Title: The Well of Loneliness (1928)
Author: Radclyff Hall
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eBook No.: 0609021.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: November 2006
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Title: The Well of Loneliness (1928)
Author: Radclyff Hall






To Our Three Selves




AUTHOR'S NOTE

All the characters in this book are purely imaginary, and if the author
has used names that may suggest a reference to living persons, she has
done so inadvertently.

A motor ambulance unit of British women drivers did very fine service
upon the Allied Front in France during the later months of the war, but
although the unit mentioned in this book, of which Stephen Gordon becomes
a member, operates in much the same area, it has never had any existence
save in the author's imagination.




BOOK ONE



Chapter One


1


Not very far from Up ton-on-Severn--between it, in fact, and the Malvern
Hills--stands the country seat of the Gordons of Bramley; well-timbered,
well-cottaged, well-fenced and well-watered, having, in this latter
respect, a stream that forks in exactly the right position to feed two
large lakes in the grounds.

The house itself is of Georgian red brick, with charming circular windows
near the roof. It has dignity and pride without ostentation,
self-assurance without arrogance, repose without inertia; and a gentle
aloofness that, to those who know its spirit, but adds to its value as a
home. It is indeed like certain lovely women who, now old, belong to a
bygone generation--women who in 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 over twenty.
She was lovely as only an Irish woman can be, having that in her bearing
that betokened quiet pride, having that in her eyes that betokened great
longing, having that in her body that betokened happy promise--the
archetype of the very perfect woman, whom creating God has found good.
Sir Philip had met her away in County Clare--Anna Molloy, the slim virgin
thing, all chastity, and his weariness had flown to her bosom as a spent
bird will fly to its nest--as indeed such a bird had once flown to her,
she told him, taking refuge from the perils of a storm.

Sir Philip was a tall man and exceedingly well-favoured, but his charm
lay less in feature than in a certain wide expression, a tolerant
expression that might almost be called noble, and in something 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 was indicative of temper, but his lips were
well-modelled and sensitive and 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: Her guardian had
disliked him, opposing the engagement, but in the end she had had her own
way. And as things turned out her choice had been happy, for seldom had
two people loved more than they did; they loved with an ardour
undiminished by time; as they ripened, so their love ripened with them.

Sir Philip never knew how much he longed for a son until, some ten years
after marriage, his wife conceived a child; then he knew that this thing
meant complete fulfilment, the fulfilment for which they had both been
waiting. When she told him, he could not find words for expression, and
must just turn and weep on her shoulder. It never seemed to cross his
mind for a moment that Anna might very well give him a daughter; he saw
her only as a mother of sons, nor could her warnings disturb him. He
christened the unborn infant Stephen, because he admired the pluck of
that Saint. He was not a religious man by instinct, being perhaps too
much of a student, but he read the Bible for its fine literature, and
Stephen had gripped his imagination. Thus he often discussed the future
of their child: 'I think I shall put Stephen down for Harrow', or: 'I'd
rather like Stephen to finish off abroad, it widens one's outlook on
life'.

And listening to him, Anna also grew convinced; his certainty wore down
her vague misgivings, and she saw herself playing with this little
Stephen, in the nursery, in the garden, in the sweet-smelling meadows.
'And himself the lovely young man,' she would say, thinking of the soft
Irish speech of her peasants; 'And himself with the light of the stars in
his eyes, and the courage of a lion in his heart!'

When the child stirred within her she would think it stirred strongly
because of the gallant male creature she was hiding; then her spirit grew
large with a mighty new courage, because a man-child would be born. She
would sit with her needle-work dropped on her knees, while her eyes
turned away to the long line of hills that stretched beyond the Severn
valley. From her favourite seat underneath an old cedar, she would see
these Malvern Hills in their beauty, and their swelling slopes seemed to
hold a new meaning. They were like pregnant women, full-bosomed,
courageous, great green-girdled mothers of splendid sons! thus through all
those summer months she sat and watched the hills, and Sir Philip would
sit with her--they would sit hand in hand. And because she felt grateful
she gave much to the poor, and Sir Philip went to church, which was
seldom his custom, and the Vicar came to dinner, and just towards the end
many matrons called to give good advice to Anna.

But: 'Man proposes--God disposes', and so it happened that on Christmas
Eve, Anna Gordon was delivered of a daughter; a narrow-hipped,
wide-shouldered little tadpole of a baby, that yelled and yelled for
three hours without ceasing, as though outraged to find itself ejected
into life.


2


Anna Gordon held her child to her breast, but she grieved while it drank,
because of her man who had longed so much for a son. And seeing her
grief, Sir Philip hid his chagrin, and he fondled the baby and examined
its fingers.

'What a hand!' he would say. 'Why it's actually got nails on all its ten
fingers: little, perfect, pink nails!'

Then Anna would dry her eyes and caress it, kissing the tiny hand.

He insisted on calling the infant Stephen, nay more, he would have 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 go on--'

Anna felt doubtful, but Sir Philip was stubborn, as he could be at times
over whims.

The Vicar said that it was rather unusual, so to mollify him they must
add female names. The child was baptized in the village church as Stephen
Mary Olivia Gertrude--and she throve, seeming strong, and when her hair
grew it was seen to be auburn like Sir Philip's. There was also a tiny
cleft in her chin, so small just at first that it looked like a shadow;
and after a while when her eyes lost the blueness that is proper to
puppies and other young things, Anna saw that her eyes were going to be
hazel--and thought that their expression was her father's. On the whole
she was quite a well-behaved baby, owing, no doubt, to a fine
constitution. Beyond that first energetic protest at birth she had done
very little howling.

It was happy to have a baby at Morton, and the old house seemed to become
more mellow as the child, growing fast now and learning to walk,
staggered or stumbled or sprawled on the floors that had long known the
ways of children. Sir Philip would come home all muddy from hunting and
would rush into the nursery before pulling off his boots, then down he
would go on his hands and knees while Stephen clambered on to his back.
Sir Philip would pretend to be well corned up, bucking and jumping and
kicking wildly, so that Stephen must cling to his hair or his collar, and
thump him with hard little arrogant fists. Anna, attracted by the
outlandish hubbub, would find them, and would point to the mud on the
carpet.

She would say: 'Now, Philip, now, Stephen, that's enough! It's time for
your tea', as though both of them were children. Then Sir Philip would
reach up and disentangle Stephen, after which he would kiss Stephen's
mother.


3


The son that they waited for seemed long a-coming; he had not arrived
when Stephen was seven. Nor had Anna produced other female offspring.
thus Stephen remained cock of the roost. It is doubtful if any only child
is to be envied, for the only child is bound to become introspective;
having no one of its own ilk in whom to confide, it is apt to confide in
itself. It cannot be said that at seven years old the mind is beset by
serious problems, but nevertheless it is already groping, may already be
subject to small fits of dejection, may already be struggling to get a
grip on life--on the limited life of its surroundings. At seven there are
miniature loves and hatreds, which, however, loom large and are extremely
disconcerting. There may even be present a dim sense of frustration, and
Stephen was often conscious of this sense, though she could not have put
it into words. To cope with it, however, she would give way at times to
sudden fits of hot temper, working herself up over everyday trifles that
usually left her cold. It relieved her to stamp and then burst into tears
at the first sign of opposition. After such outbursts she would feel much
more cheerful, would find it almost easy to be docile and obedient. In
some vague, childish way she had hit back at life, and this fact had
restored her self-respect.

Anna would send for her turbulent offspring and would say: 'Stephen
darling, Mother's not really cross--tell Mother what makes you give way
to these tempers; she'll promise to try and understand 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. The hand would be
making an effort to fondle, and Stephen would be conscious of that
effort. Then looking up at the calm, lovely face, Stephen would be filled
with a sudden contrition, with a sudden deep sense of her own
shortcomings; she would long to blurt all this out to her mother, yet
would stand there tongue-tied, saying nothing at all. For these two were
strangely shy with each other--it was almost grotesque, this shyness of
theirs, as existing between mother and child. Anna would feel it, and
through her Stephen, young as she was, would become conscious of it; so
that they held a little aloof when they should have been drawing
together.

Stephen, acutely responsive to beauty, would be dimly longing to find
expression for a feeling almost amounting to worship, that her mother's
face had awakened. But Anna, looking gravely at her daughter, noting the
plentiful auburn hair, the brave hazel eyes that were so like her
father's, as indeed were the child's whole expression and bearing, would
be filled with a sudden antagonism that came very near to anger.

She would awake at night and ponder this thing, scourging herself in an
access of contrition; accusing herself of hardness of spirit, of being an
unnatural mother. Sometimes she would shed slow, miserable tears,
remembering the inarticulate Stephen.

She would think: I ought to be proud of the likeness, proud and happy and
glad when I sec it! then back would come flooding that queer antagonism
that amounted almost to anger.

It would seem to Anna that she must be going mad, for this likeness to
her husband would strike her as an outrage--as though the poor, innocent
seven-year-old Stephen were in some way a caricature of Sir Philip; a
blemished, unworthy, maimed reproduction--yet she knew that the child was
handsome. But now there were times when the child's soft flesh would be
almost distasteful to her; when she hated the way Stephen moved or stood
still, hated a certain largeness about her, a certain crude lack of grace
in her movements, a certain unconscious defiance. Then the mother's mind
would slip back to the days when this creature had clung to her breast,
forcing her to love it by its own utter weakness; and at this thought her
eyes must fill again, for she came of a race of devoted mothers. The
thing had crept on her like a foe in the dark--it had been slow,
insidious, deadly, it had waxed strong as Stephen herself had waxed
strong, being part, in some way, of Stephen.

Restlessly tossing from side to side, Anna Gordon would pray for
enlightenment and guidance; would pray that her husband might never
suspect her feelings towards his child. All that she was and had been he
knew; in all the world she had no other secret save this one most
unnatural and monstrous injustice that was stronger than her will to
destroy it. And Sir Philip loved Stephen, he idolized her; it was almost
as though he divined by instinct that his daughter was being secretly
defrauded, was bearing some unmerited burden. He never spoke to his wife
of these things, yet watching them together, she grew daily more certain
that his love for the child held an element in it that was closely akin
to pity.



Chapter Two


1


At about this time Stephen first became conscious of an urgent necessity
to love. She adored her father, but that was quite different; he was part
of herself, he had always been there, she could not envisage the world
without him--it was other with Collins, the housemaid. Collins was what
was called 'second of three'; she might one day hope for promotion.
Meanwhile she was florid, full-lipped and full-bosomed, rather ample
indeed for a young girl of twenty, but her eyes were unusually blue and
arresting, very pretty inquisitive eyes. Stephen had seen Collins
sweeping the stairs for two years, and had passed her by quite unnoticed;
but one morning, when Stephen was just over seven, Collins looked up and
suddenly smiled, then all in a moment Stephen knew that she loved her--a
staggering revelation!

Collins said politely: 'Good morning, Miss Stephen.'

She had always said: 'Good morning, Miss Stephen,' but on this occasion
it sounded alluring--so alluring that Stephen wanted to touch her, and
extending a rather uncertain hand she started to stroke her sleeve.

Collins picked up the hand and stared at it. 'Oh, my!' she exclaimed,
'what very dirty nails!' Whereupon their owner flushed painfully crimson
and dashed upstairs to repair them.

'Put them scissors down this minute, Miss Stephen!' came the nurse's
peremptory voice, while her charge was still busily engaged on her
toilet.

But Stephen said firmly: 'I'm cleaning my nails 'cause Collins doesn't
like them--she says they're dirty!'

'What impudence!' snapped the nurse, thoroughly annoyed. 'I'll thank 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 to tolerate any
interference with the dignity of her status. She found Collins still on
the top flight of stairs, and forthwith she started to upbraid her:
'putting her back in her place,' the nurse called it; and she did it so
thoroughly that in less than five minutes 'the second-of-three' had been
told of every fault that was likely to preclude promotion.

Stephen stood still in the nursery doorway. She could feel her heart
thumping against her side, thumping with anger and pity for Collins who
was answering never a word. There she knelt mute, with her brush
suspended, with her mouth slightly open and her eyes rather scared; and
when at long last she did manage to speak, her voice sounded humble and
frightened. She was timid by nature, and the 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--Miss Stephen herself
showed me them dirty nails; she said: "Collins, just look, aren't my
nails awful dirty!" And I said: "You must ask Nanny about that, Miss
Stephen." Is it likely that I'd interfere with your work? I'm not that
sort, Mrs. Bingham.'

Oh, Collins, Collins, with those pretty blue eyes and that funny alluring
smile! Stephen's own eyes grew wide with amazement, then they clouded with
sudden and disillusioned tears, for far worse than Collins' poorness of
spirit was the dreadful injustice of those lies--yet this very injustice
seemed to draw her to Collins, 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 wanted Collins, and
whenever she saw her she caught herself smiling, quite unable, in her
turn, to muster the courage to frown her innate disapproval. And Collins
smiled too, if the nurse was not looking, and she held up her plump red
fingers, pointing to her nails and making a grimace at the nurse's
retreating figure. Watching her, Stephen felt unhappy and embarrassed,
not so much for herself as for Collins; and this feeling increased, so
that thinking about her made Stephen go hot down her spine.

In the evening, when Collins was laying the tea, Stephen managed to get
her alone. 'Collins,' she whispered, 'you told an untruth--I never showed
you my dirty nails!'

'Course not!' murmured Collins, 'but I had to say something--you didn't
mind, Miss Stephen, did you?' And as Stephen looked doubtfully up into
her face, Collins suddenly stooped and kissed her.

Stephen stood speechless from a sheer sense of joy, all her doubts swept
completely away. At that moment she knew nothing but beauty and Collins,
and the two were as one, and the one was Stephen--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 face and hands
before tea--how many times must I tell you the same thing?'

'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 turned on an
axis of Collins. A world full of constant exciting adventures; of
elation, of joy, of incredible sadness, but withal a fine place to be
dashing about in like a moth who is courting a candle. Up and down went
the days; they resembled a swing that soared high above the tree-tops,
then dropped to the depths, but seldom if ever hung midway. And with them
went Stephen, clinging to the swing, waking up in the mornings with a
thrill of vague excitement--the sort of excitement that belonged by
rights to birthdays, and Christmas, and a visit to the pantomime at
Malvern. She would open her eyes and jump out of bed quickly, still too
sleepy to remember why she felt so elated; but then would come
memory--she would know that this day she was actually going to sec
Collins. The thought would set her splashing in her sitz-bath, and
tearing the buttons off her clothes in her haste, and cleaning her nails
with such ruthlessness and vigour that she made them quite sore in the
process.

She began to be very inattentive at her lessons, sucking her pencil,
staring out of the window, or what was far worse, not listening at all,
except for Collins' footsteps. The nurse slapped her hands, and stood her
in the corner, and deprived her of jam, but all to no purpose; for
Stephen would smile, hugging closer her secret--it was worth being
punished for Collins.

She grew restless and could not be induced to sit still even when her
nurse read aloud. At one time she had very much liked being read to,
especially from books that were all about heroes, but now such stories
so stirred her ambition that she longed intensely to live them. She,
Stephen, now longed to be William tell, or Nelson, or the whole Charge of
Balaclava; and this led to much foraging in the nursery ragbag, much
hunting up of garments once used for charades, much swagger and noise,
much strutting and posing, and much staring into the mirror. There ensued
a period of general confusion when the nursery looked as though smitten
by an earthquake; when the chairs and the floor would be littered with
oddments that Stephen had dug out but discarded. Once dressed, she would
walk away grandly, waving the nurse peremptorily aside, going, as always,
in search of Collins, who might have to be stalked to the basement.

Sometimes Collins would play up, especially to Nelson. 'My, but you do
look fine!' she would exclaim. And then to the cook: 'Do come here, Mrs.
Wilson! Doesn't Miss Stephen look exactly like a boy? I believe she must
be a boy with them shoulders, and them funny gawky legs she's got on
her!'

And Stephen would say gravely: 'Yes, of course I'm a boy. I'm young
Nelson, and I'm saying: "What is fear?" you know, Collins--I must be a
boy, 'cause I feel exactly like one, I feel like young Nelson in the
picture upstairs.'

Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after Stephen had gone
they would get talking, and Collins might say: 'She is a queer kid,
always dressing herself up and play-acting--it's funny.'

But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: 'I don't hold with such nonsense,
not for a young lady. Miss Stephen's quite different from other young
ladies--she's got none of their pretty little ways--it's a pity!'

There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky, when Stephen 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 show Nurse--yes, I know you're a boy, but
I've got my work to get on with. Run away.'

And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangely unhappy
and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes she so dearly loved
donning, to replace them by the garments she hated. How she hated soft
dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and small coral beads, and openwork
stockings! Her legs felt so free and comfortable in breeches; she adored
pockets, too, and these were forbidden--at least really adequate pockets.
She would gloom about the nursery because Collins had snubbed her,
because she was conscious of feeling all wrong, because she so longed to
be someone quite real, instead of just Stephen pretending to be Nelson.
In a quick fit of anger she would go to the cupboard, and getting out her
dolls would begin to torment them. She had always despised the idiotic
creatures which, however, arrived with each Christmas and birthday.

'I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!' she would mutter, thumping their
innocuous faces.

But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, she seemed to be
filled with a sudden contrition. 'It's me housemaid's knee,' she confided
to Stephen. 'It's not you, it's me, housemaid's knee, dearie.'

'Is that dangerous?' demanded the child, looking frightened.

Then Collins, true to her class, said: 'It may be--it may mean 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 to let out
the water.'

'Oh, Collins! What water?'

'The water in me kneecap--you can see if you press it, Miss Stephen.'

They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery, where Collins was
limply making the bed. It was one of those rare and delicious occasions
when Stephen could converse with her goddess undisturbed, for the nurse
had gone out to post a letter. Collins rolled down a coarse woollen
stocking and displayed the afflicted member; it was blotchy and swollen
and far from attractive, but Stephen's eyes filled with quick, anxious
tears as she touched the knee with her finger.

'There now!' exclaimed Collins. 'See that dent? That's the water!' And
she added: 'It's so painful it fair makes me sick. It all comes from
polishing them floors, Miss Stephen; I didn't ought to polish them
floors.'

Stephen said gravely: 'I do wish I'd got it--I wish I'd got your
housemaid's knee, Collins, 'cause that way I could bear it instead of
you. I'd like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way Jesus was hurt
for sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don't you think I might catch it? Or
supposing I rub my knee against yours?'

'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 to the Child's
Book of Scripture Stories and she studied the picture of the Lord on His
Cross, and she felt that she understood Him. She had often been rather
puzzled about Him, since she herself was fearful of pain--when she barked
her shins on the gravel in the garden, it was not always easy to keep
back her tears--and yet Jesus had chosen to bear pain for sinners, when
He might have called up all those angels! Oh, yes, she had wondered a
great deal about Him, but now she no longer wondered.

At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say her prayers--as custom
demanded--Stephen's prayers lacked conviction. But when Anna kissed her
and had turned out the light, then it was that Stephen prayed in good
earnest--with such fervour, indeed, that she dripped perspiration in a
veritable orgy of prayer.

'Please, Jesus, give me a housemaid's knee instead of Collins--do, do,
Lord Jesus. Please Jesus, I would like to bear all Collins' pain the way
You did, and I don't want any angels! I would like to wash Collins in my
blood, Lord Jesus--I would like very much to be a Saviour to Collins--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's all full of water, so that I can
have Collins' operation. I want to have it instead of her, 'cause she's
frightened--I'm not a bit frightened!'

This petition she repeated until she fell asleep, to dream that in some
queer way she was Jesus, and that Collins was kneeling and kissing her
hand, because she, Stephen, had managed to cure her by cutting off her
knee with a bone paper-knife and grafting it on to her own. The dream was
a mixture of rapture and discomfort, and it stayed quite a long time with
Stephen.

The next morning she awoke with the feeling of elation that comes only in
moments of perfect faith. But a close examination of her knees in the
bath revealed them to be flawless except for old scars and a crisp, brown
scab from a recent tumble--this, of course, was very disappointing. She
picked off the scab, and that hurt her a little, but not, she felt sure,
like a real housemaid's knee. However, she decided to continue in prayer,
and not to be too easily downhearted.

For more than three weeks she sweated and prayed, and pestered poor
Collins with endless daily questions: 'Is your knee better yet?' 'Don't
you think my knee's swollen?' 'Have you faith? 'Cause I 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!' Then she felt rather
frightened, and added more humbly: 'I mean, I do want to--You don't mind,
do You, Lord Jesus?'

The nursery floor was covered with carpet, which was obviously rather
unfortunate for Stephen; had it only been parquet like the drawing-room
and study, she felt it would better have served her purpose. All the same
it was hard if she knelt long enough--it was so hard, indeed, that she
had to grit her teeth if she stayed on her knees for more than twenty
minutes. This was much worse than barking one's shins in the garden; it
was much worse even than picking off a scab! Nelson helped her a little.
She would think: 'Now I'm Nelson. I'm in the middle of thee Battle of
Trafalgar--I've got shots in my knees.' But then she would remember that
Nelson had been spared such torment. However, it was really rather fine
to be suffering--it certainly seemed to bring Collins much nearer; it
seemed to make Stephen feel that she owned her by right of this diligent
pain.

There were endless spots on the old nursery carpet, and these spots
Stephen could pretend to be cleaning; always careful to copy. Collins'
movements, rubbing backwards and forwards while groaning a little. When
she got up at last, she must hold her left leg and limp, still groaning a
little. Enormous new holes appeared in her stockings, through which she
could examine her aching knees, and this led to rebuke: 'Stop your
nonsense, Miss Stephen! It's scandalous the way you're tearing your
stockings!' But Stephen smiled grimly and went on with the nonsense,
spurred by love to an open defiance. On the eighth day, however, it
dawned upon Stephen that Collins should be shown the proof of her
devotion. Her knees were particularly scarified that morning, so she
limped off in search of the unsuspecting housemaid.

Collins stared: 'Good gracious, whatever's the matter? Whatever have you
been doing, Miss Stephen?'

Then Stephen said, not without pardonable pride: 'I've been getting a
housemaid's knee, like you, Collins!' And as Collins looked stupid and
rather bewildered--'You see, I wanted to share your suffering. I've
prayed quite a lot, but Jesus won't listen, so I've got to get
housemaid's knee my own way--I can't wait any longer for Jesus!'

'Oh, hush!' murmured Collins, thoroughly shocked. 'You mustn't say such
things: it's wicked, Miss Stephen.' But she smiled a little in spite of
herself, then she suddenly hugged the child warmly.

All the same, Collins plucked up her courage that evening and spoke to
the nurse about Stephen. 'Her knees was all red and swollen, Mrs.
Bingham. Did you ever know such a queer fish as she is? Praying about my
knee, too. She's a caution! And now if she isn't trying to get one! Well,
if that's not real loving then I don't know nothing.' And Collins began
to laugh weakly.

After this Mrs. Bingham rose in her might, and the self-imposed torture
was forcibly stopped. Collins, on her part, was ordered to lie, if
Stephen continued to question. So Collins lied nobly: 'It's better, Miss
Stephen, it must be your praying--you see Jesus heard you. I expect He
was sorry to see your poor knees--I know as I was when I saw them!'

'Are you telling me the truth?' Stephen asked her, still doubting, still
mindful of that first day of Love's young dream.

'Why, of course I'm telling you the truth, Miss Stephen.' And with this
Stephen had to be content.


3


Collins became more affectionate after the incident of the housemaid's
knee; she could not but feel a new interest in the child whom she and the
cook had now labelled as 'queer', and Stephen basked in much
surreptitious petting, and her love for Collins grew daily.

It was spring, the season of gentle emotions, and Stephen, for the first
time, became aware of spring. In a dumb, childish way she was conscious
of its fragrance, and the house irked her sorely, and she longed for the
meadows, and the hills that were white with thorn-trees. Her active young
body was for ever on the fidget, but her mind was bathed in a kind of
soft haze, and this she could never quite put into words, though she
tried to tell Collins about it. It was all part of Collins, yet somehow
quite different--it had nothing to do with Collins' wide smile, nor her
hands which were red, nor even her eyes which were blue, and very
arresting. Yet all that was Collins, Stephen's Collins, was also a part
of these long, warm days, apart of the twilights that came in and
lingered for hours after Stephen had been put to bed; a part too, could
Stephen have only known it, of her own quickening childish perceptions.
this spring, for the first time, she thrilled to the cuckoo, standing
quite still to listen, with her head on one side; and the lure of that
far-away call was destined to remain with her all her life.

