could bind Mary fast, and the pain would be sweetness,so that the girl would cry out for that sweetness, hugging herchains always closer to her. The world would condemn but they wouldrejoice; glorious outcasts, unashamed, triumphant!
She began to pace restlessly up and down the room, as had everbeen her wont in moments of emotion. Her face grew ominous, heavyand brooding; the fine line of her mouth was a little marred; hereyes were less clear, less the servants of her spirit than theslaves of her anxious and passionate body; the red scar on hercheek stood out like a wound. Then quite suddenly she had openedthe door, and was staring at the dimly lighted staircase. She tooka step forward and then stopped; appalled, dumb-founded at herself,at this thing she was doing. And as she stood there as thoughturned to stone, she remembered another and spacious study, sheremembered a lanky colt of a girl whose glance had kept strayingtowards the windows; she remembered a man who had held out hishand: Stephen, come here...What is honour, my daughter?'
Honour, good God! Was this her honour? Mary, whose nerves hadbeen strained to breaking! A dastardly thing it would be to dragher through the maze of passion, with no word of warning. Was sheto know nothing of what lay before her, of the price she would haveto pay for such love? She was young and completely ignorant oflife; she knew only that she loved, and the young were ardent. Shewould give all that Stephen might ask of her and more, for theyoung were not only ardent but generous. And through giving all shewould be left defenceless, neither forewarned nor forearmed againsta world that would turn like a merciless beast and rend her. It washorrible. No, Mary must not give until she had counted the cost ofthat gift, until she was restored in body and mind, and was able toform a considered judgment.
Then Stephen must tell her the cruel truth, she must say: 'I amone of those whom God marked on the forehead. Like Cain, I ammarked and blemished. If you come to me, Mary, the world will abhoryou, will persecute you, will call you unclean. Our love may befaithful even unto death and beyond—yet the world will callit unclean. We may harm no living creature by our love; we may growmore perfect in understanding and in charity because of our loving;but all this will not save you from the scourge of a world thatwill turn away its eyes from your noblest actions, finding onlycorruption and vileness in you. You will see men and women defilingeach other, laying the burden of their sins upon their children.You will see unfaithfulness, lies and deceit among those whom theworld views with approbation. You will find that many have grownhard of heart, have grown greedy, selfish, cruel and lustful; andthen you will turn to me and will say: "You and I are more worthyof respect than these people. Why does the world persecute us,Stephen?" And I shall answer: "Because in this world there is onlytoleration for the so-called normal." And when you come to me forprotection, I shall say: "I cannot protect you, Mary, the world hasdeprived me of my right to protect; I am utterly helpless, I canonly love you."'
And now Stephen was trembling. In spite of her strength and hersplendid physique, she must stand there and tremble. She feltdeathly cold, her teeth chattered with cold, and when she moved hersteps were unsteady. She must climb the wide stairs with infinitecare, in case she should inadvertently stumble; must lift her feetslowly, and with infinite care, because if she stumbled she mightwake Mary.
4
Ten days later Stephen was saying to her mother: 'I've beenneeding a change for a very long time. It's rather lucky that girlI met in the Unit is free and able to go with me. We've taken avilla at Orotava, it's supposed to be furnished and they're leavingthe servants, but heaven only knows what the house will be like, itbelongs to a Spaniard; however, there'll be sunshine.'
'I believe Orotava's delightful,' said Anna.
But Puddle, who was looking at Stephen, said nothing.
That night Stephen knocked at Puddle's door: 'May I comein?'
'Yes, come in do, my dear. Come and sit by the fire—shallI make you some cocoa?'
'No, thanks.'
A long pause while Puddle slipped into her dressing-gown ofsoft, grey Viyella. Then she also drew a chair up to the fire, andafter a little: 'It's good to see you—your old teacher's beenmissing you rather—'
'Not more than I've been missing her, Puddle.' Was that quitetrue? Stephen suddenly flushed, and both of them grew verysilent.
Puddle knew quite well that Stephen was unhappy. They had notlived side by side all these years, for Puddle to fail now inintuition; she felt certain that something grave had happened, andher instinct warned her of what this might be, so that she secretlytrembled a little. For no young and inexperienced girl sat besideher, but a woman of nearly thirty-two, who was far beyond the reachof her guidance. This woman would settle her problems for herselfand in her own way—had indeed always done so. Puddle must tryto be tactful in her questions.
She said gently: 'Tell me about your new friend. You met her inthe Unit?'
'Yes—we met in the Unit,' as I told you thisevening—her name's Mary Llewellyn.'
'How old is she, Stephen?'
'Not quite twenty-two.'
Puddle said: 'Very young—not yet twenty-two...' then sheglanced at Stephen, and fell silent.
But now Stephen went on talking more quickly: 'I'm glad youasked me about her, Puddle, because I intend to give her a home.She's got no one except some distant cousins, and as far as I cansee they don't want her. I shall let her have a try at typing mywork, as she's asked to, it will make her feel independent;otherwise, of course, she'll be perfectly free—if it's not asuccess she can always leave me—but rather hope it will be asuccess. She's companionable, we like the same things, anyhowshe'll give me an interest in life...
Puddle thought: 'She's not going to tell me.'
Stephen took out her cigarette case from which she produced aclear little snapshot: 'It's not very good, it was done at thefront.' But Puddle was gazing at Mary Llewellyn. Then she looked upabruptly and saw Stephen's eyes—without a word she handedback the snapshot.
Stephen said: 'Now I want to talk about you. Will you go toParis at once, or stay here until we come home from Orotava? It'sjust as you like, the house is quite ready, you've only got to sendPauline a postcard; they're expecting you at any moment.' And shewaited for Puddle's answer.
Then Puddle, that small but indomitable fighter, stood forth allalone to do battle with herself, to strike down a sudden hotjealousy, a sudden and almost fierce resentment. And she saw thatself as a tired old woman, a woman grown dull and tired with longservice; a woman who had outlived her reason for living, whosecompanionship was now useless to Stephen. A woman who suffered fromrheumatism in the winter and from lassitude in the summer; a womanwho when young had never known youth, except as a scourge to asensitive conscience. And now she was old and what had life lefther? Not even the privilege of guarding her friend—for Puddleknew well that her presence in Paris would only embarrass whileunable to hinder. Nothing could stay fate if the hour had struck;and yet, from the very bottom of her soul, she was fearing thathour for Stephen. And—who shall presume to accuse orcondemn?—she actually found it in her to pray that Stephenmight be granted some measure of fulfilment, some palliative forthe wound of existence: 'Not like me—don't let her grow oldas I've done.' Then she suddenly remembered that Stephen waswaiting.
She said quietly: 'Listen, my dear, I've been thinking; I don'tfeel that I ought to leave your mother, her heart's not verystrong—nothing serious, of course—still, she oughtn'tto live all alone at Morton; and quite apart from the question ofhealth, living alone's a melancholy business. There's another thingtoo. I've grown tired and lazy, and I don't want to pull up myroots if I can help it. When one's getting on in years, one getsset in one's ways, and my ways fit in very well with Morton. Ididn't want to come here, Stephen, as I told you, but I was allwrong, for your mother needs me—she needs me more now thanduring the war, because during the war she had occupation. Oh, butgood heavens! I'm a silly old woman—did you know that I usedto get homesick for England? I used to get homesick for penny buns.Imagine it, and I was living in Paris! Only—' And now hervoice broke a little: 'Only, if ever you should feel that you needme, if ever you should feel that you want my advice or my help,you'd send for me, wouldn't you, my dear? Because old as I am, I'dbe able to run if I thought that you really needed me,Stephen.'
Stephen held out her hand and Puddle grasped it. 'There are somethings I can't express,' Stephen said slowly; 'I can't express mygratitude to you for all you've done—I can't find any words.But—I want you to know that I'm trying to play straight.'
'You'd always play straight in the end,' said Puddle.
And so, after nearly eighteen years of life together, these twostaunch friends and companions had now virtually parted.
1
The Villa del Ciprés at Orotava was built on a headlandabove the Puerto. It had taken its name from its fine cypresstrees, of which there were many in the spacious garden. At thePuerto there were laughter, shouting and singing as the oxen wagonswith their crates of bananas came grating and stumbling down to thewharf. At the Puerto one might almost have said there was commerce,for beyond the pier waited the dirty fruit steamers; but the Villadel Ciprés stood proudly aloof like a Spanish grandee whohad seen better days—one felt that it literally hatedcommerce.
The villa was older than the streets of the Puerto, though muchgrass grew between their venerable cobbles. It was older than theoldest villas on the hill, the hill that was known as old Orotava,though their green latticed shutters were bleached by the sun ofinnumerable semitropical summers. It was so old indeed, that nopeasant could have told you precisely when it had come into being;the records were lost, if they had ever existed—for itshistory one had to apply to its owner. But then its owner wasalways in Spain, and his agent who kept the place in repair, wastoo lazy to bother himself over trifles. What could it matter whenthe first stone was laid, or who laid it? The villa was always welllet—he would yawn, roll a cigarette in his fingers, lick thepaper with the thick, red tip of his tongue, and finally go tosleep in the sunshine to dream only of satisfactorycommissions.
The Villa del Ciprés was a low stone house that had oncebeen, tinted a lemon yellow. Its shutters were greener than thoseon the hill, for every ten years or so they were painted. All itsprincipal windows looked over the sea that lay at the foot of thelittle headland. There were large, dim rooms with rough mosaicfloors and walls that were covered by ancient frescoes. Some ofthese frescoes were primitive but holy, others were primitive butdistinctly less holy; however, they were all so badly defaced, thatthe tenants were spared what might otherwise have been rather ashock at the contrast. The furniture, although very good of itskind, was sombre, and moreover it was terribly scanty, for itsowner was far too busy in Seville to attend to his villa atOrotava. But one glory the old house did certainly possess; itsgarden, a veritable Eden of a garden; obsessed by a kind ofprimitive urge towards all manner of procreation. It was hot withsunshine and the flowing of sap, so that even its shade held awarmth in its greenness, while the virile growth of its flowers andits trees gave off a strangely disturbing fragrance. These treeshad long been a haven for birds, from the crested hoopoes to thewild canaries who kept up a chorus of song in the branches.
2
Stephen and Mary arrived at the Villa del Ciprés, notvery long after Christmas. They had spent their Christmas Dayaboard ship, and on landing had stayed for a week at Santa Cruzbefore taking the long, rough drive to Orotava. And as though thefates were being propitious, or unpropitious perhaps—whoshall say?—the garden was looking its loveliest, almostmelodramatic it looked in the sunset. Mary gazed round herwide-eyed with pleasure; but after a while her eyes must turn, asthey always did now, to rest upon Stephen; while Stephen'suncertain and melancholy eyes must look back with great love intheir depths for Mary.
Together they made the tour of the villa, and when this was overStephen laughed a little: 'Not much of anything is there, Mary?''No, but quite enough. Who wants tables and chairs?'
'Well, if you're contented. I am,' Stephen told her. And indeed,so far as the Villa del Ciprés went, they were both verywell contented.
They discovered that the indoor staff would consist of twopeasants; a plump, smiling woman called Concha, who adhered to theancient tradition of the island and tied her head up in a whitelinen kerchief, and a girl whose black hair was elaboratelydressed, and whose cheeks were very obviouslypowdered—Concha's niece she was, by name Esmeralda. Esmeraldalooked cross, but this may have been because she squinted sobadly.
In the garden worked a handsome person called Ramon, togetherwith Pedro, a youth of sixteen. Pedro was light-hearted, precociousand spotty. He hated his simple work in the garden; what he likedwas driving his father's mules for the tourists, according toRamon. Ramon spoke English passably well; he had picked it up fromthe numerous tenants and was proud of this fact, so while bringingin the luggage he paused now and then to impart information. It wasbetter to hire mules and donkeys from the father of Pedro—hehad very fine mules and donkeys. It was better to take Pedro andnone other as your guide, for thus would be saved any littleill-feeling. It was better to let Concha do all theshopping—she was honest and wise as the Blessed Virgin. Itwas better never to scold Esmeralda, who was sensitive on accountof her squint and therefore inclined to be easily wounded. If youwounded the heart of Esmeralda, she walked out of the house andConcha walked with her. The island women were often like this; youupset them and per Dios, your dinner would burn! They would noteven wait to attend to your dinner.
'You come home,' smiled Ramon, 'and you say, "What burns? Is myvilla on fire?" Then you call and you call. No answer...all gone!'And he spread out his hands with a wide and distressingly emptygesture.
Ramon said it was better to buy flowers from him: 'I cut freshfrom the garden when you want,' he coaxed gently. He spoke even hisbroken English with the soft, rather sing-song drawl of the localpeasants.
'But aren't they our flowers?' inquired Mary, surprised.
Ramon shook his head: 'Yours to see, yours to touch, but notyours to take, only mine to take—I sell them as part of mylittle payment. But to you I sell very cheap, Señorita,because you resemble the santa noche that makes our gardens smellsweet at night. I will show you our beautiful santa noche.' He wasthin as a lath and as brown as a chestnut, and his shirt was quiteincredibly dirty; but when he walked he moved like a king on hisrough bare feet with their broken toenails. 'This evening I makeyou a present of my flowers; I bring you a very big bunch oftabachero,' he remarked.
Oh, you mustn't do that,' protested Mary, getting out her purse.But Ramon looked offended: 'I have said it. I give you thetabachero.'
3
Their dinner consisted of a local fish fried in oil—thefish had a very strange figure, and the oil, Stephen thought,tasted slightly rancid; there was also a small though muscularchicken. But Concha had provided large baskets of fruit; loquatsstill warm from the tree that bred them, the full flavoured littleindigenous bananas, oranges sweet as though dripping honey, custardapples and guavas had Concha provided, together with a bottle ofthe soft yellow wine so dearly beloved of the island Spaniards.
Outside in the garden there was luminous darkness. The night hada quality of glory about it, the blue glory peculiar to Africa andseen seldom or never in our more placid climate. A warm breezestirred the eucalyptus trees and their crude, harsh smell waspersistently mingled with the thick scents of heliotrope anddatura, with the sweet but melancholy scent of jasmine, with thefaint, unmistakable odour of cypress. Stephen lit a cigarette:Shall we go out, Mary?'
They stood for a minute looking up at the stars, so much largerand brighter than stars seen in England. From a pond on the fartherside of the villa, came the queer, hoarse chirping of innumerablefrogs singing their prehistoric love songs. A star fell, shootingswiftly earthward through the darkness.
Then the sweetness that was Mary seemed to stir and mingle withthe very urgent sweetness of that garden; with the dim, blue gloryof the African night, and with all the stars in their endlesscourses, so that Stephen could have wept aloud as she stood there,because of the words that must not be spoken. For now that thisgirl was returning to health, her youth was becoming even moreapparent, and something in the quality of Mary's youth, somethingterrible and ruthless as an unsheathed sword, would leap out atsuch moments and stand between them.
Mary slipped a small, cool hand into Stephen's, and they walkedon towards the edge of the headland. For a long time they gazed outover the sea, while their thoughts were always of one another. ButMary's thoughts were not very coherent, and because she was filledwith a vague discontent, she sighed and moved even nearer toStephen, who suddenly put an arm round her shoulder.
Stephen said: 'Are you tired, you little child?' And her huskyvoice was infinitely gentle, so that Mary's eyes filled with suddentears.
She answered: 'I've waited a long, long time, all mylife—and now that I've found you at last, I can't get nearyou. Why is it? Tell me.'
'Aren't you near? It seems to me you're quite near!' And Stephenmust smile in spite of herself.
'Yes, but you feel such a long way away.'
'That's because you're not only tired out but foolish!'
Yet they lingered; for when they returned to the villa theywould part, and they dreaded these moments of parting. Sometimesthey would suddenly remember the night before it had fallen, andwhen this happened each would be conscious of a very great sadnesswhich their hearts would divine, the one from the other.
But presently Stephen took Mary's arm: 'I believe that bigstar's moved over more than six inches I It's late—we musthave been out here for ages.' And she led the girl slowly back tothe villa.
4
The days slipped by, days of splendid sunshine that gave bodilyhealth and strength to Mary. Her pale skin was tanned to ahealthful brown, and her eyes no longer looked heavy withfatigue—only now their expression was seldom happy.
She and Stephen would ride far afield on their mules; they wouldoften ride right up into the mountains, climbing the hill to oldOrotava where the women sat at their green postigos through thelong, quiet hours of their indolent day and right on into theevening. The walls of the town would be covered with flowers,jasmine, plumbago and bougainvillea. But they would not linger inold Orotava; pressing on they would climb always up and up to theregion of heath and trailing arbutus, and beyond that again to thehigher slopes that had once been the home of a mighty forest. Now,only a few Spanish chestnut trees remained to mark the decline ofthat forest.
Sometimes they took their luncheon along, and when they did thisyoung Pedro went with them, for he it was who must drive the mulethat carried Concha's ample lunch-basket. Pedro adored theseimpromptu excursions, they made an excuse for neglecting thegarden. He would saunter along chewing blades of grass, or the stemof some flower he had torn from a wall; or perhaps he would singsoftly under his breath, for he knew many songs of his nativeisland. But if the mule Celestino should stumble, or presume, inhis turn, to tear flowers from the wall, then Pedro would suddenlycease his soft singing and shout guttural remarks to old Celestino:Vaya, burro! Celestino, arre! Arre—boo!' he would shout witha slap, so that Celestino must swallow his flowers in one angrygulp, before having a sly kick at Pedro.
The lunch would be eaten in the cool upland air, while thebeasts stood near at hand, placidly grazing. Against a sky ofincredible blueness the Peak would gleam as though powdered withcrystal—Teide, mighty mountain of snow with the heart of fireand the brow of crystal. Down the winding tracks would come goatswith their herds, the tinkle of goat-bells breaking the stillness.And as all such things have seemed wonderful to lovers throughoutthe ages, even so now they seemed very wonderful to Mary andStephen.
There were days when, leaving the uplands for the vale, theywould ride past the big banana plantations and the glowing acres ofripe tomatoes. Geraniums and agaves would be growing side by sidein the black volcanic dust of the roadway. From the stretchingValley of Orotava they would see the rugged line of the mountains.The mountains would look blue, like the African nights, all saveTeide, clothed in her crystalline whiteness.
And now while they sat together in the garden at evening, therewould sometimes come beggars, singing; ragged fellows who playeddeftly on their guitars and sang songs whose old melodies hailedfrom Spain, but whose words sprang straight from the heart of theisland:
A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace,
But now I am tormented because I have seen thee.
Take away mine eyes, oh, enemy! Oh, beloved!
Take away mine eyes, for they have turned me to fire.
My blood is as the fire in the heart of Teide.
A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace.'
The strange minor music with its restless rhythms, possessed avery potent enchantment, so that the heart beat faster to hear it,and the mind grew mazed with forbidden thoughts, and the soul grewheavy with the infinite sadness of fulfilled desire; but the bodyknew only the urge towards a complete fulfilment...A-a-a-y! BeforeI saw thee I was at peace.'
They would not understand the soft Spanish words, and yet asthey sat there they could but divine their meaning, for love is noslave of mere language. Mary would want Stephen to take her in herarms, so must rest her cheek against Stephen's shoulder, as thoughthey two had a right to such music, had a right to their share inthe love songs of the world. But Stephen would always move awayquickly.
'Let's go in,' she would mutter; and her voice would soundrough, for that bright sword of youth would have leapt out betweenthem.
5
There came days when they purposely avoided each other, tryingto find peace in separation. Stephen would go for long rides alone,leaving Mary to idle about the villa; and when she got back Marywould not speak, but would wander away by herself to the garden.For Stephen had grown almost harsh at times, possessed as she nowwas by something like terror, since it seemed to her that what shemust say to this creature she loved would come as a death-blow,that all youth and all joy would be slain in Mary.
Tormented in body and mind and spirit, she would push the girlaway from her roughly: 'Leave me alone, I can't bear any more!''Stephen—I don't understand. Do you hate me?'
'Hate your Of course you don't understand—only, I tell youI simply can't bear it.'
They would stare at each other pale-faced and shaken.
The long nights became even harder to endure, for now they wouldfeel so terribly divided. Their days would be heavy withmisunderstandings, their nights filled with doubts, apprehensionsand longings. They would often have parted as enemies, and thereinwould lie the great loneliness of it.
As time went on they grew deeply despondent, their despondencyrobbing the sun of its brightness, robbing the little goat-bells oftheir music, robbing the dark of its luminous glory. The songs ofthe beggars who sang in the garden at the hour when the santa nochesmelt sweetest, those songs would seem full of a cruel jibing:A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace, but now I am tormentedbecause I have seen thee.'
Thus were all things becoming less good in their sight, lessperfect because of their own frustration.
6
But Mary Llewellyn was no coward and no weakling, and one night,at long last, pride came to her rescue. She said: 'I want to speakto you, Stephen.'
'Not now, it's so late—tomorrow morning.'
'No, now.' And she followed Stephen into her bedroom.
For a moment they avoided each other's eyes, then Mary began totalk rather fast: 'I can't stay. It's all been a heart-breakingmistake. I thought you wanted me because you cared. Ithought—oh, I don't know what I thought—but I won'taccept your charity, Stephen, not now that you've grown to hate melike this—I'm going back home to England. I forced myself onyou. I asked you to take me. I must have been mad; you just took meout of pity; you thought that I was ill and you felt sorry for me.Well, now I'm not ill and not mad any more, and I'm going. Everytime I come near you you shrink or push me away as though Irepelled you. But I want us to part quickly because...' Her voicebroke: 'because it torments me to be always with you and to feelthat you've literally grown to hate me. I can't stand it; I'drather not see you, Stephen.'
Stephen stared at her, white and aghast. Then all in a momentthe restraint of years was shattered as though by some mightyconvulsion. She remembered nothing, was conscious of nothing exceptthat the creature she loved was going.
'You child,' she gasped, 'you don't understand, you can'tunderstand—God help me, I love you!' And now she had the girlin her arms and was kissing her eyes and her mouth:'Mary...Mary...They stood there lost to all sense of time, to allsense of reason, to all things save each other, in the grip of whatcan be one of the most relentless of all the human emotions.
Then Stephen's arms suddenly fell to her side: 'Stop, stop forGod's sake—you've got to listen.'
Oh, but now she must pay to the uttermost farthing for themadness that had left those words unspoken—even as her fatherhad paid before her. With Mary's kisses still hot on her lips, shemust pay and pay unto the uttermost farthing. And because of ananguish that seemed past endurance, she spoke roughly; the wordswhen they came were cruel. She spared neither the girl who mustlisten to them, nor herself who must force her to stand there andlisten.
'Have you understood? Do you realize now what it's going to meanif you give yourself to me?' Then she stopped abruptly...Mary wascrying.
Stephen said, and her voice had grown quite toneless: 'It's toomuch to ask—you're right; it's too much. I had to tellyou—forgive me, Mary.'
But Mary turned on her with very bright eyes: 'You can saythat—you, who talk about loving! What do I care for allyou've told me? What do I care for the world's opinion? What do Icare for anything but you, and you just as you are—as youare, I love you! Do you think I'm crying because of what you'vetold me? I'm crying because of your dear, scarred face...the miseryon it...Can't you understand that all that I am belongs to you,Stephen?' Stephen bent down and kissed Mary's hands very humbly,for now she could find no words any more...and that night they werenot divided.
1
A strange, though to them a very natural thing it seemed, thisnew and ardent fulfilment; having something fine and urgent aboutit that lay almost beyond the range of their wills. Somethingprimitive and age-old as Nature herself, did their love appear toMary and Stephen. For now they were in the grip of Creation, ofCreation's terrific urge to create; the urge that will sometimessweep forward blindly alike into fruitful and sterile channels.That wellnigh intolerable life force would grip them, making them apart of its own existence; so that they who might never create anew life, were yet one at such moments with the fountain ofliving...Oh, great and incomprehensible unreason!
But beyond the bounds of this turbulent river would lie gentleand most placid harbours of refuge; harbours in which the bodycould repose with contentment, while the lips spoke low, indolentwords, and the eyes beheld a dim, golden haze that blinded thewhile it revealed all beauty. Then Stephen would stretch out herhand and touch Mary where she lay, happy only to feel her nearness.The hours would slip by towards dawn or sunset; flowers would openand dose in the bountiful garden; and perhaps, if it should chanceto be evening, beggars would come to that garden, singing; raggedfellows who played deftly on their guitars and sang songs whose oldmelodies hailed from Spain, but whose words sprang straight fromthe heart of the island:
'Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small andguileless;
Thy lips are as cool as the sea at moonrise.
But after the moon there cometh the sun;
After the evening there cometh the morning.
The sea is warmed by the kiss of the sun,
Even so shall my kisses bring warmth to thy lips,
Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small and guileless.'
And now Mary need no longer sigh with unrest, need no longer layher cheek against Stephen's shoulder; for her rightful place was inStephen's arms and there she would be, overwhelmed by the peacethat conies at such times to all happy lovers. They would sittogether in a little arbour that looked out over miles upon milesof ocean. The water would flush with the after-glow, then change toa soft, indefinite purple; then, fired anew by the African night,would gleam with that curious, deep blue glory for a space beforethe swift rising of the moon. Thy lips are as cool as the sea atmoonrise; but after the moon there cometh the sun.'
And Stephen as she held the girl in her arms, would feel thatindeed she was all things to Mary; father, mother, friend andlover, all things; and Mary all things to her—the child, thefriend, the beloved, all things. But Mary, because she was perfectwoman, would rest without thought, without exultation, withoutquestion; finding no need to question since for her there was nowonly one thing—Stephen.
2
Time, that most ruthless enemy of lovers, strode callouslyforward into the spring. It was March, so that down at the noisyPuerto the bougainvilleas were in their full glory, while up in theold town of Orotava bloomed great laden bushes of white camellias.In the garden of the villa the orange trees flowered, and thelittle arbour that looked over the sea was covered by an ancientwistaria vine whose mighty trunk was as thick as three saplings.But in spite of a haunting shadow of regret at the thought ofleaving Orotava, Stephen was deeply and thankfully happy. Ahappiness such as she had never conceived could be hers nowpossessed her body and soul—and Mary also was happy.
Stephen would ask her: 'Do I content you? Tell me, is thereanything you want in the world?'
Mary's answer was always the same; she would say very gravely:'Only you, Stephen.'
Ramon had begun to speculate about them, these two Englishwomenwho were so devoted. He would shrug his shoulders—Dios! Whatdid it matter? They were courteous to him and exceedingly generous.If the elder one had an ugly red scar down her cheek, the youngerone seemed not to mind it. The younger one was beautiful though, asbeautiful as the santa noche...some day she would get a real man tolove her.
As for Concha and the cross-eyed Esmeralda, their tongues weremuted by their ill-gotten gains. They grew rich, thanks toStephen's complete indifference to the price of such trifles assugar and candles.
Esmeralda's afflicted eyes were quite sharp, yet she said toConcha: 'I see less than nothing.'
And Concha answered: 'I also see nothing; it is better tosuppose that there is nothing to see. They are wealthy and the bigone is very careless—she trusts me completely and I do myutmost. She is so taken up with the amighita that I really believeI could easily rob her! Quien saber They are certainly queer thosetwo—however, I am blind, it is better so; and in any casethey are only the English!'
But Pedro was very sorely afflicted, for Pedro had fallen inlove with Mary, and now he must stay at home in the garden when sheand Stephen rode up to the mountains. Now they wished to be allalone it seemed, and what food they took would be stuffed into apocket. It was spring and Pedro was deeply enamoured, so that hesighed as he tended the roses, sighed and stubbed the hard earthwith his toes, and made insolent faces at the good-tempered Ramon,and killed flies with a kind of grim desperation, and sang songs oflonging under his breath: 'A-a-a-y! Thou art to me as the mountain.Would I could melt thy virginal snows...
'Would I could kick thy behind!' grinned Ramon.
One evening Mary asked Pedro to sing, speaking to him in herhalting Spanish. So Pedro went off and got his guitar; but when hemust stand there and sing before Mary he could only stammer achildish old song having in it nothing of passion and longing:
'I was born on a reef that is washed by the sea;
It is a part of Spain that is called Teneriffe.
I was born on a reef...
sang the unhappy Pedro.
Stephen felt sorry for the lanky boy with the lovesick eyes, andso to console him she offered him money, ten pesetas—for sheknew that these people set much store by money. But Pedro seemed tohave grown very tall as he gently but firmly refused consolation.Then he suddenly burst into tears and fled, leaving his littleguitar behind him.
3
The days were too short, as were now the nights—thosespring nights of soft heat and incredible moonlight. And becausethey both felt that something was passing, they would turn theirminds to thoughts of the future. The future was drawing very nearto the present; in less than three weeks they must start forParis.
Mary would suddenly cling to Stephen: 'Say that you'll neverleave me, beloved!'
'How could I leave you and go on living?'
Thus their talk of the future would often drift into talk oflove, that is always timeless. On their lips, as in their hearts,would be words such as countless other lovers had spoken, for loveis the sweetest monotony that was ever conceived of by theCreator.
'Promise you'll never stop loving me, Stephen.'
'Never. You know that I couldn't, Mary.'
Even to themselves their vows would sound foolish, because soinadequate to compass their meaning. Language is surely too smallto contain those emotions of mind and body that have somehowawakened a response in the spirit.
And now when they climbed the long hill to the town of oldOrotava on their way to the mountains, they would pause to examinecertain flowers minutely, or to stare down the narrow, shadowyby-streets. And when they had reached the cool upland places, andtheir mules were loosed and placidly grazing, they would sit handin hand looking out at the Peak, trying to impress such pictures ontheir minds, because all things pass and they wished to remember.The goat-bells would break the lovely stillness, together with thegreater stillness of their dreaming. But the sound of the bellswould be lovely also, a part of their dreaming, a part of thestillness; for all things would seem to be welded together, to beone, even as they two were now one.
They no longer felt desolate, hungry outcasts; unloved andunwanted, despised of the world. They were lovers who walked in thevineyard of life, plucking the warm, sweet fruits of that vineyard.Love had lifted them up as on wings of fire, had made themcourageous, invincible, enduring. Nothing could be lacking to thosewho loved—the very earth gave of her fullest bounty. Theearth seemed to come alive in response to the touch of theirhealthful and eager bodies—nothing could be lacking to thosewho loved.
And thus in a cloud of illusion and glory, sped the lastenchanted days at Orotava.
1
Early in April Stephen and Mary returned to the house in Paris.This second home-coming seemed wonderfully sweet by reason of itspeaceful and happy completeness, so that they turned to smile ateach other as they passed through the door, and Stephen said verysoftly:
'Welcome home, Mary.'
And now for the first time the old house was home. Mary wentquickly from room to room humming a little tune as she did so,feeling that she saw with a new understanding the inanimate objectswhich filled those rooms—were they not Stephen's? Every nowand again she must pause to touch them because they were Stephen's.Then she turned and went into Stephen's bedroom; not timidly,dreading to be unwelcome, but quite without fear or restraint orshyness, and this gave her a warm little glow of pleasure.
Stephen was busily grooming her hair with a couple of brushesthat had been dipped in water. The water had darkened her hair inpatches, but had deepened the wide wave above her forehead. SeeingMary in the glass she did not turn round, but just smiled for amoment at their two reflections. Mary sat down in an arm-chair andwatched her, noticing the strong, thin line of her thighs; noticingtoo the curve of her breasts—slight and compact, of a certainbeauty. She had taken off her jacket and looked very tall in hersoft silk shirt and her skirt of dark serge.
Tired?' she inquired, glancing down at the girl.
'No, not a bit tired,' smiled Mary.
Stephen walked over to the stationary basin and proceeded towash her hands under the tap, spotting her white silk cuffs in theprocess. Going to the cupboard she got out a clean shirt, slippedin a pair of simple gold cuff-links, and changed; after which sheput on a new necktie.
Mary said: 'Who's been looking after your clothes—sewingon buttons and that sort of thing?'
'I don't know exactly—Puddle or Adèle. Why?'
'Because I'm going to do it in future. You'll find that I've gotone very real talent, and that's darning. When I darn the placelooks like a basket, criss-cross. And I know how to pick up aladder as well as the Invisible Mending people! It's very importantthat the darns should be smooth, otherwise when you fence theymight give you a blister.'
Stephen's lips twitched a little, but she said quite gravely:'Thanks awfully, darling, we'll go over my stockings.'
From the dressing-room next door came a series of thuds; Pierrewas depositing Stephen's luggage. Getting up, Mary opened thewardrobe, revealing a long, neat line of suits hanging from heavymahogany shoulders—she examined each suit in turn with greatinterest. Presently she made her way to the cupboard in the wall;it was fitted with sliding shelves, and these she pulled out one byone with precaution. On the shelves there were orderly piles ofshirts, crêpe de Chine pyjamas—quite a goodlyassortment, and the heavy silk masculine underwear that for severalyears now had been worn by Stephen. Finally she discovered thestockings where they lay by themselves in the one long drawer, andthese she proceeded to unfurl deftly, with a quick and slightlyimportant movement. Thrusting a fist into toes and heels she lookedfor the holes that were non-existent.
'You must have paid a lot for these stockings, they'rehand-knitted silk,' murmured Mary gravely.
'I forget what I paid—Puddle got them from England.'
Who did she order them from; do you know?'
'I can't remember; some woman or other.'
But Mary persisted: 'I shall want her address.'
Stephen smiled: 'Why? Are you going to order my stockings?''Darling! Do you think I'll let you go barefoot? Of course I'mgoing to order your stockings.'
Stephen rested her elbow on the mantelpiece and stood gazing atMary with her chin on her hand. As she did so she was struck onceagain by the look of youth that was characteristic of Mary. Shelooked much less than her twenty-two years in her simple dress withits leather belt—she looked indeed little more than aschoolgirl. And yet there was something quite new in her face, asoft, wise expression that Stephen had put there, so that shesuddenly felt pitiful to see her so young yet so full of thiswisdom; for sometimes the coming of passion to youth, in spite ofits glory, will be strangely pathetic.
Mary rolled up the stockings with a sigh of regret; alas, theywould not require darning. She was at the stage of being in lovewhen she longed to do womanly tasks for Stephen. But all Stephen'sclothes were discouragingly neat; Mary thought that she must bevery well served, which was true—she was served, as arecertain men, with a great deal of nicety and care by theservants.
And now Stephen was filling her cigarette case from the big boxthat lived on her dressing-table; and now she was strapping on hergold wrist watch; and now she was brushing some dust from her coat;and now she was frowning at herself in the glass for a second asshe twitched her immaculate necktie. Mary had seen her do all thisbefore, many times, but to-day somehow it was different, for to-daythey were in their own home together, so that these little intimatethings seemed more dear than they had done in Orotava. The bedroomcould only have belonged to Stephen; a large, airy room, verysimply furnished—white walls, old oak, and a wide, brickedhearth on which some large, friendly logs were burning. The bedcould only have been Stephen's bed; it was heavy and rather austerein pattern. It looked solemn as Mary had seen Stephen look, and wascovered by a bedspread of old blue brocade, otherwise it remainedquite guiltless of trimmings. The chairs could only have beenStephen's chairs; a little reserved, not conducive to lounging. Thedressing-table could only have been hers, with its tall silvermirror and ivory brushes. And all these things had drawn intothemselves a species of life derived from their owner, until theyseemed to be thinking of Stephen with a dumbness that made theirthoughts more insistent, and their thoughts gathered strength andmingled with Mary's so that she heard herself cry out: 'Stephen!'in a voice that was not very far from tears, because of the joy shefelt in that name.
And Stephen answered her: Mary—'
Then they stood very still, grown abruptly silent. And each ofthem felt a little afraid, for the realization of great mutual lovecan at times be so overwhelming a thing, that even the bravest ofhearts may grow fearful. And although they could not have put itinto words, could not have explained it to themselves or to eachother, they seemed at that moment to be looking beyond theturbulent flood of earthly passion; to be looking straight into theeyes of a love that was changed—a love made perfect,discarnate.
But the moment passed and they drew together...
2
The spring they had left behind in Orotava overtook them quitesoon, and one day there it was blowing softly along the old streetsof the Quarter—the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints Peres,the Rue Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who can resist thefirst spring days in Paris? Brighter than ever looked the patchesof sky when glimpsed between rows of tall, flat-bosomed houses.From the Pont des Arts could be seen a river that was one wide,ingratiating smile of sunshine; while beyond in the Rue des PetitsChamps, spring ran up and down the Passage Choiseul, strikinggleams of gold from its dirty glass roof—the roof that lookslike the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster.
All over the Bois there was bursting of buds—a positiveorgy of growth and greenness. The miniature waterfall lifted itsvoice in an effort to roar as loud as Niagara. Birds sang. Dogsyapped or barked or bayed according to their size and the tastes oftheir owners. Children appeared in the Champs Elysées withbright coloured balloons which tried to escape and which, given theghost of a chance, always did so. In the Tuileries Gardens boyswith brown legs and innocent socks were hiring toy boats from theman who provided Bateaux de Location. The fountains tossed cloudsof spray into the air, and just for fun made an occasional rainbow;then the Arc de Triomphe would be seen through an arc that was,thanks to the sun, even more triumphal. As for the very old lady inher kiosk—the one who sells bocks, groseille, limonade, andsuch simple food-stuffs as brioches and croissants—as forher, she appeared in a new frilled bonnet and a fine worsted shawlon one memorable Sunday. Smiling she was too, from ear to ear, inspite of the fact that her mouth was toothless, for this fact sheonly remembered in winter when the east wind started her empty gumsaching.
Under the quiet, grey wings of the MAdèleine theflower-stalls were bright with the glory of God—anemones,jonquils, daffodils, tulips; mimosa that left gold dust on thefingers, and the faintly perfumed ascetic white lilac that had comein the train from the Riviera. There were also hyacinths, pink, redand blue, and many small trees of sturdy azalea.
Oh, but the spring was shouting through Paris! It was in thehearts and the eyes of the people. The very dray-horses jangledtheir bells more loudly because of the spring in their drivers. Thedebauched old taxis tooted their horns and spun round the cornersas though on a race track. Even such glacial things as the diamondsin the Rue de la Paix, were kindled to fire as the sun piercedtheir facets right through to their entrails; while the sapphiresglowed as those African nights had glowed in the garden atOrotava.
Was it likely that Stephen could finish her book—she whohad Paris in springtime with Mary? Was it likely that Mary couldurge her to do so—she who had Paris in springtime withStephen? There was so much to see, so much to show Mary, so manynew things to discover together. And now Stephen felt grateful toJonathan Brockett who had gone to such pains to teach her herParis.
Idle she was, let it not be denied, idle and happy and utterlycarefree. A lover, who, like many another before her, was under thespell of the loved one's existence. She would wake in the morningsto find Mary beside her, and all through the day she would keepbeside Mary, and at night they would lie in each other'sarms—God alone knows who shall dare judge of such matters; inany case Stephen was too much bewitched to be troubled just then byhair-splitting problems.
Life had become a new revelation. The most mundane things wereinvested with glory; shopping with Mary who needed quite a numberof dresses. And then there was food that was eatentogether—the careful perusal of wine-card and menu. Theywould lunch or have dinner at Lapérouse; surely still themost epicurean restaurant in the whole of an epicurean city. Sohumble it looks with its modest entrance on the Quai des GrandsAugustins; so humble that a stranger might well pass it byunnoticed, but not so Stephen, who had been there withBrockett.
Mary loved Prunier's in the Rue Duphot, because of its galaxy ofsea-monsters. A whole counter there was of incrediblecreatures—Our sins, black armoured and covered with prickles;Bigornaux, serpent-like Anguilles Fumées; and many otherexciting things that Stephen mistrusted for English stomachs. Theywould sit at their own particular table, one of the tables upstairsby the window, for the manager came very quickly to know them andwould smile and bow grandly: 'Bon jour, mesdames.' When they left,the attendant who kept the flower-basket would give Mary a neatlittle bouquet of roses: 'Au revoir, mesdames. Mercibien—à bientôt!' For everyone had pretty mannersat Prunier's.
A few people might stare at the tall, scarred woman in herwell-tailored clothes and black slouch hat. They would stare firstat her and then at her companion: 'Mais regardez moi ça!Elle est belle, la petite; comme c'est rigolo There would be a fewsmiles, but on the whole they would attract little notice—ilsen ont vu bien d'autres—it was post-war Paris.
Sometimes, having dined, they would saunter towards home throughstreets that were crowded with others who sauntered—men andwoman, a couple of women together—always twos—the finenights seemed prolific of couples. In the air there would be theinconsequent feeling that belongs to the night life of most greatcities, above all to the careless night life of Paris, whereproblems are apt to vanish with sunset. The lure of the brightlylighted boulevards, the lure of the dim and mysterious by-streetswould grip them so that they would not turn homeward for quite along while, but would just go on walking. The moon, less clear thanat Orotava, less innocent doubtless, yet scarcely less lovely,would come sailing over the Place de la Concorde, staring down atthe dozens of other white moons that had managed to get themselvescaught by the standards. In the cafés would be crowds ofindolent people, for the French who work hard know well how toidle; and these cafés would smell of hot coffee and sawdust,of rough, strong tobacco, of men and women. Beneath the arcadesthere would be the shop windows, illuminated and bright withtemptation. But Mary would usually stare into Sulka's, picking outscarves or neckties for Stephen.
'That one! We'll come and buy it tomorrow. Oh, Stephen, dowait—look at that dressing-gown!'
And Stephen might laugh and pretend to be bored, though shesecretly nurtured a weakness for Sulka's.
Down the Rue de Rivoli they would walk arm in arm, until turningat last, they would pass the old church of St. Germain—thechurch from whose Gothic tower had been rung the first call to amost bloody slaying. But now that tower would be grim with silence,dreaming the composite dreams of Paris—dreams that were heavywith blood and beauty, with innocence and lust, with joy anddespair, with life and death, with heaven and hell; all the curiouscomposite dreams of Paris.
Then crossing the river they would reach the Quarter and theirhouse, where Stephen would slip her latchkey into the door andwould know the warm feeling that can come of a union between doorand latchkey. With a sigh of contentment they would find themselvesat home once again in the quiet old Rue Jacob.
3
They went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visitseemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost like aweat the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen.
'Oh, but yes,' smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, 'I teached her. Shewas terribly naughty over her dictée; she would writeremarks about the poor Henri—très impertinente shewould be about Henri! Stévenne was a queer little child andnaughty—but so dear, so dear—I could never scold her.With me she done everything her own way.'
'Please tell me about that time,' coaxed Mary.
So Mademoiselle Duphot sat down beside Mary and patted her hand:'Like me, you love her. Well now, let me recall—She wouldsometimes get angry, very angry, and then she would go to thestables and talk to her horse. But when she fence it wasmarvellous—she fence like a man, and she only a baby butextrêmement strong. And then...
The memories went on and on, such a store she possessed, thekind Mademoiselle Duphot.
As she talked her heart went out to the girl, for she felt agreat tenderness towards young things: 'I am glad that you come tolive with our Stévenne now that Mademoiselle Puddle is atMorton. Stévenne would be desolate in the big house. It ischarming for both of you this new arrangement. While she work youlook after the ménage, is it not so? You take care ofStévenne, she take care of you. Oui, oui, I am glad you havecome to Paris.'
Julie stroked Mary's smooth young cheek, then her arm, for shewished to observe through her fingers. She smiled: 'Very young,also very kind. I like so much the feel of your kindness—itgives me a warm and so happy sensation, because with all kindnessthere must be much good.'
Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie?
And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her eyes thatcould see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very profoundexpression in their depths—at that moment they were calmlythoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life—onemight almost have said the eyes of a mother.
A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it allthrough the evening.
1
Burton, who had enlisted in the Worcesters soon after Stephenhad found work in London, Burton was now back again in Paris,loudly demanding a brand-new motor.
'The car looks awful! Snub-nosed shelooks—peculiar—all tucked up in the bonnet,' hedeclared.
So Stephen bought a touring Renault and a smart littlelandaulette for Mary. The choosing of the cars was the greatestfun; Mary climbed in and out of hers at least six times while itstood in the showroom.
'Is it comfortable?' Stephen must keep on asking. 'Do you wantthem to pad it out more at the back? Are you perfectly sure youlike the grey whip-cord? Because if you don't it can bere-upholstered.'
Mary laughed: 'I'm climbing in and out from sheer swank, just toshow that it's mine. Will they send it soon?'
'Almost at once, I hope,' smiled Stephen.
Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because ofwhat money could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimesbehave like two children, having endless things dragged out forinspection. They drove to Versailles in the new touring car andwandered for hours through the lovely gardens. The Hameau no longerseemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and she brought love back to theHameau. Then they drove to the forest of Fontainebleau, andwherever they went there was singing of birds—challenging,jubilant, provocative singing: 'Look at us, look at us! We'rehappy, Stephen!' And Stephen's heart shouted back: 'So are we. Lookat us, look at us, look at us. We're happy!'
When they were not driving into the country, or amusingthemselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keepherself fit—would fence as never before with Buisson, so thatBuisson would sometimes say with a grin:
'Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almostappears that you wish to kill me!'
The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning:'She fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, sostrong and so graceful.' Which considering all things was generousof Buisson. But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: 'More thanseventy francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Isthis winning the war? We starve, we go short of our butter andchickens, and before it is better it is surely much worse. We areall imbeciles, we kind-hearted French; we starve ourselves tofatten the Germans. Are they grateful? Sacré Nom! Mais oui,they are grateful—they love us so much that they spit in ourfaces!' And quite often this mood would be vented on Stephen.
To Mary, however, he was usually polite: 'You like our Paris? Iam glad—that is good. You make the home with MademoiselleGordon; I hope you prevent her injurious smoking.'
And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of hisinterest in Stephen's fencing.
2
One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked inserenely: 'Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I've turned upagain—not that I love you, I positively hate you. I've beenkeeping away for weeks and weeks. Why did you never answer myletters? Not so much as a line on a picture postcard! There'ssomething in this more than meets the eye. And where's Puddle? Sheused to be kind to me once—I shall lay my head down on herbosom and weep...' He stopped abruptly, seeing Mary Llewellyn, whogot up from her deep arm-chair in the corner.
Stephen said: 'Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett—an oldfriend of mine; we're fellow writers. Brockett, this is MaryLlewellyn.' Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen's direction,then he bowed and gravely shook hands with Mary.
And now Stephen was to see yet another side of this strange andunexpected creature. With infinite courtesy and tact he went out ofhis way to make himself charming. Never by so much as a word or alook did he once allow it to be inferred that his quick mind hadseized on the situation. Brockett's manner suggested an innocencethat he was very far from possessing.
Stephen began to study him with interest; they two had not metsince before the war. He had thickened, his figure was more robust,there was muscle and flesh on his wide, straight shoulders. And shethought that his face had certainly aged; little bags were showingunder his eyes, and rather deep lines at the sides of hismouth—the war had left its mark upon Brockett. Only his handsremained unchanged; those white and soft-skinned hands of awoman.
He was saying: 'So you two were in the same Unit. That was agreat stroke of luck for Stephen; I mean she'd be feeling horriblylonely now that old Puddle's gone back to England. Stephen'sdistinguished herself I see—the Croix de Guerre and a verybecoming scar. Don't protest, my dear Stephen, you know it'sbecoming. All that happened to me was a badly sprained ankle'; helaughed, 'fancy going out to Mesopotamia to slip on a bit of orangepeel! I might have done better than that here in Paris. By the way,I'm in my own flat again now; I hope you'll bring Miss Llewellyn toluncheon.'
He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leavesuggestively early; he got up to go just at the right moment. Butwhen Mary went out of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenlyput his arm through Stephen's.
'Good luck, my dear, you deserve it,' he murmured, and his sharpgrey eyes had grown almost gentle: 'I hope you'll be very, veryhappy.'
Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise:'Happy? Thank you, Brockett,' she smiled, as she lighted acigarette.
3
They could not tear themselves away from their home, and thatsummer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things todo, Mary's bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she hadPuddle's old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed tobe growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country,spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds ingreen, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with JonathanBrockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flatsince his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leavingfor Deauville—his manner continued to be studiously guarded.The Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away inSpain for a month—but what did they want that summer withpeople? On those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen wouldnow read aloud to Mary, leading the girl's adaptable mind into newand hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can liein books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary hadread so little in her life that the choice of books seemedpractically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading thatimmortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Marysaid:
'Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you andI could dream true?'
And Stephen answered: 'I often wonder whether we're not dreamingtrue all the time—whether the only truth isn't in dreaming.'Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams,which will seem very concrete to lovers.
Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted thegirl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinatinglanguage. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek tofill the more obvious gaps in Mary's none too complete education.And Mary, listening to Stephen's voice, rather deep and always alittle husky, would think that words were more tuneful than musicand more inspiring, when spoken by Stephen.
At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bearwitness to Mary's presence. There were flowers in the quiet oldgarden for instance, and some large red carp in the fountain'sbasin, and two married couples of white fan-tail pigeons who livedin a house on a tall wooden leg and kept up a convivial cooing.These pigeons lacked all respect for Stephen; by August they wereflying in at her window and landing with soft, heavy thuds on herdesk, where they strutted until she fed them with maize. Andbecause they were Mary's and Mary loved them, Stephen would laugh,as unruffled as they were, and would patiently coax them back intothe garden with bribes for their plump little circular crops. Inthe turret room that had been Puddle's sanctum, there were nowthree cagefuls of Mary's rescues—tiny bright-coloured birdswith dejected plumage, and eyes that had filmed from a lack ofsunshine. Mary was always bringing them home from the terrible birdshops along the river, for her love of such helpless and sufferingthings was so great that she in turn must suffer. An ill-treatedcreature would haunt her for days, so that Stephen would oftenexclaim half in earnest:
'Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris...anything,darling, only don't look unhappy!'
The tiny bright-coloured birds would revive to some extentthanks to Mary's skilled treatment; but since she always bought themost ailing, not a few of them left this disheartening world forwhat we must hope was a warm, wild heaven—there were severalsmall graves already in the garden.
Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because Stephen hadletters to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one more desolatecreature who followed her home to the Rue Jacob, and right intoStephen's immaculate study. It was large, ungainly and appallinglythin; it was coated with mud which had dried on its nose, its back,its legs and all over its stomach. Its paws were heavy, its earswere long, and its tail, like the tail of a rat, looked hairless,but curved up to a point in a miniature sickle. Its face was assmooth as though made out of plush, and its luminous eyes were thecolour of amber.
Mary said: 'Oh, Stephen—he wanted to come. He's got a sorepaw; look at him, he's limping!'
Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stoodthere gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious,dishevelled head: 'I suppose this means that we're going to keephim.'
'Darling, I'm dreadfully afraid it does—he says he's sorryto be such a mongrel.'
'He needn't apologize,' Stephen smiled, 'he's all right, he's anIrish water-spaniel, though what he's doing out here the Lordknows; I've never seen one before in Paris.'
They fed him, and later that afternoon they gave him a bath inStephen's bathroom. The result of that bath, which wasdisconcerting as far as the room went, they left to Adèle.The room was a bog, but Mary's rescue had emerged a mass ofchocolate ringlets, all save his charming plush-covered face, andhis curious tail, which was curved like a sickle. Then they boundthe sore pad and took him downstairs; after which Mary wanted toknow all about him, so Stephen unearthed an illustrated dog bookfrom a cupboard under the study book-case.
'Oh, look!' exclaimed Mary, reading over her shoulder, 'He's notIrish at all, he's really a Welshman: "We find in the Welsh laws ofHowell Dda the first reference to this intelligent spaniel. TheIberians brought the breed to Ireland..." Of course, that's why hefollowed me home; he knew I was Welsh the moment he saw me!'
Stephen laughed: 'Yes, his hair grows up from a peak likeyours—it must be a national failing. Well, what shall we callhim? His name's important; it ought to be quite short.'
'David,' said Mary.
The dog looked gravely from one to the other for a moment, thenhe lay down at Mary's feet, dropping his chin on his bandaged paw,and dosing his eyes with a grunt of contentment. And so it hadsuddenly come to pass that they who had lately been two, were nowthree. There were Stephen and Mary—there was also David.
1
That October there arose the first dark cloud. It drifted overto Paris from England, for Anna wrote, asking Stephen to Morton butwith never a mention of Mary Llewellyn. Not that she ever didmention their friendship in her letters, indeed she completelyignored it; yet this invitation which excluded the girl seemed toStephen an intentional slight upon Mary. A hot flush of angerspread up to her brow as she read and re-read her mother's briefletter:
'I want to discuss some important points regarding themanagement of the estate. As the place will eventually come to you,I think we should try to keep more in touch...' Then a list of thepoints Anna wished to discuss; they seemed very trifling indeed toStephen.
She put the letter away in a drawer and sat staring darkly outof the window. In the garden Mary was talking to David, persuadinghim not to retrieve the pigeons.
'If my mother had invited her ten times over I'd never havetaken her to Morton,' Stephen muttered.
Oh, but she knew, and only too well, what it would mean shouldthey be there together; the lies, the despicable subterfuges, asthough they were little less than criminals. It would be: 'Mary,don't hang about my bedroom—be careful...of course whilewe're here at Morton...it's my mother, she can't understand thesethings; to her they would seem an outrage, an insult...And then theguard set upon eyes and lips; the feeling of guilt at so much as ahand-touch; the pretence of a careless, quite usualfriendship—'Mary, don't look at me as though you cared! youdid this evening—remember my mother.'
Intolerable quagmire of lies and deceit! The degrading of allthat to them was sacred—a very gross degrading of love, andthrough love a gross degrading of Mary, Mary...so loyal and as yetso gallant, but so pitifully untried in the war of existence.Warned only by words, the words of a lover, and what were merewords when it came to actions? And the ageing woman with thefar-away eyes, eyes that could yet be so cruel, soaccusing—that they might turn and rest with repugnance onMary, even as once they had rested on Stephen: 'I would rather seeyou dead at my feet...' A fearful saying, and yet she had meant it,that ageing woman with the far-away eyes—she had uttered itknowing herself to be a mother. But that at least should be hiddenfrom Mary.
She began to consider the ageing woman who had scourged her butwhom she had so deeply wounded, and as she did so the depth of thatwound made her shrink in spite of her bitter anger, so thatgradually the anger gave way to a slow and almost reluctant pity.Poor, ignorant, blind, unreasoning woman; herself a victim, havinggiven her body for Nature's most inexplicable whim. Yes, there hadbeen two victims already—must there now be a third—andthat one Mary? She trembled. At that moment she could not face it,she was weak, she was utterly undone by loving. Greedy she hadgrown for happiness, for the joys and the peace that their unionhad brought her. She would try to minimize the whole thing; shewould say: 'It will only be for ten days; I must just run overabout this business,' then Mary would probably think it quitenatural that she had not been invited to Morton and would ask noquestions—she never asked questions. But would Mary thinksuch a slight was quite natural? Fear possessed her; she sat thereterribly afraid of this cloud that had suddenly risen tomenace—afraid yet determined not to submit, not to let itgain power through her own acquiescence.
There was only one weapon to keep it at bay. Getting up sheopened the window: 'Mary!'
All unconscious the girl hurried in with David: 'Did youcall?'
'Yes—come close. Closer...closer, sweetheart...
2
Shaken and very greatly humbled, Mary had let Stephen go fromher to Morton. She had not been deceived by Stephen's glib words,and had now no illusions regarding Anna Gordon. Lady Anna,suspecting the truth about them, had not wished to meet her. It wasall quite clear, cruelly clear if it came to that matter—butthese thoughts she had mercifully hidden from Stephen.
She had seen Stephen off at the station with a smile: 'I'llwrite every day. Do put on your coat, darling; you don't want toarrive at Morton with a chill. And mind you wire when you get toDover.'
Yet now as she sat in the empty study, she must bury her faceand cry a little because she was here and Stephen in England...andthen of course, this was their first real parting.
David sat watching with luminous eyes in which were reflectedher secret troubles; then he got up and planted a paw on the book,for he thought it high time to have done with this reading. Helacked the language that Raftery had known—the language ofmany small sounds and small movements—a clumsy andinarticulate fellow he was, but unrestrainedly loving. He nearlybroke his own heart between love and the deep gratitude which hefelt for Mary. At the moment he wanted to lay back his ears andhowl with despair to see her unhappy. He wanted to make an enormousnoise, the kind of noise wild folk make in the jungle—lionsand tigers and other wild folk that David had heard about from hismother—his mother had been in Africa once a long time ago,with an old French colonel. But instead he abruptly licked Mary'scheek—it tasted peculiar, he thought, like sea water.
'Do you want a walk, David?' she asked him gently.
And as well as he could, David nodded his head by wagging histail which was shaped like a sickle. Then he capered, thumping theground with his paws; after which he barked twice in an effort toamuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her in the past,although now she appeared not to notice his capers. However, shehad put on her hat and coat; so, still barking, he followed herthrough the courtyard.
They wandered along the Quai Voltaire, Mary pausing to look atthe misty river.
'Shall I dive in and bring you a rat?' inquired David by lungingwildly backwards and forwards.
She shook her head. 'Do stop, David; be good!' Then she sighedagain and stared at the river; so David stared too, but he staredat Mary.
Quite suddenly Paris had lost its charm for her. After all, whatwas it? Just a big, foreign city—a city that belonged to astranger people who cared nothing for Stephen and nothing for Mary.They were exiles. She turned the word over in hermind—exiles; it sounded unwanted, lonely. But why had Stephenbecome an exile? Why had she exiled herself from Morton? Strangethat she, Mary, had never asked her—had never wanted to untilthis moment.
She walked on not caring very much where she went. It grew dusk,and the dusk brought with it great longing—the longing tosee, to hear, to touch—almost a physical pain it was, thislonging to feel the nearness of Stephen. But Stephen had left herto go to Morton...Morton that was surely Stephen's real home, andin that real home there was no place for Mary.
She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world, orherself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with problems, todemand either justice or explanation; she only knew that her heartfelt bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her. It hurther to think of Stephen surrounded by objects that she had neverseen—tables, chairs, pictures, all old friends of Stephen's,all dear and familiar, yet strangers to Mary. It hurt her to thinkof the unknown bedroom in which Stephen had slept since the days ofher childhood; of the unknown schoolroom where Stephen had worked;of the stables, the lakes and the gardens of Morton. It hurt her tothink of the two unknown women who must now be awaiting Stephen'sarrival—Puddle, whom Stephen loved and respected; Lady Anna,of whom she spoke very seldom, and who, Mary felt, could never haveloved her. And it came upon Mary with a little shock that a longspan of Stephen's life was hidden; years and years of that life hadcome and gone before they two had finally found each other. Howcould she hope to link up with a past that belonged to a home whichshe might not enter? Then, being a woman, she suddenly ached forthe quiet, pleasant things that a home will standfor—security, peace, respect and honour, the kindness ofparents, the goodwill of neighbours; happiness that can be sharedwith friends, love that is proud to proclaim its existence. Allthat Stephen most craved for the creature she loved, that creaturemust now quite suddenly ache for.
And as though some mysterious cord stretched between them,Stephen's heart was troubled at that very moment; intolerablytroubled because of Morton, the real home which might not be sharedwith Mary. Ashamed because of shame laid on another, compassionateand suffering because of her compassion, she was thinking of thegirl left alone in Paris—the girl who should have come withher to England, who should have been welcomed and honoured atMorton. Then she suddenly remembered some words from the past, veryterrible words: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?'
Mary turned and walked back to the Rue Jacob. Disheartened andanxious, David lagged beside her. He had done all he could todistract her mind from whatever it was that lay heavy upon it. Hehad made a pretence of chasing a pigeon, he had barked himselfhoarse at a terrified beggar, he had brought her a stick andimplored her to throw it, he had caught at her skirt and tugged itpolitely; in the end he had nearly got run over by a taxi in hisdesperate efforts to gain her attention. This last attempt hadcertainly roused her: she had put on his lead—poor,misunderstood David.
3
Mary went into Stephen's study and sat down at the spaciouswriting-table, for now all of a sudden she had only one ache, andthat was the ache of her love for Stephen. And because of her loveshe wished to comfort, since in every fond woman there is much ofthe mother. That letter was full of many things which a lessprivileged pen had best left unwritten—loyalty, faith,consolation, devotion; all this and much more she wrote to Stephen.As she sat there, her heart seemed to swell within her as though inresponse to some mighty challenge.
Thus it was that Mary met and defeated the world's firsttentative onslaught upon them.