There were times when she wanted to get away from Collins, yet at others
she longed intensely to be near her, longed to force the response that
her loving craved for, but quite wisely was very seldom granted.

She would say: 'I do love you awfully, Collins. I love you so much that
it makes me want to cry.'

And Collins would answer: 'Don't be silly, Miss Stephen,' which was 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 order to build
up pictures: pictures of herself companioned by Collins in all sorts of
happy situations. Perhaps they would be walking in the garden, hand in
hand, or pausing on a hillside to listen to the cuckoo; or perhaps they
would be skimming over miles of blue ocean in a queer little ship with a
leg-of-mutton sail, like the one in the fairy story. Sometimes Stephen
pictured them living alone in a low thatched cottage by the side of a
mill stream--she had seen such a cottage not very far from Upton--and the
water flowed quickly and made talking noises; there were sometimes dead
leaves on the water. This last was a very intimate picture, full of
detail, even to the red china dogs that stood one at each end of the high
mantelpiece, and the grandfather clock that ticked loudly. Collins would
sit by the fire with her shoes off. 'Me feet's that swollen and painful,'
she would say. Then Stephen would go and cut rich bread and butter--the
drawing-room kind, little bread and much butter--and would put on the
kettle and brew tea for Collins, who liked it very strong and practically
boiling, so that she could sip it from her saucer. In this picture it was
Collins who talked about loving, and Stephen who gently but firmly
rebuked her: 'There, there, Collins, don't be silly, you are a queer
fish!' And yet all the while she would be longing to tell her how
wonderful it was, like honeysuckle blossom--something very sweet like
that--or like fields smelling strongly of new-mown hay, in the sunshine.
And perhaps she would tell her, just at the very end--just before the
last picture faded.


4


In these days Stephen clung more closely to her father, and this in a way
was because of Collins. She could not have told you why it was so,
she only felt that it was. Sir Philip and his daughter would walk on
the hill-sides, in and out of the black-thorn and young green bracken;
they would walk hand in hand with a deep sense of friendship, with a deep
sense of mutual understanding.

Sir Philip, knew all about wild flowers and berries, and the ways of
young foxes and rabbits and such people. There were many rare birds, too,
on the hills near Malvern, and these he would point out to Stephen. He
taught her the simpler laws of nature, which, though simple, had always
filled him with wonder: the law of the sap as it flowed through the
branches, the law of the wind that came stirring the sap, the law of bird
life and the building of nests, the law of the cuckoo's varying call,
which in June changed to 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. Tell him how much she
longed to be different, longed to be someone like Nelson.

She would say: 'Do you think that I could be a man, supposing I thought
very hard--or prayed, Father?'

Then Sir Philip would smile and tease her a little, and would tell her
that one day she would want pretty frocks, and his teasing was always
excessively gentle, so that it hurt not at all.

But at times he would study his daughter gravely, with his strong, cleft
chin tightly cupped in his hand. He would watch her at play with the dogs
in the garden, watch the curious suggestion of strength in her movements,
the long line of her limbs--she was tall for her age--and the poise of
her head on her over-broad shoulders. Then perhaps he would frown and
become lost in thought, or perhaps he might suddenly call her:

'Stephen, come here!'

She would go to him gladly, waiting expectant for what he should say; but
as likely as not he would just hold her to him for a moment, and then let
go of her abruptly. Getting up he would turn to the house and his study,
to spend all the rest of that day with his books.

A queer mixture, Sir Philip, part sportsman, part student. He had one of
the finest libraries in England, and just lately he had taken to reading
half the night, which had not hitherto been his custom. Alone in that
grave-looking, quiet study, he would unlock a drawer in his ample desk,
and would get out a slim volume recently acquired, and would read and
re-read it in the silence. The author was a German, Karl Heinrich
Ulrichs, and reading, Sir Philip's eyes would grow puzzled; then groping
for a pencil he would make little notes all along the immaculate margins.
Sometimes he would jump up and pace the room quickly, pausing now and
again to stare at a picture--the portrait of Stephen painted with her
mother, by Millais, the previous year. He would notice the gracious
beauty of Anna, so perfect a thing, so completely reassuring; and then
that indefinable quality in Stephen that made her look wrong in the
clothes she was wearing, as though she and they had no right to each
other, but above all no right to Anna. After a while he would steal 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 want to answer, he would not want to tell
her; that was why he must tread very softly.

The next morning, he would be very tender to Anna--but even more tender
to Stephen.


5


As the spring waxed more lusty and strode into summer, Stephen grew
conscious that Collins was changing. The change was almost intangible at
first, but the instinct of children is not mocked. Came a day when
Collins turned on her quite sharply, nor did she explain it by a
reference to her knee.

'Don't always be under my feet now, Miss Stephen. Don't follow me about
and don't be always staring. I 'ates being watched--you run up to the
nursery, the basement's no place for young ladies.' After which such
rebuffs were of frequent occurrence, if Stephen went anywhere near her.

Miserable enigma! Stephen's mind groped about it like a little blind mole
that is always in darkness. She was utterly confounded, while her love
grew the stronger for so much hard pruning, and she tried to woo Collins
by offerings of bull's-eyes and chocolate drops, which the maid took
because she liked them. Nor was Collins so blameworthy as she appeared,
for she, in her turn, was the puppet of emotion. The new footman was tall
and exceedingly handsome. He had looked upon Collins with eyes of
approval. He had said: Stop that damned kid hanging around you; if you
don't she'll go blabbing about us.'

And now Stephen knew very deep desolation because there was no one in
whom to confide. She shrank from telling even her father--he might not
understand, he might smile, he might tease her--if he teased her, however
gently, she knew that she could not keep back her tears. Even Nelson had
suddenly become quite remote. What was the good of trying to be Nelson?
What was the good of dressing up any more--what was the good of
pretending? 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 wrong with the patient.
Stephen tossed off the foul brew without a murmur--it was almost as
though she liked it!

The end came abruptly as is often the way, and it came when the child was
alone in the garden, still miserably puzzling over Collins, who had been
avoiding her for days. Stephen had wandered to an old potting-shed, and
there, whom should she see but Collins and the footman; they appeared to
be talking very earnestly together, so earnestly that they failed to hear
her. Then a really catastrophic thing happened, for Henry caught Collins
roughly by the wrists, and dragged her towards him, still handling her
roughly, and he kissed her full on the lips. Stephen's head suddenly felt
hot and dizzy, she was filled with a blind, uncomprehending rage; she
wanted to cry out, but her voice failed completely, so that all she could
do was to splutter. But the very next moment she had seized a broken
flower-pot and had hurled it hard and straight at the footman. It struck
him in the face, cutting open his cheek, down which the blood trickled
slowly. He stood as though stunned, gently mopping the cut, while Collins
stared dumbly at Stephen. Neither of them spoke, they were feeling too
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 as she ran and
covered her eyes, tearing her clothes on the shrubs in passing, tearing
her stockings and the skin of her legs as she lunged against intercepting
branches. But suddenly the child was caught in strong arms, and her face
was pressing against her father, and Sir Philip was carrying her back to
the house, and along the wide passage to his study. He held her on his
knee, forbearing to question, and at first she crouched there like a
little dumb creature that had somehow got itself wounded. But her heart
was too young to contain this new trouble--too heavy it felt, too much
over-burdened, so the trouble came bubbling up from her 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 he went on stroking her hair. Then he
said: 'I think I understand, Stephen--this thing seems more dreadful than
anything else that has ever happened, more utterly dreadful--but you'll
find that it will pass and be completely forgotten--you must try to
believe me, Stephen. And now I'm going to treat you like a boy, and a boy
must always be brave, remember. I'm not going to pretend as though you
were a coward; why should I when I know that you're brave? 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 go away 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 time you'll find that you'll forget all about her;
this trouble will just seem like nothing at all. I am telling you the
truth, dear, I swear it. If you need me, remember that I'm always near
you--you can come to my study whenever you like. You can talk to me about
it whenever you're unhappy, and you want a companion to talk to.' He
paused, then finished rather abruptly: 'Don't worry your 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 back from his
daughter's tear-stained face. But her lips set more firmly, 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 was like the sealing
of a sorrowful pact.


6


Anna, who had been out at the time of the disaster, returned to find her
husband waiting for her in the hall.

'Stephen's been naughty, she's up in the nursery; she's had one of her
fits of temper,' he remarked.

In spite of the fact that he had obviously been waiting to intercept
Anna, he now spoke quite lightly. Collins and the footman must go, he
told her. As for Stephen, he had had a long talk with her already--Anna
had better just let the thing drop, it had only been childish temper.

Anna hurried upstairs to her daughter. She, herself, had not been a
turbulent child, and Stephen's outbursts always made her feel helpless;
however, she was fully prepared for the worst. But she found Stephen
sitting with her chin on her hand, and calmly staring out of the window;
her eyes were still swollen and her face very pale, otherwise she showed
no great signs of emotion; indeed she actually smiled up at Anna--it was
rather a stiff little smile. Anna talked kindly and Stephen listened,
nodding her head from time to time in acquiescence. But Anna felt
awkward, and as though for some reason the child was anxious to reassure
her; that smile had meant to be reassuring--it had been such a very
unchildish smile. The mother was doing all the talking she found. Stephen
would not discuss her affection for Collins; on this point she was
firmly, obdurately silent. She neither excused nor upheld her action in
throwing a broken flower-pot at the footman.

'She's trying to keep something back,' thought Anna, feeling more
nonplussed every moment.

In the end Stephen took her mother's hand gravely and proceeded to stroke
it, as though she were consoling. She said: 'Don't feel worried, 'cause
that worries Father--I promise I'll try not to get into tempers, but you
promise that you won't go on feeling worried.'

And absurd though it seemed, Anna heard herself saying: 'Very well
then--I do promise, Stephen.'



Chapter Three


1


Stephen never went to her father's study in order to talk of her grief
over Collins. A reticence strange in so young a child, together with a
new, stubborn pride, held her tongue-tied, so that she fought out her
battle alone, and Sir Philip allowed her to do so. Collins disappeared
and with her the footman, and in Collins' stead came a new second
housemaid, a niece of Mrs. Bingham's, who was even more timid than her
predecessor, and who talked not at all. She was ugly, having small, round
black eyes like currants--not inquisitive blue eyes like Collins.

With set lips and tight throat Stephen watched this intruder as she
scuttled to and fro doing Collins' duties. She would sit and scowl at
poor Winefred darkly, devising small torments to add to her labours--such
as stepping on dustpans and upsetting their contents, or hiding away
brooms and brushes and slop-cloths--until Winefred, distracted, would
finally unearth them 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 grow blotchy with
anxiety and fear as she glanced towards Mrs. Bingham.

But at night, when the child lay lonely and wakeful, these acts that had
proved a consolation in the morning, having sprung from a desperate kind
of loyalty to Collins--these acts would seem trivial and silly and
useless, since Collins could neither know of them nor see them, and the
tears that had been held in check through the day would well under
Stephen's eyelids. Nor could she, in those lonely watches of the
night-time, pluck up courage enough to reproach the Lord Jesus, Who, she
felt, could have helped her quite well had He chosen to accord her a
housemaid's knee.

She would think; 'He loves neither me nor Collins--He wants all 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 thought that perhaps she
had been unjust to Jesus would reduce her to still further tears.

Very dreadful indeed were those nights spent in weeping, spent in
doubting the Lord and His servant Collins. The hours would drag by in
intolerable blackness, that in passing seemed to envelop Stephen's body,
making her feel now hot and now cold. The grandfather clock on the stairs
ticked so loudly that her head ached to hear its unnatural ticking--when
it chimed, which it did at the hours and half-hours, its voice seemed to
shake the whole house with terror, until Stephen would creep down under
the bed-clothes to hide from she knew not what. But presently, huddled
beneath the blankets, the child would be soothed by a warm sense of
safety, and her nerves would relax, while her body grew limp with the
drowsy softness of bed. Then suddenly a big and comforting yawn, and
another, and another, until darkness and Collins and tall clocks that
menaced, and Stephen herself; were all blended and merged into something
quite friendly, a harmonious whole, neither fearful nor doubting--the
blessed illusion we call sleep.


2


In the weeks that followed on Collins' departure, Anna tried to be very
gentle with her daughter, having the child more frequently with her, more
diligently fondling Stephen. Mother and daughter would walk in the
garden, or wander about together through the meadows, and Anna would
remember the son of her dreams, who had played with her in those meadows.
A great sadness would cloud her eyes for a moment, an infinite regret as
she looked down at Stephen; and Stephen, quick to discern that sadness,
would press Anna's hand with small, anxious fingers; she would long to
inquire what troubled her mother, but would be held speechless through
shyness.

The scents of the meadows would move those two strangely--the queer,
pungent smell from the hearts of dog-daisies; the buttercup smell,
faintly green like the grass; and then meadow-sweet that grew close by
the hedges. Sometimes Stephen must tug at her mother's sleeve
sharply--intolerable to bear that thick fragrance alone!

One day she had said: Stand still or you'll hurt it--it's all round
us--it's a white smell, it reminds me of you!' And then she had flushed,
and had glanced up quickly, rather frightened in case she should find
Anna laughing.

But her mother had looked at her curiously, gravely, puzzled by this
creature who seemed all contradictions--at one moment so hard, at another
so gentle, gentle to tenderness, even. Anna had been stirred, as her
child had been stirred, by the breath of the meadow-sweet under the
hedges; for in this they were one, the mother and daughter, having each
in her veins the warm Celtic blood that takes note of such things--could
they only have divined it, such simple things might have formed a link
between them.

A great will to loving had suddenly possessed Anna Gordon, there in that
sunlit meadow--had possessed them both as they stood together, bridging
the gulf between maturity and childhood. They had gazed at each other as
though asking for something, as though seeking for something, the one
from the other; then the moment had passed--they had walked on in
silence, no nearer in spirit than before.


3


Sometimes Anna would drive Stephen into Great Malvern, to the shops, with
lunch at the Abbey Hotel on cold beef and wholesome rice pudding. Stephen
loathed these excursions, which meant dressing up, but she bore them
because of the honour which she felt to be hers when escorting her mother
through the streets, especially Church Street with its long, busy hill,
because everyone saw you in Church Street. Hats would be lifted with
obvious respect, while a humbler finger might fly to a forelock; women
would bow, and a few even curtsy to the lady of Morton--women in from the
country with speckled sunbonnets that looked like their hens, and kind
faces like brown, wrinkled apples. Then Anna must stop to inquire about
calves and babies and foals, indeed all such creatures as prosper on
farms, and her voice would be gentle because she loved such young
creatures.

Stephen would stand just a little behind her, thinking how gracious and
lovely she was; comparing her slim and elegant shoulders with the
toil-thickened back of old Mrs. Bennett, with the ugly, bent spine of
young Mrs. Thompson, who coughed when she spoke and then said: 'I beg
pardon!' as though she were conscious that 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 at Langley's.'

Stephen would suddenly spring to attention, especially if they were
crossing the street. She would look right and left for imaginary 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 think that the
fingers were curiously strong; strong and efficient they would feel like
Sir Philip's and this always vaguely displeased her. Nevertheless she
would smile at Stephen while she let the child 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 mother were out
alone together. Not all her queer shyness could prevent her protecting,
nor could Anna's own shyness save her from protection, She was forced to
submit to a quiet supervision that was painstaking, gentle but extremely
persistent. And yet was this love? Anna often wondered. It was not, she
felt sure, the trusting devotion that Stephen had always felt for her
father; it was more like 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 to
understand her,' Anna would muse. 'It's so odd not to know what she's
feeling and thinking, to suspect that something's always being kept in
the background.'

Their drives home from Malvern were usually silent, for Stephen would
feel that her task was accomplished, her mother no longer needing her
protection now that the coachman had the care of them both--he, and the
arrogant-looking grey cobs that were yet so mannerly and gentle. As for
Anna, she would sigh and lean back in her corner, weary of trying to make
conversation. She would wonder if Stephen were tired or just sulky, or
if, after all, the child might 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, would begin to
indulge in kaleidoscopic musings, those musings that belong to the end of
the day, and occasionally visit children. Mrs. Thompson's bent spine, it
looked like a bow--not a rainbow but one of the archery kind; if you
stretched a tight string from her feet to her head, could you shoot
straight with Mrs. Thompson? China dogs--they had nice china dogs at
Langley's--that made you think of someone; oh, yes, of course,
Collins--Collins and a cottage with red china dogs. But you tried not to
think about Collins! there was such a queer light slanting over the
hills, a kind of gold glory, and it made you feel sorry--why should a
gold glory make you feel sorry when it shone that way on the hills? Rice
pudding, almost as bad as tapioca--not quite though, because it was not
so slimy--tapioca evaded your efforts to chew it, it felt horrid, like
biting down on your own gum. The lanes smelt of wetness, a wonderful
smell! Yet when Nanny washed things they only smelt soapy--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
the Virgin Mary in church, the one in the stained-glass window with
Jesus, which reminded you of Church Street, not a bad place after all;
Church Street was really rather exciting--what fun it must be for men to
have hats that they could take off, instead of just smiling--a bowler
must be much more fun than a Leghorn--you couldn't take that off to
Mother--

The brougham would roll smoothly along the white road, between stout
leafy hedges starred with dog-roses; blackbirds and thrushes would be
singing loudly, so loudly that Stephen could hear their voices above the
quick clip, clip of the cobs and the muffled sounds of the carriage. Then
from under her brows she must glance across at Anna, who she knew loved
the songs of blackbirds and thrushes; but Anna's face would be hidden in
shadow, while her hands lay placidly folded.

And now the horses, nearing their stables, would redouble their efforts
as they swung through the gates, the tall, iron gates of the parklands of
Morton, faithful gates that had always meant home. Old trees would fly
past, then the paddocks with their cattle--Worcestershire cattle with
uncanny white faces; then the two quiet lakes where the swans reared
their cygnets; then the lawns, 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 would bring a
lump to her throat when seen thus in the gold haze of late afternoon,
with its thoughts of evening upon it. She would want to cry out in a kind
of protest that was very near tears: 'Stop it--stop it, you're hurting!'
But instead she would blink hard and shut her lips tightly, unhappy yet
happy. It was a queer feeling; it was too big for Stephen, who was still
rather little when it came to affairs of the spirit. For the spirit of
Morton would be part of her then, and would always remain somewhere deep
down within her, aloof and untouched by the years that must follow, by
the stress and the ugliness of life. In those after-years certain scents
would evoke it--the scent of damp rushes growing by water; the kind,
slightly milky odour of cattle; the smell of dried rose-leaves and
orris-root and violets, that together with a vague suggestion of bees-wax
always hung about Anna's rooms. Then that part of Stephen that she still
shared with Morton would know what it was to feel terribly lonely, like a
soul that wakes up to find itself wandering, unwanted, between the
spheres.


4


Anna and Stephen would take off their coats, and go to the study in
search of Sir Philip who would usually be there waiting.

'Hallo, Stephen!' he would say in his pleasant, deep voice, but his eyes
would be resting on Anna.

Stephen's eyes invariably followed her father's, so that she too would
stand looking at Anna, and sometimes she must catch her breath in
surprise at the fullness of that calm beauty. She never got used to her
mother's beauty, it always surprised her each time she saw it; it was one
of those queerly unbearable things, like the fragrance of meadow-sweet
under the hedges.

Anna might say: 'What's the matter, Stephen? For goodness' sake darling,
do stop staring!' And Stephen would feel hot with shame and confusion
because Anna had caught her staring.

Sir Philip usually came to her rescue: 'Stephen, here's that new
picture-book about hunting'; or, 'I know of a really nice print of young
Nelson; if you're good I'll order it for you tomorrow'.

But after a little he and Anna must get talking, amusing themselves
irrespective of Stephen, inventing absurd little games, like two
children, which games did not always include the real child. Stephen
would sit there silently watching, but her heart would be a prey to the
strangest emotions--emotions that seven-years-old could not cope with,
and for which it could find no adequate names. All she would know was
that seeing her parents together in this mood, would fill her with
longings for something that she wanted yet could not define--a something
that would make her as happy as they were. And this something would
always be mixed up with Morton, with grave, stately rooms like her
father's study, with wide views from windows that let in much sunshine,
and the scents of a spacious garden. Her mind would go groping about for
a reason, and would find no reason--unless it were Collins--but Collins
would refuse to fit into these pictures; even love must admit that she
did not belong there any more than the brushes and buckets and
slop-cloths belonged in that dignified study.

Presently Stephen must go off to her tea, leaving the two grown-up
children together; secretly divining that neither of them would miss
her--not even her father.

Arrived in the nursery she would probably be cross, because her heart
felt very empty and tearful; or because, having looked at herself in the
glass, she had decided that she loathed her abundant long hair. Snatching
at a slice of thick bread and butter, she would upset the milk jug, or
break a new tea-cup, or smear the front 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 cut all my hair off, you see if I don't!' or, 'I hate
this white dress and I'm going to bum it--it makes me feel idiotic!' But
once launched she would dig up the grievances of months, going back to
the time of the would-be young Nelson, loudly complaining that being a
girl spoilt everything--even Nelson. The rest of the evening would be
spent in grumbling, because one does grumble when one is unhappy--at
least one does grumble when one is seven--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's rough fingers
like a dog in the hands of a trimmer. There she would stand pretending to
shiver, a strong little figure, narrow-hipped and wide-shouldered; her
flanks as wiry and thin as a greyhound's and 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 need plenty of soap,
I'll be bound!'

The bath over, and Stephen garbed in her nightgown, a long pause would
ensue, known as: 'Waiting for Mother', and if mother, for some reason,
did not happen to arrive, the pause could be spun out for quite twenty
minutes, or for half an hour even, if luck was with Stephen, and the
nursery clock not too precise and old-maidish.

'Now come on, say your prayers,' Mrs. Bingham would order, 'and you'd
better ask the dear Lord to forgive you--impious I calls it, and you a
young lady! Carrying on because you can't be a boy!'

Stephen would kneel by the side of the bed, but in such moods as these
her prayers would sound angry. The nurse would protest: 'Not so loud,
Miss Stephen! Pray slower, and don't shout at the Lord, He won't like
it!'

But Stephen would continue to shout at the Lord in a kind of impotent
defiance.



Chapter Four


1


The sorrows of childhood are mercifully passing, for it is only when
maturity has rendered soil mellow that grief will root very deeply.
Stephen's grief for Collins, in spite of its violence, or perhaps because
of that very violence, wore itself out like a passing tempest and was all
but spent by the autumn. By Christmas, the gusts when they came were
quite gentle, rousing nothing more disturbing than a faint melancholy--by
Christmas it required quite an effort to recapture the charm of Collins.

Stephen was nonplussed and rather uneasy; to have loved so greatly and
now to forget! It made her feel childish and horribly silly, as though
she had cried over cutting her finger. As on all grave occasions, she
considered the Lord, remembering His love for miserable sinners:

Teach me to love Collins Your way,' prayed Stephen, trying hard to
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 that repenteth.' But the
tears would not come, nor was prayer what it had been; it lacked
something--she no longer sweated when she prayed.

Then an awful thing happened, the maid's image was fading, and try as she
would Stephen could not recall certain passing expressions that had
erstwhile allured her. Now she could not see Collins' face at all dearly
even if she willed very hard in the dark. Thoroughly disgruntled, she
bethought her of books, books of fairy tales, hitherto not much in
favour, especially of those that treated of spells, incantations and
other unlawful proceedings. She even requested the surprised Mrs. Bingham
to read from the Bible:

'You know where,' coaxed Stephen, 'it's the place they were reading in
church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch with a name like 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 her see, not the person
she wished to, but a creature entirely different. For Collins now had a
most serious rival, one who had lately appeared at the stables. He was
not possessed of a real housemaid's knee, but instead, of four deeply
thrilling brown legs--he was two up on legs and one up on a tail, which
was rather unfair on Collins! that Christmas, when Stephen was eight
years old, Sir Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she was learning
to ride him, could ride him already, being naturally skilful and
fearless. There had been quite a heated discussion with Anna, because
Stephen had insisted on riding astride. In this she had shown herself
very refractory, falling off every time she tried the side-saddle--quite
obvious, of course, this falling-off process, 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 the child.

She would say: 'Come up, horse!' in the same tone as Williams; or,
pretending to a knowledge she was far from possessing: 'Is that fetlock a
bit puffy? It looks to me puffy; supposing we put on a nice 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 more enticing than
Collins' perfume--the Erasmic she had used on her afternoons out, and
which had once smelt so delicious. And the pony! So strong, so entirely
fulfilling, with his round, gentle eyes, and his heart big with
courage--he was surely more worthy of worship than Collins, who had
treated you badly because of the footman! And yet--and yet--you owed
something to Collins, just because you had loved her, though you couldn't
any more. It was dreadfully worrying, all this hard thinking, when you
wished to enjoy a new pony! Stephen would stand there rubbing her chin in
an almost exact imitation of Williams. She could not produce the same
scrabby sound, but in spite of this drawback, the movement 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 get close to
your ear, 'cause I'm going to whisper something dreadfully important.'
Laying her cheek against his firm neck, she said softly: 'You're not you
any more, you're Collins!'

So Collins was comfortably transmigrated. It was Stephen's last effort to
remember.


2


Came the day when Stephen rode out with her father to a meet, a glorious
and memorable day. Side by side the two of them jogged through the gates,
and the lodgekeeper's wife must smile to see Stephen sitting her smart
bay pony astride, and looking so comically like Sir Philip.

'It do be a pity as her isn't a boy, our young lady,' she told her
husband.

It was one of those still, slightly frosty mornings when the landing is
tricky on the north side of the hedges; when the smoke from farm chimneys
rises straight as a ramrod; when the scent of log fires or of burning
brushwood, though left far behind, still persists in the nostrils. A
crystal clear morning, like a draught of spring water, and such mornings
are good when one is young.

The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was trembling with
pleasure, for he was no novice; he knew all about signs and wonders in
stables, such as large feeds of corn administered early, and extra long
groomings, and pink coats, with brass buttons, like the hunt coat Sir
Philip was wearing. He frisked down the road, a mass of affectation,
demanding some skill on the part of his rider; but the child's hands were
strong yet exceedingly gentle--she possessed 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 was good to
look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment was not quite complete, so
that he looked away again quickly, sighing a little, because, somehow
these days, he had taken to sighing over Stephen.

The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; Colonel Antrim, the
Master, rode up and spoke kindly: 'You've a fine pony there, but he'll
need a bit of holding!' And then to her father: 'Is she safe astride,
Philip? Violet's learning to ride, but side-saddle, I prefer it--I never
think girl children get the grip astride; they aren't built for it,
haven't the necessary muscle; still, no doubt she'll stick on by
balance.'

Stephen flushed: 'No doubt she'll stick on by balance!' the words
rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was learning to ride
side-saddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed if you pinched her;
that terrified creature of muslins and ribbons and hair that curled over
the nurse's finger! Why, Violet could never come to tea without crying,
could never play a game without getting herself hurt! She had fat, wobbly
legs too, just like a rag doll--and you, Stephen, had been compared to
Violet! Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you felt less
impressive in your fine riding breeches. You felt--well, not foolish
exactly, but self-conscious--not quite at your ease, a little bit wrong.
It was almost as though you were playing at young Nelson again, were only
pretending.

But you said: 'I've got muscles, haven't I, Father? Williams says I've
got riding muscles already!' then you dug your heels sharply into the
pony, so that he whisked round, bucking and rearing. As for you, you
stuck to his back like a limpet. Wasn't that enough to convince them?

'Steady on, Stephen!' came Sir Philip's voice, warning. Then the
Master's: 'She's got a fine seat, I'll admit it--Violet's a little bit
scared on a horse, but I think she'll get confidence later; I hope so.'

And now hounds were moving away towards cover, tails waving--they looked
like an army with banners. 'Hi, Starbright--Fancy! Get in, little bitch!
Hi, Frolic, get on with it, Frolic!'

The long lashes shot out with amazing precision, stinging a flank or
stroking a shoulder, while the four-legged Amazons closed up their ranks
for the serious business ahead. 'Hi, Starbright!' Whips cracked and
horses grew restless; Stephen's mount required undivided attention. She
had no time to think of her muscles or her grievance, 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 slippery this
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 knows that I'm
different to her!' thought Stephen.


3


The strange, implacable heart-broken music of hounds giving tongue as
they break from cover; the cry of the huntsman as he stands in his
stirrups; the thud of hooves pounding ruthlessly forward over long,
green, undulating meadows. The meadows flying back as though seen from a
train, the meadows streaming away behind you; the acrid smell of horse
sweat caught in passing; the smell of damp leather, of earth and bruised
herbage--all sudden, all passing--then the smell of wide spaces, the air
smell, cool yet 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 a little. The
pony took the fence in his stride very gaily; for an instant 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 of his hunter;
the crisp auburn hair in the nape of his neck showed bright where the
winter sunshine touched it; and as the child followed that purposeful
back, she felt that she loved it utterly, entirely. At that moment it
seemed to embody all kindness, all strength, and all understanding.


4


They killed not so very far from Worcester; it had been a stiff run, the
best of the season. Colonel Antrim came jogging along to Stephen, whose
prowess had amused and surprised him.

'Well, well,' he said, grinning, 'so here you are, madam, still with a
leg on each side of your horse--I'm going to tell Violet she'll have to
buck up. By the way, Philip, can Stephen come to tea on Monday, before
Roger goes back to school? She can? Oh, splendid! And now where's that
brush? I think our young Stephen here takes it.'

Strange it is, but unforgettable moments are often connected with very
small happenings, happenings that assume fictitious proportions,
especially when we are children. If Colonel Antrim had offered Stephen
the crown of England on a red velvet cushion, it is doubtful whether her
pride would have equalled the pride that she felt when the huntsman came
forward and presented her with her first hunting trophy--the rather
pathetic, bedraggled little brush, that had weathered so many hard miles.
Just for an instant the child's heart misgave her, as she looked at the
soft, furry thing in her hand; but the joy of attainment was still hot
upon her, and that incomparable feeling of elation that comes from the
knowledge of personal courage, so that she forgot the woes of the fox in
remembering the prowess of Stephen.

Sir Philip fastened the brush to her saddle. 'You rode well,' he said
briefly, then turned to the Master.

But she knew that that day she had not failed him, for his eyes had been
bright when they rested on hers; she had seen great love in those
melancholy eyes, together with a curiously wistful expression of which
her youth lacked understanding. And now many people smiled broadly at
Stephen, patting her pony and calling him a 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 feel very humble of
spirit, which she knew she was far from feeling.

'Come along!' called Sir Philip. 'No more to-day, Stephen, your poor
little fellow's had enough for one day.' Which was true, since Collins
was all of a tremble, what with excitement and straining short legs to
keep up with vainglorious hunters.

Whips touched hats: 'Good-bye, Stephen, come out soon again--See you on
Tuesday, Sir Philip, with the Croome.' And the field settled down to the
changing of horses, before drawing yet one more cover.


5


Father and daughter rode home through the twilight, and now there were no
dog-roses in the hedges, the hedges stood leafless and grey with frost
rime, a network of delicate branches. The earth smelt as clean as a newly
washed garment--it smelt of 'God's washing', as Stephen called it--while
away to the left, from a distant farm-house, came the sound of a
yard-dog, barking. Small lights were glowing in cottage windows as yet
uncurtained, as yet very friendly; and beyond, where the great hills of
Malvern showed blue against the pale sky, many small lights were
burning--lights of home newly lit on the altar of the hills to the God of
both hills and homesteads. No birds were singing in the trees by the
roadside, but a silence prevailed, more lovely than bird song; the
thoughtful and holy silence of winter, the silence of trustfully waiting
furrows. For the soil is the greatest saint of all ages, knowing neither
impatience, nor fear, nor doubting; knowing only faith, from which spring
all blessings that are needful to nurture man.

Sir Philip said: 'Are you happy, my Stephen?'

And she answered: 'I'm dreadfully happy, Father. I'm so dreadfully happy
that it makes me feel frightened, 'cause I mayn't always last happy--not
this way.'

He did not ask why she might not last happy; he just nodded, as though he
admitted a reason; but he laid his hand over hers on the bridle for a
moment, a large, and comforting hand. Then the peace of the evening took
possession of Stephen, that and the peace of a healthy body tired out
with fresh air and much vigorous movement, so that she swayed a little in
her saddle and came near to falling asleep. The pony, even more tired
than his rider, jogged along with neck drooping and reins hanging
slackly, too weary to shy at the ogreish shadows that were crouching
ready to scare him. His small mind was doubtless concentrated on fodder;
on the bucket of water nicely seasoned with gruel; on the groom's
soothing hiss as he rubbed down and bandaged; on the warm blanket
clothing, so pleasant in winter, and above all on that golden bed of deep
straw that was sure to be waiting in his stable.

And now a great moon had swung up very slowly; and the moon seemed to
pause, staring hard at Stephen, while the frost rime turned white with
the whiteness of diamonds, and the shadows turned black and lay folded
like velvet round the feet of the drowsy hedges. But the meadows beyond
the hedges turned silver, and so did the road to Morton.


* * *


It was late when they reached the stables at last, and old Williams was
waiting in the yard with a lantern.

'Did you kill?' he inquired, according to custom; then he saw Stephen's
trophy and chuckled.

Stephen tried to spring easily out of the saddle as her father had done,
but her legs seemed to fail her. To her horror and chagrin her legs hung
down stiffly as though made of wood; she could not control them; and to
make matters worse, Collins now grew impatient and began to walk off to
his loose-box. Then Sir Philip put two strong arms around Stephen, and he
lifted her bodily as though she were a baby, and he carried her, only
faintly protesting, right up to the door of the house and beyond
it--right up indeed, to the warm pleasant nursery where a steaming hot
bath was waiting. Her head fell back and lay on his shoulder, while her
eyelids drooped, heavy with well-earned sleep; she had to blink very hard
several times over in order to get the better 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, pressed against her
forehead, and she loved that kind roughness, so that she put up her hand
and stroked it.

So dreadfully, dreadfully happy, Father,' she murmured, 'so--dreadfully
happy--'



Chapter Five


1


On the Monday that followed Stephen's first day out hunting she woke with
something very like a weight on her chest; in less than two minutes she
knew why this was--she was going to tea with the Antrims. Her relations
with other children were peculiar, she thought so herself and so did the
children; they could not define it and neither could Stephen, but there
it was all the same. A high-spirited child she should have been popular,
and yet she was not, a fact which she divined, and this made her feel ill
at ease with her playmates, who in their turn felt ill at ease. She would
think that the children were whispering about her, whispering and
laughing for no apparent reason; but although this had happened on one
occasion, it was not always happening as Stephen imagined. She was
painfully hyper-sensitive at times, and she suffered accordingly.

Of all the children that Stephen most dreaded, Violet and Roger Antrim
took precedence; especially Roger, who was ten years old, and already
full to the neck of male arrogance--he had just been promoted to Etons
that winter, which added to his overbearing pride. Roger Antrim had
round, brown eyes like his mother, and a short, straight nose that might
one day be handsome; he was rather a thick-set, plump little boy, whose
buttocks looked too large in a short Eton jacket, especially when he
stuck his hands in his pockets and strutted, which he did very often.

Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly have loved to
bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her arms were so strong, he
could never wrench Stephen's arms backwards like Violet's; he could never
make her cry or show any emotion when he pinched her, or tugged roughly
at her new hair ribbon, and then Stephen would often beat him at games, a
fact which he deeply resented. She could bowl at cricket much straighter
than he could; she climbed trees with astonishing skill and prowess, and
even if she did tear her skirts in the process it was obviously cheek for
a girl to climb at all. Violet never climbed trees; she stood at the
bottom admiring the courage of Roger. He grew to hate Stephen as a kind
of rival, a kind of intruder into his especial province; he was always
longing to take her down a peg, but being slow-witted he was foolish in
his methods--no good daring Stephen, she responded at once, and usually
went one better. As for Stephen, she loathed him, and her loathing was
increased by a most humiliating consciousness of envy. Yes, despite his
shortcomings she envied young Roger with his thick, clumping boots, his
cropped hair and his Etons; envied his school and his masculine
companions of whom he would speak grandly as: 'all the other fellows!';
envied his right to climb trees and play cricket and football--his right
to be perfectly natural; above all she envied his splendid conviction
that being a boy constituted a privilege in life; she could well
understand that conviction, but this only increased her envy.

Stephen found Violet intolerably silly, she cried quite as loudly when
she bumped her own head as when Roger applied his most strenuous
torments. But what irritated Stephen, was the fact that she suspected
that Violet almost enjoyed those torments.

'He's so dreadfully strong!' she had confided in Stephen, with something
like pride in her voice.

Stephen had longed to shake her for that: 'I can pinch quite as hard as
he can!' she had threatened. 'If you think he's stronger than I am, I'll
show you!' At which Violet had rushed away screaming.

Violet was already full of feminine poses; she loved dolls, but not quite
so much as she pretended. People said: 'Look at Violet, she's like a
little mother; it's so touching to see that instinct in a child!' then
Violet would become still more touching. She was always thrusting her
dolls upon Stephen, making her undress them and put them to bed. 'Now
you're Nanny, Stephen, and I'm Gertrude's mother, or you can be mother
this time if you'd rather--Oh, be careful, you'll break her! Now you've
pulled off a button! I do think you might play more like I do!' And then
Violet knitted, or said that she knitted--Stephen had never seen anything
but knots. 'Can't you knit?' she would say, looking scornfully at
Stephen, 'I can--Mother called me a dear little housewife!' then Stephen
would lose her temper and speak rudely: 'You're a dear little sop, that's
what you are!' For hours she must play stupid doll-games with Violet,
because Roger would not always play real games in the garden. He hated to
be beaten, yet how could she help it? Could she help throwing straighter
than Roger?

They had nothing whatever in common, these children, but the Antrims were
neighbours, and even Sir Philip; indulgent though he was, insisted that
Stephen should have friends of her own age to play with. He had spoken
quite sharply on several occasions when the child had pleaded to be
allowed to stay at home. Indeed he spoke 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't have it, it's
ridiculous, darling.'

So Stephen had hastily swallowed her pudding and escaped upstairs to the
nursery.


2


The Antrims lived half a mile from Ledbury, on the other side of the
hills. It was quite a long drive to their house from Morton--Stephen was
driven over in the dog-cart. She sat beside Williams in gloomy silence,
with the collar of her coat turned up to her ears. She was filled with a
sense of bitter injustice; why should they insist on this stupid
expedition? Even her father had been cross at luncheon because she
preferred to stay at 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! that idiotic Violet--Violet who was learning to ride
side-saddle--and Roger strutting about in his Etons, and bragging, always
bragging because he was a boy--and their mother who was quite sure to
patronize Stephen because being grown-up made her put on a manner.
Stephen could hear her infuriating voice, the voice she reserved for
children: Ah, here you are, Stephen! Now then, little people, run along
and have a good feed in the schoolroom. There's plenty of cake; I knew
Stephen was coining; we all know Stephen's capacity for cake!'

Stephen could hear Violet's timorous giggle and Roger's guffaw as they
greeted this sally. She could feel his fat fingers pinching her arm;
pinching cruelly, slyly, as he strutted beside her. Then his whisper:
'You're a pig! You eat much more than I do, mother said so today, and
boys need more than girls!' then Violet: 'I'm not very fond of plum cake,
it makes me feel sicky--mother says it's indigestion. I could never eat
big bits of plum cake like Stephen. 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, steep hill out
of Little Malvern. The cold air grew colder, but marvellously pure it
was, up there above the valleys. The peak of the Camp stood out clearly
defined by snow that had fallen lightly that morning, and as they
breasted the crest of the hill, the sun shone 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 small homesteads and mothering trees, of soft
undulations and wide, restful spaces leading away to a line of dim
mountains--leading away to the mountains of Wales, that lay just over the
border. And because she loved this kind of English valley, Stephen's
sulky eyes must turn and rest upon it; not all her apprehension and sense
of injustice could take from her eyes the joy of that seeing. She must
gaze and gaze, she must let it possess her, the peace, the wonder that
lay in such beauty; while the unwilling tears welled up under her
lids--she not knowing why they had come there.

And now they were trotting swiftly downhill; the valley had vanished, but
the woods of Eastnor stood naked and lovely, and the forms of their trees
were more perfect than forms that are made with hands--unless with the
hands of God. Stephen's eyes turned again; she could not stay sulky, for
these were the woods where she drove with her father. Twice every spring
they drove up to these woods and through them to the stretching parkland
beyond. There were deer in the park--they would sometimes get out of the
dog-cart so that Stephen could feed the does.

She began to whistle softly through her teeth, an accomplishment in which
she took a great pride. Impossible to go on feeling resentful when the
sun was shining between the bare branches, when the air was as clear and
as bright as crystal, when the cob was literally flying through the air,
taking all Williams' strength to hold him.

Steady boy--steady on! He be feeling the weather--gets into his blood and
makes him that skittish--Now go quiet, you young blight! Just look at
him, will you, he's got himself all of a lather!'

'Let me drive,' pleaded. Stephen. 'Oh, please, please, Williams!'

But Williams shook his head as he grinned at her broadly: 'I've got old
bones, Miss Stephen, and old bones breaks quick when it's frosty, so I've
heard tell.'


3


Mrs. Antrim was waiting for Stephen in the lounge--she was always waiting
to waylay her in the lounge, or so it appeared to Stephen. The lounge was
a much overdressed apartment, full of small, useless tables and large,
clumsy chairs. You bumped into the chairs and tripped over the tables; at
least you did if you were Stephen. There was one deadly pitfall you never
could avoid, a huge polar bear skin that lay on the floor. Its stuffed
head protruded at a most awkward angle; you invariably stubbed your big
toe on that head. Stephen, true to tradition, stubbed her toe rather
badly as she blundered towards Mrs. Antrim.

'Dear me,' remarked her hostess, 'you are a great girl; why your feet
must be double the size of Violet's! Come here and let me have a look at
your feet.' then she laughed as though something amused her.

Stephen was longing to rub her big toe, but she thought better of it,
enduring in silence.

'Children!' called Mrs. Antrim, 'Here's Stephen, I'm sure she's as hungry
as a hunter!'

Violet was wearing a pale blue silk frock; even at seven she was vain of
her appearance. She had cried until she had got permission to wear that
particular pale blue frock, which was usually reserved for parties. Her
brown hair was curled into careful ringlets, and tied with a very large
bow of blue ribbon. Mrs. Antrim glanced quickly from Stephen to Violet
with a look of maternal pride.

Roger was bulging inside his Etons; his round cheeks were puffed, very
pink and aggressive. He eyed Stephen coldly from above a white collar
that was obviously fresh from the laundry. On their way upstairs he
pinched Stephen's leg, and Stephen kicked backwards, swiftly and neatly.

'I suppose you think you can kick!' grunted Roger, who was suffering
acutely at that moment from his shin. You've not got the strength of a
flea; I don't feel it!'

At Violet's request they were left alone for tea; she liked playing the
hostess, and her mother spoilt her. A special small teapot had had to be
unearthed, in order that Violet could lift it.

'Sugar?' she inquired with tongs poised in mid air, 'And milk?' she
added, imitating her mother. Mrs. Antrim always said: And milk,' in that
tone--it made you feel that you must be rather greedy.

'Oh, chuck it!' growled Roger, whose shin was still aching. You know I
want milk and four lumps of sugar.'

Violet's underlip began to tremble, but she held her ground with
unexpected firmness. 'May I give you a little more milk, Stephen dear? 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 his cup and nearly
upset it.

'Oh, oh!' shrilled Violet. 'My dress!'

They settled down to the meal at last, but Stephen observed that Roger
was watching; every mouthful she ate she could feel him watching, so that
she grew self-conscious. She was hungry, not having eaten much luncheon,
but now she could not enjoy her cake; Roger himself was stuffing like a
grampus, but his eyes never left her 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, 'what about a certain
young lady out hunting? What about a fat leg on each side of her horse
like a monkey on a stick, and everybody laughing!'

'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, for no fun
is derived from a one-sided contest, but at eight years old one is not
always wise, and moreover her pride had been stung to the quick.

She said: 'I'd like to see you get the brush; why you can't stick 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; he had
thrown his sprat and had landed his mackerel. He had very much feared
that she might not be drawn--it was not always easy to draw Stephen.

'Well now, listen,' he drawled, 'and I'll tell you something. You thought
they admired you squatting on your pony; you thought you were being very
grand, I'll bet, with your new riding breeches and your black velvet cap;
you thought they'd suppose that you looked like a boy, just because you
were trying to be one. As a matter of fact, if you really want to know,
they were busting their sides; why, my father said so. He was laughing
all the time at your looking so funny on that rotten old pony that's as
fat as a porpoise. Why, he only gave you the brush for fun, because you
were such a small kid--he said so. He said: "I gave Stephen Gordon the
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're horrid, you're
spoiling my party.'

But Roger was launched on his first perfect triumph; he had seen the
expression in Stephen's eyes: 'And my mother said,' he continued more
loudly, that your mother must be funny to allow you to do it; she said it
was horrid to let girls ride that way; she said she was awfully surprised
at your mother; she said that she'd have thought that your mother had
more sense; she said that it wasn't modest; she said--'

Stephen had suddenly sprung to her feet: 'How dare you! How dare you--my
mother!' she spluttered. And now she was almost beside herself with rage,
conscious only of one overwhelming impulse, and that 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 were staring and rather
frightened; he had never seen Stephen quite like this before. She was
actually rolling up the sleeves of her smock.

'You cad!' she shouted, 'I'll fight you for this!' And she doubled her
fist and shook it at Roger while he edged away from the table.

She stood there an enraged and ridiculous figure in her Liberty smock,
with her hard, boyish forearms. Her long hair had partly escaped from its
ribbon, and the bow sagged down limply, crooked and foolish. All that was
heavy in her face sprang into view, the strong line of the jaw, the
square, massive brow, the eyebrows, too thick and too wide for beauty.
And yet there was a kind of large splendour about her--absurd though she
was, she was splendid at that moment--grotesque and splendid, like some
primitive thing conceived in a turbulent age of transition.

'Are you going to fight me, you coward?' she demanded, as she stepped
round the table and faced her tormentor.

But Roger thrust his hands deep into his pockets: 'I don't fight with
girls!' he remarked very grandly. Then he sauntered out of the
schoolroom.

Stephen's own hands fell and hung at her sides; her head drooped, and she
stood staring down at the carpet. The whole of her suddenly drooped and
looked helpless, as she stood staring down at the carpet.

'How could you!' began Violet, who was plucking up courage. 'Little girls
don't have fights--I don't, I'd be frightened--'

But Stephen cut her short: 'I'm going,' she said thickly; 'I'm going home
to my father.'

She went heavily downstairs and out into the lobby, where she put on her
hat and coat; then made her way round the house to the stables, in search
of old Williams and the dog-cart.


4


'You're home very early, Stephen,' said Anna, but Sir Philip was staring
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 and she wept
as she stood there before them, and she poured out her shame and
humiliation, telling all that Roger had said about her mother, telling
all that she, Stephen, would have done to defend her, had it not been
that Roger would not fight with a girl. She wept and she wept without any
restraint, scarcely knowing what she said--at that moment not caring. And
Sir Philip listened with his head on his hand, and Anna listened
bewildered and dumbfounded. She tried to kiss Stephen, to hold her to
her, but Stephen, still sobbing, pushed her away; in this orgy of grief
she resented consolation, so that in the end Anna took her to the nursery
and delivered her over to the care of Mrs. Bingham, feeling that the
child did not want her.

When Anna went quietly back to the study, Sir Philip was still sitting
with his head on his hand. She said: 'It's time you realized, 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 think it's been successful. You've
treated Stephen as though she were a boy--perhaps it's because I've not
given you a son--' Her voice trembled a little but she went on gravely:
'It's not good for Stephen; 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 me afraid--I can't
tell you why, but it seems all wrong--it makes me feel--strange with the
child.'

He looked at her out of his melancholy eyes: 'Can't you trust me? Won't
you try to trust me, Anna?'

But Anna shook her head: 'I don't understand, why shouldn't you trust me,
Philip?'

And then in his terror for this well-beloved woman, Sir Philip committed
the first cowardly action of his life--he who would not have spared
himself pain, could not bear to inflict it on Anna. In his infinite pity
for Stephen's mother, he sinned very deeply and gravely against Stephen,
by withholding from that mother his own conviction that her child was not
as other children.

'There's nothing for you to understand,' he said firmly, 'but I like you
to trust me in all things.'

After this they sat talking about the child, Sir Philip very quiet and
reassuring.