1
There comes a time in all passionate attachments when life, reallife, must be faced once again with its varied and endlessobligations, when the lover knows in his innermost heart that thehalcyon days are over. He may well regret this prosaic intrusion,yet to him it will usually seem quite natural, so that while lovingnot one whit the less, he will bend his neck to the yoke ofexistence. But the woman, for whom love is an end in itself, findsit harder to submit thus calmly. To every devoted and ardent womanthere comes this moment of poignant regretting; and struggle shemust to hold it at bay. 'Not yet, not yet—just a littlelonger'; until Nature, abhorring her idleness, forces on her thelabour of procreation.
But in such relationships as Mary's and Stephen's, Nature mustpay for experimenting; she may even have to pay verydearly—it largely depends on the sexual mixture. A drop toolittle of the male in the lover, and mighty indeed will be thewastage. And yet there are cases—and Stephen's wasone—in which the male will emerge triumphant; in whichpassion combined with real devotion will become a spur rather thana deterrent; in which love and endeavour will fight side by side ina desperate struggle to find some solution.
Thus it was that when Stephen returned from Morton, Marydivined, as it were by instinct, that the time of dreaming was overand past; and she clung very dose, kissing many times—
'Do you love me as much as before you went? Do you love me?' Thewoman's eternal question.
And Stephen, who, if possible, loved her more, answered almostbrusquely: 'Of course I love you.' For her thoughts were stillheavy with the bitterness that had come of that visit of hers toMorton, and which at all costs must be hidden from Mary.
There had been no marked change in her mother's manner. Anna hadbeen very quiet and courteous. Together they had interviewedbailiff and agent, scheming as always for the welfare of Morton;but one topic there had been which Anna had ignored, had refused todiscuss, and that topic was Mary. With a suddenness born ofexasperation, Stephen had spoken of her one evening. 'I want MaryLlewellyn to know my real home; some day I must bring her to Mortonwith me.' She had stopped, seeing Anna's warningface—expressionless, closed; while as for her answer, it hadbeen more eloquent far than words—a disconcerting,unequivocal silence. And Stephen, had she ever entertained anydoubt, must have known at that moment past all hope of doubting,that her mother's omission to invite the girl had indeed been meantas a slight upon Mary. Getting up, she had gone to her father'sstudy.
Puddle, who had held her peace at the time, had spoken justbefore Stephen's departure. 'My dear, I know it's all terribly hardabout Morton—about...' She had hesitated.
And Stephen had thought with renewed bitterness: 'Even she jibs,it seems, at mentioning Mary.' She had answered: 'If you'respeaking of Mary Llewellyn, I shall certainly never bring her toMorton, that is as long as my mother lives—I don't allow herto be insulted.'
Then Puddle had looked at Stephen gravely. You're not working,and yet work's your only weapon. Make the world respect you, as youcan do through your work; it's the surest harbour of refuge foryour friend, the only harbour—remember that—and it's upto you to provide it, Stephen.'
Stephen had been too sore at heart to reply; but throughout thelong journey from Morton to Paris, Puddle's words had kepthammering in her brain: 'You're not working, and yet work's youronly weapon.'
So while Mary lay sleeping in Stephen's arms on that firstblessed night of their reunion, her lover lay wide-eyed withsleeplessness, planning the work she must do on the morrow, cursingher own indolence and folly, her illusion of safety where noneexisted.
2
They soon settled down to their more prosaic days very much asquite ordinary people will do. Each of them now had her separatetasks—Stephen her writing, and Mary the household, the payingof bills, the filing of receipts, the answering of unimportantletters. But for her there were long hours of idleness, sincePauline and Pierre were almost too perfect—they would smileand manage the house in their own way, which it must be admittedwas better than Mary's. As for the letters, there were not verymany; and as for the bills, there was plenty of money—beingspared the struggle to make two ends meet, she was also deprived ofthe innocent pleasure of scheming to provide little happysurprises, little extra comforts for the person she loved, which inyouth can add a real zest to existence. Then Stephen had found hertyping too slow, so was sending the work to a woman in Passy;obsessed by a longing to finish her book, she would tolerateneither let nor hindrance. And because of their curious isolation,there were times when Mary would feel very lonely. For whom did sheknow? She had no friends in Paris except the kind MademoiselleDuphot and Julie. Once a week, it is true, she could go and seeBuisson, for Stephen continued to keep up her fencing; andoccasionally Brockett would come strolling in, but his interest wascentred entirely in Stephen; if she should be working, as was oftenthe case, he would not waste very much time over Mary.
Stephen often called her into the study, comforted by the girl'sloving presence. 'Come and sit with me, sweetheart, I like you inhere.' But quite soon she would seem to forget all about her.'What...what?' she would mutter, frowning a little. 'Don't speak tome just for a minute, Mary. Go and have your luncheon, there's agood child; I'll come when I've finished this bit—you go on!'But Mary's meal might be eaten alone; for meals had become anannoyance to Stephen.
Of course there was David, the grateful, the devoted. Mary couldalways talk to David, but since he could never answer her back theconversation was very one-sided. Then too, he was making it obviousthat he, in his turn, was missing Stephen; he would hang aroundlooking discontented when she failed to go out after frequentsuggestions. For although his heart was faithful to Mary, thegentle dispenser of all salvation, yet the instinct that has dweltin the soul of the male, perhaps ever since Adam left the Garden ofEden, the instinct that displays itself in club windows and inother such places of male segregation, would make him long for thecompanionable walks that had sometimes been taken apart from Mary.Above all would it make him long intensely for Stephen's stronghands and purposeful ways; for that queer, intangible somethingabout her that appealed to the canine manhood in him. She alwaysallowed him to look after himself, without fussing; in a word, sheseemed restful to David.
Mary slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper: We'llgo to the Tuileries Gardens.'
But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of coursea dog must not dive after goldfish—David understood this;there were goldfish at home—he must not start splashing aboutin ponds that had tiresome stone rims and ridiculous fountains. Heand Mary would wander along gravel paths, among people who staredat and made fun of David: 'Quel drôle de chien, mais regardezsa queue!' They were like that, these French; they had laughed athis mother. She had told him never so much as to say: 'Wouf!' Forwhat did they matter? Still, it was disconcerting. And although hehad lived in France all his life—having indeed known no othercountry—as he walked in the stately Tuileries Gardens, theCelt in his blood would conjure up visions: great beetlingmountains with winding courses down which the torrents went roaringin winter; the earth smell, the dew smell, the smell of wild thingswhich a dog might hunt and yet remain lawful—for of all thisand more had his old mother told him. These visions it was that hadled him astray, that had treacherously led him half starving toParis; and that, sometimes, even in these placid days, would comeback as he walked in the Tuileries Gardens. But now his heart mustthrust them aside—a captive he was now, through love ofMary.
But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a gardenat Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled withthe restless rhythm of singing.
3
The autumn passed, giving place to the winter, with its short,dreary days of mist and rain. There was now little beauty left inParis. A grey sky hung above the old streets of the Quarter, a skywhich no longer looked bright by contrast, as though seen at theend of a tunnel. Stephen was working like someone possessed,entirely re-writing her pre-war novel. Good it had been, but notgood enough, for she now saw life from a much wider angle; and,moreover, she was writing this book for Mary. Remembering Mary,remembering Morton, her pen covered sheet after sheet of paper; shewrote with the speed of true inspiration, and at times her workbrushed the hem of greatness. She did not entirely neglect the girlfor whose sake she was making this mighty effort—that shecould not have done even had she wished to, since love was theactual source of her effort. But quite soon there were days whenshe would not go out, or if she did go, when she seemed abstracted,so that Mary must ask her the same question twice—then aslikely as not get a nebulous answer. And soon there were days whenall that she did apart from her writing was done with an effort,with an obvious effort to be considerate.
'Would you like to go to a play one night, Mary?'
If Mary said yes, and procured the tickets, they were usuallylate, because of Stephen who had worked right up to the very lastminute.
Sometimes there were poignant if small disappointments, whenStephen had failed to keep a promise. 'Listen, Marydarling—will you ever forgive me if I don't come with youabout those furs? I've a bit of work here I simply must finish. Youdo understand?'
'Yes, of course I do.' But Mary, left to choose her new fursalone, had quite suddenly felt that she did not want them.
And this sort of thing happened fairly often.
If only Stephen had confided in her, had said: 'I'm trying tobuild you a refuge; remember what I told you in Orotava!' But no,she shrank from reminding the girl of the gloom that surroundedtheir small patch of sunshine. If only she had shown a little morepatience with Mary's careful if rather slow typing, and so givenher a real occupation—but no, she must send the work off toPassy, because the sooner this book was finished the better itwould be for Mary's future. And thus, blinded by love and herdesire to protect the woman she loved, she erred towards Mary.
When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequentlyread it aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that thewriting was fine, yet her thoughts would stray from the book toStephen. The deep, husky voice would read on and on, having in itsomething urgent, appealing, so that Mary must suddenly kissStephen's hand, or the scar on her cheek, because of that voice farmore than because of what it was reading.
And now there were times when, serving two masters, her passionfor this girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be torn byconflicting desires, by opposing mental and physical emotions. Shewould want to save herself for her work; she would want to giveherself wholly to Mary.
Yet quite often she would work far into the night. 'I'm going tobe late—you go to bed, sweetheart.'
And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she wouldsteal like a thief past Mary's bedroom, although Mary would nearlyalways hear her.
'Is that you, Stephen?'
'Yes. Why aren't you asleep? Do you realize that it's three inthe morning?'
'Is it? You're not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking ofyou alone in the study. Come here and say you're not angry with me,even if it is three o'clock in the morning!'
Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would flingherself down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do more thantake the girl in her arms, and let her lie there with her head onher shoulder.
But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she foundso deeply appealing in Stephen—the scar on her cheek, theexpression in her eyes, the strength and the queer, shy gentlenessof her—the strength which at moments could not be gentle. Andas they lay there Stephen might sleep, worn out by the strain ofthose long hours of writing. But Mary would not sleep, or if sheslept it would be when the dawn was paling the windows.
4
One morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. 'Come here. You'renot well! What's the matter? Tell me.' For she thought that thegirl was unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped a littleat the corners; and a sudden fear contracted her heart. 'Tell me atonce what's the matter with you!' Her voice was rough with anxiety,and she laid an imperative hand over Mary's.
Mary protested. 'Don't be absurd; there's nothing the matter,I'm perfectly well—you're imagining things.' For what couldbe the matter? Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyesfilled with tears, and she turned away quickly to hide them,ashamed of her own unreason.
Stephen stuck to her point. 'You don't look a bit well. Weshouldn't have stayed in Paris last summer.' Then because her ownnerves were on edge that day, she frowned. 'It's this business ofyour not eating whenever I can't get in to a meal. I know you don'teat—Pierre's told me about it. You mustn't behave like ababy, Mary! I shan't be able to write a line if I feel you're illbecause you're not eating.' Her fear was making her lose hertemper. 'I shall send for a doctor,' she finished brusquely.
Mary refused point-blank to see a doctor. What was she to tellhim? She hadn't any symptoms. Pierre exaggerated. She ate quiteenough—she had never been a very large eater. Stephen hadbetter get on with her work and stop upsetting herself overnothing.
But try as she might, Stephen could not get on—all therest of the day her work went badly.
After this she would often leave her desk and go wandering offin search of Mary. 'Darling, where are you?'
'Upstairs in my bedroom!'
'Well, come down; I want you here in the study.' And when Maryhad settled herself by the fire: 'Now tell me exactly how youfeel—all right?'
And Mary would answer, smiling: 'Yes, I'm quite all right; Iswear I am, Stephen!'
It was not an ideal atmosphere for work, but the book was by nowso well advanced that nothing short of a disaster could havestopped it—it was one of those books that intend to get born,and that go on maturing in spite of their authors. Nor was thereanything really alarming about the condition of Mary's health. Shedid not look very well, that was all; and at times she seemed alittle downhearted, so that Stephen must snatch a few hours fromher work in order that they might go out together. Perhaps theywould lunch at a restaurant; or drive into the country, to therapture of David; or just wander about the streets arm in arm asthey had done when first they had returned to Paris. And Mary,because she would be feeling happy, would revive for these fewhours as though by magic. Yet when she must once more find herselflonely, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, because Stephenwas back again at her desk, why then she would wilt, which was notunnatural considering her youth and her situation.
5
On Christmas Eve Brockett arrived, bringing flowers. Mary hadgone for a walk with David, so Stephen must leave her desk with asigh. 'Come in, Brockett. I say! what wonderful lilac!'
He sat down, lighting a cigarette. 'Yes, isn't it fine? Ibrought it for Mary. How is she?'
Stephen hesitated a moment. 'Not awfully well...I've beenworried about her.'
Brockett frowned, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. Therewas something that he wanted to say to Stephen; a warning that hewas longing to give, but he did not feel certain how she would takeit—no wonder that wretched girl was not fit, forced to leadsuch a deadly dull existence! If Stephen would let him he wanted toadvise, to admonish, to be brutally frank if need be. He had oncebeen brutally frank about her work, but that had been a lessdelicate matter.
He began to fidget with his soft, white hands, drumming on thearms of the chair with his fingers. Stephen, I've been meaning tospeak about Mary. She struck me as looking thoroughly depressed thelast time I saw her—when was it? Monday. Yes, she struck meas looking thoroughly depressed.'
'Oh, but surely you were wrong...' interrupted Stephen.
'No, I'm perfectly sure I was right,' he insisted. Then he said:'I'm going to take a big risk—I'm going to take the risk oflosing your friendship.'
His voice was so genuinely regretful, that Stephen must ask him:'Well—what is it, Brockett?'
'You, my dear. You're not playing fair with that girl; the lifeshe's leading would depress a mother abbess. It's enough to giveanybody the hump, and it's going to give Mary neurasthenia!'
'What on earth do you mean?'
'Don't get ratty and I'll tell you. Look here, I'm not going topretend any more. Of course we all know that you two are lovers.You're gradually becoming a kind of legend—all's well lostfor love, and that sort of thing...But Mary's too young to become alegend; and so are you, my dear, for that matter. But you've gotyour work, whereas Mary's got nothing—not a soul does thatmiserable kid know in Paris. Don't please interrupt. I've notnearly finished; I positively must and will have my say out! Youand she have decided to make a ménage—as far as I cansee it's as bad as marriage! But if you were a man it would berather different; you'd have dozens of friends as a matter ofcourse. Mary might even be going to have an infant. Oh, for God'ssake, Stephen, do stop looking shocked. Mary's a perfectly normalyoung woman; she can't live by love alone, that's allrot—especially as I shrewdly suspect that when you're workingthe diet's pretty meagre. For heaven's sake let her go about a bit!Why on earth don't you take her to Valérie Seymour's? AtValérie's place she'd meet lots of people; and I ask you,what harm could it possibly do? You shun your own ilk as thoughthey were the devil! Mary needs friends awfully badly, and sheneeds a certain amount of amusement. But be a bit careful of theso-called normal.' And now Brockett's voice grew aggressive andbitter. 'I wouldn't go trying to force them to be friends—I'mnot thinking so much of you now as of Mary; she's young and theyoung are easily bruised...
He was perfectly sincere. He was trying to be helpful, spurredon by his curious affection for Stephen. At the moment he felt veryfriendly and anxious; there was nothing of the cynic left inhim—at the moment. He was honestly advising according to hislights—perhaps the only lights that the world had lefthim.
And Stephen could find very little to say. She was sick ofdenials and subterfuges, sick of tacit lies which outraged her owninstincts and which seemed like insults thrust upon Mary; so sheleft Brockett's bolder statements unchallenged. As for the rest,she hedged a little, still vaguely mistrustful of ValérieSeymour. Yet she knew quite well that Brockett had beenright—life these days must often be lonely for Mary. Why hadshe never thought of this before? She cursed herself for her lackof perception.
Then Brockett tactfully changed the subject; he was far too wisenot to know when to stop. So now he told her about his new play,which for him was a very unusual proceeding. And as he talked onthere came over Stephen a queer sense of relief at the thought thathe knew...Yes, she actually felt a sense of relief because this manknew of her relations with Mary; because there was no longer anyneed to behave as if those relations were shameful—at allevents in the presence of Brockett. The world had at last found achink in her armour.
6
'We must go and sce Valérie Seymour one day,' Stephenremarked quite casually that evening. 'She's a very well-knownwoman in Paris. I believe she gives rather jolly parties. I thinkit's about time you had a few friends.'
'Oh, what fun! Yes, do let's—I'd love it!' exclaimedMary.
Stephen thought that her voice sounded pleased and excited andin spite of herself she sighed a little. But after all nothingreally mattered except that Mary should keep well and happy. Shewould certainly take her to Valérie Seymour's—why not?She had probably been very foolish. Selfish too, sacrificing thegirl to her cranks—
'Darling, of course we'll go,' she aid quickly. 'I expect we'llfind it awfully amusing.'
7
Three days later, Valérie, having seen Brockett, wrote ashort but cordial invitation: 'Do come in on Wednesday if youpossibly can—I mean both of you, of course. Brockett'spromised to come, and one or two other interesting people. I'm solooking forward to renewing our acquaintance after all this longtime, and to meeting Miss Llewellyn. But why have you never been tosee me? I don't think that was very friendly of you! However, youcan make up for past neglect by coming to my little party onWednesday...
Stephen tossed the letter across to Mary. 'There you arc!' 'Howripping—but will you go?'
'Do you want to?'
Yes, of course. Only what about your work?'
'It will keep all right for one afternoon.'
Are you sure?'
Stephen smiled. 'Yes, I'm quite sure, darling.'
1
Valérie's rooms were already crowded when Stephen andMary arrived at her reception, so crowded that at first they couldnot see their hostess and must stand rather awkwardly near thedoor—they had not been announced; one never was for somereason, when one went to Valérie Seymour's. People looked atStephen curiously; her height, her clothes, the scar on her face,had immediately riveted their attention.
'Quel type!' murmured Dupont the sculptor to his neighbour, andpromptly decided that he wished to model Stephen. 'It's a wonderfulhead; I adore the strong throat. And the mouth—is it chaste,is it ardent? I wonder. How would one model that intriguing mouth?'Then being Dupont, to whom all things were allowed for the sake ofhis art, he moved a step nearer and stared with embarrassingadmiration, combing his greyish beard with his fingers.
His neighbour, who was also his latest mistress, a smallfair-haired girl of a doll-like beauty, shrugged her shoulders. 'Iam not very pleased with you, Dupont, your taste is becomingpeculiar, mon ami—and yet you arc still sufficientlyvirile...
He laughed. 'Be tranquil, my little hen, I am not proposing togive you a rival.' Then he started to tease. 'But what about you? Idislike the small horns that are covered with moss, even althoughthey are no bigger than thimbles. They are irritating, those mossyhorns, and exceedingly painful when they start to grow—likewisdom teeth, only even more foolish. Ah, yes, I too have myrecollections. What is sauce for the gander is sauce for the goose,as the English say—such a practical people!'
'You are dreaming, mon pauvre bougre,' snapped the lady.
And now Valérie was making her way to the door. 'MissGordon! I'm most awfully glad to see you and Miss Llewellyn. Haveyou had any tea? No, of course not, I'm an abominable hostess! Comealong to the table—where's that useless Brockett? Oh, here heis. Brockett, please be a man and get Miss Llewellyn and MissGordon some tea.'
Brockett sighed. 'You go first then, Stephen darling, you're somuch more efficient than I am.' And he laid a soft, white hand onher shoulder, thrusting her gently but firmly forward. When theyreached the buffet, he calmly stood still. 'Do get me anice—vanilla?' he murmured.
Everyone seemed to know everyone else, the atmosphere wasfamiliar and easy. People hailed each other like intimate friends,and quite soon they were being charming to Stephen, and equallycharming and kind to Mary.
Valérie was introducing her new guests with tactfulallusions to Stephen's talent: 'This is Stephen Gordon—youknow, the author; and Miss Llewellyn.'
Her manner was natural, and yet Stephen could not get rid of thefeeling that everyone knew about her and Mary, or that if they didnot actually know, they guessed, and were eager to show themselvesfriendly.
She thought: 'Well, why not? I'm sick of lying.'
The erstwhile resentment that she had felt towardsValérie Seymour was fading completely. So pleasant it was tobe made to feel welcome by all these clever and interestingpeople—and clever they were there was no denying; inValérie's salon the percentage of brains was generally wellabove the average. For together with those who themselves beingnormal, had long put intellects above bodies, were writers,painters, musicians and scholars, men and women who, set apart fromtheir birth, had determined to hack out a niche in existence. Manyof them had already arrived, while some were still rather painfullyhacking; not a few would fall by the way, it is true, but as theyfell others would take their places. Over the bodies of prostratecomrades those others must fall in their turn or go onhacking—for them there was no compromise with life, they werelashed by the whip of self-preservation. There was Pat who had losther Arabella to the golden charms of Grigg and the Lido. Pat, who,originally hailing from Boston, still vaguely suggested a NewEngland schoolmarm. Pat, whose libido apart from the flesh, flowedinto entomological channels—one had to look twice to discernthat her ankles were too strong and too heavy for those of afemale.
There was Jamie, very much more pronounced; Jamie who had cometo Paris from the Highlands; a trifle unhinged because of the musicthat besieged her soul and fought for expression through her stiffand scholarly compositions. Loose-limbed, raw-boned andshortsighted she was; and since she could seldom afford newglasses, her eyes were red-rimmed and strained in expression, andshe poked her head badly, for ever peering. Her tow-coloured mopwas bobbed by her friend, the fringe being only too oftenuneven.
There was Wanda, the struggling Polish painter; dark for a Polewith her short, stiff black hair, and her dusky skin, and hercolourless lips; yet withal not unattractive, this Wanda. She hadwonderful eyes that held fire in their depths, hell-fire at times,if she had been drinking; but at other times a more gentle flame,although never one that it was safe to play with. Wanda sawlargely. All that she envisaged was immense: her pictures, herpassions, her remorses. She craved with a wellnigh insatiablecraving, she feared with a wellnigh intolerable terror—notthe devil, she was brave with him when in her cups, but God in theperson of Christ the Redeemer. Like a whipped cur she crawled tothe foot of the Cross, without courage, without faith, without hopeof mercy. Outraged by her body she must ruthlessly scourgeit—no good, the lust of the eye would betray her. Seeing shedesired and desiring she drank, seeking to drown one lust inanother. And then she would stand up before her tall easel, swayinga little but with hand always steady. The brandy went into herlegs, not her hands; her hands would remain disconcertingly steady.She would start some gigantic and heart-broken daub, struggling tolose herself in her picture, struggling to ease the ache of herpassion by smearing the placid white face of the canvas withungainly yet strangely arresting forms—according to Dupont,Wanda had genius. Neither eating nor sleeping she would grow verythin, so that everybody would know what had happened. They had seenit before, oh, but many times, and therefore for them the tragedywas lessened.
'Wanda's off again!' someone might say with a grin. 'She wastight this morning; who is it this time?'
But Valérie, who hated drink like the plague, would growangry; outraged she would feel by this Wanda.
There was Hortense, Comtesse de Kerguelen; dignified andreserved, a very great lady, of a calm and rather old-fashionedbeauty. When Valérie introduced her to Stephen, Stephenquite suddenly thought of Morton. And yet she had left all forValérie Seymour; husband, children and home had she left;facing scandal, opprobrium, persecution. Greater than all thesemost vital things had been this woman's love for ValérieSeymour. An enigma she seemed, much in need of explaining. And nowin the place of that outlawed love had come friendship; they wereclose friends, these one-time lovers.
There was Margaret Roland, the poetess, a woman whose work wasalive with talent. The staunchest of allies, the most fickle oflovers, she seemed likely enough to end up in a workhouse, with hergenerous financial apologies which at moments made pretty largeholes in her savings. It was almost impossible not to like her,since her only fault lay in being too earnest; every fresh loveaffair was the last while it lasted, though of course this was aptto be rather misleading. A costly business in money and tears; shegenuinely suffered in heart as in pocket. There was nothingarresting in Margaret's appearance, sometimes she dressed well,sometimes she dressed badly, according to the influence of themoment. But she always wore ultra feminine shoes, and frequentlybought model gowns when in Paris: One might have said quite awomanly woman, unless the trained ear had been rendered suspiciousby her voice which had something peculiar about it. It was like aboy's voice on the verge of breaking.
And then there was Brockett with his soft white hands; andseveral others there were, very like him. There was also AdolpheBlanc, the designer—a master of colour whose primitive tintshad practically revolutionized taste, bringing back to the eye thejoy of the simple. Blanc stood in a little niche by himself, whichat times must surely have been very lonely. A quiet, tawny man withthe eyes of the Hebrew, in his youth he had been very deeplyafflicted. He had spent his days going from doctor to doctor: 'Whatam I?' They had told him, pocketing their fees; not a few hadunctuously set out to cure him. Cure him, good God! There was nocure for Blanc, he was, of all men the most normal abnormal. He hadknown revolt, renouncing his God; he had known despair, the despairof the godless; he had known wild moments of dissipation; he hadknown long months of acute self-abasement. And then he had suddenlyfound his soul, and that finding had brought with it resignation,so that now he could stand in a niche by himself, a pitifulspectator of what, to him, often seemed a bewildering scheme ofcreation. For a living he designed many beautifulthings—furniture, costumes and scenery for ballets, evenwomen's gowns if the mood was upon him, but this he did for aphysical living. To keep life in his desolate, long-suffering soul,he had stored his mind with much profound learning. So now manypoor devils went to him for advice, which he never refused thoughhe gave it sadly. It was always the same: 'Do the best you can, noman can do more—but never stop fighting. For us there is nosin so great as despair, and perhaps no virtue so vital ascourage.' Yes, indeed, to this gentle and learned Jew went many apoor baptized Christian devil.
And such people frequented Valérie Seymour's, men andwomen who must carry God's mark on their foreheads. ForValérie, placid and self-assured, created an atmosphere ofcourage, everyone felt very normal and brave when they gatheredtogether at Valérie Seymour's. There she was, this charmingand cultured woman, a kind of lighthouse in a storm-swept ocean.The waves had lashed round her feet in vain; winds had howled;clouds had spewed forth their hail and their lightning; torrentshad deluged but had not destroyed her. The storms, gathering force,broke and drifted away, leaving behind them the shipwrecked, thedrowning. But when they looked up, the poor spluttering victims,why what should they see but Valérie Seymour! Then a fewwould strike boldly out for the shore, at the sight of thisindestructible creature.
She did nothing, and at all times said very little, feeling nourge towards philanthropy. But this much she gave to her brethren,the freedom of her salon, the protection of her friendship; if iteased them to come to her monthly gatherings they were alwayswelcome provided they were sober. Drink and drugs she abhorredbecause they were ugly—one drank tea, iced coffee sirops andorangeade in that celebrated flat on the Quai Voltaire.
Oh, yes, a very strange company indeed if one analysed it forthis or that stigma. Why, the grades were so numerous and so finethat they often defied the most careful observation. The timbre ofa voice, the build of an ankle, the texture of a hand, a movement,a gesture—since few were as pronounced as Stephen Gordon,unless it were Wanda, the Polish painter. She, poor soul, neverknew how to dress for the best. If she dressed like a woman shelooked like a man, if she dressed like a man she looked like awoman!
2
And their love affairs, how strange, how bewildering—howdifficult to classify degrees of attraction. For not always wouldthey attract their own kind, very often they attracted quiteordinary people. Thus Pat's Arabella had suddenly married, havingwearied of Grigg as of her predecessor. Rumour had it that she wasnow blatantly happy at the prospect of shortly becoming a mother.And then there was Jamie's friend Barbara, a wisp of a girl veryfaithful and loving, but all woman as far as one could detect, witha woman's clinging dependence on Jamie.
These two had been lovers from the days of their childhood, fromthe days when away in their Highland village the stronger child hadprotected the weaker at school or at play with their boisterouscompanions. They had grown up together like two wind-swept saplingson their bleak Scottish hill-side so starved of sunshine. Forwarmth and protection they had leaned to each other, until with thespring, at the time of mating, their branches had quietlyintertwined. That was how it had been, the entwinings of saplings,very simple, and to them very dear, having nothing mysterious orstrange about it except inasmuch as all love is mysterious.
To themselves they had seemed like the other lovers for whomdawns were brighter and twilights more tender. Hand in hand theyhad strolled down the village street, pausing to listen to thepiper at evening. And something in that sorrowful, outlandish musicwould arouse the musical soul in Jamie, so that great chords wouldsurge up through her brain, very different indeed from the wails ofthe piper, yet born of the same mystic Highland nature.
Happy days; happy evenings when the glow of the summer lingeredfor hours above the grim hills, lingered on long after theflickering lamps had been lit in the cottage windows of Beedles.The piper would at last decide to go home, but they two wouldwander away to the moorland, there to lie down for a space side byside among the short, springy turf and the heather.
Children they had been, having small skill in words, or in life,or in love itself for that matter. Barbara, fragile and barelynineteen; the angular Jamie not yet quite twenty. They had talkedbecause words will ease the full spirit; talked in abrupt, rathershy broken phrases. They had loved because love had come naturallyto them up there on the soft, springy turf and the heather. Butafter a while their dreams had been shattered for such dreams astheirs had seemed strange to the village. Daft, the folk hadthought them, mouthing round by themselves for hours, like a coupleof lovers.
Barbara's grand-dame, an austere old woman with whom she hadlived since her earliest childhood—Barbara's grand-dame hadmistrusted this friendship. 'I dinna richtly unnerstan' it,' shehad frowned; 'her and that Jamie's unto throng. It's no richt forlass-bairns, an' it's no proaper!'
And since she spoke with authority, having for years been thevillage post-mistress, her neighbours had wagged their heads andagreed 'It's no richt; ye hae said it, Mrs. MacDonald!'
The gossip had reached the minister, Jamie's white-haired andgentle old father. He had looked at the girl with bewilderedeyes—he had always been bewildered by his daughter. A poorhousewife she was, and very untidy; if she cooked she mucked up thepots and the kitchen, and her hands were strangely unskilled withthe needle; this he knew, since his heels suffered much from herdarning. Remembering her mother he had shaken his head and sighedmany times as he looked at Jamie. For her mother had been a soft,timorous woman, and he himself was very retiring, but their Jamieloved striding over the hills in the teeth of a gale, an uncouth,boyish creature. As a child she had gone rabbit stalking withferrets; had ridden a neighbour's farm-horse astride on a sack,without stirrup, saddle or bridle; had done all manner ofoutlandish things. And he, poor lonely, bewildered man, stillmourning his wife, had been no match for her.