'I've wanted her to have a healthy body,' he explained, 'that's why I've
let her run more or less wild; but perhaps we'd better have a governess
now, as you say; a French governess, my dear, if you'd prefer one--later
on I've always meant to engage a bluestocking, some woman who's been to
Oxford. I want Stephen to have the finest education that care and money
can give her.'

But once again Anna began to protest. 'What's the good of it all for a
girl?' she argued. 'Did you love me any less because I couldn't do
mathematics? Do you love me less now because I count on my 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 to be unavailing.

Presently they went upstairs to the nursery, and Sir Philip shaded the
candle with his hand, while they stood together gazing down at
Stephen--the child was heavily asleep.

'Look, Philip,' whispered Anna, pitiful and shaken, 'look Philip--she's
got two big tears on her cheek!'

He nodded, slipping his arm around Anna: 'Come away,' he muttered, 'we
may wake her.'



Chapter Six


1


Mrs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her stead reigned
Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French governess with a long, pleasant
face that reminded Stephen of a horse. This equine resemblance was
fortunate in one way--Stephen took to Mademoiselle Duphot at once--but it
did not make for respectful obedience. On the contrary, Stephen felt very
familiar, kindly familiar and quite at her ease; she petted Mademoiselle
Duphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely and homesick, and it must be
admitted that she liked being petted. Stephen would rush off to get her a
cushion, or a footstool or her glass of milk at eleven.

'Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite fine, elle a si bon
coeur,' would think Mademoiselle Duphot, and somehow geography would not
seem to matter quite so much, or arithmetic either--in vain did
Mademoiselle try to be strict, her pupil could always beguile her.

Mademoiselle Duphot knew nothing about horses, in spite of the r fact
that she looked so much like one, and Stephen would complacently
entertain her with long conversation anent splints and spavins, cow hocks
and colic, all mixed up together in a kind of wild veterinary jumble. Had
Williams been listening, he might well have rubbed his chin, but Williams
was not there to listen.

As for Mademoiselle Duphot, she was genuinely impressed: 'Mais quel type,
quel type!' she was always exclaiming. 'Vous êtes déjà 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 her teacher;
at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely, making quick
little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She liked talking French,
it rather amused her, nor was she averse to mastering 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 clung to these dictées; the Bibliothèque Rose became her last
trench of authority, and she held it.

'"Les Petites Filles Modèles",' Mademoiselle would announce, while Stephen
yawned out her ineffable boredom; 'Maintenant nous allons retrouver
Sophie--Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: "Cette preuve de
confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d'avoir été si
méchante.

'"Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer a une telle colère? Comment
ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j'ai id,
et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. de
Fleurville!"'

From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts of an even
more edifying nature, and 'Les Bons Enfants' would be chosen for
dictation, to the scorn and derision of Stephen.

'La Maman, Donne-lui ton coeur, mon Henri; c'est ce que to pourras lui
dormer de plus agréable.

'--Mon coeur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa
chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.' 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 on this unawares, had
been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which there was
naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but considerably
more friendship.

However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so
proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious
these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty,
slacking on the part of his daughter should be checked later on he
decided. Meanwhile, Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who
in her turn adored the unusual child. She would confide her troubles to
Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound--her Maman was
old and delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift
husband, and now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in
Paris that paid very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight
through making those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing,
and paid very badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and
sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her
chicken on Sundays: 'Bon Dieu, il faut vivre--il faut manger, au moins--'
And afterwards that chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which
was made from his carcass and a few leaves of cabbage--Maman loved Petite
Marmite, the warmth of it eased her old gums.

Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with
apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely: 'Mais c'est dur,'
she would comment, 'c'est terriblement dur, la vie!'

But she never confided her own special troubles, and Mademoiselle Duphot
sometimes wondered about her: 'Est-elle heureuse, cet &range petit être?'
she would wonder. 'Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!'


2


Idleness and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more than two years,
when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon and proceeded to announce
that he taught gymnastics and fencing. From that moment peace ceased to
reign in the schoolroom, or indeed anywhere in the house for that matter.
In vain did Mademoiselle Duphot protest that gymnastics and fencing
thickened the ankles, in vain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen
merely ignored them and consulted her father.

'I want to go in for Sandowing,' she informed him, as though they were
discussing a career.

He laughed: 'Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?' Then Stephen
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 gymnastics either--provided, of
course, that you don't try to wreck Morton Hall like a Samson wrecking
the house of the Philistines; I foresee that that might easily happen--'

Stephen grinned: 'But it mightn't if I cut off my hair! May I cut off my
hair? Oh, do let me, Father!'

'Certainly not, I prefer to risk it,' said Sir Philip, speaking quite
firmly.

Stephen went pounding back to the schoolroom. 'I'm going to those
classes!' she announced in triumph. 'I'm going to be driven over to
Malvern next week; I'm going to begin on Tuesday, and I'm going to learn
fencing so as I can kill your brother-in-law who's a beast to your
sister, I'm going to fight duels for wives in distress, like men do in
Paris, and I'm going to learn how to lift pianos on my stomach by
expanding something--the diapan muscles--and I'm going to cut my hair
off!' she mendaciously concluded, glancing sideways to observe the effect
of this bombshell.

'Bon Dieu, soyez clément!' breathed Mademoiselle Duphot, casting her eyes
to heaven.


3


It was not very long before ex-Sergeant Smylie discovered that in Stephen
he had a star pupil. Some day you ought to make a champion fencer, if you
work really hard at it, Miss,' he told her.

Stephen did not learn to lift pianos with her stomach, but as time went
on she did become quite an expert gymnast and fencer; and as Mademoiselle
Duphot confided to Anna, it was after all very charming to watch her, so
supple and young and quick in her movements.

'And she fence like an angel,' said Mademoiselle fondly, 'she fence 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 the fencing
displeased her, so that she found it hard to praise Stephen.

'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 interest that
centred entirely in her body. She discovered her body for a thing to be
cherished, a thing of real value since its strength could rejoice her;
and young though she was she cared for her body with great diligence,
bathing it night and morning in dull, tepid water--cold baths were
forbidden, and hot baths, she had heard, sometimes weakened the muscles.
For gymnastics she wore her hair in a pigtail, and somehow that pigtail
began to intrude on other occasions. In spite of protests, she always
forgot and came down to breakfast with a neat, shining plait, so that
Anna gave in in the end and said, sighing:

'Have your pigtail do, child, if you feel that you must--but I can't say
it suits you, Stephen.'

And Mademoiselle Duphot was foolishly loving. Stephen would stop in the
middle of lessons to roll back her sleeves and examine her muscles; then
Mademoiselle Duphot, instead of protesting, would laugh and admire her
absurd little biceps. Stephen's craze for physical culture increased, and
now it began to invade the schoolroom. Dumbbells appeared in the
school-room bookcases, while half worn-out gym shoes skulked in the
corners. Everything went by the 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 to Ireland and purchase a hunter for his daughter to ride--a
real, thoroughbred hunter. And what must he say but: 'That's one for
young Roger!' So that Stephen found herself comfortably laughing at the
thought of young Roger; and that laugh went a long way towards healing
the wound that had rankled within her--perhaps this was why Sir Philip
had written out to Ireland for that thoroughbred hunter.

The hunter, when he came, was grey-coated and slender, and his eyes were
as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage was as bright as an Irish
sunrise, and his heart was as young as the wild heart of Ireland, but
devoted and loyal and eager for service, and his name was sweet on the
tongue as you spoke it--being Raftery, after the poet. Stephen loved
Raftery and Raftery loved Stephen. It was love at first sight, and they
talked to each other for hours in his loose box--not in Irish or English,
but in a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds and
many small movements, which to both of them meant more than words. And
Raftery said: 'I will carry you bravely, I will serve you all the days of
my life.' And she answered: 'I will care for you night and day,
Raftery--all the days of your life.' Thus Stephen and Raftery pledged
their devotion, alone in his fragrant, hay-scented stable. And Raftery
was five and Stephen was twelve when they solemnly pledged their
devotion.

Never was rider more proud or more happy than Stephen, when first she and
Raftery went a-hunting; and never was youngster more wise or courageous
than Raftery proved himself at his fences; and never can Bellerophon have
thrilled to more daring than did Stephen, astride of Raftery that day,
with the wind in her face and a fire in her heart that made life a thing
of glory. At the very beginning of the run the fox turned in the
direction of Morton, actually crossing the big north paddock before
turning once more and making for Upton. In the paddock was a mighty,
upstanding hedge, a formidable place concealing timber, and what must
they do, these two young creatures, but go straight at it and get safely
over--those who saw Raftery fly that hedge could never afterwards doubt
his valour. And when they got home there was Anna waiting to pat Raftery,
because she could not resist him. Because, being Irish, her hands loved
the feel of fine horseflesh under their delicate fingers--and because she
did very much want to be tender to Stephen, and understanding. But as
Stephen dismounted, bespattered and dishevelled, and yet with that
perversive look of her father, the words that Anna had been planning to
speak died away before they could get themselves spoken--she shrank back
from the child; but the child was too overjoyed at that moment to
perceive it.


4


Happy days, splendid days of childish achievements; but they passed all
too soon, giving place to the seasons, and there came the winter when
Stephen was fourteen.

On a January afternoon of bright sunshine, Mademoiselle Duphot sat
dabbing her eyes; for Mademoiselle Duphot must leave her loved Stévenne,
must give place to a rival who could teach Greek and Latin--she would go
back to Paris, the poor Mademoiselle Duphot, and take care of her ageing
Maman.

Meanwhile, Stephen, very angular and lanky at fourteen, was standing
before her father in his study. She stood still, but her glance kept
straying to the window, to the sunshine that seemed to be beckoning
through the window. She was dressed for riding in breeches and gaiters,
and her thoughts were with Raftery.

'Sit down,' said Sir Philip, and his voice was so grave that her thoughts
came back with a leap and a bound; 'you and I have got to talk this thing
out, Stephen.'

'What thing, Father?' she faltered, sitting down abruptly.

'Your idleness, my child. The time has now come when all play and no work
will make a dull Stephen, unless we pull ourselves together.'

She rested her large, shapely hands on her knees and bent forward,
searching his face intently. What she saw there was a quiet determination
that spread from his lips to his eyes. She grew suddenly uneasy, like a
youngster who objects to the rather unpleasant 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's not
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've considered
this thing--I've considered this matter of your education. I want you to
have the same education, the same advantages as I'd give to my son--that
is as far as possible--' he added, looking away from Stephen.

'But I'm not your son, Father,' she said very slowly, and even as she
said it her heart felt heavy--heavy and sad as it bad not done for years,
not since she was quite a small child.

And at this he looked back at her with love in his eyes, love and
something that seemed like compassion; and their looks met and mingled
and held for a moment, speechless yet somehow expressing their hearts.
Her own eyes clouded and she stared at her boots, ashamed of the tears
that she felt might flow over. He saw this and went on speaking more
quickly, as though anxious to cover her confusion.

'You're all the son that I've got,' he told her. 'You're brave and
strong-limbed, but I want you to be wise--I want you to be wise for your
own sake, Stephen, because at the best life requires great wisdom. I want
you to learn to make friends of your books; some day you may need them,
because--' He hesitated, 'because you mayn't find life at all easy, we
none of us do, and books are good friends. I don't want you to give up
your fencing and gymnastics or your riding, but I want you to show
moderation. You've developed your body, now develop your mind; let your
mind and 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 know that--look
at Violet Antrim. I've indulged you, I suppose, but I 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 my own sound judgment. But
you've now got to prove that my judgment's been sound, we've both got to
prove it to ourselves and to your mother--she's been very patient with my
unusual methods--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're going to work
hard when your new governess comes, and when you're older you're going to
become a fine woman; you must, dear--I love you so much that you can't
disappoint me.' His voice faltered a little, then he held out his hand:
'and Stephen, come here--look me straight in the eyes--what is honour, my
daughter?'

She looked into his anxious, questioning eyes: 'You are honour,' she said
quite simply.


5


When Stephen kissed Mademoiselle Duphot good-bye, she cried, for she felt
that something was going that would never come back--irresponsible
childhood. It was going, like Mademoiselle Duphot. Kind Mademoiselle
Duphot, so foolishly loving, so easily coerced, so glad to be persuaded;
so eager to believe that you were doing your best, in the face of the
most obvious slacking. Kind Mademoiselle Duphot who smiled when she
shouldn't, who laughed when she shouldn't, and now was weeping--but
weeping as only a Latin can weep, shedding rivers of tears and sobbing
quite loudly.

'Chérie--mon bébé, petit thou!' she was sobbing, as she clung to the
angular Stephen.

The tears ran down on to Mademoiselle's tippet, and they wet the poor fur
which already looked jaded, and the fur clogged together, turning black
with those tears, so that Mademoiselle tried to wipe it. But the more she
wiped it, the wetter it grew, since her handkerchief only augmented the
trouble; nor was Stephen's large handkerchief very dry either, as she
found when she started to help.

The old station fly that had come out from Malvern, drove up, and the
footman seized Mademoiselle's luggage. It was such meagre luggage that he
waved back assistance from the driver, and lifted the trunk
single-handed. Then Mademoiselle Duphot broke out into English--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, we two meet once more--' And Stephen,
already taller than she was, longed to grow small again, just to please
Mademoiselle. Then, because the French are a practical people even in
moments of real emotion, Mademoiselle found her handbag, and groping in
its depths she produced a half sheet of paper.

'The address of my sister in Paris,' she said, snuffling; 'the address of
my sister who makes little bags--if you should hear of anyone,
Stévenne--any lady who would care to buy one little bag--'

'Yes, yes, I'll remember,' muttered Stephen.

At last she was gone; the fly rumbled away down the drive and finally
turned the corner. To the end a wet face had been thrust from the window,
a wet handkerchief waved despondently at Stephen. The rain must have
mingled with Mademoiselle's tears, for the weather had broken and now it
was raining. It was surely a desolate day for departure, with the mist
closing over the Severn Valley and beginning to creep up the
hill-sides...

Stephen made her way to the empty schoolroom, empty of all save a general
confusion; the confusion that stalks in some people's trail--it had
always stalked Mademoiselle Duphot. On the chairs, which stood crooked,
lay odds and ends meaning nothing--crumpled paper, a broken shoehorn, a
well-worn brown glove that had lost its fellow and likewise two of its
buttons. On the table lay a much abused pink blotting-pad, from which
Stephen had torn off the corners, unhidden--it was crossed and re-crossed
with elegant French script until its scarred face had turned purple. And
there stood the bottle of purple ink, half-empty, and green round its
neck with dribbles; and a pen with a nib as sharp as a pin point, a thin,
peevish nib that jabbed at the paper. Chock-a-block with the bottle of
purple ink lay a little piety card of St. Joseph that had evidently
slipped out of Mademoiselle's missal--St. Joseph looked very respectable
and kind--like the fishmonger in Great Malvern. Stephen picked up the
card and stared at St. Joseph; something was written across his corner;
looking closer she read the minute handwriting: 'Priez pour ma petite
Stévenne.'

She put the card away in her desk; the ink and the blotter she hid in the
cupboard together with the peevish steel nib that jabbed paper, and that
richly deserved cremation. Then she straightened the chairs and threw
away the litter, after which she went in search of a duster; one by one
she dusted the few remaining volumes in the bookcase, including the
Bibliothèque Rose. She arranged her dictation notebooks in a pile with
others that were far less accurately written--books of sums, mostly
careless and marked with a cross; books of English history, in one of
which Stephen had begun to write the history of the horse! Books of
geography with Mademoiselle's comments in strong purple ink: 'Grand
manque d'attention'. And lastly she collected the torn lesson books that
had lain on their backs, on their sides, on their bellies--anyhow,
anywhere in drawers or in cupboards, but not very often in the bookcase.
For the bookcase was harbouring quite other things, a motley and most
unstudious collection; dumb-bells, wooden and iron of various sizes--some
Indian clubs, one split off at the handle--cotton laces for gym shoes,
the belt of a tunic. And then stable keepsakes, including a headband that
Raftery had worn on some special occasion; a miniature horseshoe kicked
sky-high by Collins; a half-eaten carrot, now withered and mouldy, and
two hunting crops that had both lost their lashes and were waiting to
visit the saddler.

Stephen considered, rubbing her chin--a habit which by now had become
automatic--she finally decided on the ample box-sofa as a seemly
receptacle. Remained only the carrot, and she stood for a long time with
it clasped in her hand, disturbed and unhappy--this clearing of the decks
for stern mental action was certainly very depressing. But at last she
threw the thing into the fire, where it shifted distressfully, sizzling
and humming. Then she sat down and stared rather grimly at the flames
that were burning up Raftery's first carrot.



Chapter Seven


1


Soon after the departure of Mademoiselle Duphot, there occurred two
distinct innovations at Morton. Miss Puddleton arrived to take possession
of the schoolroom, and Sir Philip bought himself a motor-car. The motor
was a Panhard, and it caused much excitement in the neighbourhood of
Upton-on-Severn. Conservative, suspicious of all innovations, people had
abstained from motors in the Midlands, and, incredible as it now seems to
look back upon, Sir Philip was regarded as a kind of pioneer. The Panhard
was a high-shouldered, snub-nosed abortion with a loud, vulgar voice and
an uncertain temper. It suffered from frequent fits of dyspepsia, brought
about by an unhealthy spark-plug. Its seats were the very acme of
discomfort, its primitive gears unhandy and noisy, but nevertheless it
could manage to attain to a speed of about fifteen miles per hour--given
always that, by God's good grace and the chauffeur's, it was not in the
throes of indigestion.

Anna felt doubtful regarding this new purchase. She was one of those
women who, having passed forty, were content to go on placidly driving in
their broughams, or, in summer, in their charming little French
victorias. She detested the look of herself in large goggles, detested
being forced to tie on her hat, detested the heavy, mannish coat of rough
tweed that Sir Philip insisted she must wear when motoring. Such things
were not of her; they offended her sense of the seemly, her preference
for soft, clinging garments, her instinct for quiet, rather slow, gentle
movements, her love of the feminine and comely. For Anna at forty-four
was still slender, and her dark hair, as yet, was untouched with grey,
and her blue Irish eyes were as clear and candid as when she had come as
a bride to Morton. She was beautiful still, and this fact rejoiced her in
secret, because of her husband. Yet Anna did not ignore middle age; she
met it half-way with dignity and courage; and now her soft dresses were
of reticent colours, and her movements a little more careful than they
had been, and her mind more severely disciplined and guarded--too much
guarded these days, she was gradually growing less tolerant as her
interests narrowed. And the motor, an unimportant thing in itself, served
nevertheless to crystallize in Anna a certain tendency towards
retrogression, a certain instinctive dislike of the unusual, a certain
deep-rooted fear of the unknown.

Old Williams was openly disgusted and hostile; he considered the car to
be an outrage to his stables--those immaculate stables with their
spacious coach-houses, their wide plaits of straw neatly interwoven with
yards of red and blue saddler's tape, and their fine stable-yard hitherto
kept so spotless. Came the Panhard, and behold, pools of oil on the
flagstones, greenish, bad-smelling oil that defied even scouring; and a
medley of odd-looking tools in the coach-house, all greasy, all soiling
your hands when you touched them; and large tins of what looked like
black vaseline; and spare tyres for which nails had been knocked into the
woodwork; and a bench with a vice for the motor's insides which were
frequently being dissected. From this coach-house the dog-cart had been
ruthlessly expelled, and now it must stand chock-a-block with the
phaeton, so that room might be made for the garish intruder together with
its young body-servant. The young body-servant was known as a
chauffeur--he had come down from London and wore clothes made of leather.
He talked Cockney, and openly spat before Williams in the coach-house,
then rubbed his foot over the spittle.

'I'll have none of yer expectoration 'ere in me coach-house, I tell ee!'
bawled Williams, apoplectic with temper.

'Oh, come orf it, do, Grandpa; we're not in the ark!' was how the new
blood answered Williams.

There was war to the knife between Williams and Burton--Burton who
expressed large disdain of the horses.

'Yer time's up now, Grandpa,' he was constantly remarking; 'it's all up
with the gees--better learn to be a shovver!'

'Opes I'll die afore ever I demean meself that way, you young blight!'
bawled the outraged Williams. Very angry he grew, and his dinner
fermented, dilating his stomach and causing discomfort, so that 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'!' groaned Williams,
rubbing his stomach.

To make matters worse, Sir Philip's behaviour was that of a schoolboy
with some horrid new contraption. He was caught by his stud-groom lying
flat on his back with his feet sticking out beneath the bonnet of the
motor, and when he emerged there was soot on his cheek-bones, on his
hair, and even on the tip of his nose. He looked terribly sheepish, and
as Williams said later to his wife:

'It were somethin' aw-ful to see 'im all mucked up, and 'im such a neat
gentleman, and 'im in a filthy old coat of that Burton's, and that Burton
agrinnin' at me and just pointin', silent, because the master couldn't
see 'im, and the master a-callin' up familiar-like to Burton: "I say!
She's got somethin' all wrong with 'er exhaust pipe!" and Burton
a-contradictin' the master: "It's that 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 was only too
anxious to gain allies, soon started to teach her the parts of the
engine; he taught her to drive too, Sir Philip being willing, and off
they would go, the three of them together, leaving Williams 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, he was like a
very unhappy old baby; quite infantile he was in his fits of bad temper,
in his mouthings and his grindings of toothless gums. And all about
nothing, for Sir Philip and his daughter had the lure of horseflesh in
their very bones--and then there was Raftery, 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 got home to Morton and the
schoolroom, a little grey figure would be sitting at the table correcting
an exercise book, or preparing some task for the following morning. The
little grey figure might look up and smile, and when it did this its face
would be charming; but if it refrained from smiling, then its face would
be ugly, too hard and too square in formation--except for the brow, which
was rounded and shiny like a bare intellectual knee. If the little grey
figure got up from the table, you were struck by the fact that it seemed
square all over--square shoulders, square hips, a flat, square line of
bosom; square tips to the fingers, square toes to the shoes, and all
tiny; it suggested a miniature box that was neatly spliced at the
corners. Of uncertain age, pale, with iron-grey hair, grey eyes, and
invariably dressed in dark grey. Miss Puddleton did not look very
inspiring--not at all as one having authority, in fact. But on close
observation it had to be admitted that her chin, though minute, was
extremely aggressive. Her mouth, too, was firm, except when its firmness
was melted by the warmth and humour of her smile--a smile that mocked,
pitied and questioned the world, and perhaps Miss Puddleton as well.

From the very first moment of Miss Puddleton's arrival, Stephen had had
an uncomfortable conviction that this queer little woman was going to
mean something, was going to become a fixture. And sure enough she had
settled down at once, so that in less than two months it seemed to
Stephen that Miss Puddleton must always have been at Morton, must always
have been sitting at the large walnut table, must always have been
saying in that dry, toneless voice with the Oxford accent: 'You've
forgotten something, Stephen,' and then, the books can't walk to the
bookcase, but you can, so suppose that you take them with you.'

It was truly amazing, the change in the schoolroom, not a book out of
place, not a shelf in disorder; even the box lounge had had to be opened
and its dumb-bells and clubs paired off nicely together--Miss Puddleton
always liked things to be paired, perhaps an unrecognized matrimonial
instinct. And now Stephen found herself put into harness for the first
time in her life, and she loathed the sensation. There were so many rules
that a very large time-sheet had had to be fastened to the blackboard in
the schoolroom.

'Because,' said Miss Puddleton as she pinned the thing up, 'even my 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 to pieces!'

Mathematics and algebra, Latin and Greek, Roman history, Greek history,
geometry, botany, they reduced Stephen's mind to a species of beehive in
which every bee buzzed on the least provocation. She would gaze at Miss
Puddleton in a kind of amazement; that tiny, square box to hold all this
grim knowledge! And seeing that gaze Miss Puddleton would smile her most
warm, charming smile, and would say 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 then you'll be able to find
what you want without all this rummaging and bother.'

But her tasks being over, Stephen must often slip away to visit Raftery
in the stables; 'Oh, Raftery, I'm hating it so!' she would tell him. 'I
feel like you'd feel if I put you in harness--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 all human
creatures, so far as he knew them, must run between shafts...God-like though
they were, they undoubtedly had to run between shafts...

Nothing but Stephen's great love for her father helped her to endure the
first six months of learning--that and her own stubborn, arrogant will
that made her hate to be beaten. She would swing clubs and dumb-bells in
a kind of fury, consoling herself with the thought of her muscles, and,
finding her at it, Miss Puddleton 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 if you like,
it's all one to me.' After which Miss Puddleton disappeared somehow, and
Puddle took her place in the household.

An insignificant creature this Puddle, yet at moments unmistakably
self-assertive. Always willing to help in domestic affairs, such as
balancing Anna's chaotic account books, or making out library lists for
Jackson's, she was nevertheless very guardful of her rights, very quick
to assert and maintain her position. Puddle knew what she wanted and saw
that she got it, both in and out of the schoolroom. Yet everyone liked
her; she took what she gave and she gave what she took, yes, but
sometimes she gave just a little bit more--and that little bit more is
the whole art of teaching, the whole art of living, in fact, and Miss
Puddleton knew it. Thus gradually, oh, very gradually at first, she wore
down her pupil's unconscious resistance. With small, dexterous fingers
she caught Stephen's brain, and she stroked it and modelled it after her
own fashion. She talked to that brain and showed it new pictures; she
gave it new thoughts, new hopes and ambitions; she made it feel certain
and proud of achievement. Nor did she belittle Stephen's muscles in the
process, never once did Puddle make game of the athlete, never once did
she show by so much as the twitch of an eyelid that she had her own
thoughts about her pupil. She appeared to take Stephen as a matter of
course, nothing surprised or even amused her it seemed, and Stephen grew
quite at ease with her.

'I can always be comfortable with you, Puddle,' Stephen would say in a
tone of satisfaction, 'you're like a nice chair; though you are so tiny
yet one's got room to stretch, I don't know how you do it.'

Then Puddle would smile, and that smile would warm Stephen while it
mocked her a little; but it also mocked Puddle--they would share that
warm smile with its fun and its kindness so that neither of them could
feel hurt or embarrassed. And their friendship took root, growing strong
and verdant, and it flourished like a green bay-tree in the school-room.

Came the time when Stephen began to realize that Puddle had genius--the
genius of teaching; the genius of compelling her pupil to share in her
own enthusiastic love of the Classics.

Oh, Stephen, if only you could read this in Greek!' she would say, and
her voice would sound full of excitement; 'the beauty, the splendid
dignity of it--it's like the sea, Stephen, rather terrible, but splendid;
that's the language, it's far more virile than Latin.' And Stephen would
catch that sudden excitement, and determine to work even harder at Greek.

But Puddle did not live by the ancients alone, she taught Stephen to
appreciate all literary beauty, observing in her pupil a really fine
judgment, a great feeling for balance in sentences and words. A vast
tract of new interest was thus opened up, and Stephen began to excel in
composition; to her own deep amazement she found herself able to write
many things that had long lain dormant in her heart--all the beauty of
nature, for instance, she could write it. Impressions of childhood--gold
light on the hills; the first cuckoo, mysterious, strangely alluring;
those rides home from hunting together with her father--bare furrows, the
meaning of those bare furrows. And later, how many queer hopes and queer
longings, queer joys and even more curious frustrations. Joy of strength,
splendid physical strength and courage; joy of health and sound sleep and
refreshed awakening; joy of Raftery leaping under the saddle, joy of wind
racing backward as Raftery leapt forward. And then, what? A sudden
impenetrable darkness, a sudden vast void all 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'm Stephen--but that's being nothing--' then that
horrible sense of apprehension.

Writing, it was like a heavenly balm, it was like the flowing out of deep
waters, it was like the lifting of a load from the spirit; it brought
with it a sense of relief, of assuagement. One could say things in
writing without feeling self-conscious, without feeling shy and ashamed
and foolish--one could even write of the days of young Nelson, smiling a
very little as one did so.

Sometimes Puddle would sit alone in her bedroom reading and rereading
Stephen's strange compositions; frowning, or smiling a little in her
turn, at those turbulent, youthful outpourings.

She would think: 'Here's real talent, real red-hot talent--interesting to
find it in that great, athletic creature; but what is she likely to make
of her talent? She's up agin the world, if she only knew it!' Then Puddle
would shake her head and look doubtful, feeling sorry for Stephen and the
world in general.


3


This then was how Stephen conquered yet another kingdom, and at seventeen
was not only athlete but student. Three years under Puddle's ingenious
tuition, and the girl was as proud of her brains as of her muscles--a
trifle too proud, she was growing conceited, she was growing
self-satisfied, arrogant even, and Sir Philip must tease her: 'Ask
Stephen, she'll tell us. Stephen, what's that reference to Adeimantus,
something about a mind fixed on true being--doesn't it come in Euripides,
somewhere? Oh, no, I'm forgetting, of course it's Plato; really my Greek
is disgracefully rusty!' Then Stephen would know that Sir Philip was
laughing at her, but very kindly.

In spite of her newly acquired book learning, Stephen still talked quite
often to Raftery. He was now ten years old and had grown much in wisdom
himself, so he listened with care and attention.

'You see,' she would tell him, 'it's very important to develop the brain
as well as the muscles; I'm now doing both--stand still, will you,
Raftery! Never mind that old corn-bin, stop rolling your eye round--it's
very important to develop the brain because that gives you an advantage
over people, it makes you more able to do as you like in this world, to
conquer conditions, Raftery.'

And Raftery, who was not really thinking of the corn-bin, but rolling his
eye in an effort to answer, would want to say something too big for his
language, which at best must consist of small sounds and small movements;
would want to say something about a strong feeling he had that Stephen
was missing the truth. But how could he hope to make her understand the
age-old wisdom of all the dumb creatures? The wisdom of plains and
primeval forests, the wisdom come down from the youth of the world.



Chapter Eight


1


At seventeen Stephen was taller than Anna, who had used to be considered
quite tall for a woman, but Stephen was nearly as tall as her father--not
a beauty this, in the eyes of the neighbours.

Colonel Antrim would shake his head and remark: 'I like 'em plump and
compact, it's more taking.'

Then his wife, who was certainly plump and compact, so compact in her
stays that she felt rather breathless, would say: 'But then Stephen is
very unusual, almost--well, almost a wee bit unnatural--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 a flat,
broad-shouldered and slim flanked fashion; and her movements were
purposeful, having fine poise, she moved with the easy assurance 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 having Sir Philip's wide, tolerant
expression. What change there was only tended to strengthen the
extraordinary likeness between father and daughter, for now that the
bones of her face showed more clearly, as the childish fullness had
gradually diminished, the formation of the resolute jaw was Sir Philip's.
His too the strong chin with its shade of a cleft; the well modelled,
sensitive lips were his also. A fine face, very pleasing, yet with
something about it that went ill with the hats on which Anna
insisted--large hats trimmed with ribbons or roses or daisies, and
supposed to be softening to the features.

Staring at her own reflection in the glass, Stephen would feel just 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 undo her splendid
thick hair, and would part it in the middle and draw it back loosely.

The result was always far from becoming, so that Stephen would hastily
plait it again. She now wore the plait screwed up very tightly in the
nape of her neck with a bow of black ribbon. Anna hated this fashion and
constantly said so, but Stephen was stubborn: 'I've tried your way,
Mother, and look like a scarecrow; you're beautiful, darling, but your
young daughter isn't, which is jolly hard on you.'

She makes no effort to improve her appearance,' Anna would reproach, very
gravely.

These days there was constant warfare between them on the subject of
clothes; quite a seemly warfare, for Stephen was learning to control her
hot temper, and Anna was seldom anything but gentle. Nevertheless it was
open warfare, the inevitable clash of two opposing natures who sought to
express themselves in apparel, since clothes, after all, are a form of
self-expression. The victory would now be on this side, now on that;
sometimes Stephen would appear in a thick woollen jersey, or a suit of
rough tweeds surreptitiously ordered from the excellent tailor in
Malvern. Sometimes Anna would triumph, having journeyed to London to
procure soft and very expensive dresses, which her daughter must wear in
order to please her, because she would come home quite tired by such
journeys. On the whole, Anna got her own way at this time, for Stephen
would suddenly give up the contest, reduced to submission by Anna's
disappointment, always more efficacious than mere disapproval.

'Here, give it to me!' she would say rather gruffly, grabbing the
delicate dress from her mother.

Then off she would rush and put it on all wrong, so that Anna would sigh
in a kind of desperation, and would pat, readjust, unfasten and fasten,
striving to make peace between wearer and model, 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, as though
the girl's words had been an offence, then she turned away quickly to
hide her expression.

But Stephen had seen that fleeting expression, and she stood very still
when her mother had left her, her own face growing heavy and sombre with
anger, with a sense of some uncomprehended injustice. She wrenched off
the dress and hurled it from her, longing intensely to rend it, to hurt
it, longing to hurt herself in the process, yet filled all the while with
that sense of injustice. But this mood changed abruptly to one of self
pity; she wanted to sit down and weep over Stephen; on a sudden impulse
she wanted to pray over Stephen as though she were someone apart, yet
terribly personal too in her trouble. Going over to the dress she
smoothed it out slowly; it seemed to have acquired an enormous
importance; 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, so hard to believe in
since she had studied Comparative Religion; engrossed in her studies she
had somehow mislaid Him. But now, here she was, very wishful to pray,
while not knowing how to explain her dilemma: 'I'm terribly unhappy,
dear, improbable God--' would not be a very propitious beginning. And yet
at this moment she was wanting a God and a tangible one, very kind and
paternal; a God with a white flowing beard and wide forehead, a
benevolent parent--Who would lean out of Heaven and turn His face
sideways the better to listen from His cloud, upheld by cherubs and
angels. What she wanted was a wise old family God, surrounded by endless
heavenly relations. In spite of her troubles she began to laugh weakly,
and the laughing was good for it killed self pity; nor can it have
offended that Venerable Person whose image persists in the hearts of
small children.

She donned the new dress with infinite precaution, pulling out its bows
and arranging its ruffles. Her large hands were clumsy but now they were
willing, very penitent hands full of deep resignation. They fumbled and
paused, then continued to fumble with the endless small fastenings so
cunningly hidden. She sighed once or 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 thing Stephen was a
social disaster, yet at seventeen many a girl was presented, but the bare
idea of this had terrified Stephen, and so it had had to be abandoned. At
garden parties she was always a failure, seemingly ill at ease and
ungracious. She shook hands much too hard, digging rings into fingers,
this from sheer automatic nervous reaction. She spoke not at all, or else
gabbled too freely, so that Anna grew vague in her own conversation; all
eyes and ears she would be as she listened--it was certainly terribly
hard on Anna. But if hard on Anna, it was harder on Stephen who dreaded
these festive gatherings intensely; indeed her dread of them lacked all
proportion, becoming a kind of unreasoning obsession. Every vestige of
self-confidence seemed to' desert her, so that Puddle, supposing she
happened to be present would find herself grimly comparing this Stephen
with the graceful, light-footed, proficient young athlete, with the
clever and somewhat opinionated student who was fast outstripping her own
powers as a teacher. Yes, Puddle would sit there grimly comparing, and
would feel not a little uneasy as she did so. Then something of her
pupil's distress would reach her, so that perforce she would have to
share it and as like as not she would want to shake Stephen.

Good Lord,' she would think, 'why can't she hit back? It's absurd, it's
outrageous to be so disgruntled by a handful of petty, half-educated
yokels--a girl with her brain too, it's simply outrageous! She'll have to
tackle life more forcibly than this, if she's not going to let herself go
under!'

But Stephen, completely oblivious of Puddle, would be deep in the throes
of her old suspicion, the suspicion that had haunted her ever since
childhood--she would fancy that people were laughing at her. So sensitive
was she, that a half-heard sentence, a word, a glance, made her inwardly
crumble. It might well be that people were not even thinking about her,
much less discussing her appearance--no good, she would always imagine
that the word, the glance, had some purely personal meaning. She would
twitch at her hat with inadequate fingers, or walk clumsily, slouching a
little 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 by making her still more
self-conscious.

With other young girls she had nothing in common, while they, in their
turn, found her irritating. She was shy to primness regarding certain
subjects, and would actually blush if they happened to be mentioned. This
would strike her companions as queer and absurd--after all, between
girls--surely every one knew that at times one ought not to get one's
feet wet, that one didn't play games, not at certain times--there was
nothing to make all this fuss about surely! To see Stephen Gordon's
expression of horror if one so much as threw out a hint on the subject,
was to feel that the thing must in some way be shameful, a kind of
disgrace, a humiliation! And then she was odd about other things too;
there were so many things that she didn't like mentioned.

In the end, they completely lost patience with her, and they left her
alone with her fads and her fancies, disliking the check that her
presence imposed, disliking to feel that they dare not allude to even the
necessary functions of nature without being made to feel immodest.

But at times Stephen hated her own isolation, and then she would make
little awkward advances, while her eyes would grow rather apologetic,
like the eyes of a dog who has been out of favour. She would try to
appear quite at ease with her companions, as she joined in their
light-hearted conversation. Strolling up to a group of young girls at a
party, she would grin as though their small jokes amused her, or else
listen gravely while they talked about clothes or some popular actor who
had visited Malvern. As long as they refrained from too intimate details,
she would fondly imagine that her interest passed muster. There she would
stand with her strong arms folded, and her face somewhat strained in an
effort of attention. While despising these girls, she yet longed to be
like them--yes, indeed, at such moments she longed to be like them. It
would suddenly strike her that they seemed very happy, very sure of
themselves as they gossiped together. There was something so secure in
their feminine conclaves, a secure sense of oneness, of mutual
understanding; each in turn understood the other's ambitions. 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 saw through
her as though she were a window. They knew well enough that she cared not
so much as a jot about clothes and popular actors. Conversation would
falter, then die down completely, her presence would dry up their springs
of inspiration. She spoilt things while trying to make herself agreeable;
they really liked her better when she was grumpy.

Could Stephen have met men on equal terms, she would always have chosen
them as her companions; she preferred them because of their blunt, open
outlook, and with men she had much in common--sport for instance. But men
found her too clever if she ventured to expand, and too dull if she
suddenly subsided into shyness. In addition to this there was something
about her that antagonized slightly, an unconscious presumption. Shy
though she might be, they sensed this presumption; it annoyed them, it
made them feel on the defensive. She was handsome but much too large and
unyielding both in body and mind, and they liked clinging women. They
were oak-trees, preferring the feminine ivy. It might cling rather close,
it might finally strangle, it frequently did, and yet they 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 in turn by a
hospitable county. They were long, these dinners, overloaded with
courses; they were heavy, being weighted with polite conversation; they
were stately, by reason of the family silver; above all they were firmly
conservative in spirit, as conservative as the marriage service itself,
and almost as insistent upon sex distinction.

'Captain Ramsay, will you take Miss Gordon in to dinner?' A politely
crooked arm: 'Delighted, Miss Gordon.'

Then the solemn and very ridiculous procession, animals marching into
Noah's Ark two by two, very sure of divine protection--male and female
created He them! Stephen's skirt would be long and her foot might get
entangled, and she with but one free hand at her disposal--the procession
would stop and she would have stopped it! Intolerable thought, she had
stopped the procession!

'I'm so sorry, Captain Ramsay!'

'I say, can I help you?'

'No--it's really--all right, I think I can manage--'

But oh, the utter confusion of spirit, the humiliating feeling that
someone must be laughing, the resentment at having to cling to his arm
for support, while Captain Ramsay looked patient.

'Not much damage, I think you've just torn the frill, but I often wonder
how you women manage. Imagine a man in a dress like that, too awful to
think of--imagine me in it!' Then a laugh, not unkindly but a trifle
self-conscious, and rather more than a trifle complacent.

Safely steered to her seat at the long dinner-table, Stephen would
struggle to smile and talk brightly, while her partner would think:
'Lord, she's heavy in hand; I wish I had the mother; now there's a lovely
woman!'

And Stephen would think: 'I'm a bore, why is it?' Then, 'But if I were he
I wouldn't be a bore, I could just be myself; I'd feel perfectly
natural.'

Her face would grow splotched with resentment and worry; she would feel
her neck flush and her hands become awkward. Embarrassed, she would sit
staring down at her hands, which would seem to be growing more and more
awkward. No escape! No escape! Captain Ramsay was kind-hearted, he would
try very hard to be complimentary; his grey eyes would try to express
admiration, polite admiration as they rested on Stephen. His voice would
sound softer and more confidential, the voice that nice men reserve for
good women, protective, respectful, yet a little sex-conscious, a little
expectant of a tentative response. But Stephen would feel herself growing
more rigid with every kind word and gallant allusion. Openly hostile she
would be feeling, as poor Captain Ramsay or some other victim was
manfully trying to do his duty.

In such a mood as this she had once drunk champagne, one glass only, the
first she had ever tasted. She had gulped it all down in sheer
desperation--the result had not been Dutch courage but hiccups. Violent,
insistent, incorrigible hiccups had echoed along the whole length of the
table. One of those weird conversational lulls had been filled, as it
were, to the brim with her hiccups. Then Anna had started to talk very
loudly; Mrs. Antrim had smiled and so had their hostess. Their hostess
had finally beckoned to the butler: 'Give Miss Gordon a glass of water,'
she had whispered. After that, Stephen shunned champagne like the
plague--better hopeless depression, she decided, than hiccups!

It was strange how little her fine brain seemed able to help her when she
was trying to be social; in spite of her confident boasting to Raftery,
it did not seem able to help her at all. Perhaps it was the clothes, for
she lost all conceit the moment she was dressed as Anna would have her;
at this period clothes greatly influenced Stephen, giving her confidence
or the reverse. But be that as it might, people thought her peculiar, and
with them that was tantamount to disapproval.

And thus, it was being borne in upon Stephen, that for her there was no
real abiding city beyond the strong, friendly old gates of Morton, and
she clung more and more to her home and to her father. Perplexed and
unhappy she would seek out her father on all social occasions and would
sit down beside him. Like a very small child this large muscular creature
would sit down beside him because she felt lonely, and because youth most
rightly resents isolation, and because she had not yet learnt her hard
lesson--she had not yet learnt that the loneliest place in this world is
the no-man's-land of sex.



Chapter Nine


2


Sir Philip and his daughter had a new common interest; they could now
discuss books and the making of books and the feel and the smell and the
essence of books--a mighty bond this, and one full of enchantment. They
could talk of these things with mutual understanding; they did so for
hours in the father's study, and Sir Philip discovered a secret ambition
that had lain in the girl like a seed in deep soil; and he, the good
gardener of her body and spirit, hoed the soil and watered this seed of
ambition. Stephen would show him her queer compositions, and would wait
very breathless and still while he read them; then one evening he looked
up and saw her expression, and he smiled:

'So that's it, you want to be a writer. Well, why not? You've got plenty
of talent, Stephen; I should be a proud man if you were a writer.' After
which their discussions on the making of books held an even more vital
enchantment.

But Anna came less and less often to the study, and she would be sitting
alone and idle. Puddle, upstairs at work in the schoolroom, might be
swotting at her Greek to keep pace with Stephen, but Anna would be
sitting with her hands in her lap in the vast drawing-room so beautifully
proportioned, so restfully furnished in old polished walnut, so redolent
of beeswax and orris root and violets--all alone in its vastness would
Anna be sitting, with her white hands folded 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 far from
learned--that, indeed, was why Sir Philip had loved her, that was why he
had found her so infinitely restful, that was why he still loved her
after very many years; her simplicity was stronger to hold him than
learning. But now Anna went less and less often to the study.

It was not that they failed to make her feel welcome, but rather that
they could not conceal their deep interest in subjects of which she knew
little or nothing. What did she know of or care for the Classics? What
interest had she in the works of Erasmus? Her theology needed no erudite
discussion, her philosophy consisted of a home swept and garnished, and
as for the poets, she liked simple verses; for the rest her poetry lay in
her husband. All this she well knew and had no wish to alter, yet lately
there had come upon Anna 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 Sir Philip together with their daughter, and knew that her presence
contributed nothing to his happiness when he sat reading to Stephen.

Staring at the girl she would see the strange resemblance, the invidious
likeness of the child to the father, she would notice their movements so
grotesquely alike; their hands were alike, they made the same gestures,
and her mind would recoil with that nameless resentment, the while she
reproached herself; penitent and trembling. Yet penitent and trembling
though Anna might be, she would sometimes hear herself speaking to
Stephen in a way that would make her feel secretly ashamed. She would
hear herself covertly, cleverly gibing, with such skill that the girl
would look up at her bewildered; with such skill that even Sir Philip
himself could not well take exception to what she was saying; then, as
like as not, she would laugh it off lightly, as though all the time she
had only been jesting, and Stephen would laugh too, a big, friendly
laugh. But Sir Philip would not laugh, and his eyes would seek Anna's
questioning, amazed, incredulous and angry. That was why she now went so
seldom to the study when Sir Philip and his daughter were together.

But sometimes, when she was alone with her husband, Anna would suddenly
cling to him in silence. She would hide her face against his hard
shoulder clinging closer and closer, as though she were frightened, as
though she were afraid for this great love of theirs. He would stand very
still, forbearing to move, forbearing to question, for why should he
question? He knew already, and she knew that he knew. Yet neither of them
spoke it, this most unhappy thing, and their silence spread round them
like a poisonous miasma. The spectre that was Stephen would seem to be
watching, and Sir Philip would gently release himself from Anna, while
she, looking up, would see his tired eyes, not angry any more, only very
unhappy. She would think that those eyes were pleading, beseeching; she
would think: 'He's pleading with me for Stephen.' Then her own eyes would
fill with tears of contrition, and that night she would kneel long in
prayer to her Maker:

Give me peace,' she would entreat, 'and enlighten my spirit, so that I
may learn how to love my own child.'


2


Sir Philip looked older now than his age, and seeing this, Anna could
scarcely endure it. Everything in her cried out in rebellion so that she
wanted to thrust back the years, to hold them at bay with her own weak
body. Had the years been an army of naked swords she would gladly have
held them at bay with her body.

He would constantly now remain in his study right into the early hours of
the morning. This habit of his had been growing on him lately, and Anna,
waking to find herself alone, and feeling uneasy would steal down to
listen. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards! She would hear
his desolate sounding footsteps. Why was he pacing backwards and
forwards, and why was she always afraid to ask him? Why was the hand she
stretched out to the door always fearful when it came to turning the
handle? Oh, but it was strong, this thing that stood between them, strong
with the strength of their united bodies. It had drawn its own life from
their youth, their passion, from the splendid and purposeful meaning of
their passion--that was how it had leapt full of power into life, and now
it had thrust in between them. They were ageing, they had little left but
their loving--that gentler loving, perhaps the more perfect--and their
faith in each other, which was part of that loving, and their peace,
which was part of the peace of Morton. Backwards and forwards, backwards
and forwards! Those incessant and desolate sounding footsteps. Peace:
There was surely no peace in that study, but rather some affliction,
menacing, prophetic! Yet prophetic of what? She dared not ask him, she
dared not so much as turn the door-handle, a haunting premonition of
disaster would make her creep away with her question unasked.

Then something would draw her, not back to her bedroom, but on up the
stairs to the room of their daughter. She would open that door very
gently--by inches. She would hold her hand so that it shaded the candle,
and would stand looking down at the sleeping Stephen as she and her
husband had done long ago. But now there would be no little child to look
down on, no small helplessness to arouse mother-pity. Stephen would be
lying very straight, very large, very long, underneath the neatly drawn
covers. Quite often an arm would be outside the bedspread, the sleeve
having fallen away as it lay there, and that arm would look firm and
strong and possessive, and so would the face by the light of the candle.
She slept deeply. Her breathing would be even and placid. Her body would
be drinking in its fill of refreshment. It would rise up clean and
refreshed in the morning; it would eat, speak, move--it would move about
Morton. In the stables, in the gardens, in the neighbouring paddocks, in
the study--it would move about Morton. Intolerable dispensation of
nature. Anna would stare at that splendid young body, and would feel, as
she did so, that she looked on a stranger. She would scourge her heart
and her anxious spirit with memories drawn from this stranger's
beginnings: 'Little--you were so very little!' she would whisper, 'and
you sucked from my breast because you were hungry--little and always so
terribly hungry--a good baby though, a contented little baby--'

And Stephen would sometimes stir in her sleep as though she were vaguely
conscious of Anna. It would pass and she would lie quiet again, breathing
in those deep, placid draughts of refreshment. Then Anna, still
ruthlessly scourging her heart and her anxious spirit, would stoop and
kiss Stephen, but lightly and very quickly on the forehead, so that the
girl should not be awakened. So that the girl should not wake and kiss
back, she would kiss her lightly and quickly on the forehead.

3

The eye of youth is very observant. Youth has its moments of keen
intuition, even normal youth--but the intuition of those who 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 well with her parents.