Yet even as a child she had sat at the piano and picked outlittle tunes of her own inventing. He had done his best; she hadbeen taught to play by Miss Morrison of the next-door village,since music alone seemed able to tame her. And as Jamie had grownso her tunes had grown with her, gathering purpose and strengthwith her body. She would improvise for hours on the winterevenings, if Barbara would sit in their parlour and listen. He hadalways made Barbara welcome at the manse; they had been soinseparable, those two, since childhood—and now? He hadfrowned, remembering the gossip.
Rather timidly he had spoken to Jamie. 'Listen, my dear, whenyou're always together, the lads don't get a chance to comecourting, and Barbara's grandmother wants the lass married. Let herwalk with a lad on Sabbath afternoons—there's that youngMacGregor, he's a fine, steady fellow, and they say he's in lovewith the little lass...
Jamie had stared at him, scowling darkly. 'She doesn't want towalk out with MacGregor!'
The minister had shaken his head yet again. In the hands of hischild he was utterly helpless.
Then Jamie had gone to Inverness in order the better to studymusic, but every week-end she had spent at the manse, there hadbeen no real break in her friendship with Barbara; indeed they hadseemed more devoted than ever, no doubt because of these forcedseparations. Two years later the minister had suddenly died,leaving his little all to Jamie. She had had to turn out of theold, grey manse, and had taken a room in the village near Barbara.But antagonism, no longer restrained through respect for the gentleand childlike pastor, had made itself very acutelyfelt—hostile they had been, those good people, to Jamie.
Barbara had wept. 'Jamie, let's go away...they hate us. Let's gowhere nobody knows us. I'm twenty-one now, I can go where I like,they can't stop me. Take me away from them, Jamie!' Miserable,angry, and sorely bewildered, Jamie had put her arm round the girl.Where can I take you, you poor little creature? You're not strong,and I'm terribly poor, remember.'
But Barbara had continued to plead. 'I'll work, I'll scrubfloors, I'll do anything, Jamie, only let's get away where nobodyknows us!' So Jamie had turned to her music master in Inverness,and had begged him to help her. What could she do to earn herliving? And because this man believed in her talent, he had helpedher with advice and a small loan of money, urging her to go toParis and study to complete her training in composition.
'You're really too good for me,' he had told her; 'and out thereyou could live considerably cheaper. For one thing the exchangewould be in your favour. I'll write to the head of theConservatoire this evening.'
That had been shortly after the Armistice, and now here theywere together in Paris.
As for Pat, she collected her moths and her beetles, and whenfate was propitious an occasional woman. But fate was so seldompropitious to Pat—Arabella had put this down to the beetles.Poor Pat, having recently grown rather gloomy, had taken to quotingAmerican history, speaking darkly of blood-tracks left in the snowby what she had christened 'The miserable army.' Then, too, sheseemed haunted by General Custer, that gallant and very unfortunatehero. 'It's Custer's last ride, all the time,' she would say. 'Nogood talking, the whole darned world's out to scalp us!'
As for Margaret Roland, she was never attracted to anyone youngand whole-hearted and free—she was, in fact, a congenitalpoacher. While as for Wanda, her loves were so varied that no rulecould be discovered by which to judge them. She loved wildly,without either chart or compass. A rudderless barque it was,Wanda's emotion, beaten now this way, now that, by the gale veeringfirst to the normal, then to the abnormal; a thing of torn sailsand stricken masts, that never came within sight of a harbour.
3
These, then, were the people to whom Stephen turned at last inher fear of isolation for Mary; to her own kind she turned and wasmade very welcome, for no bond is more binding than that ofaffliction. But her vision stretched beyond to the day when happierfolk would also accept her, and through her this girl for whosehappiness she and she alone would have to answer; to the day whenthrough sheer force of tireless endeavour she would have built thatharbour of refuge for Mary.
So now they were launched upon the stream that flows silent anddeep through all great cities, gliding on between precipitousborders, away and away into no-man's-land—the most desolatecountry in all creation. Yet when they got home they felt nomisgivings, even Stephen's doubts had been drugged for the moment,since just at first this curious stream will possess the balm ofthe waters of Lethe.
She said to Mary: 'It was quite a good party; don't you thinkso?'
And Mary answered naively: 'I loved it because they were so niceto you. Brockett told me they think you're the coming writer. Hesaid you were Valérie Seymour's lion; I was bursting withpride—it made me so happy!'
For answer, Stephen stooped down and kissed her.
1
By February Stephen's book was rewritten and in the hands of herpublisher in England. This gave her the peaceful, yet exhilaratedfeeling that comes when a writer has given of his best and knowsthat that best is not unworthy. With a sigh of relief shemetaphorically stretched, rubbed her eyes and started to look abouther. She was in the mood that comes as a reaction from strain, andglad enough of amusement; moreover the spring was again in the air,the year had turned, there were sudden bright days when the sunbrought a few hours of warmth to Paris.
They were now no longer devoid of friends, no longer solelydependent upon Brockett on the one hand, and Mademoiselle Duphot onthe other; Stephen's telephone would ring pretty often. There wasnow always somewhere for Mary to go; always people who were anxiousto see her and Stephen, people with whom one got intimate quicklyand was thus saved a lot of unnecessary trouble. Of them all,however, it was Barbara and Jamie for whom Mary developed a realaffection; she and Barbara had formed a harmless alliance which attimes was even a little pathetic. The one talking of Jamie, theother of Stephen, they would put their young heads together verygravely. 'Do you find Jamie goes off her food when she's working?''Do you find that Stephen sleeps badly? Is she careless of herhealth? Jamie's awfully worrying sometimes.'
Or perhaps they would be in a more flippant mood and would sitand whisper together, laughing; making tender fun of the creaturesthey loved, as women have been much inclined to do ever since thatrib was demanded of Adam. Then Jamie and Stephen would pretend tofeel aggrieved, would pretend that they also must hang together,must be on their guard against feminine intrigues. Oh, yes, thewhole business was rather pathetic.
Jamie and her Barbara were starvation-poor, so poor that asquare meal came as a godsend. Stephen would feel ashamed to berich, and, like Mary, was always anxious to feed them. Being idleat the moment Stephen would insist upon frequently taking them outto dinner, and then she would order expensiveviands—copper-green oysters straight from the Marennes,caviare and other such costly things, to be followed by even moresumptuous dishes—and since they went short on most days inthe week, these stomachic debauches would frequently upset them.Two glasses of wine would cause Jamie to flush, for her head hadnever been of the strongest, nor was it accustomed to such goldennectar. Her principal beverage was creme-de-menthe because it keptout the cold in the winter, and because, being pepperminty andsweet, it reminded her of the bulls-eyes at Beedles.
They were not very easy to help, these two, for Jamie,pride-galled, was exceedingly touchy. She would never accept giftsof money or clothes, and was struggling to pay off the debt to hermaster. Even food gave offence unless it was shared by the donors,which though very praiseworthy was foolish. However, there it was,one just had to take her or leave her, there was no compromisingwith Jamie.
After dinner they would drift back to Jamie's abode, a studio inthe old Rue Visconti. They would climb innumerable dirty stonestairs to the top of what had once been a fine house but was nowlet off to such poor rats as Jamie. The concierge, an unsympatheticwoman, long soured by the empty pockets of students, would peer outat them from her dark ground-floor kennel, with sceptical eyes.
'Bon soir, Madame Lambert.'
'Bon soir, mesdames,' she would growl impolitely.
Jamie's studio was large, bare and swept by draughts. The stovewas too small and at times it smelt vilely. The distempered greywalls were a mass of stains, for whenever it hailed or rained orsnowed the windows and skylight would always start dripping. Thefurniture consisted of a few shaky chairs, a table, a divan and ahired grand piano. Nearly everyone seated themselves on the floor,robbing the divan of its moth-eaten cushions. From the studio thereled off a tiny room with an eye-shaped window that would not open.In this room had been placed a narrow camp-bed to which Jamieretired when she felt extra sleepless. For the rest, there was asink with a leaky tap; a cupboard in which they keptcreme-de-menthe, what remnants of food they possessed at themoment, Jamie's carpet-slippers and blue jean jacket—minuswhich she could never compose a note—and the pail, cloths andbrushes with which Barbara endeavoured to keep down theaccumulating dirt and confusion. For Jamie with her tow-colouredhead in the clouds, was not only short-sighted but intenselyuntidy. Dust meant little to her since she seldom saw it, whileneatness was completely left out of her make-up; considering howlimited were her possessions, the chaos they produced was trulyamazing. Barbara would sigh and would quite often scold—whenshe scolded she reminded one of a wren who was struggling todiscipline a large cuckoo.
'Jamie, your dirty shirt, give it to me—leaving it thereon the piano, whatever!' Or, 'Jamie, come here and look at yourhair-brush; if you haven't gone and put it next-door to thebutter!'
Then Jamie would peer with her strained, red-rimmed eyes andwould grumble: 'Oh, leave me in peace, do, lassie!'
And when Barbara laughed, as she must do quite often at theoutrageous habits of the great loose-limbed creature, why thenthese days she would usually cough, and when Barbara started tocough she coughed badly. They had seen a doctor who had spokenabout lungs and had shaken his head; not strong, he had told them.But neither of them had quite understood, for their French hadremained very embryonic, and they could not afford the smartEnglish doctor. All the same when Barbara coughed Jamie sweated,and her fear would produce an acute irritation.
'Here, drink this water! Don't sit there doing nothing but rackyourself to bits, it gets on my nerves. Go and order another bottleof that mixture. God, how can I work if you will go on coughing!'She would slouch co the piano and play mighty chords, pressing downthe loud pedal to drown that coughing. But when it had subsided shewould feel deep remorse. 'Oh, Barbara, you're solittle—forgive me. It's all my fault for bringing you outhere, you're not strong enough for this damnable life, you don'tget the right food, or anything proper.'
In the end it would be Barbara who must console. 'We'll be richsome day when you've finished your opera—anyhow my coughisn't dangerous, Jamie.'
Sometimes Jamie's music would go all wrong, the opera wouldblankly refuse to get written. At the Conservatoire she would bevery stupid, and when she got home she would be very silent,pushing her supper away with a frown, because coming upstairs shehad heard that cough. Then Barbara would fed even more tired andweak than before, but would hide he, weakness from Jamie. Aftersupper they would undress in front of the stove if the weather wascold, would undress without speaking. Barbara could get out of herclothes quite neatly in no time, but Jamie must always dawdle,dropping first this then that on the floor, or pausing to fill herlittle black pipe and to light it before putting on herpyjamas.
Barbara would fall on her knees by the divan and would start tosay prayers like a child, very simply. 'Our Father,' she would say,and other prayers too, which always ended in: 'Please God, blessJamie.' For believing in Jamie she must needs believe in God, andbecause she loved Jamie she must love God also—it had longbeen like this, ever since they were children. But sometimes shewould shiver in her prim cotton nightgown, so that Jamie, grownanxious, would speak to her sharply:
'Oh, stop praying, do. You and all your prayers! Are you daft tokneel there when the room's fairly freezing? That's how you catchcold; now tonight you'll cough!'
But Barbara would not so much as turn round; she would calmlyand earnestly go on with her praying. Her neck would look thinagainst the thick plait which hung neatly down between her bentshoulders; and the hands that covered her face would lookthin—thin and transparent like the hands of a consumptive.Fuming inwardly, Jamie would stump off to bed in the tiny room withits eye-shaped window, and there she herself must mutter a prayer,especially if she heard Barbara coughing.
At times Jamie gave way to deep depression, hating the beautifulcity of her exile. Homesick unto death she would suddenly feel forthe dour little Highland village of Beedles. More even than for itsdull bricks and mortar would she long for its dull and respectablespirit, for the sense of security common to Sabbaths, for the kirkwith its dull and respectable people. She would think with atenderness bred by forced absence of the greengrocer's shop thatstood on the corner, where they sold, side by side with cabbagesand onions, little neatly tied bunches of Scottish heather, littleearthenware jars of opaque heather honey. She would think of thevast, stretching, windy moorlands; of the smell of the soil afterrain in summer; of the piper with his weather-stained, agilefingers, of the wail of his sorrowful, outlandish music; of Barbaraas she had been in the days when they strolled side by side downthe narrow high street. And then she would sit with her head in herhands, hating the sound and the smell of Paris, hating thesceptical eyes of the concierge, hating the bare and unhomelystudio. Tears would well up from heaven alone knew what abyss ofhalf-understood desolation, and would go splashing down upon hertweed skirt, or trickling back along her red wrists until they hadwetted her frayed flannel wrist-bands. Coming home with theirevening meal in a bag, this was how Barbara must sometimes findher.
2
Jamie was not always so full of desolation; there were days whenshe seemed to be in excellent spirits, and on one such occasion sherang Stephen up, asking her to bring Mary round after dinner.Everyone was coming, Wanda and Pat, Brockett, and evenValérie Seymour; for she, Jamie, had persuaded a couple ofnegroes who were studying at the Conservatoire to come in and singfor them that evening—they had promised to sing NegroSpirituals, old slavery songs of the Southern plantations. Theywere very nice negroes, their name was Jones—Lincoln andHenry Jones, they were brothers. Lincoln and Jamie had become greatfriends; he was very interested in her opera. And Wanda would bringher mandolin—but the evening would be spoilt without Mary andStephen.
Mary promptly put on her hat; she must go and order them in somesupper. As she and Stephen would be there to share it, Jamie'ssensitive pride would be appeased. She would send them a very greatdeal of food so that they could go on eating and eating.
Stephen nodded: 'Yes, send them in tons of supper!'
3
At ten o'clock they arrived at the studio; at ten-thirty Wandacame in with Brockett, then Blanc together with ValérieSeymour, then Pat wearing serviceable goloshes over her house shoesbecause it was raining, then three or four fellow students ofJamie's, and, finally the two negro brothers.
They were very unlike each other, these negroes; Lincoln, theelder, was paler in colour. He was short and inclined to be ratherthick-set with a heavy but intellectual face—a strong face,much lined for a man of thirty. His eyes had the patient,questioning expression common to the eyes of most animals and tothose of all slowly evolving races. He shook hands very quietlywith Stephen and Mary. Henry was tall and as black as a coal, afine upstanding, but coarse-lipped young negro, with a rovingglance and a self-assured manner.
He remarked: Glad to meet you, Miss Gordon—MissLlewellyn,' and plumped himself down at Mary's side, where hestarted to make conversation, too glibly.
Valérie Seymour was soon talking to Lincoln with afriendliness that put him at his ease—just A first he hadseemed a little self-conscious. But Pat was much more reserved inher manner, having hailed from abolitionist Boston.
Wanda said abruptly: 'Can I have a drink, Jamie!' Brockettpoured her out a stiff brandy and soda.
Adolphe Blanc sat on the floor hugging his knees; and presentlyDupont the sculptor strolled in—being minus his mistress hemigrated to Stephen.
Then Lincoln seated himself at the piano, touching the keys withfirm, expert fingers, while Henry stood beside him very straightand long and lifted up his voice which was velvet smooth, yet asdear and insistent as the call of a clarion:
'Deep river, my home is over Jordan.
Deep river—Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground,
Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground,
Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground,
Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground...
And all the hope of the utterly hopeless of this world, who mustlive by their ultimate salvation, all the terrible, aching,homesick hope that is born of the infinite pain of the spirit,seemed to break from this man and shake those who listened, so thatthey sat with bent heads and clasped hands—they who were alsoamong the hopeless sat with bent heads and clasped hands as theylistened...Even Valérie Seymour forgot to be pagan.
He was not an exemplary young negro; indeed he could be thereverse very often. A crude animal Henry could be at times, with ataste for liquor and a lust for women—just a primitive forcerendered dangerous by drink, rendered offensive by civilization.Yet as he sang his sins seemed to drop from him, leaving him pure,unashamed, triumphant. He sang to his God, to the God of his soul.Who would some day blot out all the sins of the world, and makevast reparation for every injustice: 'My home is over Jordan, Lord,I want to cross over into camp ground.'
Lincoln's deep bass voice kept up a low sobbing. From time totime only did he break into words; but as he played on he rockedhis body: 'Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground. Lord, Iwant to cross over into camp ground.'
Once started they seemed unable to stop; carried away they wereby their music, drunk with that desperate hope of thehopeless—far drunker than Henry would get on neat whisky.They went from one spiritual into another, while their listenerssat motionless, scarcely breathing. While Jamie's eyes ached fromunshed tears quite as much as from her unsuitable glasses; whileAdolphe Blanc, the gentle, the learned, grasped his knees andpondered many things deeply; while Pat remembered her Arabella andfound but small consolation in beetles; while Brockett thought ofcertain brave deeds that he, even he had done out inMespot—deeds that were not recorded in dispatches, unless inthose of the recording angel; while Wanda evolved an enormouscanvas depicting the wrongs of all mankind; while Stephen suddenlyfound Mary's hand and held it in hers with a painful pressure;while Barbara's tired and childish brown eyes turned to rest ratheranxiously on her Jamie. Not one of them all but was stirred to thedepths by that queer, half defiant, half supplicating music.
And now there rang out a kind of challenge; imperious, loud,almost terrifying. They sang it together, those two black brethren,and their voices suggested a multitude of shouting. They seemed tobe shouting a challenge to the world on behalf of themselves and ofall the afflicted:
'Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel,
Daniel, Daniel!
Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel,
Then why not every man?'
The eternal question, as yet unanswered for those who sat therespellbound and listened...'Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel, then whynot every man?'
Why not?...Yes, but how long, O Lord, how long?
Lincoln got up from the piano abruptly, and he made a small bowwhich seemed strangely foolish, murmuring some stilted words ofthanks on behalf of himself and his brother Henry: 'We are greatlyobliged to you for your patience; we trust that we have satisfiedyou,' he murmured.
It was over. They were just two men with black skins andforeheads beaded with perspiration. Henry sidled away to thewhisky, while Lincoln rubbed his pinkish palms on an elegant whitesilk handkerchief. Everyone started to talk at once, to lightcigarettes, to move about the studio.
Jamie said: 'Come on, people, it's time for supper,' and sheswallowed a small glass of creme-de-menthe; but Wanda pouredherself out some more brandy.
Quite suddenly they had all become merry, laughing at nothing,teasing each other; even Valérie unbent more than was herwont and did not look bored when Brockett chaffed her. The air grewheavy and stinging with smoke; the stove went out, but theyscarcely noticed.
Henry Jones lost his head and pinched Pat's bony shoulder, thenhe rolled his eyes: 'Oh, boy! What a gang! Say, folks, aren't wehaving the hell of an evening? When any of you folk decide to comeover to my little old New York, why, I'll show you around. Someburg!' and he gulped a large mouthful of whisky.
After supper Jamie played the overture to her opera, and theyloudly applauded the rather dull music—so scholarly, so dry,so painfully stiff, so utterly inexpressive of Jamie. Then Wandaproduced her mandolin and insisted upon singing them Polish lovesongs; this she did in a heavy contralto voice which was rendereddistinctly unstable by brandy. She handled the tinkling instrumentwith skill, evolving some quite respectable chords, but her eyeswere fierce as was also her touch, so that presently a wire snappedwith a ping, which appeared completely to upset her balance. Shefell back and lay sprawled out upon the floor to be hauled up againby Dupont and Brockett.
Barbara had one of her bad fits of coughing: 'It's nothing...'she gasped, 'I swallowed the wrong way; don't fuss,Jamie...darling...I tell you it's...nothing.'
Jamie, flushed already, drank more creme-de-menthe. This timeshe poured it into a tumbler, tossing it off with a dash of soda.But Adolphe Blanc looked at Barbara gravely.
The party did not disperse until morning; not until four o'clockcould they decide to go home. Everybody had stayed to the very lastmoment, everybody, that is, except Valérie Seymour—shehad left immediately after supper. Brockett, as usual, wascynically sober, but Jamie was blinking her eyes like an owl, whilePat stumbled over her own goloshes. As for Henry Jones, he startedto sing at the top of his lungs in a high falsetto:
'Oh, my, help, help, ain't I nobody's baby?
Oh, my, what a shame, I ain't nobody's baby.'
Shut your noise, you poor mutt!' commanded his brother, butHenry still continued to bawl: 'Oh, my, what a shame, I ain'tnobody's baby.'
They left Wanda asleep on a heap of cushions—she wouldprobably not wake up before midday.
1
Stephen's book, which made its appearance that May, met with avery sensational success in England and in the United States, aneven more marked success thanThe Furrow. Its sales wereunexpectedly large considering its outstanding literary merit; thecritics of two countries were loud in their praises, and oldphotographs of Stephen could be seen in the papers, together withvery flattering captions. In a word, she woke up in Paris onemorning to find herself, for the moment, quite famous.
Valérie, Brockett, indeed all her friends werewhole-hearted in their congratulations; and David's tail kept up agreat wagging. He knew well that something pleasant had happened:the whole atmosphere of the house was enough to inform a sagaciousperson like David. Even Mary's little bright-coloured birds seemedto take a firmer hold on existence; while out in the garden therewas much ado on the part of the proudly parentalpigeons—fledglings with huge heads and bleary eyes hadarrived to contribute to the general celebration. Adèle wentsinging about her work, for Jean had recently been promisedpromotion, which meant that his savings, perhaps in a year, mighthave grown large enough for them to marry.
Pierre bragged to his friend, the neighbouring baker, anentStephen's great eminence as a writer, and even Pauline cheered up alittle.
When Mary impressively ordered the meals, ordered this or thatdelicacy for Stephen, Pauline would actually say with a smile:'Mail oui, un grand genie doit nourrir le cerveau!'
Mademoiselle Duphot gained a passing importance in the eyes ofher pupils through having taught Stephen. She would nod her headand remark very wisely: 'I always declare she become a greatauthor.' Then because she was truthful she would hastily add: 'Imean that I knowed she was someone unusual.'
Buisson admitted that perhaps, after all, it was well thatStephen had stuck to her writing. The book had been bought fortranslation into French, a fact which had deeply impressed MonsieurBuisson.
From Puddle came a long and triumphant letter: 'What did I tellyou? I knew you'd do it!...
Anna also wrote at some length to her daughter. And wonder ofwonders, from Violet Peacock there arrived an embarrassinglygushing epistle. She would look Stephen up when next she was inParis; she was longing, so she said, to renew their oldfriendship—after all, they two had been childrentogether.
Gazing at Mary with very bright eyes, Stephen's thoughts mustrush forward into the future. Puddle had been right, it was workthat counted—clever, hard-headed, understanding oldPuddle!
Then putting an arm round Mary's shoulder: 'Nothing shall everhurt you,' she would promise, feeling wonderfully self-sufficientand strong, wonderfully capable of protecting.
2
That summer they drove into Italy with David sitting up proudlybeside Burton. David barked at the peasants and challenged the dogsand generally assumed a grand air of importance. They decided tospend two months on Lake Como, and went to the Hotel Florence atBellagio. The hotel gardens ran down to the lake—it was allvery sunny and soothing and peaceful. Their days were passed inmaking excursions, their evenings in drifting about on the water ina little boat with a gaily striped awning, which latter seemed astrange form of pleasure to David. Many of the guests at theFlorence were English, and not a few scraped an acquaintance withStephen, since nothing appears to succeed like success in a worldthat is principally made up of failure. The sight of her book leftabout in the lounge, or being devoured by some engrossed reader,would make Stephen feel almost childishly happy; she would pointthe phenomenon out to Mary.
'Look,' she would whisper, 'that man's reading my book!' For thechild is never far to seek in the author.
Some of their acquaintances were country folk and she found thatshe was in sympathy with them. Their quiet and painstaking outlookon life, their love of the soil, their care for their homes, theirtraditions were after all a part of herself, bequeathed to her bythe founders of Morton. It gave her a very deep sense of pleasureto see Mary accepted and made to feel welcome by these grey-hairedwomen and gentlemanly men; very seemly and fitting it appeared toStephen.
And now, since to each of us come moments of respite when themind refuses to face its problems, she resolutely thrust aside hermisgivings, those misgivings that whispered: 'Supposing theyknew—do you think they'd be so friendly to Mary?'
Of all those who sought them out that summer, the most cordialwere Lady Massey and her daughter. Lady Massey was a delicateelderly woman who, in spite of poor health and encroaching years,was untiring in her search for amusement—it amused her tomake friends with celebrated people. She was restless,self-indulgent and not over sincere, a creature of whims andephemeral fancies; yet for Stephen and Mary she appeared to evincea liking which was more than just on the surface. She would askthem up to her sitting-room, would want them to sit with her in thegarden, and would sometimes insist upon communal meals, invitingthem to dine at her table. Agnes, the daughter, a jolly, red-hairedgirl, had taken an immediate fancy to Mary, and their friendshipripened with celerity, as is often the way during idle summers. Asfor Lady Massey she petted Mary, and mothered her as though shewere a child, and soon she was mothering Stephen also.
She would say: 'I seem to have found two new children,' andStephen, who was in the mood to feel touched, grew quite attachedto this ageing woman. Agnes was engaged to a Colonel Fitzmauricewho would probably join them that autumn in Paris. If he did sothey must all forgather at once, she insisted—he greatlyadmired Stephen's book and had written that he was longing to meether. But Lady Massey went further than this in her enthusiasticproffers of friendship—Stephen and Mary must stay with her inCheshire; she was going to give a house party at Branscombe Courtfor Christmas; they must certainly come to her for Christmas.
Mary, who seemed elated at the prospect, was for ever discussingthis visit with Stephen: 'What sort of clothes shall I need, do youthink? Agnes says it's going to be quite a big party. I supposeI'll want a few new evening dresses?' And one day she inquired:'Stephen, when you were younger, did you ever go to Ascot orGoodwood?'
Ascot and Goodwood, just names to Stephen; names that she haddespised in her youth, yet which now seemed not devoid ofimportance since they stood for something beyondthemselves—something that ought to belong to Mary. She wouldpick up a copy ofThe Tatler orThe Sketch, whichLady Massey received from England, and turning the pages wouldstare at the pictures of securely established, self-satisfiedpeople—Miss this or that sitting on a shooting-stick, andbeside her the man she would shortly marry; Lady so-and-so with herlatest offspring; or perhaps some group at a country house. Andquite suddenly Stephen would feel less assured because in her heartshe must envy these people. Must envy these commonplace men andwomen with their rather ridiculous shooting-sticks; their smilingfiances; their husbands; their wives; their estates, and theirwell-cared-for, placid children.
Mary would sometimes look over her shoulder with a new andperhaps rather wistful interest. Then Stephen would close the paperabruptly: 'Let's go for a row on the lake,' she might say, 'it's nogood wasting this glorious evening.'
But then she would remember the invitation to spend Christmaswith Lady Massey in Cheshire, and would suddenly start to buildcastles in the air; supposing that she herself bought a small placenear Branscombe Court—near these kind new friends who seemedto have grown so fond of Mary? Mary would also have her thoughts,would be thinking of girls like Agnes Massey for whom life wastranquil, easy and secure; girls to whom the world must seemblessedly friendly. And then, with a little stab of pain, she wouldsuddenly remember her own exile from Morton. After such thoughts asthese she must hold Stephen's hand, must always sit very close toStephen.
3
That autumn they saw a good deal of the Masseys, who had takentheir usual suite at the Ritz, and who often asked Mary and Stephento luncheon. Lady Massey, Agnes and Colonel Fitzmaurice, a pleasantenough man, came and dined several times at the quiet old house inthe Rue Jacob, and those evenings were always exceedingly friendly,Stephen talking of books with Colonel Fitzmaurice, while LadyMassey enlarged upon Branscombe and her plans for the comingChristmas party. Sometimes Stephen and Mary sent flowers to theRitz, hot-house plants or a large box of special roses—LadyMassey liked to have her rooms full of flowers sent by friends, itincreased her sense of importance. By return would come lovingletters of thanks; she would write: 'I do thank my two very dearchildren.'
In November she and Agnes returned to England, but thefriendship was kept up by correspondence, for Lady Massey wasprolific with her pen, indeed she was never more happy than whenwriting. And now Mary bought the new evening dresses, and shedragged Stephen off to choose some new ties. As the visit toBranscombe Court drew near it was seldom out of their thoughts fora moment—to Stephen it appeared like the first fruits oftoil; to Mary like the gateway into an existence that must be verysafe and reassuring.
4
Stephen never knew what enemy had prepared the blow that wasstruck by Lady Massey. Perhaps it had been Colonel Fitzmaurice whomight all the time have been hiding his suspicions; he mustcertainly have known a good deal about Stephen—he had friendswho lived in the vicinity of Morton. Perhaps it had merely beenunkind gossip connected with Brockett or Valérie Seymour,with the people whom Mary and Stephen knew, although, as ithappened, Lady Massey had not met them. But after all, it matteredso little; what did it matter how the thing had come about? Bycomparison with the insult itself, its origin seemed veryunimportant.
It was in December that the letter arrived, just a week beforethey were leaving for England. A long, rambling, pitifully tactlessletter, full of awkward and deeply wounding excuses:
'If I hadn't grown so fond of you both,' wrote Lady Massey,'this would be much less painful—as it is the whole thing hasmade me quite ill, but I must consider my position in the county.You see, the county looks to me for a lead—above all I mustconsider my daughter. The rumours that have reached me about youand Mary—certain things that I don't want to enterinto—have simply forced me to break off our friendship and tosay that I must ask you not to come here for Christmas. Of course awoman of my position with all eyes upon her has to be extracareful. It's too terribly upsetting and sad for me; if I hadn'tbeen so fond of you both—but you know how attached I hadgrown to Mary...' and so it went on; a kind of wail full ofself-importance combined with self-pity.
As Stephen read she went white to the lips, and Mary sprang up.What's that letter you're reading?'
'It's from Lady Massey. It's about...it's about...' Her voicefailed.
Show it to me,' persisted Mary.
Stephen shook her head: No—I'd rather not.'
Then Mary asked: 'Is it about our visit?'
Stephen nodded: 'We're not going to spend Christmas atBranscombe. Darling, it's all right—don't look likethat...
'But I want to know why we're not going to Branscombe.' And Maryreached out and snatched the letter.
She read it through to the very last word, then she sat downabruptly and burst out crying. She cried with the long, dolefulsobs of a child whom someone has struck without rhyme or reason:Oh...and I thought they were fond of us...' she sobbed, 'I thoughtthat perhaps...they understood, Stephen.'