Their outward existence seemed calm and unruffled; so far nothing had
disturbed the outward peace of Morton. But their child saw their hearts
with the eyes of the spirit; flesh of their flesh, she had sprung from
their hearts, and she knew that those hearts were heavy. They said
nothing, but she sensed that some deep, secret trouble was afflicting
them both; she could see it in their eyes. In the words that they left
unspoken she could hear it--it would be there, filling the small gaps of
silence. She thought that she discerned it in her father's slow
movements--surely his movements had grown slower of late? And his hair
was quite grey; it was quite grey all over. She realized this with a
slight shock one morning as he sat in the sunlight--it had used to look
auburn in the nape of his neck when the sun fell upon it--and now it was
dull grey all over.

But this mattered little. Even their trouble mattered little in
comparison with something more vital, with their love--that, she felt,
was the only thing that mattered, and that was the thing that now stood
most in danger. This love of theirs had been a great glory; all her life
she had lived with it side by side, but never until it appeared to be
threatened, did she feel that she had really grasped its true
meaning--the serene and beautiful spirit of Morton clothed in flesh, yes,
that had been its true meaning. Yet that had been only part of its
meaning for her, it had meant something greater than Morton, it had stood
for the symbol of perfect fulfilment--she remembered that even as a very
small child she had vaguely discerned that perfect fulfilment. This love
had been glowing like a great friendly beacon, a thing that was steadfast
and very reassuring. All unconscious, she must often have warmed herself
at it, must have thawed out her doubts and her vague misgivings. It had
always been their love, the one for the other; she knew this, and yet it
had been her beacon. But now those flames were no longer steadfast;
something had dared to blemish their brightness. She longed to leap up in
her youth and strength and cast this thing out of her holy of holies. The
fire must not die and leave her in darkness.

And yet she was utterly helpless, and she knew it. All that she did
seemed inadequate and childish: 'When I was a child I spake as a child, I
understood as a child, I thought as a child.' Remembering Saint Paul, she
decided grimly that surely she had remained as a child. She could sit and
stare at them--these poor, stricken lovers--with eyes that were scared
and deeply reproachful: 'You must not let anything spoil your loving, I
need it,' her eyes could send them that message. She could love them in
her turn, possessively, fiercely: 'You're mine, mine, mine, the one
perfect thing about me. You're one and you're mine. I'm frightened, I
need you!' Her thoughts could send them that message. She could start to
caress them, awkwardly, shyly, stroking their hands with her strong, bony
fingers--first his hand, then hers, then perhaps both together, so that
they smiled in spite of their trouble. 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 by failing yourselves. I've a right to demand that you shall
not fail me!' No, she dared not stand up and speak such words as
these--she had never demanded anything from them.

Sometimes she would think them quietly over as two fellow creatures whom
chance had made her parents. Her father, her mother--a man, a woman; and
then she would be amazed to discover how little she knew of this man and
this woman. They had once been babies, and later small children, ignorant
of life and utterly dependent. That seemed so curious, ignorant of
life--her father utterly weak and dependent. They had come to adolescence
even as she had, and perhaps at times they too had felt unhappy. What had
their thoughts been, those thoughts that lie hidden, those nebulous
misgivings that never get spoken? Had her mother shrunk back resentful,
protesting, when the seal of her womanhood had been stamped upon her?
Surely not for her mother was somehow so perfect, that all that befell
her must in its turn be perfect--her mother gathered nature into her arms
and embraced it as a friend, as a well-loved companion. But she, Stephen,
had never felt friendly like that, which must mean, she supposed, that
she lacked some fine instinct.

There had been those young years of her mother's in Ireland; she spoke of
them sometimes but only vaguely, as though they were now very far away,
as though they had never seriously counted. And yet she had been lovely,
lovely Anna Molloy, much admired, much loved and constantly courted--And
her father, he too had been in the world, in Rome, in Paris, and often in
London--he had not lived at Morton in those days; and how queer it
seemed, there had been a time when her father had actually not known her
mother. They had been completely unconscious of each other, he for
twenty-nine years, she for just over twenty, and yet all the while had
been drawing together, in spite of themselves, always nearer together.
Then had come that morning away in County Clare, when those two had
suddenly seen each other, and had known from that moment the meaning of
life, of love, just because they had seen each other. Her father spoke
very seldom of such things, but this much he had told her, it had all
grown quite clear--What had it felt like when they realized each other?
What did it feel like to see things quite 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 through the heavy
white doorway under the shining semicircular fanlight. She had walked
into the old square hall with its bear-skins, and its pictures of funny,
dressed-up looking Gordons--the hall with the whip-rack where Stephen
kept her whips--the hall with the beautiful iridescent window, that
looked over the lawns and herbaceous borders. Then, perhaps hand in hand,
they had passed beyond the hall, her father a man, her mother a woman,
with their destiny already upon them--and that destiny of theirs had been
Stephen.

Ten years. For ten years they had just had each other, each other and
Morton--surely wonderful years. But what had they been thinking about all
those years? Had they perhaps thought a little about Stephen? Oh, but
what could she hope to know of these things, their thoughts, their
feelings, their secret ambitions--she, who had not even been conceived,
she, who had not yet come into existence? They had lived in a world that
her eyes bad not looked on; days and nights had slipped into the weeks,
months and years. Time had existed, but she, Stephen, had not. They had
lived through that time; it had gone to their making; their present had
been the result of its travail, had sprung from its womb as she from her
mother's, only she had not been a part of that travail, as she had been a
part of her mother's. Hopeless! And yet she must try to know them, these
two, every inch of their hearts, of their minds; and knowing them, she
must then try to guard them--but him first, oh, him first--she did not
ask why, she only knew that because she loved him as she did, he would
always have to come first. Love was simply like that; it just followed
its impulse and asked no questions--it was beautifully simple. But for
his sake she must also love the thing that he loved, her mother, though
this love was somehow quite different; it was less hers than his, he had
thrust it upon her; it was not an integral part of her being.
Nevertheless it too must be served, for the happiness of one was that of
the other. They were indivisible, one flesh, one spirit, and whatever it
was that had crept in between them was trying to tear asunder this
oneness--that was why she, their child, must rise up and help them if she
could, for was she not the fruit of their oneness?


4


There were times when she would think that she must have been mistaken,
that no trouble was overshadowing her father; these would be when they
two were sitting in his study, for then he would seem contented.
Surrounded by his books, caressing their bindings, Sir Philip would look
care-free again and light-hearted.

'No friends in the world like books,' he would tell her. 'Look at this
fellow in his old leather jacket!'

There were times, too, out hunting when he seemed very young, as Raftery
had been that first season. But the ten-year-old Raftery was now wiser
than Sir Philip, who would often behave like a foolhardy schoolboy. He
would give Stephen leads over hair-raising places, and then, she safely
landed, turn round and grin at her. He liked her to ride the pick of his
hunters these days, and would slyly show off her prowess. The sport would
bring back the old light to his eyes, and his eyes would look happy as
they rested on his daughter.

She would think: must have been terribly mistaken,' and would feel a
great peace surge over her spirit.

He might say, as they slowly jogged home to Morton: 'Did you notice my
youngster here take that stiff timber? Not bad for a five-year-old, he'll
do nicely.' And perhaps he might add: 'Put a three on that five, and then
tell your old sire that he's not so bad either! I'm fifty-three, Stephen,
I'll be going in the wind if I 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 the time
'that the two of them reached the stables. She would notice with a sudden
pain in her heart that he stooped when he walked, not much yet, but a
little. And she loved his broad back, she had always loved it--a kind,
reassuring protective back. Then the thought would come that perhaps its
great kindness had caused it to stoop as though bearing a burden; and the
thought would come: 'He is bearing a burden, not his own, it's someone
else's--but whose?'



Chapter Ten


1


Christmas came and with it the girl's eighteenth birthday, but the
shadows that clung round her home did not lessen; nor could Stephen,
groping about in those shadows, find a way to win through to the light.
Everyone tried to be cheerful and happy, as even sad people will do at
Christmas, while the gardeners brought in huge bundles of holly with
which to festoon the portraits of Gordons--rich, red-berried holly that
came from the hills, and that year after year would be sent down to
Morton. The courageous-eyed Gordons looked out from their wreaths
unsmiling, as though they were thinking of Stephen.

In the hall stood the Christmas-tree of her childhood, for Sir Philip
loved the old German custom which would seem to insist that even the aged
be as children and play with God on His birthday. At the top of the tree
swung the little wax Christ-child in His spangled nightgown with gold and
blue ribbons; and the little wax Christ-child bent downwards and sideways
because, although small, He was rather heavy--or, as Stephen had thought
when she too had been small, because He was trying to look for His
presents.

In the morning they all went to church in the village, and the church
smelt of coldness and freshly bruised green stuff--of the laurel and holly
and pungent pine branches, that wreathed the oak pulpit and framed the
altar; and the anxious-faced eagle who must carry the Scriptures on his
wings, he too was looking quite festive. Very redolent of England it was,
that small church, with its apple-cheeked choirboys in newly washed
garments; with its young Oxford parson who in summer played cricket to
the glory of God and the good of the county; with its trim congregation
of neighbouring gentry who had recently purchased an excellent organ, so
that now they could hear the opening bars of the hymns with a feeling of
self-satisfaction, but with something else too that came nearer to
Heaven, because of those lovely old songs of Christmas. The choir raised
their sexless untroubled voices: 'While shepherds watched their
flocks...' sang the choir; and Anna's soft mezzo mingled and blended with
her husband's deep boom and Puddle's soprano. Then Stephen sang too for
the sheer joy of singing, though her voice at best was inclined to be
husky: 'While shepherds watched their flocks by night,' carolled
Stephen--for some reason thinking of Raftery.

After church the habitual Christmas greetings: 'Merry Christmas,' 'Merry
Christmas.' Same to you, many of them!' Then home to Morton and the large
mid-day dinner--turkey, plum pudding with its crisp brandy butter, and
the mince-pies that invariably gave Puddle indigestion. Then dessert with
all sorts of sweet fruits out of boxes, crystallized fruits that made
your hands sticky, together with fruit from the Morton green-houses; and
from somewhere that no one could ever remember, the elegant miniature
Lady-apples that you ate skins and all in two bites if you were greedy.

A long afternoon spent in waiting for darkness when Anna could light the
Christmas-tree candles; and no ringing of bells to disturb the servants,
not until they must all file in for their presents which were piled up
high round the base of the tree on which Anna would light the small
candles. Dusk--draw the curtains, it was dark enough now, and someone
must go and fetch Anna the taper, but she must take care of the little
wax Christ-child, Who liked many lights even though they should melt Him.

'Stephen, climb up, will you, and tie back the Christ-child. His toe 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, as though she
herself were a ministering priestess--Anna very slender and tall in a
dress whose soft folds swept her limbs and lay round her ankles.

'Ring three times, will you, Philip? I think they're all lighted--no,
wait--all right now, I'd missed that top candle. Stephen, begin to sort
out the presents, please, dear, your father's just rung for the servants.
Oh, and Puddle, you might push over the table, I may need it--no, not
that one, the table by the window--'

A subdued sound of voices, a stifled giggle. The servants filing in
through the green baize door, and only the butler and footmen familiar in
appearance, the others all strangers in mufti. Mrs. Wilson, the cook, in
black silk with jet trimming, the scullery maid in electric blue
cashmere, one housemaid in mauve, another in green, and the upper of
three in dark terra-cotta, while Anna's own maid wore an old dress of
Anna's. Then the men from outside, from the gardens and stables--men
bare-headed who were usually seen in their caps--old Williams displaying
a widening bald patch, and wearing tight trousers instead of his
breeches; old Williams walking stiffly because his new suit felt like
cardboard, and because his white collar was too high, and because his
hard, made-up black bow would slip crooked. The grooms and the boys, all
exceedingly shiny from their neatly oiled heads to their well-polished
noses--the boys very awkward, short-sleeved and rough-handed, shuffling a
little because trying not to. And the gardeners led in by the grave Mr.
Hopkins, who wore black of a Sunday and carried a Church Service, and
whose knowledge of the ills that all grape-flesh is heir to, had given
his face a patient, pained expression. Men smelling of soil these, in
spite of much scrubbing; men whose necks and whose hands were crossed and
recrossed by a network of tiny and earth-clogged furrows--men whose backs
would bend early from tending the earth. There they stood in the wake of
the grave Mr. Hopkins, with their eyes on the big, lighted
Christmas-tree, while they never so much as glanced at the flowers that
had sprung from many long hours of their labour. No, instead they must
just stand and gape at the tree, as though with its candles and
Christ-child and all, it were some strange exotic plant in Kew Gardens.

Then Anna called her people by name, and to each one she gave the gifts
of that Christmas; and they thanked her, thanked Stephen and thanked Sir
Philip; and Sir Philip thanked them for their faithful service, as had
always been the good custom at Morton for more years than Sir Philip
himself could remember. Thus the day had passed by in accordance with
tradition, every one from the highest to the lowest remembered; nor had
Anna forgotten her gifts for the village--warm shawls, sacks of coal,
cough mixture and sweets. Sir Philip had sent a cheque to the vicar,
which would keep him for a long time in cricketing flannels; and Stephen
had carried a carrot 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
in place of his sugar. And Puddle had written at great length to a sister
who lived down in Cornwall and whom she neglected, except on such
memory-jogging occasions as Christmas, when somehow we always remember.
And the servants had gorged themselves to repletion, and the hunters had
rested in their hay-scented stables; while out in the fields, seagulls,
come far inland, had feasted in their turn on humbler creatures--grubs
and slugs, and other unhappy small fry, much relished by birds and hated
by farmers.

Night closed down on the house, and out of the darkness came the anxious
young voices of village schoolchildren: 'Noel, Noel--' piped the anxious
young voices lubricated by sweets from the lady of Morton. Sir Philip
stirred the logs in the hall to a blaze, while Anna sank into a deep
chair and watched them. Her hands that were wearied by much ministration,
lay over the arms of the chair in the firelight, and the firelight sought
out the rings on her hands, and it played with the whiter flames in her
diamonds. Then Sir Philip stood up, and he gazed at his wife, while she
stared at the logs not appearing to notice him; but Stephen, watching in
silence from her corner, seemed to see a dark shadow that stole in
between 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 she said, to
please Violet, who was still rather young to attend the hunt balls, but
who dearly loved gaiety, especially dancing. Violet was plump, pert and
adolescent, and had lately insisted on putting her hair up. She liked
men, who in consequence always liked her, for like begets like when it
comes to the sexes, and Violet was full of what people call 'allure', or
in simpler language, of sexual attraction. Roger was home for Christmas
from Sandhurst, so that he would be there to assist his mother. He was
now nearly twenty, a good-looking youth with a tiny moustache which he
tentatively fingered. He assumed the grand air of the man of the world
who has actually weathered about nineteen summers. He was hoping to join
his regiment quite soon, which greatly augmented his self-importance.

Could Mrs. Antrim have ignored Stephen Gordon's existence, she would
almost certainly have done so. She disliked the girl; she had always
disliked her; what she called Stephen's 'queerness' aroused her
suspicion--she was never quite clear as to what she suspected, but felt
sure it must be something outlandish: 'A young woman 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 way outgrown her
dread of the Antrim; there was only one member of that family who liked
her, she knew, and that was the small, hen-pecked Colonel. He liked her
because, a fine horseman himself, he admired her 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 children might have been
brought up at Margate, they're just about fitted to ride the beach
donkeys!'

But Colonel Antrim would not count at the dance; indeed in his own 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 too fundamental. 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 order to please her mother. Nervous,
awkward and apprehensive, Stephen arrived at the Antrims that night,
little thinking that Fate, the most expert of tricksters, was waiting to
catch her just round the corner. Yet so it was, for during that evening
Stephen met Martin and Martin met Stephen, and their meeting was great
with portent for them both, though neither of them could know it.

It all happened quite simply as such things will happen. It was Roger who
introduced Martin Hallam; it was Stephen who explained that she danced
very badly; it was Martin who suggested that they sit out their dances.
Then--how quickly it occurs if the thing is predestined--they suddenly
knew that they liked each other, that some chord had been struck to a
pleasant vibration; and this being so they sat out many dances, and they
talked for quite a long while that evening.

Martin lived in British Columbia, it seemed, where he owned several farms
and a number of orchards. He had gone out there after the death of his
mother, for six months, but had stayed on for love of the country. And
now he was having a holiday in England--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 for a week, and so here he was--but it felt almost strange to
be back again in England. Then he talked of the vastness of that new
country that was yet so old; of its snow-capped mountains, of its canyons
and gorges, of its deep, princely rivers, of its lakes, above all of its
mighty forests. And when Martin spoke of those mighty forests, his voice
changed, it became almost reverential; for this young man loved trees
with a primitive instinct, with a strange and inexplicable devotion.
Because he liked Stephen he could talk of his trees, and because she
liked him she could listen while he talked, feeling that she too would
love his great forests.

His face was very young, clean-shaven and bony; he had bony, brown hands
with spatulate fingers; for the rest, he was tall with a loosely knit
figure, and he slouched a little when he walked from much riding. But his
face had a charming quality about it, especially when he talked of his
trees; it glowed, it seemed to be inwardly kindled, and it asked for a
real and heart-felt understanding of the patience and the beauty and the
goodness of trees--it was eager for your understanding. Yet in spite of
this touch of romance in his make-up, which he could not keep out of his
voice at moments, he spoke simply, as one man will speak to another, very
simply, not trying to create an impression. He talked about trees as some
men talk of ships, because they love them and the 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, farming and the care of vast orchards;
thoughtful questions, unromantic but apt--such as one man will ask of
another.

Then Martin wished to learn about her, and they talked of her fencing,
her studies, her riding, and she told him about Raftery who was named for
the poet. And all the while she felt natural and happy because here was a
man who was taking her for granted, who appeared to find nothing
eccentric about her or her tastes, but who quite simply took her for
granted. Had you asked Martin Hallam to explain 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 into being.

Before Anna left the dance with her daughter, she invited the young man
to drive over and see them; and Stephen felt glad of that invitation,
because now she could share her new friend with Morton. She said to
Morton that night in her bedroom: 'I know you're going to like Martin
Hallam.'



Chapter Eleven


1


Martin went to Morton, he went very often, for Sir Philip liked him and
encouraged the friendship. Anna liked Martin too, and she made 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 son must adopt someone
else's, so to Anna he went with all his small troubles, and she doctored
him when he caught a bad chill out hunting. 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 on and on at
the hotel in Upton; ostensibly staying because of the hunting; in reality
staying because of Stephen who was filling a niche in his life long
empty, the niche reserved for the perfect companion. A queer, sensitive
fellow this Martin Hallam, with his strange love of trees and primitive
forests, not a man to make many intimate friends, and in consequence a
man to be lonely. He knew little about books and had been a slack
student, but Stephen and he had other things in common; he rode well, and
he cared for and understood horses; he fenced well and would quite often
now fence with Stephen; nor did he appear to resent it when she beat him;
indeed he seemed to accept it as natural, and would merely laugh at his
own lack of skill. Out hunting these two would keep close to each other,
and would ride home together as far as Upton; or perhaps he would go to
Morton with her, for Anna was always glad to see Martin. Sir Philip gave
him the freedom of the stables, and even old Williams forbore to grumble:

''E be trusty, that's what 'e be,' declared Williams, 'and the horses
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 the countryside that
she loved, from Upton to Castle Morton common--the common that lies at
the foot of the hills. But far beyond Castle Morton she took him. They
would ride down the winding lane to Bromsberrow, then crossing the small
stream at Clincher's Mill, jog home through the bare winter woods of
Eastnor. And she taught him the hills whose plentiful bosoms had made
Anna think of green-girdled mothers, mothers of sons, as she sat and
watched them, great with the child who should have been her son. They
climbed the venerable Worcestershire Beacon that stands guardian of all
the seven Malverns, or wandered across the hills of the Wells to the old
British Camp above the Wye Valley. The Valley would lie half in light,
half in shadow, and beyond would be Wales and the dim Black Mountains.
Then Stephen's heart would tighten a little, as it always had done
because of that beauty, so that one day she said:

'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 see lovely
things--they make us regretful.' But when she asked him why this should
be, he shook his head slowly, unable to tell her.

Sometimes they walked through Hollybush woods, then on up Raggedstone, a
hill grim with legend--its shadow would bring misfortune or death to
those it fell on, according to legend. Martin would pause to examine the
thorn trees, ancient thorns that had weathered many a hard winter. He
would touch them with gentle, pitying fingers:

'Look, Stephen--the courage of these old fellows! They're all twisted and
crippled; it hurts me to see them, yet they go on patiently doing their
bit--have you ever thought about the enormous courage of trees? I have,
and it seems to me amazing. The Lord dumps them down and they've just got
to stick it, no matter what happens--that must need some courage!' And
one day he said: 'Don't think me quite mad, but if we survive death then
the trees will survive it; there must be some sort of a forest heaven for
all the faithful--the faithful of trees. I expect they take their birds
along with them; why not? "And in death they were not divided".' Then he
laughed, but she saw that his eyes were quite grave, so she asked him:

'Do you believe in God, Martin?'

And he answered: 'Yes, because of His trees. Don't you?' 'I'm not sure--'

Oh, my poor, blind Stephen! Look again, go on looking until you do
believe.'


They discussed many things quite simply together, for between these two
was no vestige of shyness. His youth met hers and walked hand in hand
with it, so that she knew how utterly lonely her own youth had been
before the coming of Martin.

She said: 'You're the only real friend I've ever had, except Father--our
friendship's so wonderful, somehow--we're like 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 secrets of
by-paths most cunningly hidden; the secrets of small, unsuspected green
hollows; the secrets of ferns that live only by hiding. She might even
reveal the secrets of birds, and show him the playground of shy, spring
cuckoos.

'They fly quite low up here, one can see them; last year a couple flew
right past me, calling. If you were not going away so soon, Martin, we'd
come later on--I'd love you to see them.'

'And I'd love you to see my huge forests,' he told her, 'why can't you
come back to Canada with me? What rot it is, all this damned convention;
we're such pals you and I, I'll be desperately lonely--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 that their
greenness seemed almost eternal. Great trees he told of, erect, towering
firs, many centuries old and their girth that of giants. And then there
were all the humbler tree-folk whom he spoke of as friends that were dear
and familiar; the hemlocks that grow by the courses of rivers, in love
with adventure and clear running water; the slender white spruces that
border the lakes; the red pines, that glow like copper in the sunset.
Unfortunate trees these beautiful red pines, for their tough, manly wood
is coveted by builders.

'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 days for these
two who had always been lonely until now, and now this wonderful
friendship--there had never been anything like it for Stephen. Oh, but it
was good to have him beside her, so young, so strong and so
understanding. She liked his quiet voice with its careful accent, and his
thoughtful blue eyes that moved rather slowly, so that his glance when it
came, came slowly--sometimes she would meet his glance half-way, smiling.
She who had longed for the companionship of men, for their friendship,
their good-will, their toleration, she had it all now and much more in
Martin, because of his great understanding.

She said to Puddle one night in the schoolroom: 'I've grown fond of
Martin--isn't that queer after only a couple of months of friendship? But
he's different somehow--when he's gone I shall miss him!'

And her words had the strangest effect on Puddle who quite suddenly
beamed at Stephen and kissed her--Puddle, who never betrayed her
emotions, quite suddenly beamed at Stephen and kissed her.


2


People gossiped a little because of the freedom allowed Martin and
Stephen by her parents; but on the whole they gossiped quite kindly, with
a great deal of smiling and nodding of heads. After all the girl was just
like other girls--they almost ceased to resent her. Meanwhile Martin
continued to stay on in Upton, held fast by the charm and the strangeness
of Stephen--her very strangeness it was that allured him, yet all the
while he must think of their friendship, not even admitting that
strangeness. He deluded himself with these thoughts of friendship, but
Sir Philip and Anna were not deluded. They looked at each other almost
shyly at first, then Anna grew bold, and she said to her husband:

'Is it possible the child is falling in love with Martin? Of course he's
in love with her. Oh, my dear, it would make me so awfully happy--' And
her heart went out in affection to Stephen, as it had not done since the
girl was a baby.

Her hopes would go flying ahead of events; she would start making plans
for her daughter's future. Martin must give up his orchards and forests
and buy Tenley Court that was now in the market; it had several large
farms and some excellent pasture, quite enough to keep any man happy and
busy. Then Anna would suddenly grow very thoughtful; Tenley Court was
also possessed of fine nurseries, big, bright, sunny rooms facing south,
with their bathroom, there were bars to the windows--it was all there and
ready.