Then it seemed to Stephen that all the pain that had so far beenthrust upon her by existence, was as nothing to the unendurablepain which she must now bear to hear that sobbing, to see Mary thuswounded and utterly crushed, thus shamed and humbled for the sakeof her love, thus bereft of all dignity and protection.
She felt strangely helpless: 'Don't—don't,' she implored;while tears of pity blurred her own eyes and went trickling slowlydown her scarred face. She had lost for the moment all sense ofproportion, of perspective, seeing in a vain, tactless woman a kindof gigantic destroying angel; a kind of scourge laid upon her andMary. Surely never before had Lady Massey loomed so large as shedid in that hour to Stephen.
Mary's sobs gradually died away. She lay back in her chair, asmall, desolate figure, catching her breath from time to time,until Stephen went to her and found her hand which she stroked withcold and trembling fingers—but she could not find words ofconsolation.
5
That night Stephen took the girl roughly in her arms.
'I love you—I love you so much...' she stammered; and shekissed Mary many times on the mouth, but cruelly so that her kisseswere pain—the pain in her heart leapt out through her lips:'God! It's too terrible to love like this—it'shell—there are times when I can't endure it!'
She was in the grip of strong nervous excitation; nothing seemedable any more to appease her. She seemed to be striving toobliterate, not only herself, but the whole hostile world throughsome strange and agonized merging with Mary. It was terribleindeed, very like unto death, and it left them both completelyexhausted.
The world had achieved its first real victory.
1
Their Christmas was naturally overshadowed, and so, as it wereby a common impulse, they turned to such people as Barbara andJamie, people who would neither despise nor insult them. It wasMary who suggested that Barbara and Jamie should be asked to sharetheir Christmas dinner, while Stephen who must suddenly pity Wandafor a misjudged and very unfortunate genius, invited heralso—after all why note Wanda was more sinned against thansinning. She drank, oh, yes, Wanda drowned her sorrows; everybodyknew that, and like Valérie Seymour, Stephen hated drinklike the plague—but all the same she invited Wanda.
An ill wind it is that blows no one any good. Barbara and Jamieaccepted with rapture; but for Mary's most timely invitation, theirfunds being low at the end of the year, they two must have gonewithout Christmas dinner. Wanda also seemed glad enough to come, toleave her enormous, turbulent canvas for the orderly peace of thewell-warmed house with its comfortable rooms and its friendlyservants. All three of them arrived a good hour before dinner,which on this occasion would be in the evening.
Wanda had been up to Midnight Mass at the Sacré Coeur,she informed them gravely; and Stephen, reminded of MademoiselleDuphot, regretted that she had not offered her the motor. No doubtshe too had gone up to Montmartre for Midnight Mass—howqueer, she and Wanda. Wanda was quiet, depressed and quite sober;she was wearing a straight-cut, simple black dress that somehowsuggested a species of cassock. And as often happened when Wandawas sober, she repeated herself more than when she was drunk.
'I have been to the Sacré Coeur,' she repeated, 'for theMesse de Minuit; it was very lovely.'
But she did not reveal the tragic fact that her fear hadsuddenly laid hold upon her at the moment of approaching the altarrails, so that she had scuttled back to her seat, terrified ofreceiving the Christmas Communion. Even a painfully detailedconfession of intemperance, of the lusts of the eyes and the mind,of the very occasional sins of the body; even the absolutionaccorded by a white-haired old priest who had spoken gently andpitifully to his penitent, directing her prayers to the SacredHeart from which his own heart had derived itscompassion—even these things failed to give Wanda couragewhen it came to the Christmas Communion. And now as she sat atStephen's table she ate little and drank but three glasses of wine;nor did she ask for a cognac brandy when later they went to thestudy for coffee, but must talk of the mighty temple of her faiththat watched day and night, night and day over Paris.
She said in her very perfect English: 'Is it not a great thingthat France has done? From every town and village in France hascome money to build that church at Montmartre. Many people havepurchased the stones of the church, and their names are carved onthose stones for ever. I am very much too hard up to dothat—and yet I would like to own a small stone. I would justsay: "From Wanda," because of course one need not bother about thesurname; mine is so long and so difficult to spell—yes, Iwould ask them to say: "From Wanda."'
Jamie and Barbara listened politely, yet without sympathy andwithout comprehension; while Mary must even smile a little at whatseemed to her like mere superstition. But Stephen's imagination wastouched, and she questioned Wanda about her religion. Then Wandaturned grateful eyes upon Stephen and suddenly wanted to win herfriendship—she looked so reassuring and cairn sitting therein her peaceful, book-lined study. A great writer she was, did noteveryone say so? And yet she was surely even as Wanda...Oh, butStephen had got the better of her fate, had wrestled with her fateso that now it must serve her; that was fine, that was surely truecourage, true greatness! For that Christmas none save Mary mightknow of the bitterness that was in Stephen's heart, least of allthe impulsive, erratic Wanda.
Wanda needed no second invitation to talk, and very soon hereyes were aglow with the fire of the born religious fanatic as shetold of the little town in Poland, with its churches, its bellsthat were always chiming—the Mass bells beginning at earlydawn, the Angelus bells, the Vesper bells—always calling,calling, they were, said Wanda. Through the years of persecutionand strife, of wars and the endless rumours of wars that hadravaged her most unhappy country, her people had clung to theirancient faith like true children of Mother Church, said Wanda. Sheherself had three brothers, and all of them priests; her parentshad been pious people, they were both dead now, had been dead forsome years; and Wanda signed her breast with the Cross, havingregard for the souls of her parents. Then she tried to explain themeaning of her faith, but this she did exceedingly badly, findingthat words are not always easy when they must encompass the thingsof the spirit, the things that she herself knew by instinct; andthen, too, these days her brain was not clear, thanks to brandy,even when she was quite sober. The details of her coming to Parisshe omitted, but Stephen thought she could easily guess them, forWanda declared with a curious pride that her brothers were men ofstone and of iron. Saints they all were, according to Wanda,uncompromising, fierce and relentless, seeing only the straight andnarrow path on each side of which yawned the fiery chasm.
'I was not as they were, ah, no!' she declared, 'Nor was I as myfather and mother; I was—I was...' She stopped speakingabruptly, gazing at Stephen with her burning eyes which said quiteplainly: 'You know what I was, you understand.' And Stephen nodded,divining the reason of Wanda's exile.
But suddenly Mary began to grow restless, putting an end to thisdissertation by starting the large, new gramophone which Stephenhad given her for Christmas. The gramophone blared out the latestfoxtrot, and jumping up, Barbara and Jamie started dancing, whileStephen and Wanda moved chairs and tables, rolled back rugs andexplained to the barking David that he could not join in, butmight, if he chose, sit and watch them dance from the divan. ThenWanda slipped an arm around Mary and they glided off; anincongruous couple, the one clad as sombrely as any priest, theother in her soft evening dress of blue chiffon. Mary lay gentlyagainst Wanda's arm, and she seemed to Stephen a very perfectdancer—lighting a cigarette, she watched them. The danceover, Mary put on a new record; she was flushed and her eyes wereconsiderably brighter.
'Why did you never tell met' Stephen murmured.
'Tell you what?'
'Why, that you danced so well.'
Mary hesitated, then she murmured back: 'You didn't dance, sowhat was the good?'
'Wanda, you must teach me to foxtrot,' smiled Stephen.
Jamie was blundering round the room with Barbara clasped to heruntidy bosom; then she and Barbara started to sing the harmless,but foolish words of the foxtrot—if the servants were singingtheir old Breton hymns along in the kitchen, no one troubled tolisten. Growing hilarious, Jamie sang louder spinning with Barbara,gyrating wildly, until Barbara, between laughing and coughing, mustimplore her to stop, must beg for mercy.
Wanda said: 'You might have a lesson now, Stephen.'
Putting her hands on Stephen's shoulders, she began to explainthe more simple steps, which did not appear at all hard to Stephen.The music seemed to have got into her feet so that her feet mustfollow its rhythm. She discovered to her own very great amazementthat she liked this less formal modern dancing, and after a whileshe was clasping Mary quite firmly, and they moved away togetherwhile Wanda stood calling out her instructions:
'Take much longer steps! Keep your kneesstraight—straighter! Don't get so much to theside—look, it's this way—hold her this way; alwaysstand square to your partner.'
The lesson went on for a good two hours, until even Mary seemedsomewhat exhausted. She suddenly rang the bell for Pierre, whoappeared with the tray of simple supper. Then Mary did an unusualthing—she poured herself out a whisky and soda.
'I'm tired,' she explained rather fretfully in answer toStephen's look of surprise; and she frowned as she turned her backabruptly. But Wanda shied away from the brandy as a frightenedhorse will shy from fire; she drank two large glasses oflemonade—an extremist she was in all things, this Wanda.Quite soon she announced that she must go home to bed, because ofher latest picture which required every ounce of strength she hadin her; but before she went she said eagerly to Stephen:
'Do let me show you the Sacré Coeur. You have seen it ofcourse, but only as a tourist; that is not really seeing it at all,you must come there with me.'
'All right,' agreed Stephen.
When Jamie and Barbara had departed in their turn, Stephen tookMary into her arms: 'Dearest...has it been a fairly nice Christmasafter all?' she inquired almost timidly.
Mary kissed her: 'Of course it's been a nice Christmas.' Thenher youthful face suddenly changed in expression, the grey eyesgrowing hard, the mouth resentful: 'Damn that woman for what she'sdone to us, Stephen—the insolence of it! But I've learnt mylesson; we've got plenty of friends without Lady Massey and Agnes,friends to whom we're not moral lepers.' And she laughed, a queer,little joyless laugh.
Stephen flinched, remembering Brockett's warning.
2
Wanda's chastened and temperate mood persisted for severalweeks, and while it was on her she clung like a drowning man toStephen, haunting the house from morning until night, dreading tobe alone for a moment. It cannot be said that Stephen suffered hergladly, for now with the New Year she was working hard on a seriesof articles and short stories; unwilling to visualize defeat, shebegan once again to sharpen her weapon. But something in Wanda'spoor efforts to keep sober, in her very dependence, was deeplyappealing, so that Stephen would put aside her work, feeling loathto desert the unfortunate creature.
Several times they made a long pilgrimage on foot to the churchof the Sacré Coeur; just they two, for Mary would never gowith them; she was prejudiced against Wanda's religion. They wouldclimb the steep streets with their flights of steps, grey streets,grey steps leading up from the city. Wanda's eyes would always befixed on their goal—pilgrim eyes they would often seem toStephen. Arrived at the church she and Wanda would stand lookingdown between the tall, massive columns of the porch, on a Paris ofdomes and mists, only half revealed by the fitful sunshine. The airwould seem pure up there on the height, pure and tenuous as a thingof the spirit. And something in that mighty temple of faith, thatamazing thrust towards the sublime, that silent yet articulate cryof a nation to its God, would awaken a response in Stephen, so thatshe would seem to be brushing the hem of an age-old and ratherterrible mystery—the eternal mystery of good and evil.
Inside the church would be brooding shadows, save where the widelakes of amber fire spread out from the endless votive candles.Above the high altar the monstranced Host would gleam curiouslywhite in the light of the candles. The sound of praying,monotonous, low, insistent, would come from those who prayed withextended arms, with crucified arms, all day and all night for thesins of Paris.
Wanda would make her way to the statue of the silver Christ withone hand on His heart, and the other held out in supplication.Kneeling down she would sign herself with His Cross, then cover hereyes and forget about Stephen. Standing quietly behind her Stephenwould wonder what Wanda was saying to the silver Christ, what thesilver Christ was saying to Wanda. She would think that He lookedvery weary, this Christ Who must listen to so many supplications.Queer, unbidden thoughts came to her at such moments; this Man Whowas God, a God Who waited, could He answer the riddle of Wanda'sexistence, of her own existence? If she asked, could He answer?What if she were suddenly to cry out loudly: 'Look at us, we aretwo yet we stand for many. Our name is legion and we also arewaiting, we also are tired, oh, but terribly tired...Will You giveus some hope of ultimate release? Will You tell us the secret ofour salvation?'
Wanda would rise from her prayers rather stiffly to purchase acouple of votive candles, and when she had stuck them into thesconce she would touch the foot of the silver Christ as she badeHim farewell—a time-honoured custom. Then she and Stephenmight turn again to the lake of fire that flowed round themonstrance.
But one morning when they arrived at the church, the monstrancewas not above the high altar. The altar had just been garnished andswept, so the Host was still in the Lady Chapel. And while theystood there and gazed at the Host, came a priest and with him agrey-haired server; they would bear their God back again to Hishome, to the costly shrine of His endless vigil. The server mustfirst light his little lantern suspended from a pole, and must thengrasp his bell. The priest must lift his Lord from the monstranceand lay Him upon a silken cover, and carry Him as a man carries achild—protectively, gently, yet strongly withal, as thoughsome frustrated paternal instinct were finding in this a divineexpression. The lantern swung rhythmically to and fro, the bellrang out its imperative warning; then the careful priest followedafter the server who cleared his path to the great high altar. Andeven as once very long ago, such a bell had been the herald ofdeath in the putrefying hand of the leper: 'Unclean! Unclean!'death and putrefaction—the warning bell in the dreadful handthat might never again know the clasp of the healthful—so nowthe bell rang out the approach of supreme purity, of the Healer oflepers, earthbound through compassion; but compassion so vast, sourgent, that the small, white disc of the Host must contain thewhole suffering universe. Thus the Prisoner of love Who could neverbreak free while one spiritual leper remained to be healed, passedby on His patient way, heavy-laden.
Wanda suddenly fell to her knees, striking her lean andunfruitful breast, for as always she very shamefully feared, andher fear was a bitter and most deadly insult. With downcast eyesand trembling hands she cowered at the sight of her own salvation.But Stephen stood upright and curiously still, staring into theempty Lady Chapel.
1
That spring they made their first real acquaintance with thegarish and tragic night life of Paris that lies open to such peopleas Stephen Gordon.
Until now they had never gone out much at night except tooccasional studio parties, or occasional cafés of the mildersort for a cup of coffee with Barbara and Jamie; but that springMary seemed fanatically eager to proclaim her allegiance to Pat'smiserable army. Deprived of the social intercourse which to herwould have been both natural and welcome, she now strove to standup to a hostile world by proving that she could get on without it.The spirit of adventure that had taken her to France, the pluckthat had steadied her while in the Unit, the emotional, hot-headednature of the Celt, these things must now work together in Mary toproduce a state of great restlessness, a pitiful revolt againstlife's injustice. The blow struck by a weak and thoughtless handhad been even more deadly than Stephen had imagined; more deadly tothem both, for that glancing blow coming at a time of apparentsuccess, had torn from them every shred of illusion.
Stephen, who could see that the girl was fretting, would beseized with a kind of sick apprehension, a sick misery at her ownpowerlessness to provide a more normal and complete existence. Somany innocent recreations, so many harmless social pleasures mustMary forego for the sake of their union—and she still young,still well under thirty. And now Stephen came face to face with thegulf that lies between warning and realization—all herpainful warnings anent the world had not served to lessen the blowwhen it fell, had not served to make it more tolerable to Mary.Deeply humiliated Stephen would fed, when she thought of Mary'sexile from Morton, when she thought of the insults this girl mustendure because of her loyalty and her faith—all that Mary waslosing that belonged to her youth, would rise up at this time toaccuse and scourge Stephen. Her courage would flicker like a lampin the wind, and would all but go out; she would feel lesssteadfast, less capable of continuing the war, that ceaseless warfor the right to existence. Then the pen would slip from hernerveless fingers, no longer a sharp and purposeful weapon. Yes,that spring saw a weakening in Stephen herself—she felttired, and sometimes very old for her age, in spite of her vigorousmind and body.
Calling Mary, she would need to be reassured; and one day sheasked her: 'How much do you love me?'
Mary answered: So much that I'm growing to hate...' Bitter wordsto hear on such young lips as Mary's.
And now there were days when Stephen herself would long for somepalliative, some distraction; when her erstwhile success seemedlike Dead Sea fruit, her will to succeed a grotesque presumption.Who was she to stand out against the whole world, against thoseruthless, pursuing millions bent upon the destruction of her andher kind? And she but one poor, inadequate creature. She wouldstart to pace up and down her study; up and down, up and down, amost desolate pacing; even as years ago her father had paced hisquiet study at Morton. Then those treacherous nerves of hers wouldbetray her, so that when Mary came in with David—he a littledepressed, sensing something amiss—she would often turn onthe girl and speak sharply.
'Where on earth have you been e'
Only out for a walk. I walked round to Jamie's, Barbara's notwell; I sent her in a few tins of Brand's jelly.'
'You've no right to go off without letting me know where you'regoing—I've told you before I won't have it!' Her voice wouldbe harsh, and Mary would flush, unaware of those nerves that werestrained to breaking.
As though grasping at something that remained secure, they wouldgo to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, but less often than theyhad done in the past, for a feeling of guilt would come uponStephen. Looking at the gentle and foal-like face with its innocenteyes behind the strong glasses, she would think: 'We're here underfalse pretences. If she knew what we were, she'd have none of us,either. Brockett was right, we should stick to our kind.' So theywent less and less to see Mademoiselle Duphot.
Mademoiselle said with mild resignation: 'It is natural for nowour Stévenne is famous. Why should she waste her time uponus? I am more than content to have been her teacher.'
But the sightless Julie shook her head sadly: 'It is not likethat; you mistake, my sister. I can feel a great desolation inStévenne—and some of the youngness has gone from Mary.What can it be? My fingers grow blind when I ask them the cause ofthat desolation.'
'I will pray for them both to the Sacred Heart which comprehendsall things,' said Mademoiselle Duphot.
And indeed her own heart would have tried tounderstand—but Stephen had grown very bitterlymistrustful.
And so now, in good earnest they turned to their kind, for asPuddle had truly divined in the past, it is 'like to like' for suchpeople as Stephen. Thus when Pat walked in unexpectedly one day toinvite them to join a party that night at the Ideal Bar, Stephendid not oppose Mary's prompt and all too eager acceptance.
Pat said they were going to do the round. Wanda was coming andprobably Brockett. Dickie West the American aviator was in Paris,and she also had promised to join them. Oh, yes, and then there wasValérie Seymour—Valérie was being dug out ofher hole by Jeanne Maurel, her most recent conquest. Pat supposedthat Valérie would drink lemon squash and generally act as adouche of cold water, she was sure to grow sleepy or disapproving,she was no acquisition to this sort of party. But could they relyupon Stephen's car? In the cold, grey dawn of the morning after,taxis were sometimes scarce up at Montmartre. Stephen nodded,thinking how absurdly prim Pat looked to be talking of cold, greydawns and all that they stood for up at Montmartre. After she hadleft, Stephen frowned a little.
2
The five women were seated at a table near the door when Maryand Stephen eventually joined them. Pat, looking gloomy, wassipping light beer. Wanda, with the fires of hell in her eyes, inthe hell of a temper too, drank brandy. She had started to drinkpretty heavily again, and had therefore been avoiding Stephen justlately. There were only two new faces at the table, that of JeanneMaurel, and of Dickie West, the much-discussed woman aviator.
Dickie was short, plump and very young; she could not have beenmore than twenty-one and she still looked considerably undertwenty. She was wearing a little dark blue beret; round her neckwas knotted an Apache scarf—for the rest she was dressed in aneat serge suit with a very well cut double-breasted jacket. Herface was honest, her teeth rather large, her lips chapped and herskin much weather-beaten. She looked like a pleasant andnice-minded schoolboy well soaped and scrubbed for some galaoccasion. When she spoke her voice was a little too hearty. Shebelonged to the younger, and therefore more reckless, moreaggressive and self-assured generation; a generation that wasmarching to battle with much swagger, much sounding of drums andtrumpets, a generation that had come after war to wage a new war ona hostile creation. Being mentally very well clothed and well shod,they had as yet left no blood-stained foot-prints; they werehopeful as yet, refusing point-blank to believe in the existence ofa miserable army. They said: 'We are as we are; what about it, Wedon't care a damn, in fact we're delighted!' And being what theywere they must go to extremes, must quite often outdo men in theirsinning; yet the sins that they had were the sins of youth, thesins of defiance born of oppression. But Dickie was in no wayexceptionally vile—she lived her life much as a man wouldhave lived it. And her heart was so loyal, so trustful, so kindthat it caused her much shame and much secret blushing. Generous asa lover, she was even more so when there could not be any questionof loving. Like the horseleech's daughter, her friends cried:'Give! Give!' and Dickie gave lavishly, asking no questions. Anappeal never left her completely unmoved, and suspecting this, mostpeople went on appealing. She drank wine in moderation, smokedCamel cigarettes till her fingers were brown, and admired stagebeauties. Her greatest defect was practical joking of the kind thatpasses all seemly limits. Her jokes were dangerous, even cruel attimes—in her jokes Dickie quite lacked imagination.
Jeanne Maurel was tall, almost as tall as Stephen. An elegantperson wearing pearls round her throat above a low cut white satinwaistcoat. She was faultlessly tailed and faultlessly barbered; herdark, severe Eton crop fitted neatly. Her profile was Greek, hereyes a bright blue—altogether a very arresting young woman.So far she had had quite a busy life doing nothing in particularand everything in general. But now she was Valérie Seymour'slover, attaining at last to a certain distinction.
And Valérie was sitting there calm and aloof, her glanceroving casually round the café, not too critically, yet asthough she would say: 'Enfin, the whole world has grown very ugly,but no doubt to some people this represents pleasure.'
From the stained bar counter at the end of the room came thesound of Monsieur Pujol's loud laughter. Monsieur Pujol was affableto his clients, oh, but very, indeed he was almost paternal. Yetnothing escaped his cold, black eyes—a great expert he was inhis way, Monsieur Pujol. There are many collections that a man mayindulge in; old china, glass, pictures, watches and bibelots; rareeditions, tapestries, priceless jewels. Monsieur Pujol snapped hisfingers at such things, they lacked life—Monsieur Pujolcollected inverts. Amazingly morbid of Monsieur Pujol, and he withthe face of an ageing dragoon, and he just married en secondesnotes, and already with six legitimate children. A fine, purposefulsire he had been and still was, with his young wife shortlyexpecting a baby. Oh, yes, the most aggressively normal of men, asnone knew better than the poor Madame Pujol. Yet behind the bar wasa small, stuffy sanctum in which this strange man catalogued hiscollection. The walls of the sanctum were thickly hung with signedphotographs, and a good few sketches. At the back of each frame wasa neat little number corresponding to that in a locked leathernotebook—it had long been his custom to write up his notesbefore going home with the milk in the morning. People saw theirown faces but not their numbers—no client suspected thatlocked leather notebook.
To this room would come Monsieur Pujol's old cronies for a bockor a petit verre before business; and sometimes, like many anothercollector, Monsieur Pujol would permit himself to grow prosy. Hisfriends knew most of the pictures by heart; knew their historiestoo, almost as well as he did; but in spite of this fact he wouldweary his guests by repeating many a threadbare story.
'A fine lot, n'est-ce pas?' he would say with a grin. 'See thatman e Ah, yes—a really great poet. He drank himself to death.In those days it was absinthe—they liked it because it gavethem courage. That one would come here like a scared white rat, butCrénom! when he left he would bellow like a bull—theabsinthe, of course—it gave them great courage.' Or: 'Thatwoman over there, what a curious head! I remember her very well,she was German. Else Weining, her name was—before the war shewould come here with a girl she'd picked up here in Paris, just acommon whore, a most curious business. They were deeply in love.They would sit at a table in the corner—I can show you theiractual table. They never talked much and they drank very little; asfar as the drink went those two were bad clients, but sointeresting that I did not much mind—I grew almost attachedto Else Weining. Sometimes she would come all alone, come early."Pu," she would say in her hideous French; "Pu, she must never goback to that hell." Hell! Sacrénom—she to call ithell! Amazing they are, I tell you, these people. Well, the girlwent back, naturally she went back, and Else drowned herself in theSrine. Amazing they are—ces invertis, I tell you!'
But not all the histories were so tragic as this one; MonsieurPujol found some of them quite amusing. Quarrels galore he was ableto relate, and light infidelities by the dozen. He would mimic amanner of speech, a gesture, a walk—he was really quite agood mimic—and when he did this his friends were not bored;they would sit there and split their sides with amusement.
And now Monsieur Pujol was laughing himself, cracking jokes ashe covertly watched his clients. From where she and Mary sat nearthe door, Stephen could hear his loud, jovial laughter.
'Lord,' sighed Pat, unenlivened as yet by the beer; 'some peopledo seem to feel real good this evening.'
Wanda, who disliked the ingratiating Pujol, and whose nerveswere on edge, had begun to grow angry. She had caught aparticularly gross blasphemy, gross even for this age of stupidblaspheming. 'Le salaud!' she shouted, then, inflamed by drink, anepithet even less complimentary.
'Hush up, do!' exclaimed the scandalized Pat, hastily grippingWanda's shoulder.
But Wanda was out to defend her faith, and she did it insomewhat peculiar language.
People had begun to turn round and stare; Wanda was causingquite a diversion. Dickie grinned and skilfully egged her on, notperceiving the tragedy that was Wanda. For in spite of her tenderand generous heart, Dickie was still but a crude young creature,one who had not yet learnt how to shiver and shake, and had thusremained but a crude young creature. Stephen glanced anxiously atMary, half deciding to break up this turbulent party; but Mary wassitting with her chin on her hand, quite unruffled, it seemed, byWanda's outburst. When her eyes met Stephen's she actually smiled,then took the cigarette that Jeanne Maurel was offering; andsomething in this placid, self-assured indifference went so illwith her youth that it startled Stephen. She in her turn mustquickly light a cigarette, while Pat still endeavoured to silenceWanda.
Valérie said with her enigmatic smile: 'Shall we now goon to our next entertainment?'
They paid the bill and persuaded Wanda to postpone her abuse ofthe ingratiating Pujol. Stephen took one arm, Dickie West theother, and between them they coaxed her into the motor; after whichthey all managed to squeeze themselves in—that is, all exceptDickie, who sat by the driver in order to guide the innocentBurton.
3
At Le Narcisse they surprised what at first appeared to be themost prosaic of family parties. It was late, yet the mean room wasempty of clients, for Le Narcisse seldom opened its eyes untilmidnight had chimed from the church docks of Paris. Seated at atable with a red and white cloth were the Patron and a lady with acourtesy tide. 'Madame,' she was called. And with them was a girl,and a handsome young man with severely plucked eyebrows. Theirrelationship to each other was...well...all the same, theysuggested a family party. As Stephen pushed open the shabby swingdoor, they were placidly engaged upon playing belote.
The walls of the room were hung with mirrors thickly paintedwith cupids, thickly sullied by flies. A faint blend of odours waswafted from the kitchen which stood in proximity to the toilet. Thehost rose at once and shook hands with his guests. Every bar hadits social customs, it seemed. At the Ideal one must share MonsieurPujol's lewd jokes; at Le Narcisse one must gravely shake handswith the Patron.
The Patron was tall and exceedingly thin—a clean-shavenman with the mouth of an ascetic. His cheeks were delicately tintedwith rouge, his eyelids delicately shaded with kohl; but the eyesthemselves were an infantile blue, reproachful and rather surprisedin expression.
For the good of the house, Dickie ordered champagne; it was warmand sweet and unpleasantly heady. Only Jeanne and Mary and Dickieherself had the courage to sample this curious beverage. Wandastuck to her brandy and Pat to her beer, while Stephen drankcoffee; but Valérie Seymour caused some confusion by gentlyinsisting on a lemon squash—to be made with fresh lemons.Presently the guests began to arrive in couples. Having seatedthemselves at the tables, they quickly became oblivious to theworld, what with the sickly champagne and each other. From a hiddenrecess there emerged a woman with a basket full of protestingroses. The stout vendeuse wore a wide wedding ring—for wasshe not a most virtuous persona But her glance was both calculatingand shrewd as she pounced upon the more obvious couples; andStephen watching her progress through the room, felt suddenlyashamed on behalf of the roses. And now at a nod from the hostthere was music; and now at a bray from the band there was dancing.Dickie and Wanda opened the ball—Dickie stodgy and firm,Wanda rather unsteady. Others followed. Then Mary leant over thetable and whispered:
'Won't you dance with me, Stephen?'
Stephen hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she got upabruptly and danced with Mary.
The handsome young man with the tortured eyebrows was bowingpolitely before Valérie Seymour. Refused by her, he passedon to Pat, and to Jeanne's great amusement was promptlyaccepted.
Brockett arrived and sat down at the table. He was in his mostprying and cynical humour. He watched Stephen with coldly observanteyes, watched Dickie guiding the swaying Wanda, watched Pat in thearms of the handsome young man, watched the whole bumping, jostlingcrowd of dancers.
The blended odours were becoming more active. Brockett lit acigarette. 'Well, Valérie, darling? You look like anoutraged Elgin marble. Be kind, dear, be kind; you must live andlet live, this is life...' And he waved his soft, white hands.'Observe it—it's very wonderful, darling. This is life, love,defiance, emancipation!'
Said Valérie with her calm little smile: 'I think Ipreferred it when we were all martyrs!'
The dancers drifted back to their seats and Brockett manoeuvredto sit beside Stephen. 'You and Mary dance well together,' hemurmured. 'Are you happy? Are you enjoying yourselves?'
Stephen, who hated this inquisitive mood, this mood that wouldfeed upon her emotions, turned away as she answered him, rathercoldly: 'Yes, thanks—we're not having at all a badevening.'
And now the Patron was standing by their table; bowing slightlyto Brockett he started singing. His voice was a high and sweetbaritone; his song was of love that must end too soon, of life thatin death is redeemed by ending. An extraordinary song to hear insuch a place—melancholy and very sentimental. Some of thecouples had tears in their eyes—tears that had probablysprung from champagne quite as much as from that melancholysinging. Brockett ordered a fresh bottle to console the Patron.Then he waved him away with a gesture of impatience.
There ensued more dancing, more ordering of drinks, moredalliance by the amorous couples. The Patron's mood changed, andnow he must sing songs of the lowest boites in Paris. As he sang heskipped like a performing dog, grimacing, beating time with hishands, conducting the chorus that rose from the tables.
Brockett sighed as he shrugged his shoulders in disgust, andonce again Stephen glanced at Mary; but Mary, she saw, had notunderstood that song with its inexcusable meaning. Valériewas talking to Jeanne Maurel, talking about her villa at St.Tropez; talking of the garden, the sea, the sky, the design she haddrawn for a green marble fountain. Stephen could hear her charmingvoice, so cultured, so cool—itself cool as a fountain; andshe marvelled at this woman's perfect poise, the genius shepossessed for complete detachment; Valérie had closed herears to that song, and not only her ears but her mind andspirit.
The place was becoming intolerably hot, the room tooover-crowded for dancing. Lids drooped, mouths sagged, heads layupon shoulders—there was kissing, much kissing at a table inthe corner. The air was foetid with drink and all the rest;unbreathable it appeared to Stephen. Dickie yawned an enormousuncovered yawn; she was still young enough to feel rather sleepy.But Wanda was being seduced by her eyes, the lust of the eye washeavy upon her, so that Pat must shake a lugubrious head and beginto murmur anent General Custer.
Brockett got up and paid the bill; he was sulky, it seemed,because Stephen had snubbed him. He had not spoken for quite halfan hour, and refused point-blank to accompany them further. 'I'mgoing home to my bed, thanks—good morning,' he said crossly,as they crowded into the motor.
They drove to a couple more bars, but at these they remained foronly a few minutes. Dickie said they were dull and Jeanne Maurelagreed—she suggested that they should go on to Alec's.
Valérie lifted an eyebrow and groaned. She was terriblybored, she was terribly hungry. 'I do wish I could get some coldchicken,' she murmured.
4
As long as she lived Stephen never forgot her first impressionsof the bar known as Alec's—that meeting-place of the mostmiserable of all those who comprised the miserable army. Thatmerciless, drug-dealing, death-dealing haunt to which flocked thebattered remnants of men whom their fellow-men had at last stampedunder; who, despised of the world, must despise themselves beyondall hope, it seemed, of salvation. There they sat, closely herdedtogether at the tables, creatures shabby yet tawdry, timid yetdefiant—and their eyes, Stephen never forgot their eyes,those haunted, tormented eyes of the invert.
Of all ages, all degrees of despondency, all grades of mentaland physical ill-being, they must yet laugh shrilly from time totime, must yet tap their feet to the rhythm of music, must yetdance together in response to the band—and that dance seemedthe Dance of Death to Stephen. On more than one hand was a large,ornate ring, on more than one wrist a conspicuous bracelet; theywore jewellery that might only be worn by these men when they thusgathered together. At Alec's they could dare to give way to suchtastes—what was left of themselves they became at Alec's.
Bereft of all social dignity, of all social charts contrived forman's guidance, of the fellowship that by right divine shouldbelong to each breathing, living creature; abhorred, spat upon,from their earliest days the prey to a ceaseless persecution, theywere now even lower than their enemies knew, and more hopeless thanthe veriest dregs of creation. For since all that to many of themhad seemed fine, a fine selfless and at times even noble emotion,had been covered with shame, called unholy and vile, so graduallythey themselves had sunk down to the level upon which the worldplaced their emotions. And looking with abhorrence upon these men,drink-sodden, doped as were only too many, Stephen yet felt thatsome terrifying thing stalked abroad in that unhappy room atAlec's; terrifying because if there were a God His anger must riseat such vast injustice. More pitiful even than her lot was theirs,and because of them mighty should be the world's reckoning.
Alec the tempter, the vendor of dreams, the dispenser ofillusions whiter than snow; Alec, who sold little packets ofcocaine for large bundles of notes, was now opening wine, with asmile and a flourish, at the next-door table.
He set down the bottle: 'Et voilà, mes filles!'
Stephen looked at the men; they seemed quite complacent.
Against the wall sat a bald, flabby man whose fingers crept overan amber chaplet. His lips moved; God alone knew to whom he prayed,and God alone knew what prayers he was praying—horrible hewas, sitting there all alone with that infamous chaplet between hisfingers.
The band struck up a one-step. Dickie still danced, but withPat, for Wanda was now beyond dancing. But Stephen would not dance,not among these men, and she laid a restraining hand upon Mary.Despite her sense of their terrible affliction, she could not dancein this place with Mary.
A youth passed with a friend and the couple were blocked by thepress of dancers in front of her table. He bent forward, thisyouth, until his face was almost on a level with Stephen's—agrey, drug-marred face with a mouth that trembled incessantly.
'Ma soeur,' he whispered.
For a moment she wanted to strike that face with her naked fist,to obliterate it. Then all of a sudden she perceived the eyes andthe memory came of a hapless creature, distracted, bleeding frombursting lungs, hopelessly pursued, glancing this way, then that,as though looking for something, some refuge, some hope—andthe thought: 'It's looking for God who made it.'
Stephen shivered and stared at her tightly clenched hands; thenails whitened her flesh. 'Mon frère,' she muttered.
And now someone was making his way through the crowd, a quiet,tawny man with the eyes of the Hebrew; Adolphe Blanc, the gentleand learned Jew, sat down in Dickie's seat beside Stephen. And hepatted her knee as though she were young, very young and in greatneed of consolation.
'I have seen you for quite a long time, Miss Gordon. I've beensitting just over there by the window.' Then he greeted the others,but the greeting over he appeared to forget their very existence;he had come, it seemed, only to talk to Stephen.
He said: 'This place—these poor men, they have shockedyou. I've been watching you in between the dances. They areterrible, Miss Gordon, because they are those who have fallen buthave not risen again—there is surely no sin so great forthem, so unpardonable as the sin of despair; yet as surely you andI can forgive...
She was silent, not knowing what she should answer.
But he went on, in no way deterred by her silence. He spokesoftly, as though for her ears alone, and yet as a man might speakwhen consumed by the flame of some urgent and desperate mission. 'Iam glad that you have come to this place, because those who havecourage have also a duty.'
She nodded without comprehending his meaning.
'Yes, I am glad that you have come here,' he repeated. 'In thislittle room, tonight, every night, there is so much misery, so muchdespair, that the walls seem almost too narrow to containit—many have grown callous, many have grown vile, but thesethings in themselves are despair, Miss Gordon. Yet outside thereare happy people who sleep the sleep of the so-called just andrighteous. When they wake it will be to persecute those who,through no fault of their own, have been set apart from the day oftheir birth, deprived of all sympathy, all understanding. They arethoughtless, these happy people who sleep—and who is there tomake them think, Miss Gordon?'
'They can read,' she stammered, 'there are many books...'
But he shook his head. 'Do you think they are students? Ah, butno, they will not read medical books; what do such people care forthe doctors? And what doctor can know the entire truth? Many timesthey meet only the neurasthenics, those of us for whom life hasproved too bitter. They are good, these doctors—some of themvery good; they work hard trying to solve our problem, but half thetime they must work in the dark—the whole truth is known onlyto the normal invert. The doctors cannot make the ignorant think,cannot hope to bring home the sufferings of millions; only one ofourselves can some day do that...It will need great courage but itwill be done, because all things must work toward ultimate good;there is no real wastage and no destruction.' He lit a cigaretteand stared thoughtfully at her for a moment or two. Then he touchedher hand. 'Do you comprehend? There is no destruction.'
She said: 'When one comes to a place like this, one feelshorribly sad and humiliated. One feels that the odds are tooheavily against any real success, any real achievement. Where somany have failed who can hope to succeed? Perhaps this is theend.'
Adolphe Blanc met her eyes. 'You are wrong, verywrong—this is only the beginning. Many die, many kill theirbodies and souls, but they cannot kill the justice of God, eventhey cannot kill the eternal spirit. From their very degradationthat spirit will rise up to demand of the world compassion andjustice.'
Strange—this man was actually speaking her thoughts, yetagain she fell silent, unable to answer.
Dickie and Pat came back to the table, and Adolphe Blanc slippedquietly away; when Stephen glanced round his place was empty, norcould she perceive him crossing the room through the press and mazeof those terrible dancers.
5
Dickie went sound asleep in the car with her head against Pat'sinhospitable shoulder. When they got to her hotel she wriggled andstretched. 'Is it...is it time to get up?' she murmured.
Next came Valérie Seymour and Jeanne Maurel to be droppedat the flat on the Quai Voltaire; then Pat who lived a few streetsaway, and last but not least the drunken Wanda. Stephen had to lifther out of the car and then get her upstairs as best she could,assisted by Burton and followed by Mary. It took quite a long time,and arrived at the door, Stephen must hunt for a missinglatchkey.
'When they finally got home, Stephen sank into a chair. 'GoodLord, what a night—it was pretty awful.' She was filled withthe deep depression and disgust that are apt to result from suchexcursions.
But Mary pretended to a callousness that in truth she was veryfar from feeling, for life had not yet dulled her finer instincts;so far it had only aroused her anger. She yawned. 'Well, at leastwe could dance together without being thought freaks; there wassomething in that. Beggars can't be choosers in this world,Stephen!'
1
On a fine June day Adèle married her Jean in the churchof Notre-Dame-des-Victoires—the shrine of innumerable candlesand prayers, of the bountiful Virgin who bestows many graces. Fromearly dawn the quiet old house in the Rue Jacob had been in aflutter—Pauline preparing the déjeuner de noces,Pierre garnishing and sweeping their sitting-room, and both of thempausing from time to time to embrace the flushed cheeks of theirhappy daughter.
Stephen had given the wedding dress, the wedding breakfast and asum of money; Mary had given the bride her lace veil, her whitesatin shoes and her white silk stockings; David had given a largegilt clock, purchased for him in the Palais Royal; while Burton'spart was to drive the bride to the church, and the married pair tothe station.
By nine o'clock the whole street was agog, for Pauline andPierre were liked by their neighbours; and besides, as the bakerremarked to his wife, from so grand a house it would be a finebusiness.
'They are after all generous, these English,' said he; 'and ifMademoiselle Gordon is strange in appearance, one should not forgetthat she served la France and must now wear a scar as well asribbon.' Then remembering his four sons slain in the war, hesighed—sons are sons to a king or a baker.
David, growing excited, rushed up and downstairs with offers tohelp which nobody wanted, least of all the flustered and anxiousbride at the moment of putting on tight satin slippers.
'Va donc! Tu ne peux pas m'aider, mon chou, veux to to taire,alors!' implored Adèle.
In the end Mary had had to find collar and lead and tie David upto the desk in the study, where he brooded and sucked his whitesatin bow, deciding that only the four-legged were grateful. But atlong last Adèle was arrayed to be wed, and must show herselfshyly to Mary and Stephen. She looked very appealing with her goodhonest face; with her round, bright eyes like those of a blackbird.Stephen wished her well from the bottom of her heart, this girl whohad waited so long for her mate—had so patiently and sofaithfully waited.
2
In the church were a number of friends and relations; togetherwith those who will journey for miles in order to attend a funeralor wedding. Poor Jean looked his worst in a cheap dress suit, andStephen could smell the pomade on his hair; very greasy and warm itsmelt, although scented. But his hand was unsteady as he groped forthe ring, because he was feeling both proud and humble; because,loving much, he must love even more and conceive of himself asentirely unworthy. And something in that fumbling, unsteady hand,in that sleekly greased hair and those ill-fitting garments,touched Stephen, so that she longed to reassure, to tell him howgreat was the gift he offered—security, peace, and love withhonour.
The young priest gravely repeated the prayers—ancient,primitive prayers, yet softened through custom. In her mauve silkdress Pauline wept as she knelt; but Pierre's handkerchief wasspread out on the stool to preserve the knees of his new greytrousers. Next to Stephen were sitting Pauline's two brothers, onein uniform, the other retired and in mufti, but both wearing medalsupon their breasts and thus worthily representing the army. Thebaker was there with his wife and three daughters, and since thelatter were still unmarried, their eyes were more often fixed uponJean in his shoddy dress suit than upon their Missals. Thegreengrocer accompanied the lady whose chickens it was Pauline'shabit to prod on their breastbones; while the cobbler who mendedPierre's boots and shoes sat ogling the buxom and comely younglaundress.
The Mass drew to its close. The priest asked that a blessingmight be accomplished upon the couple; asked that these two mightlive to behold, not only their own but their children's children,even unto the third and fourth generation. Then he spoke of theirduty to God and to each other, and finally moistened their bowedyoung heads with a generous sprinkling of holy water. And so in thechurch of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires—that bountiful Virgin whobestows many graces—Jean and his Adèle were made oneflesh in the eyes of their church, in the eyes of their God, and asone might confront the world without flinching.
Ann in arm they passed out through the heavy swing doors andinto Stephen's waiting motor. Burton smiled above the white favourin his coat; the crowd, craning their necks, were also smiling.Arrived back at the house, Stephen, Mary and Burton must drink thehealth of the bride and bridegroom. Then Pierre thanked hisemployer for all she had done in giving his daughter so splendid awedding. But when that employer was no longer present, when Maryhad followed her into the study, the baker's wife lifted quizzicaleyebrows.
'Quel type! On dirait plutôt un homme; ce n'est pascelle-là qui trouvera un mari!'
The guests laughed. 'Mais oui, elle est joliment bizarre'; andthey started to make little jokes about Stephen.
Pierre flushed as he leaped to Stephen's defence. 'She is good,she is kind, and I greatly respect her and so does mywife—while as for our daughter, Adèle here has verymuch cause to be grateful. Moreover she gained the Croix de Guerrethrough serving our wounded men in the trenches.'
The baker nodded. 'You are quite right, myfriend—precisely what I myself said this morning.'
But Stephen's appearance was quickly forgotten in thejollification of so much fine feasting—a feasting for whichher money had paid, for which her thoughtfulness had provided.Jokes there were, but no longer directed at her—they wereharmless, well meant if slightly broad jokes made at the expense ofthe bashful bridegroom. Then before even Pauline had realized thetime, there was Burton strolling into the kitchen, and Adèlemust rush off to change her dress, while Jean must change also, butin the pantry.
Burton glanced at the clock. Faut dépêcher vous,'urry, if you're going to catch that chemin de fer,' he announcedas one having authority. 'It's a goodish way to the Guard deLions.'
3
That evening the old house seemed curiously thoughtful andcuriously sad after all the merry-making. David's second white bowhad come untied and was hanging in two limp ends from his collar.Pauline had gone to church to light candles; Pierre, together withPauline's niece who would take Adèle's place, was preparingdinner. And the sadness of the house flowed out like a stream tomingle itself with the sadness in Stephen. Adèle and Jean,the simplicity of it...they loved, they married, and after a whilethey would care for each other all over again, renewing their youthand their love in their children. So orderly, placid and safe itseemed, this social scheme evolved from creation; this guarding oftwo young and ardent lives for the sake of the lives that mightfollow after. A fruitful and peaceful road it must be. The sameroad had been taken by those founders of Morton who had raised upchildren from father to son, from father to son until the advent ofStephen; and their blood was her blood—what they had foundgood in their day seemed equally good to their descendant. Surelynever was outlaw more law-abiding at heart than this, the last ofthe Gordons.
So now a great sadness took hold upon her, because she perceivedboth dignity and beauty in the coming together of Adèle andJean, very simply and in accordance with custom. And this sadnessmingling with that of the house, widened into a flood thatcompassed Mary and through her David, and they both went and satvery close to Stephen on the study divan. As the twilight graduallymerged into dusk, these three must huddle even closertogether—David with his head upon Mary's lap, Mary with herhead against Stephen's shoulder.
1
Stephen ought to have gone to England that summer; at Mortonthere had been a change of agent, and once again certain questionshad arisen which required her careful personal attention. But timehad not softened Anna's attitude to Mary, and time had not lessenedStephen's exasperation—the more so as Mary no longer hid thebitterness that she felt at this treatment. So Stephen tackled thebusiness by writing a number of long and wearisome letters,unwilling to set foot again in the house where Mary Llewellyn wouldnot be welcome. But as always the thought of England wounded,bringing with it the old familiar longing—homesick she wouldfeel as she sat at her desk writing those wearisome businessletters. For even as Jamie must crave for the grey, wind-sweptstreet and the wind-swept uplands of Beedles, so Stephen must cravefor the curving hills, for the long green hedges and pastures ofMorton. Jamie openly wept when such moods were upon her, but theeasement of tears was denied to Stephen.
In August Jamie and Barbara joined them in a villa that Stephenhad taken at Houlgate. Mary hoped that the bathing would do Barbaragood; she was not at all well. Jamie worried about her. And indeedthe girl had grown very frail, so frail that the housework nowtried her sorely; when alone she must sit down and hold her sidefor the pain that was never mentioned to Jamie. Then too, all wasnot well between them these days; poverty, even hunger at times,the sense of being unwanted outcasts, the knowledge that the peopleto whom they belonged—good and honest people—bothabhorred and despised them, such things as these had proved verybad housemates for sensitive souls like Barbara and Jamie.
Large, helpless, untidy and intensely forlorn, Jamie wouldstruggle to finish her opera; but quite often these days she wouldtear up her work, knowing that what she had written was unworthy.When this happened she would sigh and peer round the studio,vaguely conscious that something was not as it had been, vaguelydistressed by the dirt of the place to which she herself had helpedto contribute—Jamie, who had never before noticed dirt, wouldfeel aggrieved by its noxious presence. Getting up she would wipethe keys of the piano with Barbara's one clean towel dipped inwater.
'Can't play,' she would grumble, 'these keys are all sticky.''Oh, Jamie—my towel—go and fetch the duster!'
The quarrel that ensued would start Barbara's cough, which inturn would start Jamie's nerves vibrating. Then compassion,together with unreasoning anger and a sudden uprush ofsex-frustration, would make her feel wellnigh besideherself—since owing to Barbara's failing health, these twocould be lovers now in name only. And this forced abstinence toldon Jamie's work as well as her nerves, destroying her music, forthose who maintain that the North is cold, might just as well tellus that hell is freezing. Yet she did her best, the poor uncouthcreature, to subjugate the love of the flesh to the pure and moreselfless love of the spirit—the flesh did not have it all itsown way with Jamie.
That summer she made a great effort to talk, to unburden herselfwhen alone with Stephen; and Stephen tried hard to console andadvise, while knowing that she could help very little. All heroffers of money to ease the strain were refused pointblank,sometimes almost with rudeness—she felt very anxious indeedabout Jamie.
Mary in her turn was deeply concerned; her affection for Barbarahad never wavered, and she sat for long hours in the garden withthe girl who seemed too weak to bathe, and whom walkingexhausted.
'Let us help,' she pleaded, stroking Barbara's thin hand, 'afterall, we're much better off than you are. Aren't you two likeourselves? Then why mayn't we help?'
Barbara slowly shook her head: 'I'm all right—please don'ttalk about money to Jamie.'
But Mary could see that she was far from all tight; the warmweather was proving of little avail, even care and good food andsunshine and rest seemed unable to ease that incessantcoughing.
'You ought to see a specialist at once,' she told Barbara rathersharply one morning.
But Barbara shook her head yet again: 'Don't, Mary—don'tplease...you'll be frightening Jamie.'
2
After their return to Paris in the autumn, Jamie sometimesjoined the nocturnal parties; going rather grimly from bar to bar,and drinking too much of the crême-de-menthe that remindedher of the bull's-eyes at Beedles. She had never cared for theseparties before, but now she was clumsily trying to escape, for afew hours at least, from the pain of existence. Barbara usuallystayed at home or spent the evening with Stephen and Mary. ButStephen and Mary would not always be there, for now they also wentout fairly often; and where was there to go to except the bars?Nowhere else could two women dance together without causing commentand ridicule, without being looked upon as freaks, argued Mary. Sorather than let the girl go without her, Stephen would lay asideher work—she had recently started to write her fourthnovel.
Sometimes, it is true, their friends came to them, a less sordidand far less exhausting business; but even at their own house thedrink was too free: 'We can't be the only couple to refuse to givepeople a brandy and soda,' said Mary. 'Valérie's parties areawfully dull; that's because she's allowed herself to growcranky!'
And thus, very gradually just at first, Mary's finer perceptionsbegan to coarsen.
3
The months passed, and now more than a year had slipped by, yetStephen's novel remained unfinished; for Mary's face stood betweenher and her work—surely the mouth and the eyes hadhardened?
Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged wearilyround to the bars and cafés, observing with growing anxietythat Mary now drank as did all the others—not too muchperhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook onexistence.
The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the grip ofa rather tearful reaction: 'It's too beastly—why do we doit?' she would ask.
And Stephen would answer: 'God knows I don't want to, but Iwon't let you go to such places without me. Can't we give it allup? It's appallingly sordid!'
Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood changingas she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have nofriends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the worldcrush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris, whose faultwas that? Not hers and not Stephen's. Oh, no, it was the fault ofthe Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had closed their doors, soafraid were they of contamination.
Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching hersorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequateanswer.
4
That winter Barbara fell very ill. Jamie rushed round to thehouse one morning, hatless, and with deeply, tormented eyes: 'Mary,please come—Barbara can't get up, it's a pain in her side.Oh, my God—we quarrelled...' Her voice was shrill and shespoke very fast: 'Listen—last night—there was snow onthe ground, it was cold—I was angry...I can't remember...butI know I was angry—I get like that. She went out—shestayed out for quite two hours, and when she came back she wasshivering so. Oh, my God, but why did we quarrel, whatever? Shecan't move; it's an awful pain in her side...
Stephen said quietly: 'We'll come almost at once, but first I'mgoing to ring up my own doctor.'
5
Barbara was lying in the tiny room with the eye-shaped windowthat would not open. The stove had gone out in the studio, and theair was heavy with cold and dampness. On the piano lay someremnants of manuscript music torn up on the previous evening byJamie.
Barbara opened her eyes: 'Is that you, my bairn?'
They had never heard Barbara call her that before—thegreat, lumbering, big-boned, long-legged Jamie.
'Yes, it's me.'
'Come here close...' The voice drifted away.
'I'm here—oh, I'm here! I've got hold of your hand. Lookat me, open your eyes again—Barbara, listen, I'mhere—don't you feel me?'
Stephen tried to restrain the shrill, agonized voice: 'Don'tspeak so loud, Jamie, perhaps she's sleeping,' but she knew verywell that this was not so; the girl was not sleeping now, butunconscious.
Mary found some fuel and lighted the stove, then she started totidy the disordered studio. Flakes of flue lay here and there onthe floor; thick dust was filming the top of the piano. Barbara hadbeen waging a losing fight—strange that so mean a thing asthis dust should, in the end, have been able to conquer. Food therewas none, and putting on her coat Mary finally went forth in questof milk and other things likely to come in useful. At the foot ofthe stairs she was met by the concierge; the woman looked glum, asthough deeply aggrieved by this sudden and very unreasonableillness. Mary thrust some money into her hand, then hurried awayintent on her shopping.
When she returned the doctor was there; he was talking verygravely to Stephen: 'It's double pneumonia, a pretty badcase—the girl's heart's so weak. I'll send in a nurse. Whatabout the friend, will she be any good?'
'I'll help with the nursing if she isn't,' said Mary.
Stephen said: 'You do understand about the bills—the nurseand all that?'
The doctor nodded.
They forced Jamie to eat: 'For Barbara's sake...Jamie, we'rewith you, you're not alone, Jamie.'
She peered with her red-rimmed, short-sighted eyes, only halfunderstanding, but she did as they told her. Then she got upwithout so much as a word, and went back to the room with theeye-shaped window. Still in silence she squatted on the floor bythe bed, like a dumb, faithful dog who endured without speaking.And they let her alone, let her have her poor way, for this was nottheir Calvary but Jamie's.
The nurse arrived, a calm, practical woman: 'You'd better liedown for a bit,' she told Jamie, and in silence Jamie lay down onthe floor.
'No, my dear—please go and lie down in the studio.'
She got up slowly to obey this new voice, lying down, with herface to the wall, on the divan.
The nurse turned to Stephen: 'Is she a relation?'
Stephen hesitated, then she shook her head.
'That's a pity, in a serious case like this I'd like to be intouch with some relation, someone who has a right to decide things.You know what I mean—it's double pneumonia.'
Stephen said dully: 'No—she's not a relation.'
'Just a friend?' the nurse queried.
'Just a friend,' muttered Stephen.
6
They went back that evening and stayed the night. Mary helpedwith the nursing; Stephen looked after Jamie.
'Is she a little—I mean the friend—is she mental atall, do you know?' The nurse whispered, 'I can't get her tospeak—she's anxious, of course; still, all the same, itdoesn't seem natural.'
Stephen said: 'No—it doesn't seem natural to you.' And shesuddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. Dear God, the outrage ofthis for Jamie!
But Jamie seemed quite unconscious of outrage. From time to timeshe stood in the doorway peering over at Barbara's wasted face,listening to Barbara's painful breathing, and then she would turnher bewildered eyes on the nurse, on Mary, but above all onStephen.
'Jamie—come back and sit down by the stove; Mary's there,it's all right.'
Came a queer, halting voice that spoke with an effort:'But...Stephen...we quarrelled.'
'Come and sit by the stove—Mary's with her, my dear.'
'Hush, please,' said the nurse, 'you're disturbing mypatient.'
7
Barbara's fight against death was so brief that it hardly seemedin the nature of a struggle. Life had left her no strength to repelthis last foe—or perhaps it was that to her he seemedfriendly. Just before her death she kissed Jamie's hand and triedto speak, but the words would not come—those words offorgiveness and love for Jamie.
Then Jamie flung herself down by the bed, and she clung there,still in that uncanny silence. Stephen never knew how they got heraway while the nurse performed the last merciful duties.
But when flowers had been placed in Barbara's hands, and Maryhad lighted a couple of candles, then Jamie went back and staredquietly down at the small, waxen face that lay on the pillow; andshe turned to the nurse:
'Thank you so much,' she said, 'I think you've done all thatthere is to do—and now I suppose you'll want to begoing?'
The nurse glanced at Stephen.
'It's all right, we'll stay. I think perhaps—if you don'tmind, nurse...
'Very well, it must be as you wish, Miss Gordon.'
When she had gone Jamie veered round abruptly and walked backinto the empty studio. Then all in a moment the floodgates gave wayand she wept and she wept like a creature demented. Bewailing thelife of hardship and exile that had sapped Barbara's strength andweakened her spirit; bewailing the cruel dispensation of fate thathad forced them to leave their home in the Highlands; bewailing theterrible thing that is death to those who, still loving, must lookupon it. Yet all the exquisite pain of this parting seemed asnothing to an anguish that was far more subtle: 'I can't mourn herwithout bringing shame on her name—I can't go back home nowand mourn her,' wailed Jamie; 'oh, and I want to go back toBeedles, I want to be home among our own people—I want themto know how much I loved her. Oh God, oh God! I can't even mournher, and I want to grieve for her home there in Beedles.'
What could they speak but inadequate words: 'Jamie, don't,don't! You loved each other—isn't that something? Rememberthat, Jamie.' They could only speak the inadequate words that aregiven to people on such occasions.
But after a while the storm seemed to pass, Jamie seemed to growsuddenly calm and collected: 'You two,' she said gravely, 'I wantto thank you for all you've been to Barbara and me.'
Mary started crying.
'Don't cry,' said Jamie.
The evening came. Stephen lighted the lamp, then she made up thestove while Mary laid the supper. Jamie ate a little, and sheactually smiled when Stephen poured her out a weak whisky.
'Drink it, Jamie—it may help you to get some sleep.'
Jamie shook her head: 'I shall sleep without it—but I wantto be left alone tonight, Stephen.'
Mary protested but Jamie was firm: 'I want to be left alone withher, please—you do understand that, Stephen, don't you?'
Stephen hesitated, then she saw Jamie's face; it was full of anew and calm resolution: 'It's my right,' she was saying, 'I've aright to be alone with the woman I love before they—takeher.'
Jamie held the lamp to light them downstairs—her hand,Stephen thought, seemed amazingly steady.
8
The next morning when they went to the studio quite early, theyheard voices coming from the topmost landing. The concierge wasstanding outside Jamie's door, and with her was a young man, one ofthe tenants. The concierge had tried the door; it was locked and noone made any response to her knocking. She had brought Jamie up acup of hot coffee—Stephen saw it, the coffee had slopped intothe saucer. Either pity or the memory of Mary's large tips, hadapparently touched the heart of this woman.
Stephen hammered loudly: 'Jamie!' she called, and then again andagain: 'Jamie! Jamie!'
The young man set his shoulder to a panel, and all the while hepushed he was talking. He lived just underneath, but last night hewas out, not returning until nearly six this morning. He had heardthat one of the girls had died—the little one—she hadalways looked fragile.
Stephen added her strength to his; the woodwork was damp androtten with age, the lock suddenly gave and the door swunginwards.
Then Stephen saw: 'Don't come here—go back, Mary!' ButMary followed them into the studio.
So neat, so amazingly neat it was for Jamie, she who had alwaysbeen so untidy, she who had always littered up the place with herlarge, awkward person and shabby possessions, she who had alwaysbeen Barbara's despair...Just a drop or two of blood on the floor,just a neat little hole low down in her left side. She must havefired upwards with great foresight and skill—and they had noteven known that she owned a revolver!
And so Jamie who dared not go home to Beedles for fear ofshaming the woman she loved, Jamie who dared not openly mourn lestBarbara's name be defiled through her mourning, Jamie had dared togo home to God—to trust herself to His more perfect mercy,even as Barbara had gone home before her.
1
The tragic deaths of Barbara and Jamie cast a gloom overeveryone who had known them, but especially over Mary and Stephen.Again and again Stephen blamed herself for having left Jamie onthat fatal evening; if she had only insisted upon staying, thetragedy might never have happened, she might somehow have been ableto impart to the girl the courage and strength to go on living. Butgreat as the shock undoubtedly was to Stephen, to Mary it was evengreater, for together with her very natural grief, was a new andquite unexpected emotion, the emotion of fear. She was suddenlyafraid, and now this fear looked out of her eyes and crept into hervoice when she spoke of Jamie.
'To end in that way, to have killed herself; Stephen, it's soawful that such things can happen—they were like you and me.'And then she would go over every sorrowful detail of Barbara's lastillness, every detail of their finding of Jamie's body.
'Did it hurt, do you think, when she shot herself? When you shotthat wounded horse at the front, he twitched such a lot, I shallnever forget it—and Jamie was all alone that night, there wasno one there to help in her pain. It's all so ghastly; supposing ithurt her!'
Useless for Stephen to quote the doctor who had said that deathhad been instantaneous; Mary was obsessed by the horror of thething, and not only its physical horror either, but by the mentaland spiritual suffering that must have strengthened the will todestruction.
Such despair,' she would say, 'such utter despair...and that wasthe end of all their loving. I can't bear it!' And then she wouldhide her face against Stephen's strong and protective shoulder.
Oh, yes, there was now little room for doubt, the whole businesswas preying badly on Mary.