Sir Philip shook his head and warned Anna to go slowly, but he could not
quite keep the great joy from his eyes, nor the hope from his heart. Had
he been mistaken? Perhaps after all he had been mistaken--the hope
thudded ceaselessly now in his heart.


3


Came a day when winter must give place to spring, when the daffodils
marched across the whole country from Castle Morton Common to Ross and
beyond, pitching camps by the side of the river. When the hornbeam made
patches of green in the hedges, and the hawthorn broke out into small,
budding bundles; when the old cedar tree on the lawn at Morton grew
reddish-pink tips to its elegant fingers; when the wild cherry trees on
the sides of the hills were industriously putting forth both leaves and
blossoms; when Martin looked into his heart and saw Stephen--saw her
suddenly there as a woman.

Friendship! He marvelled now at his folly, at his blindness, his coldness
of body and spirit. He had offered this girl the cold husks of his
friendship, insulting her youth, her womanhood, her beauty--for he saw
her now with the eyes of a lover. To a man such as he was, sensitive,
restrained, love came as a blinding revelation. He knew little about
women, and the little he did know was restricted to episodes that he
thought best forgotten. On the whole he had led a fairly chaste
life--less from scruple than because he was fastidious by nature. But now
he was very deeply in love, 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, reserved
creature, he must quite lose his head and become the reverse. So
impatient was he that he rushed off to Morton very early one morning to
look for Stephen, tracking her down in the end at the stables, where he
found her talking to Williams and Raftery.

He said: 'Never mind about Raftery, Stephen--let's go into the garden,
I've got something to tell you.' And she thought that he must have had
bad news from home, because of his voice and his curious 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 saying amazing, incredible
things: Stephen, my dear--I do utterly love you.' He was holding out his
arms, while she shrank back bewildered: 'I love you, I'm deeply in love
with you, Stephen--look at me, don't you understand me, beloved? I want
you to marry me--you do love me, don't you?' And then, as though she had
suddenly struck him, he flinched: 'Good God! What's the matter, Stephen?'

She was staring at him in a kind of dumb horror, staring at his eyes that
were clouded by desire, while gradually over her colourless face there
was spreading an expression of the deepest repulsion--terror and
repulsion he saw on her face, and something else too, a look as of
outrage. He could not believe this thing 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 step nearer, still unable to believe. But at that she wheeled
round and fled from him wildly, fled back to the house that had always
protected; without so much as a word she left him, nor did she once pause
in her flight to look back. Yet even in this moment of headlong panic,
the girl was conscious of something like amazement, amazement at herself;
and she gasped as she ran: 'It's Martin--Martin--' And again: 'It's
Martin!'

He stood perfectly still until the trees hid her. He felt stunned,
incapable of understanding. All that he knew was that he must get away,
away from Stephen, away from Morton, away from the thoughts that would
follow after. In less than two hours he was motoring to London; in less
than two weeks he was standing on the deck of the steamer that would
carry him back to his forests that lay somewhere beyond the horizon.



Chapter Twelve


1



No one questioned at Morton; they spoke very little. Even Anna forbore to
question her daughter, checked by something that she saw in the girl's
pale face.

But alone with her husband she gave way to her misgivings, to her deep
disappointment: 'It's heartbreaking, Philip. What's happened? They seemed
so devoted to each other. Will you ask the child? Surely one of us ought
to--'

Sir Philip said quietly: 'I think Stephen will tell me.' And with that
Anna had perforce to be content.

Very silently Stephen now went about Morton, and her eyes looked
bewildered and deeply unhappy. At night she would lie awake thinking of
Martin, missing him, mourning him as though he were dead. But she could
not accept this death without question, without feeling that she was in
some way blameworthy. What was she, what manner of curious creature, to
have been so repelled by a lover like Martin? Yet she had been repelled,
and even her pity for the man could not wipe out that stronger feeling.
She had driven him away because something within her was intolerant of
that new aspect of Martin.

Oh, but she mourned his good, honest friendship; he had taken that from
her, the thing she most needed--but perhaps after all it had never
existed except as a cloak for this other emotion. And then, lying there
in the thickening darkness, she would shrink from what might be waiting
in the future, for all that had just happened might happen again--there
were other men in the world beside Martin. Fool, never to have visualized
this thing before, never to have faced the possibility of it; now she
understood her resentment of men when their voices grew soft and
insinuating. Yes, and now she knew to the full the meaning of fear, and
Martin it was, who had taught her its meaning--her friend--the man she
had utterly trusted had pulled the scales from her eyes and revealed it.
Fear, stark fear, and the shame of such fear--that was the legacy left
her by Martin. And yet he had made her so happy at first, she had felt so
contented, so natural with him; but that was because they had been like
two men, companions, sharing each other's interests. And at this thought
her bitterness would all but flow over; it was cruel, it was cowardly of
him to have deceived her, when all the time he had only been waiting 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 had never been quite
like the other small children, she had always been lonely and
discontented, she had always been trying to be someone else--that was why
she had dressed herself up as young Nelson. Remembering those days she
would think of her father, and would wonder if now, as then, he could
help her. Supposing she should ask him to explain about Martin? Her
father was wise, and had infinite patience--yet somehow she instinctively
dreaded to ask him. Alone--it was terrible to feel so much alone--to feel
oneself different from other people. At one time she had rather enjoyed
this distinction--she had rather enjoyed dressing up as young Nelson. Yet
had she enjoyed it? Or had it been done as some sort of inadequate
childish protest a But if so against what had she been protesting when
she strutted about the house, masquerading? In those days she had wanted
to be a boy--had that been the meaning of the pitiful young Nelson? And
what about now? She had wanted Martin to treat her as a man, had expected
it of him...The questions to which she could find no answers, would pile
themselves up and up in the darkness; oppressing, stifling by sheer
weight of numbers, until she would feel them getting her under; 'I don't
know--oh, God, I don't know!' she would mutter, tossing as though to
fling off those questions.

Then one night towards dawn she could bear it no longer; her dread must
give place to her need of consolation. She would ask her father to
explain her to herself; she would tell him her deep desolation over
Martin. She would say: Is there anything strange about 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 had felt, the intensity of it. She
would try to make him understand her suspicion that this feeling of hers
was a thing fundamental, much more than merely not being in love; much,
much more than not wanting to marry Martin. She would tell him why she
found herself so utterly bewildered; tell him how she had loved Martin's
strong, young body, and his honest brown face, and his slow thoughtful
eyes, and his careless walk--all these things she had loved. Then
suddenly terror and deep repugnance because of that unforeseen change in
Martin, the change that had turned the friend into the lover--in reality
it had been no more than that, the friend had turned lover and had wanted
from her what she could not give him, or indeed any man, because of that
deep repugnance. Yet there should have been nothing repugnant about
Martin, nor was she a child to have felt such terror. She had known
certain facts about life for some time and they had not repelled her in
other people--not until they had been brought home to herself had these
facts both terrified and repelled her.

She got up. No good in trying to sleep, those eternal questions kept
stifling, tormenting. Dressing quickly she stole down the wide, shallow
stairs to the garden door, then out into the garden. The garden looked
unfamiliar in the sunrise, like a well-known face that is suddenly
transfigured. There was something aloof and awesome about it, as though
it were lost in ecstatic devotion. She tried to tread softly for she felt
apologetic, she and her troubles were there as intruders; their presence
disturbed this strange hush of communion, this oneness with something
beyond their knowledge, that was yet known and loved by the soul of the
garden. A mysterious and wonderful thing this oneness, pregnant with
comfort could she know its true meaning--she felt this somewhere deep
down 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 in the cedar, and his
song was full of wild jubilation: Stephen, look at me, look at me!' sang
the thrush, 'I'm happy, happy, it's all very simple!' There was something
heartless about that singing which only served to remind her of Martin.
She walked on disconsolate, thinking deeply. He had gone, he would soon
be back in his forests--she had made no effort to keep him beside her
because he had wanted to be her lover...'Stephen, look at us, look at
us!' sang the birds, 'We're happy, happy, it's all very simple!' Martin
walking in dim, green places--she could picture his life away in the
forests, a man's life, good with the goodness of danger, a primitive,
strong, imperative thing--a man's life, the life that should have been
hers--And her eyes filled with heavy, regretful tears, yet she did not
quite know for what she was weeping. She only knew that some great sense
of loss, some great sense of incompleteness possessed her, and she let
the tears trickle down her face, wiping them off one by one with her
finger.

And now she was passing the old potting shed where Collins had lain in
the arms of the footman. Choking back her tears she paused by the shed,
and tried to remember the girl's appearance. Grey eyes--no, blue, and a
round-about figure--plump hands, with soft skin always puckered from
soap-suds--a housemaid's knee that had pained very badly: See that dent?
That's the water...It fair makes me sick.' Then a queer little girl
dressed up as young Nelson: 'I'd like to be awfully hurt for you,
Collins, the way that Jesus was hurt for sinners...' The potting shed
smelling of earth and dampness, sagging a little on one side,
lop-sided--Collins lying in the arms of the footman, Collins being kissed
by him, wantonly, crudely--a broken flower pot in the hand of a
child--rage, deep rage--a great anguish of spirit--blood on a face that
was pale with amazement, very bright red blood that kept trickling and
trickling--flight, wild, inarticulate flight, away and away, anyhow,
anywhere--the pain of torn skin, the rip of torn stockings--

She had not remembered these things for years, she had thought that all
this had been quite forgotten; there was nothing to remind her of Collins
these days but a fat, half-blind and pampered old pony. Strange how these
memories came back this morning; she had lain in bed lately trying to
recapture the childish emotions aroused in her by Collins and had failed,
yet this morning they came back quite clearly. But the garden was full of
a new memory now; it was full of sorrowful memory of Martin. She turned
abruptly, and leaving the shed walked towards the lakes that gleamed
faintly in the distance.

Down by the lakes there was a sense of great stillness which the songs of
the birds could in no way lessen, for this place had that curious
stillness of spirit that seems to interpenetrate sound. A swan paddled
about in front of his island, on guard, for his mate had a nest full of
cygnets; from time to time he glanced crossly at Stephen though he knew
her quite well, but now there were cygnets. He was proud in his splendid,
incredible whiteness, and paternity made him feel overbearing, so that he
refused to feed from Stephen's hand although she found a biscuit in her
pocket.

'Coup, c-o-u-p!' she called, but he swung his neck sideways as he
swam--it was like a disdainful negation. 'Perhaps he thinks I'm a freak,'
she mused grimly, feeling more lonely because of the swan.

The lakes were guarded by massive old beech trees, and the beech trees
stood ankle-deep in their foliage; a lovely and luminous carpet of leaves
they had spread on the homely brown earth of Morton. Each spring came new
little shuttles of greenness that in time added warp and woof to the
carpet, so that year by year it grew softer and deeper, and year by year
it glowed more resplendent. Stephen had loved this spot from her
childhood, and now she instinctively went to it for comfort, but its
beauty only added to her melancholy, for beauty can wound like a
two-edged sword. She could not respond to its stillness of spirit, since
she could not lull her own spirit to stillness.

She thought: 'I shall never be one with great peace any more, I shall
always stand outside this stillness--wherever there is absolute stillness
and peace in this world, I shall always stand just outside it.' And as
though these thoughts were in some way prophetic, she inwardly shivered a
little.

Then what must the swan do but start to hiss loudly, just to show 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 the whole of last winter!'

But apparently Peter could not trust her at all, for he squawked to his
mate who came out through the bushes, and she hissed in her turn,
flapping strong angry wings, which meant in mere language: Get out of
this, Stephen, you clumsy, inadequate, ludicrous creature; you destroyer
of nests, you disturber of young, you great wingless blot on a beautiful
morning!' Then they both hissed together: Get out of this, Stephen!' So
Stephen left them to the care of their cygnets.

Remembering Raftery, she walked to the stables, where all was confusion
and purposeful bustle. Old Williams was ruthlessly out on the 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 go forgettin' their knee-caps
this mornin'--and that bucket there don't belong where it's standin', nor
that broom! Did Jim take the roan to the blacksmith's? Gawd almighty,
why not? 'Er shoes is like paper! 'Ere, you Jim, don't you go on
ignorin' my orders, if you do--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 a gall if you 'ad one!'

The sleek, good-looking hunters were led out in clothing--for the early
spring mornings were still rather nippy--and among them came Raftery,
slender and skittish; he was wearing his hood, and his eyes peered out
bright as a falcon's from the two neatly braided eye-holes. From a couple
more holes in the top of his head-dress, shot his small, pointed ears,
which now worked 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 that horse close, and
'im all corned up until 'he's fair dancin'!'

They stood watching Raftery skip through the gates, then old Williams
said softly: ''E do be a wonder--more nor fifty odd years 'ave I worked in
the stables, and never no beast 'ave I loved like Raftery. But 'e's no
common horse, 'e be some sort of Christian, and a better one too than a
good few I knows on--'

And Stephen answered: 'Perhaps he's a poet like his namesake; I think if
he could write he'd write verses. They say all the Irish are poets at
heart, so perhaps they pass on the gift to their horses.'

Then the two of them smiled, each a little embarrassed, but their eyes
held great friendship the one for the other, a friendship of years now
cemented by Raftery whom they loved--and small wonder, for assuredly
never did more gallant or courteous horse step out of stable.

'Oh, well,' sighed Williams, 'I be gettin' that old--and Raftery, 'e do
be comin' eleven, but 'e don't feel it yet in 'is limbs the way I
does--me rheumatics 'as troubled me awful this winter.'

She stayed on a little while, comforting Williams, then made her way back
to the house, very slowly. 'Poor Williams,' she thought, 'he is getting
old, but thank the Lord nothing's the matter with Raftery.'

The house lay full in a great slant of sunshine; it looked as though it
was sunning its shoulders. Glancing up, she came eye to eye with the
house, and she fancied that Morton was thinking about her, for its
windows seemed to be beckoning, inviting: Come home, come home, come
inside quickly, Stephen!' And as though they had spoken, she answered:
'I'm coming,' and she quickened her lagging steps to a run, in response
to this most compassionate kindness. Yes, she actually ran through the
heavy white doorway under the semicircular fanlight, and on up the
staircase that led from the hall in which hung the funny old portraits of
Gordons--men long dead and gone but still wonderfully living, since their
thoughts had fashioned the comeliness of Morton; since their loves had
made children from father to son--from father to son until the advent of
Stephen.


2


That evening she went to her father's study, and when he looked up 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 could not see
his expression, yet it seemed to her that he knew quite well why she had
come to him in that study. Then she told him about Martin, told him all
that had happened, omitting no detail, sparing him nothing. She openly
mourned the friend who had failed her, and herself she mourned for
failing the lover--and Sir Philip listened in absolute silence.

After she had spoken for quite a long time, she at length found the
courage to ask her question: 'Is there anything strange about me, 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 was shading
his pale face trembled, for he felt a great trembling take hold 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 there anything
strange about me? I remember when I was a little child--I was never quite
like all the other children--'

Her voice sounded apologetic, uncertain, and he knew that the tears were
not far from her eyes, knew that if he looked now he would see her lips
shaking, and the tears making ugly red stains on her eyelids. His loins
ached with pity for this fruit of his loins--an insufferable aching, an
intolerable pity. He was frightened, a coward because of his pity, as he
had been once long ago with her mother. Merciful God! How could a man
answer? What could he say, and that man a father? He sat there inwardly
grovelling before her: 'Oh, Stephen, my child, my little, little
Stephen.' For now in his pity she seemed to him little, little and
utterly helpless again--he remembered her hands as the hands of a baby,
very small, very pink, with minute perfect nails--he had played with her
hands, exclaiming about them, astonished because of their neat
perfection: 'Oh, Stephen, my little, little Stephen.' He wanted to cry
out against God for this thing; he wanted' to cry out: 'You have maimed
my Stephen! What had I done or my father before me, or my father's
father, or his father's father? Unto the third and fourth generations...'
And Stephen was waiting for his answer. Then Sir Philip set the lips of
his spirit to the cup, and his spirit must drink the gall of deception:
'I will not tell her. You cannot ask it--there are some things that even
God should not ask.'

And now he turned round and deliberately faced her; smiling right 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 you can love. And
supposing you don't, well, what of it, Stephen? Marriage isn't the only
career for a woman. I've been thinking about your writing just lately,
and I'm going to let you go up to Oxford; but meanwhile you mustn't get
foolish fancies, that won't do at all--it's not like you, Stephen.' She
was gazing at him and 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 had to ask
you about Martin--'


3


After she had gone he sat on alone, and the lie was still bitter to his
spirit as he sat there, and he covered his face for the shame that was in
him--but because of the love that was in him he wept.



Chapter Thirteen


1


There was gossip in plenty over Martin's disappearance, and to this 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 to welcome the girl as one of
themselves, and now this strange happening--it made them feel foolish
which in turn made them angry. The spring meets were heavy with tacit
disapproval--nice men like young Hallam did not run away for nothing; and
then what a scandal if those two were not engaged; they had wandered all
over the country together. This tacit disapproval was extended to Sir
Philip, and via him to Anna for allowing too much freedom; a mother ought
to look after her daughter, but then Stephen had always been allowed too
much freedom. This, no doubt, was what came of her riding astride and
fencing and all the rest of the nonsense; when she did meet a man she
took the bit between her teeth and behaved in a most amazing manner. Of
course, had there been a proper engagement--but obviously that had never
existed. They marvelled, remembering their own toleration, they had
really been extremely broad-minded. An extraordinary girl, she had always
been odd, and now for some reason she seemed odder than ever. Not so much
as a word was said in her hearing that could possibly offend, and yet
Stephen well knew that her neighbours' good-will had been only fleeting,
a thing entirely dependent upon Martin. He it was who had raised her
status among them--he, the stranger, not even connected with their
county. They had all decided that she meant to marry Martin, and that
fact had at once made them welcoming and friendly; and suddenly Stephen
longed intensely to be welcomed, and she wished from her heart that she
could have married Martin.

The strange thing was that she understood her neighbours in a way, and
was therefore too just to condemn them; indeed had nature been less
daring with her, she might well have become very much what they were--a
breeder of children, an upholder of home, a careful and diligent steward
of pastures. There was little of the true pioneer about Stephen, in spite
of her erstwhile longing for the forests. She belonged to the soil and
the fruitfulness of Morton, to its pastures and paddocks, to its farms
and its cattle, to its quiet and gentlemanly ordered traditions, to the
dignity and pride of its old red-brick house, that was yet without
ostentation. To these things she belonged and would always belong by
right of those past generations of Gordons whose thoughts had fashioned
the comeliness of Morton, whose bodies had gone to the making of Stephen.
Yes, she was of them, those bygone people; they might spurn her--the
lusty breeders of sons that they had been--they might even look down from
Heaven with raised eyebrows, and say: 'We utterly refuse to acknowledge
this curious creature called Stephen.' But for all that they could not
drain her of blood, and her blood was theirs also, so that do what they
would they could never completely rid themselves of her nor she of
them--they were one in their blood.

But Sir Philip, that other descendant of theirs, found little excuse for
his critical neighbours. Because he loved much he must equally suffer,
consuming himself at times with resentment. And now when he and Stephen
were out hunting he would be on his guard, very anxious and watchful lest
any small incident should occur to distress her, lest at any time she
should find herself lonely. When hounds checked and the field collected
together, he would make little jokes to amuse his daughter, he would rack
his brain for these poor little jokes, in order that people should see
Stephen laughing.

Sometimes he would whisper: 'Let 'em have it hot, Stephen, that youngster
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 and let's see if they'll catch
you!' And because it was seldom indeed that they caught her, his sore
heart would know a fleeting contentment.

Yet people begrudged her even this triumph, pointing out that the girl
was magnificently mounted: 'Anyone could get there on that sort of
horse,' they would murmur, when Stephen was out of hearing.

But small Colonel Antrim, who was not always kind, would retort if 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 he would let loose a flood
of foul language. 'If some bloody fools that I know rode like Stephen,
we'd have bloody well less to pay to the farmers,' and much more he would
say to the same effect, with rich oaths interlarding his every
sentence--the foulest-mouthed master in the whole British Isles he was
said to be, this small Colonel Antrim.

Oh, but he dearly loved a fine rider, and he cursed and he swore his
appreciation. Even in the presence of a sporting bishop one day, he had
failed to control his language; indeed, he had sworn in the face of the
bishop with enthusiasm, as he pointed to Stephen. An ineffectual and
hen-pecked little fellow--in his home he was hardly allowed to say
'damn'. He was never permitted to smoke a cigar outside of his dark,
inhospitable study. He must not breed Norwich canaries, which he loved,
because they brought mice, declared Mrs. Antrim; he must not keep a pet
dog in the house, and the Pink 'Un was anathema because of Violet. His
taste in art was heavily censored, even on the walls of his own
water-closet, where nothing might hang but a family group taken sixteen
odd years ago with the children.

On Sundays he sat in an uncomfortable pew while his wife chanted psalms
in the voice of a peacock. 'Oh come, let us sing unto the Lord,' she
would chant, as she heartily rejoiced in the strength of her salvation.
All this and a great deal more he endured, indeed most of his life was
passed in endurance--had it not been for those red-letter days out
hunting, he might well have become melancholic from boredom. But those
days, when he actually found himself master, went far to restore his
anaemic manhood, and on them he would speak the good English language as
some deep-seated complex knew it ought to be spoken--ruddily, roundly,
explosively spoken, with elation, at times with total abandon--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 quite unknown to themselves
they feared her; it was fear that aroused their antagonism. In her they
instinctively sensed an outlaw, and theirs was the task of policing
nature.


2


In her vast drawing-room so beautifully proportioned, Anna would sit with
her pride sorely wounded, dreading the thinly veiled questions of her
neighbours, dreading the ominous silence of her husband. And the old
aversion she had felt for her child would return upon her like the
unclean spirit who gathered to himself seven others more wicked, so that
her last state was worse than her first, and at times she must turn away
her eyes from Stephen.

Thus tormented, she grew less tactful with her husband, and now she was
always plying him with questions: 'But why can't you tell me what Stephen
said to you, Philip, that evening when she went to your study?'

And he, with a mighty effort to be patient, would answer: 'She said that
she couldn't love Martin--there was no crime in that. Leave the child
alone, Anna, she's unhappy enough; why not let her alone?' And then he
would hastily change the subject.

But Anna could not let Stephen alone, could never keep off the topic of
Martin. She would talk at the girl until she grew crimson; and seeing
this, Sir Philip would frown darkly, and when he and his wife were alone
in their bedroom he would often reproach her with violence.

'Cruel--it's abominably cruel of you, Anna. Why in God's name must you go
on nagging Stephen?'

Anna's taut nerves would tighten to breaking, so that she, when she
answered, must also speak with violence.

One night he said abruptly: Stephen won't marry--I don't want her to
marry; it would only mean disaster.'

And at this Anna broke out in angry protest. Why shouldn't Stephen marry?
She wished her to marry. Was he mad? And what did he mean by disaster? No
woman was ever complete without marriage--what on earth did he mean by
disaster He frowned and refused to answer her question. Stephen, he said,
must go up to Oxford. He had set his heart on a good education for the
child, who might some day become a fine writer. Marriage wasn't the only
career for a woman. Look at Puddle, for instance; she'd been at Oxford--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 of this higher education--a lonely,
unfulfilled, middle-aged spinster. 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 was said
that night in your study. I feel that there's something you're keeping
back from me--it's so unlike Martin to behave as he has 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 a damn 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 as yours, Anna!'

Then quite suddenly Anna's self-control left her, and she let him see
into her tormented spirit; all that had lain unspoken between them she
now put into crude, ugly words for his hearing: 'You care nothing for me
any more--you and Stephen are enleagued against me--you have been for
years.' Aghast at herself; 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've seen
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 in all the child's
life you've never loved her.'

Ugly, degrading, rather terrible half-truths; and he knew the whole
truth, yet he dared not speak it. It is bad for the soul to know itself a
coward, it is apt to take refuge in mere wordy violence.

'Yes, you, her mother, you persecute Stephen, you torment her; I
sometimes think you hate her!'

'Philip--good God!'