Sometimes strange, amorous moods would seize her, in which shemust kiss Stephen rather wildly: 'Don't let go of me,darling—never let go. I'm afraid; I think it's because ofwhat's happened.'
Her kisses would awaken a swift response, and so in these daysthat were shadowed by death, they dung very desperately to lifewith the passion they had felt when first they were lovers, asthough only by constantly feeding the flame could they hope to wardoff some unseen disaster.
2
At this time of shock, anxiety and strain, Stephen turned toValérie Seymour as many another had done before her. Thiswoman's great calm in the midst of storm was not only soothing buthelpful to Stephen, so that now she often went to the flat on theQuai Voltaire; often went there alone, since Mary would seldomaccompany her—for some reason she resented ValérieSeymour. But in spite of this resentment Stephen must go, for nowan insistent urge was upon her, the urge to unburden her weary mindof the many problems surrounding inversion. Like most inverts shefound a passing relief in discussing the intolerable situation; indissecting it ruthlessly bit by bit, even though she arrived at nosolution; but since Jamie's death it did not seem wise to dwell toomuch on this subject with Mary. On the other hand, Valériewas now quite free, having suddenly tired of Jeanne Maurel, andmoreover she was always ready to listen. Thus it was that betweenthem a real friendship sprang up—a friendship founded onmutual respect, if not always on mututal understanding.
Stephen would again and again go over those last heart-rendingdays with Barbara and Jamie, railing against the outrageousinjustice that had led to their tragic and miserable ending. Shewould clench her hands in a kind of fury. How long was thispersecution to continue? How long would God sit still and endurethis insult offered to His creation? How long tolerate thepreposterous statement that inversion was not a part of nature? Forsince it existed what else could it be? All things that existedwere a part of nature!
But with equal bitterness she would speak of the wasted lives ofsuch creatures as Wanda, who, beaten down into the depths of theworld, gave the world the very excuse it was seeking for pointingat them an accusing finger. Pretty bad examples they were, many ofthem, and yet—but for an unforeseen accident of birth, Wandamight even now have been a great painter.
And then she would discuss very different people whom she hadbeen led to believe existed; hard-working, honourable men andwomen, but a few of them possessed of fine brains, yet lacking thecourage to admit their inversion. Honourable, it seemed, in allthings save this that the world had forced on them—thisdishonourable lie whereby alone they could hope to find peace,could hope to stake out a claim on existence. And always thesepeople must carry that lie like a poisonous asp pressed againsttheir bosoms; must unworthily hide and deny their love, which mightwell be the finest thing about them.
And what of the women who had worked in the war—thosequiet, gaunt women she had seen about London? England had calledthem and they had come; for once, unabashed, they had faced thedaylight. And now because they were not prepared to slink back andhide in their holes and corners, the very public whom they hadserved was the first to turn round and spit upon them; to cry:'Away with this canker in our midst, this nest of unrighteousnessand corruption!' That was the gratitude they had received for thework they had done out of love for England!
And what of that curious craving for religion which so oftenwent hand in hand with inversion? Many such people were deeplyreligious, and this surely was one of their bitterest problems.They believed, and believing they craved a blessing on what to someof them seemed very sacred—a faithful and deeply devotedunion. But the Church's blessing was not for them. Faithful theymight be, leading orderly lives, harming no one, and yet the Churchturned away; her blessings were strictly reserved for thenormal.
Then Stephen would come to the thing of all others that to herwas the most agonizing question. Youth, what of youth? Where couldit turn for its natural and harmless recreations? There was DickieWest and many more like her, vigorous, courageous and kind-heartedyoungsters; yet shut away from so many of the pleasures thatbelonged by right to every young creature—and more pitifulstill was the lot of a girl who, herself being normal, gave herlove to an invert. The young had a right to their innocentpleasures, a right to social companionship; had a right, indeed, toresent isolation. But here, as in all the great cities of theworld, they were isolated until they went under; until, in theirignorance and resentment, they turned to the only communal lifethat a world bent upon their destruction had left them; turned tothe worst elements of their kind, to those who haunted the bars ofParis. Their lovers were helpless, for what could they do?Empty-handed they were, having nothing to offer. And even thetolerant normal were helpless—those who went toValérie's parties, for instance. If they had sons anddaughters, they left them at home; and considering all things, whocould blame them While as for themselves, they were far tooold—only tolerant, no doubt because they were ageing. Theycould not provide the frivolities for which youth had a perfectlynatural craving.
In spite of herself, Stephen's voice would tremble, andValérie would know that she was thinking of Mary.
Valérie would genuinely want to be helpful, but wouldfind very little to say that was consoling. It was hard on theyoung, she had thought so herself, but some came through all right,though a few might go under. Nature was trying to do her bit;inverts were being born in increasing numbers, and after a whiletheir numbers would tell, even with the fools who still ignoredNature. They must just bide their time—recognition wascoming. But meanwhile they should all cultivate more pride, shouldlearn to be proud of their isolation. She found little excuse forpoor fools like Pat, and even less for drunkards like Wanda.
As for those who were ashamed to declare themselves, lying lowfor the sake of a peaceful existence, she utterly despised such ofthem as had brains; they were traitors to themselves and theirfellows, she insisted. For the sooner the world came to realizethat fine brains very frequently went with inversion, the sooner itwould have to withdraw its ban, and the sooner would cease thispersecution. Persecution was always a hideous thing, breedinghideous thoughts—and such thoughts were dangerous.
As for the women who had worked in the war, they had set anexample to the next generation, and that in itself should be areward. She had heard that in England many such women had taken tobreeding dogs in the country. Well, why not? Dogs were very nicepeople to breed. 'Plus je commis les hommes, plus j'aime leschiens.' There were worse things than breeding dogs in thecountry.
It was quite true that inverts were often religious, butchurchgoing in them was a form of weakness; they must be a religionunto themselves if they felt that they really needed religion. Asfor blessings, they profited the churches no doubt, apart fromwhich they were just superstition. But then of course she herselfwas a pagan, acknowledging only the god of beauty; and since thewhole world was so ugly these days, she was only too thankful tolet it ignore her. Perhaps that was lazy—she was rather lazy.She had never achieved all she might have with her writing. Buthumanity was divided into two separate classes, those who didthings and those who looked on at their doings. Stephen was one ofthe kind that did things—under different conditions ofenvironment and birth she might very well have become areformer.
They would argue for hours, these two curious friends whosepoints of view were so widely divergent, and although they seldomif ever agreed, they managed to remain both courteous andfriendly.
Valérie seemed wellnigh inhuman at times, completelydetached from all personal interest. But one day she remarked toStephen abruptly: 'I really know very little about you, but this Ido know—you're a bird of passage, you don't belong to thelife here in Paris.' Then as Stephen was silent, she went on moregravely: 'You're rather a terrible combination; you've the nervesof the abnormal with all that they stand for—you'reappallingly over-sensitive, Stephen—well, and then we get lerevers de la médaille; you've all the respectable countyinstincts of the man who cultivates children and acres—anygaps in your fences would always disturb you; one side of your mindis so aggressively tidy. I can't see your future, but I feel you'llsucceed; though I must say, of all the improbable people...Butsupposing you could bring the two sides of your nature into somesort of friendly amalgamation and compel them to serve you andthrough you your work—well then I really don't see what's tostop you. The question is can you ever bring them together?' Shesmiled. 'If you climb to the highest peak, Valérie Seymourwon't be there to see you. It's a charming friendship that we twohave found, but it's passing, like so many charming things;however, my dear, let's enjoy it while it lasts, and...remember mewhen you come into your kingdom.'
Stephen said: 'When we first met I almost disliked you. Ithought your interest was purely scientific or purely morbid. Isaid so to Puddle—you remember Puddle, I think you once mether. I want to apologize to you now; to tell you how grateful I amfor your kindness. You're so patient when I come here and talk forhours, and it's such a relief: you'll never know the relief it isto have someone to talk to.' She hesitated. You see it's not fairto make Mary listen to all my worries—she's still prettyyoung, and the road's damned hard...then there's been that horriblebusiness of Jamie.'
'Come as often as you feel like it,' Valérie told her;'and if ever you should want my help or advice, here I am. But dotry to remember this: even the world's not so black as it'spainted.'
1
One morning a very young cherry-tree that Mary herself hadplanted in the garden was doing the must delightful things—itwas pushing out leaves and tight pink buds along the whole lengthof its childish branches. Stephen made a note of it in her diary:'Today Mary's cherry-tree started to blossom.' This is why shenever forgot the date on which she received Martin Hallam'sletter.
The letter had been redirected from Morton; she recognizedPuddle's scholastic handwriting. And the other writing—large,rather untidy but with strong black down-strokes and firmly crossedt's—she stared at it thoughtfully, puckering her brows,Surely that writing, too, was familiar? Then she noticed a Parispostmark in the corner—that was strange. She tore open theenvelope.
Martin wrote very simply: Stephen, my dear. After all theseyears I am sending you a letter, just in case you have notcompletely forgotten the existence of a man called MartinHallam.
'I've been in Paris for the past two months. I had to comeacross to have my eye seen to; I stopped a bullet with my head herein France—it affected the optic nerve rather badly. But thepoint is: if I Ely over to England as I'm thinking of doing, may Icome and see you? I'm a very poor hand at expressingmyself—can't do it at all when I put pen to paper—inaddition to which I'm feeling nervous because you've become such awonderful writer. But I do want to try and make you understand howdesperately I've regretted our friendship—that perfect earlyfriendship of ours seems to me now a thing well worth regretting.Believe me or not I've thought of it for years; and the fault wasall mine for not understanding. I was just an ignorant cub in thosedays. Well, anyhow, please will you see me, Stephen? I'm a lonelysort of fellow, so if you're kind-hearted you'll invite me to motordown to Morton, supposing you're there; and then if you like me,we'll take up our friendship just where it left off. We'll pretendthat we're very young again, walking over the hills and jawingabout life. Lord, what splendid companions we were in those earlydays—like a couple of brothers!
'Do you think it's queer that I'm writing all this? It does seemqueer, yet I'd have written it before if I'd ever come over to stayin England; but except when I rushed across to join up, I've prettywell stuck to British Columbia. I don't even know exactly where youare, for I've not met a soul who knows you for ages. I heard ofyour father's death of course, and was terribly sorry—beyondthat I've heard nothing; still, I fancy I'm quite safe in sendingthis to Morton.
'I'm staying with my aunt, the Comtesse de Mirac; she's English,twice married and once more a widow. She's been a perfect angel tome. I've been staying with her ever since I came to Paris. Well, mydear, if you've forgiven my mistake—and please say you have,we were both very young—then write to me at Aunt Sarah'saddress, and if you write don't forget to put "Passy." The postsare so erratic in France, and I'd hate to think that they'd lostyour letter. Your very sincere friend, MARTIN HALLAM.'
Stephen glanced through the window. Mary was in the garden stilladmiring her brave little cherry-tree; in a minute or two she wouldfeed the pigeons—yes, she was starting to cross the lawn tothe shed in which she kept pigeon-mixture—but presently shewould be coming in. Stephen sat down and began to thinkquickly.
Martin Hallam—he must be about thirty-nine. He had foughtin the war and been badly wounded—she had thought of himduring that terrible advance, the smitten trees had been areminder...He must often have been very near her then; he was verynear now, just out at Passy, and he wanted to see her; he offeredhis friendship.
She closed her eyes the better to consider, but now her mindmust conjure up pictures. A very young man at the Antrims'dance—oh, but very young—with a bony face that glowedwhen he talked of the beauty of trees, of their goodness...a tall,loose-limbed young man who slouched when he walked, as though frommuch riding. The hills...winter hills rust-coloured bybracken...Martin touching the ancient thorns with kind fingers.'Look, Stephen—the courage of these old fellows!' How clearlyshe remembered his actual words after all these years, and her ownshe remembered; 'You're the only real friend I've ever had exceptFather—our friendship's so wonderful somehow...' And hisanswer: 'I know, a wonderful friendship.' A great sense ofcompanionship, of comfort—it had been so good to have himbeside her; she had liked his quiet and careful voice, and histhoughtful blue eyes that moved rather slowly. He had filled a realneed that had always been hers and still was, a need for thefriendship of men—how very completely Martin had filled it,until...But she resolutely closed her mind, refusing to visualizethat last picture. He knew now that it had been a ghastlymistake—he understood—he practically said so. Couldthey take up their friendship where they had left it? If only theycould...
She got up abruptly and went to the telephone on her desk.Glancing at his letter, she rang up a number.
'Hallo—yes?'
She recognized his voice at once.
'Is that you, Martin? It's Stephen speaking.'
Stephen...oh, I'm so glad! But where on earth are you?' 'At myhouse in Paris-35, Rue Jacob.'
'But I don't understand, I thought...
'Yes, I know, but I've lived here for ages—since beforethe war. I've just got your letter, sent back from England. Funnyisn't it? Why not come to dinner to-night if you'refree—eight o'clock.'
'I say! May I really?'
'Of course...come and dine with my friend and me.' 'Whatnumber?'
'Thirty-five—3 5, Rue Jacob.'
'I'll be there on the actual stroke of eight!'
'That's right—good-bye, Martin.'
'Good-bye, and thanks, Stephen.'
She hung up the receiver and opened the window.
Mary saw her and called: 'Stephen, please speak to David. He'sjust bitten off and swallowed a crocus! Oh, and do come here: thescyllas are out, I never saw anything like their blueness. I thinkI shall go and fetch my birds, it's quite warm in the sun overthere by the wall. David, stop it;will you get off thatborder!'
David wagged a bald but ingratiating tail. Then he thrust outhis nose and sniffed at the pigeons. Oh, hang it all, why shouldthe coming of spring be just one colossal smell of temptation! Andwhy was there nothing really exciting that a spaniel might do andyet remain lawful?
Sighing, he turned amber eyes of entreaty first on Stephen, andthen on his goddess, Mary.
She forgave him the crocus and patted his head. 'Darling, youget more than a pound of raw meat for your dinner; you mustn't beso untruthful. Of course you're not hungry—it was just puremischief.'
He barked trying desperately hard to explain. 'It's the spring;it's got into my blood, oh, Goddess! Oh, Gentle Purveyor of allGood Things, let me dig till I've rooted up every damned crocus;just this once let me sin for the joy of life, for the ancient andexquisite joy of sinning!'
But Mary shook her head. 'You must be a nice dog; and nice dogsnever look at white fantail pigeons, or walk on the borders, orbite off the flowers—do they, Stephen?'
Stephen smiled. 'I'm afraid they don't, David.' Then she said:'Mary, listen—about this evening. I've just heard from a veryold friend of mine, a man called Hallam that I knew in England.He's in Paris; it's too queer. He wrote to Morton and his letterhas been sent back by Puddle. I've rung him up, and he's coming todinner. Better tell Pauline at once, will you, darling?'
But Mary must naturally ask a few questions. What was he like?Where had Stephen known him?—she had never mentioned a mancalled Hallam—where had she known him, in London or atMorton?
And finally: 'How old were you when you knew him?'
'Let me think—I must have been just eighteen.'
'How old was he?'
'Twenty-two—very young—I only knew him for quite ashort time; after that he went back to British Columbia. But Iliked him so much—we were very great friends—so I'mhoping that you're going to like him too, darling.'
'Stephen, you are strange. Why haven't you told me that you oncehad a very great friend—a man? I've always thought that youdidn't like men.'
'On the contrary, I like them very much. But I haven't seenMartin for years and years. I've hardly ever thought about himuntil I got his letter this morning. Now, sweetheart, we don't wantthe poor man to starve—you really must go off and try to findPauline.'
When she had gone Stephen rubbed her chin with thoughtful andrather uncertain fingers.
2
He came. Amazing how little he had changed. He was just the sameclean-shaven, bony-faced Martin, with the slow blue eyes and thecharming expression, and the loose-limbed figure that slouched frommuch riding; only now there were a few faint lines round his eyes,and the hair had gone snow-white on his temples. Just beside theright temple was a deep little scar—it must have been a nearthing, that bullet.
He said: 'My dear, it is good to see you.' And he held Stephen'shand in his own thin brown ones.
She felt the warm, friendly grip of his fingers, and the yearsdropped away. 'I'm so glad you wrote, Martin.'
'So am I. I can't tell you how glad I am. And all the time wewere both in Paris, and we never knew. Well, now that I've foundyou, we'll cling like grim death, if you don't mind, Stephen.'
As Mary came into the room they were laughing.
She looked less tired, Stephen thought with satisfaction, orperhaps it was that her dress became her—she was always ather best in the evening.
Stephen said quite simply: 'This is Martin, Mary.'
They shook hands, and as they did so they smiled. Then theystared at each other for a moment, almost gravely.
He proved to be wonderfully easy to talk to. He did not seemsurprised that Mary Llewellyn was installed as the mistress ofStephen's home; he just accepted the thing as he found it. Yet helet it be tacitly understood that he had grasped the exactsituation.
After dinner Stephen inquired about his sight: was it badlyinjured? His eyes looked so normal. Then he told them the historyof the trouble at full length, going into details with theconfidence displayed by most children and lonely people.
He had got his knock-out in 1918. The bullet had grazed theoptic nerve. At first he had gone to a base hospital, but as soonas he could he had come to Paris to be treated by a very celebratedman. He had been in danger of losing the sight of the right eye; ithad scared him to death, he told them. But after three months hehad had to go home; things had gone wrong on some of his farmsowing to the mismanagement of a bailiff. The oculist had warned himthat the trouble might recur, that he ought to have remained underobservation. Well, it had recurred about four months ago. He hadgot the wind up and rushed back to Paris. For three weeks he hadlain in a darkened room, not daring to think of the possibleverdict. Eyes were so tiresomely sympathetic: if the one went theother might easily follow. But, thank God, it had proved to be lessserious than the oculist had feared. His sight was saved, but hehad to go slow, and was still under treatment. The eye would haveto be watched for some time; so here he was with Aunt Sarah atPassy.
'You must see my Aunt Sarah, you two; she's a darling. She's myfather's sister. I know you'll like her. She's become very Frenchsince her second marriage, a little too Faubourg St. Germainperhaps, but so kind—I want you to meet her at once. She'squite a well-known hostess at Passy.'
They talked on until well after twelve o'clock—very happythey were together that evening, and he left with a promise to ringthem up on the following morning about lunch with Aunt Sarah.'Well,' said Stephen, 'what do you think of my friend?'
'I think he's most awfully nice,' said Mary.
3
Aunt Sarah lived in the palatial house that a grateful secondhusband had left her. For years she had borne with hispeccadilloes, keeping her temper and making no scandal. The resultwas that everything he possessed apart from what had gone to herstepson—and the Comte de Mirac had been verywealthy—had found its way to the patient Aunt Sarah. She wasone of those survivals who look upon men as a race of especiallyprivileged beings. Her judgment of women was more severe,influenced no doubt by the ancien régime, for now she waseven more French than the French whose language she spoke like aborn Parisian.
She was sixty-five, tall, had an aquiline nose, and heriron-grey hair was dressed to perfection; for the rest she hadMartin's slow blue eyes and thin face, though she lacked hischarming expression. She bred Japanese spaniels, was kind to younggirls who conformed in all things to the will of their parents, wasparticularly gracious to good-looking men, and adored her onlysurviving nephew. In her opinion he could do no wrong, though shewished he would settle down in Paris. As Stephen and Mary were hernephew's friends, she was pre-disposed to consider them charming,the more so as the former's antecedents left little or nothing tobe desired, and her parents had shown great kindness to Martin. Hehad told his aunt just what he wished her to know and not one wordmore about the old days at Morton. She was therefore quiteunprepared for Stephen.
Aunt Sarah was a very courteous old dame, and those who brokebread at her table were sacred, at all events while they remainedher guests. But Stephen was miserably telepathic, and before thedéjeuner was half-way through she was conscious of the deepantagonism that she had aroused in Martin's Aunt Sarah. Not by somuch as a word or a look did the Comtesse de Mirac betray herfeelings; she was gravely polite, she discussed literature as beinga supposedly congenial subject, she praised Stephen's books, andasked no questions as to why she was living apart from her mother.Martin could have sworn that these two would be friends—butgood manners could not any more deceive Stephen.
And true it was that the Comtesse de Mirac saw in Stephen thetype that she most mistrusted, saw only an unsexed creature ofpose, whose cropped head and whose dress were pure affectation; acreature who aping the prerogatives of men, had lost all the charmand grace of a woman. An intelligent person in nearly all else, theComtesse would never have admitted of inversion as a fact innature. She had heard things whispered, it is true, but hadscarcely grasped their full meaning. She was innocent and stubborn;and this being so, it was not Stephen's morals that she suspected,but her obvious desire to ape what she was not—in theComtesse's set, as at county dinners, there was firm insistenceupon sex-distinction.
On the other hand, she took a great fancy to Mary, whom shequickly discovered to be an orphan. In a very short time she hadlearnt quite a lot about Mary's life before the war and about hermeeting with Stephen in the Unit; had learnt also that she wasquite penniless—since Mary was eager that everyone shouldknow that she owed her prosperity entirely to Stephen.
Aunt Sarah secretly pitied the girl who must surely be living adull existence, bound, no doubt, by a false sense of gratitude tothis freakish and masterful-looking woman—pretty girls shouldfind husbands and homes of their own, and this one she consideredexcessively pretty. Thus it was that while Mary in all loyalty andlove was doing her best to extol Stephen's virtues, to convey animpression of her own happiness, of the privilege it was to serveso great a writer by caring for her house and her personal needs,she was only succeeding in getting herself pitied. But as good luckwould have it, she was blissfully unconscious of the sympathy thather words were arousing; indeed, she was finding it very pleasantat Aunt Sarah's hospitable house in Passy.
As for Martin, he had never been very subtle, and just now hemust rejoice in a long-lost friendship—to him it appeared adelightful luncheon. Even after the guests had said good-bye, heremained in the very highest of spirits, for the Comtesse wascapable of unexpected tact, and while praising Mary's prettinessand charm, she was careful in no way to disparage Stephen.
'Oh, yes, undoubtedly a brilliant writer, I agree with you,Martin.' And so she did. But books were one thing and their scribesanother; she saw no reason to change her opinion with regard tothis author's unpleasant affectation, while she saw every reason tobe tactful with her nephew.
4
On the drive home Mary held Stephen's hand. 'I enjoyed myselfawfully, didn't you? Only—' and she frowned; 'only will itlast? I mean, we mustn't forget Lady Massey. But he's so nice, andI liked the old aunt...'
Stephen said firmly: Of course it will last.' Then she lied. 'Ienjoyed it very much too.'
And even as she lied she came to a resolve which seemed sostrange that she flinched a little, for never before since they hadbeen lovers, had she thought of this girl as apart from herself.Yet now she resolved that Mary should go to Passy again—butshould go without her. Sitting back in the car she half closed hereyes; just at that moment she did not want to speak lest her voiceshould betray that flinching to Mary.
1
With Martin's return Stephen realized how very deeply she hadmissed him; how much she still needed the thing he now offered, howlong indeed she had starved for just this—the friendship of anormal and sympathetic man whose mentality being very much her own,was not only welcome but reassuring. Yes, strange though it was,with this normal man she was far more at ease than with JonathanBrockett, far more at one with all his ideas, and at times far lessconscious of her own inversion; though it seemed that Martin hadnot only read, but had thought a great deal about the subject. Hespoke very little of his studies, however, just accepting her nowfor the thing that she was, without question, and accepting most ofher friends with a courtesy as innocent of patronage as of anysuspicion of morbid interest. And thus it was that in these firstdays they appeared to have achieved a complete reunion. Onlysometimes, when Mary would talk to him freely as she did very oftenof such people as Wanda, of the night life of the cafés andbars of Paris—most of which it transpired he himself had beento—of the tragedy of Barbara and Jamie that was never veryfar from her thoughts, even although a most perfect spring washurrying forwards towards the summer—when Mary would talk tohim of these things, Martin would look rather gravely atStephen.
But now they seldom went to the bars, for Martin providedrecreations that were really much more to Mary's liking. Martin thekindly, the thoroughly normal, seemed never at a loss as to whatthey should do or where they should go when in search of pleasure.By now he knew Paris extremely well, and the Paris he showed themduring that spring came as a complete revelation to Mary. He wouldoften take them to dine in the Bois. At the neighbouring tableswould be men and women; neat, well tailored men; pretty, smartlydressed women who laughed and talked very conscious of sex and itsvast importance—in a word, normal women. Or perhaps theywould go to Claridge's for tea or to Ciro's for dinner, and then onto supper at an equally fashionable restaurant, of which Marydiscovered there were many in Paris. And although people stillstared a little at Stephen, Mary fancied that they did so muchless, because of the presence of Martin.
At such places of course, it was out of the question for acouple of women to dance together, and yet everyone danced, so thatin the end Mary must get up and dance with Martin.
He had said: 'You don't mind, do you, Stephen?'
She had shaken her head: 'No, of course I don't mind.' Andindeed she had been very glad to know that Mary had a good partnerto dance with.
But now when she sat alone at their table, lighting onecigarette after another, uncomfortably conscious of the interestshe aroused by reason of her clothes and her isolation—whenshe glimpsed the girl in Martin's arms, and heard her laugh for amoment in passing, Stephen would know a queer tightening of herheart, as though a mailed fist had closed down upon it. What wasit? Good God, surely not resentment? Horrified she would feel atthis possible betrayal of friendship, of her fine, honestfriendship for Martin. And when they came back, Mary smiling andflushed, Stephen would force herself to smile also.
She would say: 'I've been thinking how well you twodance—'
And when Mary once asked rather timidly: Are you sure you're notbored, sitting there by yourself?'
Stephen answered: 'Don't be so silly, darling; of course I'm notbored—go on dancing with Martin.'
But that night she took Mary in her arms—the relentless,compelling arms of a lover.
On warm days they would all drive into the country, as Mary andshe had so frequently done during their first spring months inParis. Very often now it would be Barbizon, for Martin loved towalk in the forest. And there he must start to talk about trees,his face glowing with its curious inner light, while Mary listenedhalf fascinated.
One evening she said: 'But these trees are so small—youmake me long to see real forests, Martin.'
David loved these excursions—he also loved Martin, notbeing exactly disloyal to Stephen, but discerning in the man a moreperfect thing, a more entirely fulfilling companion. And thislittle betrayal, though slight in it self; had the power to woundout of all proportion, so that Stephen would feel very much as shehad done when ignored years ago by the swan called Peter. She hadthought then: 'Perhaps he thinks I'm a freak,' and now she mustsometimes think the same thing as she watched Martin hurling hugesticks for David—it was strange what a number of ridiculoustrifles had lately acquired the power to hurt her. And yet sheclung desperately to Martin's friendship, feeling herself to be allunworthy if she harboured so much as a moment's doubt; indeed theyboth loyally clung to their friendship.
He would beg her to accept his aunt's invitations, to accompanyMary when she went to Passy:
'Don't you like the old thing? Mary likes her allright—why won't you come? It's so mean of you, Stephen. It'snot half as much fun when you're not there.' He would honestlythink that he was speaking the truth, that the party or luncheon orwhatever it might be, was not half as much fun for him withoutStephen.
But Stephen always made her work an excuse: 'My dear, I'm tryingto finish a novel. I seem to have been at it for years and years;it's growing hoary like Rip Van Winkle.'
2
There were times when their friendship seemed well-nigh perfect,the perfect thing that they would have it to be, and on such a dayof complete understanding, Stephen suddenly spoke to Martin aboutMorton.
They two were alone together in her study, and she said: There'ssomething I want to tell you—you must often have wondered whyI left home.'
He nodded: 'I've never quite liked to ask, because I know howyou loved the place, how you love it still...
'Yes, I love it,' she answered.
Then she let every barrier go down before him, blissfullyconscious of what she was doing. Not since Puddle had left her hadshe been able to talk without restraint of her exile. And oncelaunched she had not the least wish to stop, but must tell him all,omitting no detail save one that honour forbade her togive—she withheld the name of Angela Crossby.
'It's so terribly hard on Mary,' she finished; 'think of it,Mary's never seen Morton; she's not even met Puddle in all theseyears! Of course Puddle can't very well come here to stay—howcan she and then go back to Morton? And yet I want her to live withmy mother...But the whole thing seems so outrageous for Mary.' Shewent on to talk to him of her father: 'If my father had lived, Iknow he'd have helped me. He loved me so much, and heunderstood—I found out that my father knew all about me,only—' She hesitated, and then: 'Perhaps he loved me too muchto tell me.'
Martin said nothing for quite a long time, and when he did speakit was very gravely: 'Mary—how much does she know of allthis?'
'As little as I could possibly tell her. She knows that I can'tget on with my mother, and that my mother won't ask her to Morton;but she doesn't know that I had to leave home because of a woman,that I was turned out—I've wanted to spare her all Icould.'
'Do you think you were right?'
'Yes, a thousand times.'
'Well, only you can judge of that, Stephen.' He looked down atthe carpet, then he asked abruptly: 'Does she know about you andme, about...
Stephen shook her head: 'No, she's no idea. She thinks you werejust my very good friend as you are to-day. I don't want her toknow.'
'For my sake?' he demanded.
And she answered slowly: Well, yes, I suppose so...for yoursake, Martin.'
Then an unexpected, and to her very moving thing happened; hiseyes filled with pitiful tears: 'Lord,' he muttered, 'why need thishave come upon you—this incomprehensible dispensation? It'senough to make one deny God's existence!'
She felt a great need to reassure him. At that moment he seemedso much younger than she was as he stood there with his eyes fullof pitiful tears, doubting God, because of his human compassion:'There are still the trees. Don't forget the trees,Martin—because of them you used to believe.'
'Have you come to believe in a God then?' he muttered.
'Yes,' she told him, 'it's strange, but I know now Imust—lots of us feel that way in the end. I'm not reallyreligious like some of the others, but I've got to acknowledgeGod's existence, though at times I still think: "Can He reallyexist?" One can't help it, when one's seen what I have here inParis. But unless there's a God, where do some of us find even thelittle courage we possess?'
Martin stared out of the window in silence.
3
Mary was growing gentle again; infinitely gentle she now was attimes, for happiness, makes for gentleness, and in these days Marywas strangely happy. Reassured by the presence of Martin Hallam,reestablished in pride and self-respect, she was able tocontemplate the world without her erstwhile sense of isolation, wasable for the moment to sheathe her sword, and this respite broughther a sense of well-being. She discovered that at heart she wasneither so courageous nor so defiant as she had imagined, that likemany another woman before her, she was well content to feel herselfprotected; and gradually as the weeks went by, she began to forgether bitter resentment.
One thing only distressed her, and this was Stephen's refusal toaccompany her when she went to Passy; she could not understand it,so must put it down to the influence of Valérie Seymour whohad met and disliked Martin's aunt at one time, indeed the dislike,it seemed, had been mutual. Thus the vague resentment thatValérie had inspired in the girl, began to grow much lessvague, until Stephen realized with a shock of surprise that Marywas jealous of Valérie Seymour. But this seemed so absurdand preposterous a thing, that Stephen decided it could only bepassing, nor did it loom very large in these days that were sofully taken up by Martin. For now that his eyesight was quiterestored he was talking of going home in the autumn, and every freemoment that he could steal from his aunt, he wanted to spend withStephen and Mary. When he spoke of his departure, Stephen sometimesfancied that a shade of sadness crept into Mary's face, and herheart misgave her, though she told herself that naturally both ofthem would miss Martin. Then too, never had Mary been more loyaland devoted, more obviously anxious to prove her love by a thousandlittle acts of devotion. There would even be times when by contrasther manner would appear abrupt and unfriendly to Martin, when sheargued with him over every trifle, backing up her opinion byquoting Stephen—yes, in spite of her newly restoredgentleness, these were times when she would not be gentle withMartin. And these sudden and unforeseen changes of mood would leaveStephen feeling uneasy and bewildered, so that one night she spokerather anxiously: 'Why were you so beastly to Martin thisevening?'
But Mary pretended not to understand her: 'How was I beastly? Iwas just as usual.' And when Stephen persisted, Mary kissed herscar: 'Darling, don't start working now, it's so late, andbesides...
Stephen put away her work, then she suddenly caught the girl toher roughly: 'How much do you love me? Tell me quickly, quickly!'Her voice shook with something very like fear.
'Stephen, you're hurting me—don't, you're hurting! Youknow how I love you—more than life.'
'You are my life...all my life,' muttered Stephen.
1
FATE, which by now had them well in its grip, began to play thegame out more quickly. That summer they went to Pontresina sinceMary had never seen Switzerland; but the Comtesse must make adouble cure, first at Vichy and afterwards at Bagnoles de l'Orne,which fact left Martin quite free to join them. Then it was thatStephen perceived for the first time that all was not well withMartin Hallam.
Try as he might he could not deceive her, for this man wasalmost painfully honest, and any deception became him so ill thatit seemed to stand out like a badly fitting garment. Yet now therewere times when he avoided her eyes, when he grew very silent andawkward with Stephen, as though something inevitable and unhappyhad obtruded itself upon their friendship; something, moreover,that he feared to tell her. Then one day in a blinding flash ofinsight she suddenly knew what this was—it was Mary.
Like a blow that is struck full between the eyes, the thingstunned her, so that at first she groped blindly. Martin, herfriend...But what did it mean? And Mary...The incredible misery ofit if it were true. But was it true that Martin Hallam had grown tolove Mary? And the other thought, more incredible still—hadMary in her turn grown to love Martin?
The mist gradually cleared; Stephen grew cold as steel, herperceptions becoming as sharp as daggers—daggers that thrustthemselves into her soul, draining the blood from her innermostbeing. And she watched. To herself she seemed all eyes and ears, amonstrous thing, a complete degradation, yet endowed with an almostunbearable skill, with a subtlety passing her ownunderstanding.
And Martin was no match for this thing that was Stephen. He, thelover, could not hide his betraying eyes from her eyes that werealso those of a lover; could not stifle the tone that crept intohis voice at times when he was talking to Mary. Since all that hefelt was a part of herself, how could he hope to hide it fromStephen? And he knew that she had discovered the truth, while shein her turn perceived that he knew this, yet neither of themspoke—in a deathly silence she watched, and in silence heendured her watching.
It was rather a terrible summer for them all, the more so asthey were surrounded by beauty, and great peace when the eveningcame down on the snows, turning the white, unfurrowed peaks tosapphire and then to a purple darkness; hanging out large,incredible stars above the wide slope of the Roseg Glacier. Fortheir hearts were full of unspoken dread, of clamorous passions, ofbewilderment that went very ill with the quiet fulfilments, withthe placid and smiling contentment of nature—and not theleast bewildered was Mary. Her respite, it seemed, had beenpitifully fleeting; now she was torn by conflicting emotions;terrified and amazed at her realization that Martin meant more toher than a friend, yet less, oh, surely much less than Stephen.Like a barrier of fire her passion for the woman flared up toforbid her love of the man; for as great as the mystery ofvirginity itself, is sometimes the power of the one who hasdestroyed it, and that power still remained in these days, withStephen.
Alone in his little bare hotel bedroom, Martin would wrestlewith his soul-sickening problem, convinced in his heart that butfor Stephen, Mary Llewellyn would grow to love him, nay more, thatshe had grown to love him already. Yet Stephen was hisfriend—he had sought her out, had all but forced hisfriendship upon her; had forced his way into her life, her home,her confidence; she had trusted his honour. And now he must eitherutterly betray her or through loyalty to their friendship, betrayMary.
And he felt that he knew, and knew only too well, what lifewould do to Mary Llewellyn, what it had done to her already; forhad he not seen the bitterness in her, the resentment that couldonly lead to despair, the defiance that could only lead todisaster? She was setting her weakness against the whole world, andslowly but surely the world would close in until in the end it hadutterly crushed her. In her very normality lay her danger. Mary,all woman, was less of a match for life than if she had been as wasStephen. Oh, most pitiful bond so strong yet so helpless; sofruitful of passion yet so bitterly sterile; despairing,heart-breaking, yet courageous bond that was even now holding themruthlessly together. But if he should break it by taking the girlaway into peace and security, by winning for her the world'sapprobation so that never again need her back feel the scourge andher heart grow faint from the pain of that scourging—if he,Martin Hallam, should do this thing, what would happen, in that dayof his victory, to Stephen? Would she still have the courage tocontinue the fight? Or would she, in her turn, be forced tosurrender? God help him, he could not betray her like this, hecould not bring about Stephen's destruction—and yet if hespared her, he might destroy Mary.
Night after night alone in his bedroom during the miserableweeks of that summer, Martin struggled to discover some ray of hopein what seemed a wellnigh hopeless situation. And night after nightStephen's masterful arms would enfold the warm softness of Mary'sbody, the while she would be shaken as though with great cold.Lying there she would shiver with terror and love, and this tormentof hers would envelop Mary so that sometimes she wept for the painof it all, yet neither would give a name to that torment.
'Stephen, why are you shivering?'
'I don't know, my darling.'
'Mary, why are you crying?'
'I don't know, Stephen.'
Thus the bitter nights slipped into the days, and the anxiousdays slipped back into the nights, bringing to that curious trinityneither helpful counsel nor consolation.
2
It was after they had all returned to Paris that Martin foundStephen alone one morning.
He said: 'I want to speak to you—I must.'
She put down her pen and looked into his eyes: Well, Martin,what is it?' But she knew already.
He answered her very simply: 'It's Mary.' Then he said: 'I'mgoing because I'm your friend and I love her...I must go because ofour friendship, and because I think Mary's grown to care forme.'
He thought Mary cared...Stephen got up slowly, and all of asudden she was no more herself but the whole of her kind out tocombat this man, out to vindicate their right to possess, out toprove that their courage was unshakable, that they neither admittedof nor feared any rival.
She said coldly: 'If you're going because of me, because youimagine that I'm frightened—then stay. I assure you I'm notin the least afraid; here and now I defy you to take her from me!'And even as she said this she marvelled at herself, for she wasafraid, terribly afraid of Martin.
He flushed at the quiet contempt in her voice, which roused allthe combative manhood in him: 'You think that Mary doesn't love me,but you're wrong.'
'Very well then, prove that I'm wrong!' she told him.
They stared at each other in bitter hostility for a moment, thenStephen said more gently: 'You don't mean to insult me by what youpropose, but I won't consent to your going, Martin. You think thatI can't hold the woman I love against you, because you've got anadvantage over me and over the whole of my kind. I accept thatchallenge—I must accept it if I'm to remain at all worthy ofMary.'
He bowed his head: 'It must be as you wish.' Then he suddenlybegan to talk rather quickly: Stephen, listen, I hate what I'mgoing to say, but by God, it's got to be said to you somehow!You're courageous and fine and you mean to make good, but life withyou is spiritually murdering Mary. Can't you see it? Can't yourealize that she needs all the things that it's not in your powerto give her? Children, protection, friends whom she can respect andwho'll respect her—don't you realize this, Stephen? A few maysurvive such relationships as yours, but Mary Llewellyn won't beamong them. She's not strong enough to fight the whole world, tostand up against persecution and insult; it will drive her down,begun to already—already she's been forced to turn to peoplelike Wanda. I know what I'm saying, I've seen the thing—thebars, the drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, uselesswastage of lives—well, I tell you it's spiritual murder forMary. I'd have gone away because you're my friend, but before Iwent I'd have said all this to you; I'd have begged and imploredyou to set Mary free if you love her. I'd have gone on my knees toyou, Stephen...
He paused, and she heard herself saying quite calmly: 'You don'tunderstand, I have faith in my writing, great faith; some day Ishall climb to the top and that will compel the world to accept mefor what I am. It's a matter of time, but I mean to succeed forMary's sake.'
'God pity you!' he suddenly blurted out. 'Your triumph, if itcomes, will come too late for Mary.'
She stared at him aghast: 'How dare you!' she stammered. 'Howdare you try to undermine my courage! You call yourself my friendand you say things like that...
'It's your courage that I appeal to,' he answered. He began tospeak very quietly again: 'Stephen, if I stay I'm going to fightyou. Do you understand? We'll fight this thing out until one of ushas to admit that he's beaten. I'll do all in my power to take Maryfrom you—all that's honourable, that is—for I mean toplay straight, because whatever you may think I'm your friend,only, you see—I love Mary Llewellyn.'
And now she struck back. She said rather slowly, watching hissensitive face as she did so: 'You seem to have thought it all outvery well, but then of course, our friendship has given youtime...
He flinched and she smiled, knowing how she could wound:'Perhaps,' she went on, 'you'll tell me your plans. Supposing youwin, do I give the wedding? Is Mary to marry you from my house, orwould that be a grave social disadvantage? And supposing she shouldwant to leave me quite soon for love of you—where would youtake her, Martin? To your aunt's for respectability's sake?'
'Don't Stephen!'
'But why not? I've a right to know because, you see, I also loveMary, I also consider her reputation. Yes, I think on the wholewe'll discuss your plans.'
'She'd always be welcome at my aunt's,' he said firmly.
'And you'll take her there if she runs away to your One neverknows what may happen, does one? You say that she cares for youalready...
His eyes hardened: 'If Mary will have me, Stephen, I shall takeher first to my aunt's house in Passy.'
'And then?' she mocked.
'I shall marry her from there.'
'And then?'
'I shall take her back to my home.'
'To Canada—I see—a safe distance of course.'
He held out his hand: 'Oh, for God's sake, don't! It's sohorrible somehow—be merciful, Stephen.'
She laughed bitterly: 'Why should I be merciful to you? Isn't itenough that I accept your challenge, that I offer you the freedomof my house, that I don't turn you out and forbid you to come here?Come by all means, whenever you like. You may even repeat ourconversation to Mary; I shall not do so, but don't let that stopyou if you think you may possibly gain some advantage.'
He shook his head: 'No. I shan't repeat it.'
'Oh, well, that must be as you think best, I propose to behaveas though nothing had happened—and now I must get along withmy work.'
He hesitated: 'Won't you shake hands?'
'Of course,' she smiled; 'aren't you my very good friend? Butyou know, you really must leave me now, Martin.'
3
After he had gone she lit a cigarette; the action was purelyautomatic. She felt strangely excited yet strangely numb—amost curious synthesis of sensations; then she suddenly feltdeathly sick and giddy. Going up to her bedroom she bathed herface, sat down on the bed and tried to think, conscious that hermind was completely blank. She was thinking of nothing—noteven of Mary.
1
A bitter and most curious warfare it was that must now be wagedbetween Martin and Stephen, but secretly waged, lest because ofthem the creature they loved should be brought to suffer; not theleast strange aspect being that these two must quite often takecare to protect each other, setting a guard upon eyes and lips whenthey found themselves together with Mary. For the sake of the girlwhom they sought to protect, they must actually often protect eachother. Neither would stoop to detraction or malice, though theyfought in secret they did so with honour. And all the while theirhearts cried out loudly against this cruel and insidious thing thathad laid its hand upon their doomed friendship—verily abitter and most curious warfare.
And now Stephen, brought suddenly face to face with the menaceof infinite desolation, fell back upon her every available weaponin the struggle to assert her right to possession. Every link thatthe years had forged between her and Mary, every tender andpassionate memory that bound their past to their ardent present,every moment of joy—aye, and even of sorrow, she used insheer self-defence against Martin. And not the least powerful ofall her weapons was the perfect companionship and understandingthat constitutes the great strength of such unions. Well armed shewas, thanks to both present and past—but Martin's sole weaponlay in the future.
With a new subtlety that was born of his love, he must lead thegirl's thoughts very gently forward towards a life of security andpeace; such a life as marriage with him would offer. In a thousandlittle ways must redouble his efforts to make himself indispensableto her, to surround her with the warm, happy cloak of protectionthat made even a hostile world seem friendly. And although heforbore to speak openly as yet, playing his hand with much skilland patience—although before speaking he wished to be certainthat Mary Llewellyn, of her own free will, would come when hecalled her, because she loved him—yet nevertheless shedivined his love, for men cannot hide such knowledge fromwomen.
Very pitiful Mary was in these days, torn between the twowarring forces; haunted by a sense of disloyalty if she thoughtwith unhappiness of losing Martin, hating herself for a treacherouscoward if she sometimes longed for the life he could offer, aboveall intensely afraid of this man who was creeping in between herand Stephen. And the very fact of this fear made her yield to thewoman with a new and more desperate ardour, so that the bond heldas never before—the days might be Martin's, but the nightswere Stephen's. And yet, lying awake far into the dawn, Stephen'svictory would take on the semblance of defeat, turned to ashes bythe memory of Martin's words: Your triumph, if it comes will cometoo late for Mary.' In the morning she would go to her desk andwrite, working with something very like frenzy, as though it werenow a neck to neck race between the world and her ultimateachievement. Never before had she worked like this; she would feelthat her pen was dipped in blood, that with every word she wrote,she was bleeding!
2
Christmas came and went, giving place to the New Year, andMartin fought on but he fought more grimly. He was haunted thesedays by the spectre of defeat, painfully conscious that do what hemight, nearly every advantage lay with Stephen. All that he lovedand admired most in Mary, her frankness, her tender and loyalspirit, her compassion towards suffering of any kind, these veryattributes told against him, serving as they did to bind her morefirmly to the creature to whom she had given devotion. One thingonly sustained the man at this time, and that was his convictionthat in spite of it all, Mary Llewellyn had grown to love him.
So careful she was when they were together, so guarded lest sheshould betray her feelings, so pitifully insistent that all was yetwell—that life had in no way lessened her courage. But Martinwas not deceived by these protests, knowing how she clung to whathe could offer, how gladly she turned to the simple things that soeasily come to those who are normal. Under all her parade ofgallantry he divined a great weariness of spirit, a great longingto be at peace with the world, to be able to face her fellow-menwith the comforting knowledge that she need not fear them, thattheir friendship would be hers for the asking, that their laws andtheir codes would be her protection. All this Martin perceived; butStephen's perceptions were even more accurate and far-reaching, forto her there had come the despairing knowledge that the women sheloved was deeply unhappy. At first she had blinded herself to thistruth, sustained by the passionate stress of the battle, by herpower to hold in despite of the man, by the eager response that shehad awakened. Yet the day came when she was no longer blind, whennothing counted in all the world except this grievous unhappinessthat was being silently borne by Mary.
Martin, if he had wished for revenge, might have taken his fillof it now from Stephen. Little did he know how, one by one, Marywas weakening her defences; gradually undermining her will, herfierce determination to hold, the arrogance of the male that was inher. All this the man was never to know; it was Stephen's secret,and she knew how to keep it. But one night she suddenly pushed Maryaway, blindly, scarcely knowing what she was doing; conscious onlythat the weapon she thus laid aside had become a thing altogetherunworthy, an outrage upon her love for this girl. And that nightthere followed the terrible thought that her love itself was a kindof outrage.
And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherentrespect of the normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy,not even the long years of persecution—an added burden itwas, handed down by the silent but watchful founders of Morton. Shemust pay for the instinct which, in earliest childhood, had madeher feel something akin to worship for the perfect thing which shehad divined in the love that existed between her parents. Neverbefore had she seen so clearly all that was lacking to MaryLlewellyn, all that would pass from her faltering grasp, perhapsnever to return, with the passing of Martin—children, a homethat the world would respect, ties of affection that the worldwould hold sacred, the blessèd security and the peace ofbeing released from the world's persecution. And suddenly Martinappeared to Stephen as a creature endowed with incalculable bounty,having in his hands all those priceless gifts which she, love'smendicant could never offer. Only one gift could 'she offer tolove, to Mary, and that was the gift of Martin.
In a kind of dream she perceived these things. In a dream shenow moved and had her being; scarcely conscious of whither thisdream would lead, the while her every perception was quickened. Andthis dream of hers was immensely compelling, so that all that shedid seemed clearly predestined; she could not have acted otherwise,nor could she have made a false step, although dreaming. Like thosewho in sleep tread the edge of a chasm unappalled, having lost allsense of danger, so now Stephen walked on the brink of her fate,having only one fear; a nightmare fear of what she must do to giveMary her freedom.
In obedience to the mighty but unseen will that had takencontrol of this vivid dreaming, she ceased to respond to the girl'stenderness, nor would she consent that they two should be lovers.Ruthless as the world itself she became, and almost as cruel inthis ceaseless wounding. For in spite of Mary's obvious misgivings,she went more and more often to see Valérie Seymour, so thatgradually, as the days slipped by, Mary's mind became a prey tosuspicion. Yet Stephen struck at her again and again, desperatelywounding herself in the process, though scarcely feeling the painof her wounds for the misery of what she was doing to Mary. Buteven as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each freshblow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of hersorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory thatStephen had stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered;with every instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to dobattle with Martin. The hand that had loaded Mary with chains waspowerless, it seemed, to strike them from her.
Came the day when Mary refused to see Martin, when she turnedupon Stephen, pale and accusing: 'Can't you understand? Are youutterly blind—have you only got eyes now for ValérieSeymour?'
And as though she were suddenly smitten dumb, Stephen's lipsremained closed and she answered nothing.
Then Mary wept and cried out against her: 'I won't let yougo—I won't let you, I tell you! It's your fault if I love youthe way I do. I can't do without you, you've taught me to need you,and now...In half-shamed, half-defiant words she must stand thereand plead for what Stephen withheld, and Stephen must listen tosuch pleading from Mary. Then before the girl realized it she hadsaid: 'But for you I could have loved Martin Hallam!'
Stephen heard her own voice a long way away: But for me, youcould have loved Martin Hallam.'
Mary flung despairing arms round her neck: 'No, no! Not that, Idon't know what I'm saying.'
3
The first faint breath of spring was in the air, bringingdaffodils to the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary's youngcherry tree in the garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink budsalong the whole length of its childish branches.
Then Martin wrote: Stephen, where can I see you? It must bealone. Better not at your house, I think, if you don't mind,because of Mary.'
She appointed the place. They would meet at the Auberge du VieuxLogis in the Rue Lepic. They two would meet there on the followingevening. When she left the house without saying a word, Marythought she was going to Valérie Seymour.
Stephen sat down at a table in the corner to await Martin'scoming—she herself was early. The table was gay with a newcheck cloth—red and white, white and red, she counted thesquares, tracing them carefully out with her finger. The womanbehind the bar nudged her companion: 'En voila uneoriginals—et quelle cicatrice, bon Dieu!' The scar acrossStephen's pale face stood out livid.
Martin came and sat quietly down at her side, ordering somecoffee for appearances' sake. For appearances' sake, until it wasbrought, they smiled at each other and made conversation. But whenthe waiter had turned away, Martin said: 'It's allover—you've beaten me, Stephen...The bond was toostrong.'
Their unhappy eyes met as she answered: 'I tried to strengthenthat bond.'
He nodded: 'I know...Well, my dear, you succeeded.' Then hesaid: 'I'm leaving Paris next week,' and in spite of his effort tobe calm his voice broke, 'Stephen...do what you can to take care ofMary.'
She found that she was holding his hand. Or was it someone elsewho sat there beside him, who looked into his sensitive, troubledface, who spoke such queer words?
'No, don't go—not yet.'
'But I don't understand...
'You must trust me, Martin.' And now she heard herself speakingvery gravely: 'Would you trust me enough to do anything I asked,even though it seemed rather strange? Would you trust me if I saidthat I asked it for Mary, for her happiness?'
His fingers tightened: 'Before God, yes. You know that I'd trustyou!'
'Very well then, don't leave Paris—not now.'
'You really want me to stay on, Stephen?'
'Yes, I can't explain.'
He hesitated, then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision: Allright...I'll do whatever you ask me.'
They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: 'Let me come asfar as the house,' he pleaded.
But she shook her head: 'No, no, not now. I'll write toyou...very soon...Good-bye, Martin.'
She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he wasfinally lost in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own wayup the hill, past the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette.Its pitiful sails revolved in the wind, eternally grinding outpetty sins—dry chaff blown in from the gutters of Paris. Andafter a while, having breasted the hill, she must climb a dustyflight of stone steps, and push open a heavy slow-moving door; thedoor of the mighty temple of faith that keeps its anxious buttireless vigil.
She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she wouldsay to the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and the otherheld out in a patient gesture of supplication. The sound ofpraying, monotonous, low, insistent, rose up from those who prayedwith extended arms, with crucified arms—like the tides of anocean it swelled and receded and swelled again, bathing the shoresof heaven.
They were calling upon the Mother of God: 'Sainte Marie, Mere deDieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant età l'heure de notre mort.'
'Et à l'heure de notre mort,' Stephen heard herselfrepeating.
He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: 'But then He alwayslooks tired,' she thought vaguely; and she stood there withoutfinding anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in thepresence of somebody else's sorrow. For herself she felt nothing,neither pity nor regret; she was curiously empty of all sensation,and after a little she left the church, to walk on through thewind-swept streets of Montmartre.
1
Valérie stared at Stephen in amazement: 'But...it's suchan extraordinary thing you're asking! Are you sure you're right totake such a step? For myself I care nothing; why should I care: Ifyou want to pretend that you're my lover, well, my dear, to bequite frank, I wish it were true—I feel certain you'd make amost charming lover. All the same,' and now her voice soundedanxious, 'this is not a thing to be done lightly, Stephen. Aren'tyou being absurdly self-sacrificing? You can give the girl a verygreat deal.'
Stephen shook her head: 'I can't give her protection orhappiness, and yet she won't leave me. There's only one way...'
Then Valérie Seymour, who had always shunned tragedy likethe plague, flared out in something very like temper: 'Protection!Protection! I'm sick of the word. Let her do without it; aren't youenough for her? Good heavens, you're worth twenty Mary Llewellyns!Stephen, think it over before you decide—it seems mad to me.For God's sake keep the girl, and get what happiness you can out oflife.'
'No, I can't do that,' said Stephen dully.
Valérie got up: 'Being what you are, I suppose youcan't—you were made for a martyr! Very well, I agree'; shefinished abruptly, 'though of all the curious situations that I'veever been in, this one beats the lot!'
That night Stephen wrote to Martin Hallam.
2
Two days later as she crossed the street to her house, Stephensaw Martin in the shadow of the archway. He stepped out and theyfaced each other on the pavement. He had kept his word; it was justten o'clock.
He said: 'I've come. Why did you send for me, Stephen?' Sheanswered heavily: 'Because of Mary.'
And something in her face made him catch his breath, so that thequestions died on his lips: 'I'll do whatever you want,' hemurmured.
'It's so simple,' she told him, 'it's all perfectly simple. Iwant you to wait just under this arch just here where you can't beseen from the house. I want you to wait until Mary needs you, as Ithink she will...it may not be long...Can I count on your beinghere if she needs you?'
He nodded: 'Yes—yes!' He was utterly bewildered, scaredtoo by the curious look in her eyes; but he allowed her to pass himand enter the courtyard.
3
She let herself into the house with her latchkey. The placeseemed full of articulate silence that leapt out shouting fromevery corner—a jibing, grimacing, vindictive silence. Shebrushed it aside with a sweep of her hand, as though it were somesort of physical presence.
But who was it who brushed that silence aside? Not StephenGordon...oh, no, surely not...Stephen Gordon was dead; she had diedlast night: 'A l'heure de notre mort...' Many people had spokenthose prophetic words quite a short time ago—perhaps they hadbeen thinking of Stephen Gordon.
Yet now someone was slowly climbing the stairs, then pausingupon the landing to listen, then opening the door of Mary'sbedroom, then standing quite still and staring at Mary. It wassomeone whom David knew and loved well; he sprang forward with asharp little bark of welcome. But Mary shrank back as though shehad been struck—Mary pale and red-eyed fromsleeplessness—or was it because of excessive weeping?
When she spoke her voice sounded unfamiliar: 'Where were youlast night?'
'With Valérie Seymour. I thought you'd knowsomehow...It's better to be frank...we both hate lies...'
Came that queer voice again: 'Good God—and I've tried sohard not to believe it! Tell me you're lying to me now; say it,Stephen!'
Stephen—then she wasn't dead after all; or was she? Butnow Mary was clinging—clinging.
'Stephen, I can't believe this thing—Valérie! Isthat why you always repulse me...why you never want to conic nearme these days? Stephen, answer me; are you her lover? Saysomething, for Christ's sake! Don't stand there dumb...'
A mist dosing down, a thick black mist. Someone pushing the girlaway, without speaking. Mary's queer voice coming out of the gloom,muffled by the folds of that thick black mist, only a word here andthere getting through: 'All my life I've given...you've killed...Iloved you...Cruel, oh, cruel! You're unspeakably cruel...'Then thesound of rough and pitiful sobbing.
No, assuredly this was not Stephen Gordon who stood thereunmoved by such pitiful sobbing. But what was the figure doing inthe mist? It was moving about, distractedly, wildly. All the whileit sobbed as it was moving about: 'I'm going...'
Going? But where could it go Somewhere out of the mist,somewhere into the light? Who was it that had said...wait, whatwere the words? 'To give light to them that sit in darkness...'
No one was moving about any more—there was only a dog, adog called David. Something had to be done. Go into the bedroom,Stephen Gordon's bedroom that faced on the courtyard...just a fewshort steps and then the window. A girl hatless, with the sunfalling full on her hair...she was almost running...she stumbled alittle. But now there were two people down in the courtyard—aman had his hands on the girl's bowed shoulders. He questioned her,yes, that was it, he questioned; and the girl was telling him whyshe was there, why she had fled from that thick, awful darkness. Hewas looking at the house, incredulous, amazed; hesitating as thoughhe were coming in; but the girl went on and the man turned tofollow...They were side by side, he was gripping her arm...Theywere gone; they had passed out under the archway.
Then all in a moment the stillness was shattered: 'Mary, comeback! Come back to me, Mary!'
David crouched and trembled. He had crawled to the bed, and helay there watching with his eyes of amber; trembling because suchan anguish as this struck across him like the lash of a whip, andwhat could he do, the poor beast, in his dumbness?
She turned and saw him, but only for a moment, for now the roomseemed to be thronging with people. Who were they, these strangerswith the miserable eyes? And yet, were they all strangers? Surelythat was Wanda? And someone with a neat little hole in herside—Jamie clasping Barbara by the hand; Barbara with thewhite flowers of death on her bosom. Oh, but they were many, theseunbidden guests, and they called very softly at first and thenlouder. They were calling her by name, saying: 'Stephen, Stephen!'The quick, the dead, and the yet unborn—all calling her,softly at first and then louder. Aye, and those lost and terriblebrothers from Alec's, they were here, and they also were calling:'Stephen, Stephen, speak with your God and ask Him why He has leftus forsaken!' She could see their marred and reproachful faces withthe haunted, melancholy eyes of the invert—eyes that hadlooked too long on a world that lacked all pity and allunderstanding: 'Stephen, Stephen, speak with your God and ask Himwhy He has left us forsaken!' And these terrible ones startedpointing at her with their shaking, white-skinned, effeminatefingers: 'You and your kind have stolen our birthright; you havetaken our strength and have given us your weakness!' They werepointing at her with white shaking fingers.
Rockets of pain, burning rockets of pain—their pain, herpain, all welded together into one great consuming agony. Rocketsof pain that shot up and burst, dropping scorching tears of fire onthe spirit—her pain, their pain...all the misery at Alec's.And the press and the clamour of those countless others—theyfought, they trampled, they were getting her under. In theirmadness to become articulate through her, they were tearing her topieces, getting her under. They were everywhere now, cutting offher retreat; neither bolts nor bars would avail to save her. Thewalls fell down and crumbled before them; at the cry of theirsuffering the walls fell and crumbled: 'We are coming,Stephen—we are still coming on, and our name islegion—you dare not disown us!' She raised her arms, tryingto ward them off, but they closed in and in: 'You dare not disownus!'
They possessed her. Her barren womb became fruitful—itached with its fearful and sterile burden. It ached with the fierceyet helpless children who would clamour in vain for their right tosalvation. They would turn first to God, and then to the world, andthen to her. They would cry out accusing: 'We have asked for bread;will you give us a stone? Answer us: will you give us a stone? You,God, in Whom we, the outcast, believe; you, world, into which weare pitilessly born; you, Stephen, who have drained our cup to thedregs—we have asked for bread; will you give us a stone?'
And now there was only one voice, one demand; her own voice intowhich those millions had entered. A voice like the awful, deeprolling of thunder; a demand like the gathering together of greatwaters. A terrifying voice that made her ears throb, that made herbrain throb, that shook her very entrails, until she must staggerand all but fall beneath this appalling burden of sound thatstrangled her in its will to be uttered.
'God,' she gasped, we believe; we have told You we believe...Wehave not denied You, then rise up and defend us. Acknowledge us, ohGod, before the whole world. Give us also the right to ourexistence!'
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