'Yes, I think you hate her; but be careful, Anna, for hatred breeds
hatred, and remember I stand for the rights of my child--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 ached while
their lips formed recriminations. Their hearts burst into tears while
their eyes remained dry and accusing, staring in hostility and anger. Far
into the night they accused each other, they who before had never
seriously quarrelled; and something very like the hatred he spoke of
leapt out like a flame that seared them at 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 their love it
was that had fashioned their child. They knew that it was madness and yet
they persisted, while their anger dug out for itself a deep channel, so
that future angers might more easily follow. They could not forgive and
they could not sleep, for neither could sleep without the other's
forgiveness, and the hatred that leapt out at moments between them would
be drowned in the tears that their hearts were shedding.


3


Like some vile and prolific thing, this first quarrel bred others, and
the peace of Morton was shattered. The house seemed to mourn, and
withdraw into itself, so that Stephen went searching for its 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 she recognized the
form of the shadow that had seemed to creep in between them at Christmas,
and knowing, she stretched out her arms to Morton for comfort: 'My
Morton, where are you? I need you.'

Grim and exceedingly angry grew Puddle, that little, grey box of a woman
in her schoolroom; angry with Anna for her treatment of Stephen, but even
more deeply angry with Sir Philip, who knew the whole truth, or so she
suspected, and who yet kept that truth back from Anna.

Stephen would sit with her head in her hands: Oh, Puddle, it's my fault;
I've come in between them, and they're all I've got--they're my one
perfect thing--I can't bear it--why have I come in between them?'

And Puddle would flush with reminiscent anger as her mind slipped 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 would cry out, unregenerate
against their injustice.

Frowning at her pupil, she would speak to her sharply: 'Don't be a fool,
Stephen. Where's your brain, where's your backbone? Stop holding your
head and get on with your Latin. My God, child, you'll have worse things
than this to face later--life's not all beer and skittles, I do assure
you. Now come along, do, and get on with that Latin. Remember you'll soon
be going up to Oxford.' But after a while she might pat the girl's
shoulder and say rather gruffly: 'I'm not angry, Stephen--I do
understand, my dear, I do really--only somehow I've just got to make you
have backbone. You're too sensitive, child, and the sensitive
suffer--well, I don't want to see you suffer, that's all. Let's go out
for a walk--we've done enough Latin for today--let's walk over the
meadows to Upton.'

Stephen clung to this little, grey box of a woman as a drowning man will
cling to a spar. Puddle's very hardness was somehow consoling--it seemed
concrete, a thing you could trust, could rely on, and their friendship
that had flourished as a green bay-tree grew into something more stalwart
and much more enduring. And surely the two of them had need of their
friendship, for now there was little happiness at Morton; Sir Philip and
Anna were deeply unhappy--degraded they would feel by their ceaseless
quarrels.

Sir Philip would think: 'I must tell her the truth--I must tell her what
I believe to be the truth about Stephen.' He would go in search of his
wife, but having found her would stand there tongue-tied, with his eyes
full of pity.

And one day Anna suddenly burst out weeping, for no reason except that
she felt his great pity. Not knowing and not caring why he pitied, she
wept, so that all he could do was to console her.

They clung together like penitent children. 'Anna forgive me.'

'Forgive me, Philip--' For in between quarrels they were sometimes like
children, naively asking each other's forgiveness.

Sir Philip's resolution weakened and waned as he kissed the tears from
her poor, reddened eyelids. He thought: 'tomorrow--tomorrow I'll tell
her--I can't bear to make her more unhappy today.'

So the weeks drifted by and still he had not spoken; summer came and
went, giving place to the autumn. Yet one more Christmas visited Morton,
and still Sir Philip had not spoken.



Chapter Fourteen


1


February came bringing snowstorms with it, the heaviest known for many a
year. The hills lay folded in swathes of whiteness, and so did the
valleys at the foot of the hills, and so did the spacious gardens of
Morton--it was all one vast panorama of whiteness. The lakes froze, and
the beech trees had crystalline branches, while their luminous carpet of
leaves grew brittle so that it crackled now underfoot, the only sound in
the frozen stillness of that place that was always infinitely still.
Peter, the arrogant swan, turned friendly, and he and his family now
welcomed Stephen who fed them every morning and evening, and they glad
enough to partake of her bounty. On the lawn Anna set out a tray for the
birds, with chopped suet, seed, and small mounds of bread-crumbs; and
down at the stables old Williams spread straw in wide rings for
exercising the horses who could not be taken beyond the yard, so bad were
the roads around Morton.

The gardens lay placidly under the snow, in no way perturbed or
disconcerted. Only one inmate of theirs felt anxious, and that was the
ancient and wide-boughed cedar, for the weight of the snow made an ache
in its branches--its branches were brittle like an old man's bones; that
was why the cedar felt anxious. But it could not cry out or shake off its
torment; no, it could only endure with patience, hoping that Anna would
take note of its trouble, since she sat in its shade summer after
summer--since once long ago she had sat in its shade dreaming of the son
she would bear her husband. And one morning Anna did notice its plight,
and she called Sir Philip, who hurried from his study.

She said: 'Look, Philip! I'm afraid for my cedar--it's all weighted
down--I feel worried about it.'

Then Sir Philip sent in to Upton for chain, and for stout pads of felt to
support the branches; and he himself must direct the gardeners while they
climbed into the tree and pushed off the snow; and he himself must see to
the placing of the stout felt pads, lest the 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! Sir Philip, look
out sir, it's giving!'

A crash and then silence--a horrible silence, far worse than 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 for the doctor--go
quick for Doctor Evans. Oh, Gawd, 'is mouth's bleedin'--it's crushed in
'is chest--Won't nobody go for the 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 the stables and
tell Burton to go in the car for the doctor. You, Thomas, give me a hand
with this bough--steady on--ease it off a bit to the right, now lift!
Steady on, keep more to the right--now then, gently, gently, man--lift!'

Sir Philip lay very still on the snow, and the blood oozed slowly from
between his lips. He looked monstrously tall as he lay on that whiteness,
very straight, with his long legs stretched out to their fullest, so that
Thomas said foolishly: 'Don't 'e be big--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 in his shirt sleeves--and as he
came on he kept calling out something: 'Master, oh, Master!' And he
hopped grotesquely as he came on over the slippery snow. 'Master,
Master--oh, Master!'

They found a hurdle, and with dreadful care they placed the master of
Morton upon it, and with dreadful slowness they carried the hurdle over
the lawn, and in through the door that Sir Philip himself had left
standing ajar.

Slowly they carried him into the hall, and even more slowly his tired
eyes opened, and he whispered: 'Where's Stephen: I want--the child.'

And old Williams muttered thickly: 'She's comin', Master--she be comin'
down the stairs; she's here, Sir Philip.'

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's dying--my
Father.'

And she took his large hand in hers and stroked it, but still without
speaking, because when one loves there is nothing left in the world to
say, when the best beloved lies dying. He looked at her with the pleading
eyes of a dog who is dumb, but who yet asks forgiveness. And she knew
that his eyes were asking forgiveness for something beyond her poor
comprehension; so she nodded, and just went on stroking his hand.

Mr. Hopkins asked quietly: 'Where shall we take him?' And as quietly
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 got there she would
find her father lolling back in his arm-chair, reading. But she thought
all the while: 'He's dying--my Father--' Only the thought seemed unreal,
preposterous. It seemed like the thinking of somebody else, a thing so
unreal as to be preposterous. Yet when they had set him down in the
study, her own voice it was that she heard giving orders.

'Tell Miss Puddleton to go at once to my Mother and break the news
gently--I'll stay with Sir Philip. One of you please send a housemaid to
me with a sponge and some towels and a basin of cold water. 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 from the blue room will do--get it
quickly. Bring some blankets as well and a couple of pillows--and I may
need a little brandy.'

They ran to obey, and before very long she had helped to lift him on to
the mattress. He groaned a little, then he actually smiled as he felt her
strong arms around him. She kept wiping the blood away from his mouth,
and her fingers were stained; she looked at her fingers, but without
comprehension--they could not be hers--like her thoughts, they must
surely be somebody else's. But now his eyes were growing more
restless--he was looking for someone, he was looking for her mother.

'Have you told Miss Puddleton, Williams?' she whispered. The man nodded.

Then she said: 'Mother's coming, darling; you lie still,' and her voice
was softly persuasive as though she were speaking to a small, 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 white face against his on
the pillow. 'My dear, my dear--it's most terribly hurt you--try to tell
me where it hurts; try to tell me, beloved. The branch gave--it was the
snow--it fell on you, Philip--but try to tell me where it hurts most,
beloved.'

Stephen motioned to the servants and they went away slowly with bowed
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 for loving.

And always that terrible voice went on speaking, terrible because it was
quite unlike Anna's--it was toneless, and it asked and re-asked the same
question: 'Try to tell me where it hurts most, beloved.'

But Sir Philip was fighting the battle of pain; of intense, irresistible,
unmanning pain. He lay silent, not answering Anna.

Then she coaxed him in words soft with memories of her country. 'And you
the loveliest man,' she whispered, 'and you with the light of God in your
eyes.' But he lay there unable to answer.

And now she seemed to forget Stephen's presence, for she spoke as one
lover will speak with another--foolishly, fondly, inventing small names,
as one lover will do for another. And watching them Stephen beheld a
great marvel, for he opened his eyes and his eyes met her mother's, and a
light seemed to shine over both their poor faces, transfiguring them with
something triumphant, with love--thus those two rekindled the beacon for
their child in the shadow of the valley of death.


2


It was late afternoon before the doctor arrived; he had been out all day
and the roads were heavy. He had come the moment he received the news,
come as fast as a car clogged with snow could bring him. He did what he
could, which was very little, for Sir Philip was conscious and wished to
remain so; he would not permit them to ease his pain by administering
drugs. He could speak very slowly.

'No--not that--something urgent--I want--to say. No drugs--I know
I'm--dying--Evans.'

The doctor adjusted the slipping pillows, then turning he whispered
carefully to Stephen. 'Look after your mother. He's going, I think--it
can't be long now. I'll wait in the next room. 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 with stupendous
physical courage for the sin of his anxious and pitiful heart; and he
drove and he goaded his ebbing strength to the making of one great and
terrible effort: 'Anna--it's Stephen--listen.' They were holding his
hands. 'It's--Stephen--our child--she's, she's--it's Stephen--not like--'

His head fell back rather sharply, and then lay very still upon Anna's
bosom.

Stephen released the hand she was holding, for Anna had stopped and was
kissing his lips, desperately, passionately kissing his lips, as though
to breathe back the life into his body. And none might be there to
witness that thing, save God--the God of death and affliction, Who is
also the God of love. Turning away she stole out of their presence,
leaving them alone in the darkening study, leaving them alone with their
deathless devotion--hand in hand, the quick and the dead.




BOOK TWO



Chapter Fifteen


1

Sir Philip's death deprived his child of three things; of companionship
of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwart barrier between her and
the world, and above all of love--that faithful love that would gladly
have suffered all things for her sake, in order to spare her suffering.

Stephen, recovering from the merciful numbness of shock and facing her
first deep sorrow, stood utterly confounded, as a child will stand who is
lost in a crowd, having somehow let go of the hand that has always
guided. Thinking of her father, she realized how greatly she had leant on
that man of deep kindness, how sure she had felt of his constant
protection, how much she had taken that protection for granted. And so
together with her constant grieving, with the ache for his presence that
never left her, came the knowledge of what real loneliness felt like. She
would marvel, remembering how often in his lifetime she had thought
herself lonely, when by stretching out a finger she could touch him, when
by speaking she could hear his voice, when by raising her eyes she could
see him before her. And now also she knew the desolation of small things,
the power to give infinite pain that lies hidden in the little inanimate
objects that persist, in a book, in a well-worn garment, in a
half-finished letter, in a favourite armchair.

She thought: 'They go on--they mean nothing at all, and yet they go on,'
and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she must always touch them.
'How queer, this old arm-chair has out-lived him, an old chair--' And
feeling the creases in its leather, the dent in its back where her
father's head had lain, she would hate the inanimate thing for surviving,
or perhaps she would love it and find herself weeping.

Morton had become a place of remembering that closed round her and held
her in its grip of remembrance. It was pain, yet now more than ever she
adored it, every stone, every blade of grass in its meadows. She fancied
that it too grieved for her father and was turning to her for comfort.
Because of Morton the days must go on, all their trifling tasks must be
duly accomplished. At tunes she might wonder that this should be so,
might be filled with a fleeting sense of resentment, but then she would
think of her home as a creature dependent upon her and her mother for its
needs, and the sense of resentment would vanish.

Very gravely she listened to the lawyer from London. 'The place goes to
your mother for her lifetime,' he told her; 'on her death, of course, it
becomes yours, Miss Gordon. But your father made a separate 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 than enough,'
he reassured her, smiling.

In the quiet old house there was discipline and order, death had come and
gone, yet these things persisted. Like the well-worn garment and
favourite chair, discipline and order had survived the great change,
filling the emptiness of the rooms with a queer sense of unreality at
times, with a new and very bewildering doubt as to which was real, life
or death. The servants scoured and swept and dusted. From Malvern, once a
week, came a young clock-winder, and he set the clocks with much care and
precision so that when he had gone they all chimed together--rather
hurriedly they would all chime together, as though flustered by the great
importance of time. Puddle added up the books and made lists for the
cook. The tall under-footman polished the windows--the iridescent window
that looked out on the lawns and the semicircular fanlight he polished.
In the gardens work progressed just as usual. Gardeners pruned and hoed
and diligently planted. Spring gained in strength to the joy of the
cuckoos, trees blossomed, and outside Sir Philip's study glowed beds of
the old-fashioned single tulips he had loved above all the others.
According to custom the bulbs had been planted, and now, still according
to custom, there were tulips. At the stables the hunters were turned out
to grass, and the ceilings and walls had a fresh coat of whitewash.
Williams went into Upton to buy tape for the plaits which the grooms were
now engaged upon making; while beyond, in a paddock adjoining the beech
wood, a couple of mares gave birth to strong foals--thus were all things
accomplished in their season at Morton.

But Anna, whose word was now absolute law, had become one of those who
have done with smiling; a quiet, enduring, grief-stricken woman, in whose
eyes was a patient, waiting expression. She was gentle to Stephen, yet
terribly aloof; in their hour of great need they must still stand divided
these two, by the old, insidious barrier. Yet Stephen clung closer and
closer to Morton; she had definitely given up all idea of Oxford. In vain
did Puddle try to protest, in vain did she daily remind her pupil that
Sir Philip had set his heart on her going; no good, for Stephen would
always reply:

'Morton needs me; Father would want me to stay, because he taught me to
love it.'

And Puddle was helpless. What could she do, bound as she was by the
tyranny of silence? She dared not explain the girl to herself, dared not
say: 'For your own sake you must go to Oxford, you'll need every weapon
your brain can give you; being what you are you'll need every weapon,'
for then certainly Stephen would start to question, and her teacher's
very position of trust would forbid her to answer those questions.

Outrageous, Puddle would feel it to be, that wilfully selfish tyranny of
silence evolved by a crafty old ostrich of a world for its own wellbeing
and comfort. The world hid its head in the sands of convention, so that
seeing nothing it might avoid Truth. It said to itself: 'If seeing's
believing, then I don't want to see--if silence is golden, it is also, in
this case, very expedient.' There were moments when Puddle would feel
sorely tempted to shout out loud at the world.

Sometimes she thought of giving up her post, so weary was she of fretting
over Stephen. She would think: What's the good of my worrying myself
sick? I can't help the girl, but I can help myself--seems to me it's a
matter of pure self-preservation.' Then all that was loyal and faithful
in her would protest: 'Better stick it, she'll probably need you one day
and you ought to be here to help her.' So Puddle decided to stick it.

They did very little work, for Stephen had grown idle with grief and no
longer cared for her studies. Nor could she find consolation in her
writing, for sorrow will often do one of two things--it will either
release the springs of inspiration, or else it will dry up those springs
completely, and in Stephen's case it had done the latter. She longed for
the comforting outlet of words, but now the words would always evade her.

'I can't write any more, it's gone from me, Puddle--he's taken it with
him.' And then would come tears, and the tears would go splashing down on
to the paper, blotting the poor inadequate lines that meant little or
nothing as their author well knew, to her own added desolation.

There she would sit like a woebegone child, and Puddle would think how
childish she seemed in this her first encounter with grief, and would
marvel because of the physical strength of the creature, that went so ill
with those tears. And because her own tears were vexing her eyes she must
often speak rather sharply to Stephen. Then Stephen would go off and
swing her large dumb-bells, seeking the relief of bodily movement,
seeking to wear out her muscular body because her mind was worn out by
sorrow.

August came and Williams got the hunters in from grass. Stephen would
sometimes get up very early and help with the exercising of the 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 instinct be
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 mighty fine doer, keeps
'imself fit on grass! I do believe as 'e does it on purpose; I believe
'e's afraid 'e'll miss a day's huntin'.'

But the autumn slipped by and the winter was passing. Hounds met at the
very gates of Morton, yet Stephen forbore to send those orders to the
stables for which Williams was anxiously waiting. Then one morning in
March he could bear it no longer, and he suddenly started reproaching
Stephen: 'Yer lettin' my 'orses go stale in their boxes. It's a scandal,
Miss Stephen, and you such a rider, and our stables the finest bar none
in the county, and yer father so almighty proud of yer ridin'!' And then:
'Miss Stephen--yer'll not give it up? Won't yer hunt Raftery day after to
morrow? The 'ounds is meetin' quite near by Upton--Miss Stephen, say yer
won't give it all up!'

There were actually tears in his worried old eyes, and so to console him
she answered briefly: 'Very well then, I'll hunt the day after tomorrow.'
But for some strange reason that she did not understand, this prospect
had quite ceased to give her pleasure.


2


On a morning of high scudding clouds and sunshine, Stephen rode Raftery
into Upton, then over the bridge that spans the river Severn, and on to
the Meet at a neighbouring village. Behind her came jogging her second
horseman on one of Sir Philip's favourite youngsters, a raw-boned,
upstanding, impetuous chestnut, now all eyes and ears for what might be
coming; but beside her rode only memory and heartache. Yet from time to
time she turned her head quickly as though someone must surely be there
at her side.

Her mind was a prey to the strangest fancies. She pictured her father
very grave and anxious, not gay and light-hearted as had been his wont
when they rode to a Meet in the old days. And because this day was so
vibrant with living it was difficult for Stephen to tolerate the idea of
death, even for a little red fox, and she caught herself thinking: 'If we
find, this morning, there'll be two of us who are utterly alone, with
every man's hand against us.'

At the Meet she was a prey to her self-conscious shyness, so that she
fancied people were whispering. There was no one now with bowed, patient
shoulders to stand between her and those unfriendly people.

Colonel Antrim came up. 'Glad to see you out, Stephen.' But his voice
sounded stiff because he was embarrassed--everyone felt just a little
embarrassed, as people will do in the face of bereavement.

And then there was something so awkward about her, so aloof that it
checked every impulse of kindness. They, in their turn, felt shy,
remembering Sir Philip, remembering what his death must have meant to his
daughter, so that more than one greeting remained unspoken.

And again she thought grimly: 'Two of us will be alone, with every man's
hand against us.'

They found their fox in the very first cover and went away over the wide,
bare meadows. As Raftery leapt forward her curious fancies gained
strength, and now they began to obsess her. She fancied that she was
being pursued, that the hounds were behind her instead of ahead, that the
flushed, bright-eyed people were hunting her down, ruthless, implacable,
untiring people--they were many and she was one solitary creature with
every man's hand against her. To escape them she suddenly took her own
line, putting Raftery over some perilous places; but he, nothing loath,
stretched his muscles to their utmost, landing safely--yet she always
imagined pursuit, and now it was the world that had turned against her.
The whole world was hunting her down with hatred, with a fierce,
remorseless will to destruction--the world against one insignificant
creature who had nowhere to turn for pity or protection. Her heart
tightened with fear, she was terribly afraid of those flushed,
bright-eyed people who were hard on her track. She who had never lacked
physical courage in her life, was now actually sweating with terror, and
Raftery, divining her terror, sped on, faster and always faster.

Then Stephen saw something just ahead, and it moved. Checking Raftery
sharply she stared at the thing. A crawling, bedraggled streak of red
fur, with tongue lolling, with agonized lungs filled to bursting, with
the desperate eyes of the hopelessly pursued, bright with terror and
glancing now this way, now that as though looking for something; and the
thought came to Stephen; 'It's looking for God Who made it.'

At that moment she felt an imperative need to believe that the stricken
beast had a Maker, and her own eyes grew bright, but with blinding tears
because of her mighty need to believe, a need that was sharper than
physical pain, being born of the pain of the spirit. The thing was
dragging its brush in the dust, it was limping, and Stephen sprang to the
ground. She held out her hands to the unhappy creature, filled with the
will to succour and protect it, but the fox mistrusted her merciful
hands, and it crept away into a little coppice. And now in a deathly and
awful silence the hounds swept past her, their muzzles to the ground.
After them galloped Colonel Antrim, crouching low in his saddle, avoiding
the branches, and after him came a couple of huntsmen with the few bold
riders who had stayed that stiff run. Then a savage clamour broke out in
the coppice as the hounds gave tongue in their wild jubilation, and
Stephen well knew that that sound meant death--very slowly she remounted
Raftery.

Riding home, she felt utterly spent and bewildered. Her thoughts were
full of her father again--he seemed very near, incredibly near her. For a
moment she thought that she heard his voice, but when she bent sideways
trying to listen, all was silence, except for the tired rhythm of
Raftery's hooves on the road. As her brain grew calmer, it seemed to
Stephen that her father had taught her all that she knew. He had taught
her courage and truth and honour in his life, and in death he had taught
her mercy--the mercy that he had lacked he had taught her through the
mighty adventure of death. With a sudden illumination of vision, she
perceived that all life is only one life, that all joy and all sorrow are
indeed only one, that all death is only one dying. And she knew that
because she had seen a man die in great suffering, yet with courage and
love that are deathless, she could never again inflict wanton destruction
or pain upon any poor, hapless creature. And so it was that by dying to
Stephen, Sir Philip would live on in the attribute of mercy that had come
that day to his child.

But the body is still very far from the spirit, and it clings to the
primitive joys of the earth--to the sun and the wind and the good rolling
grass-lands, to the swift elation of reckless movement, so that Stephen,
feeling Raftery between her strong knees, was suddenly filled with
regret. Yes, in this her moment of spiritual insight she was infinitely
sad, and she said to Raftery: 'We'll never hunt any more, we two,
Raftery--we'll never go out hunting together any more.'

And because in his own way he had understood her, she felt his sides
swell with a vast, resigned sigh; heard the creaking of damp girth
leather as he sighed because he had understood her. For the love of the
chase was still hot in Raftery, the love of splendid, unforeseen danger,
the love of crisp mornings and frost-bound evenings, and of long, dusky
roads that always led home. He was wise with the age-old wisdom of the
beasts, it is true, but that wisdom was not guiltless of slaying, and
deep in his gentle and faithful mind lurked a memory bequeathed him by
some wild forbear. A memory of vast and unpeopled spaces, of fierce open
nostrils and teeth bared in battle, of hooves that struck death with
every sure blow, of a great untamed mane that streamed out like a banner,
of the shrill and incredibly savage war-cry that accompanied that gallant
banner. So now he too felt infinitely sad, and he sighed until his strong
girths started creaking, after which he stood still and shook himself
largely, in an effort to shake off depression.

Stephen bent forward and patted his neck. 'I'm sorry, sorry, Raftery,'
she said gravely.



Chapter Sixteen


1


With the breaking up of the stables at Morton came the breaking up of
their faithful servant. Old age took its toll of Williams at last, and it
got him under completely. Sore at heart and gone in both wind and limb,
he retired with a pension to his comfortable cottage; there to cough and
grumble throughout the winter, or to smoke disconsolate pipes through the
summer, seated on a chair in his trim little garden with a rug wrapped
around his knees.

'It do be a scandal,' he was now for ever saying, 'and 'er such a
splendid woman to 'ounds!'

And then he would start remembering past glories, while his mind would
begin to grieve for Sir Philip. He would cry just a little because he
still loved him, so his wife must bring Williams a strong cup of tea.

'There, there, Arth-thur, you'll soon be meetin' the master; we be 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--I wants the master down 'ere at me
stables. Gawd knows they be needin' a master!'

For now besides Anna's carriage horses, there were only four inmates of
those once fine stables: Raftery and Sir Philip's young upstanding
chestnut, a cob known as James, and the aged Collins who had taken to
vice in senile decay, and persisted in eating his bedding.

Anna had accepted this radical change quite calmly, as she now accepted
most things. She hardly ever opposed her daughter these days in matters
concerning Morton. But the burden of arranging the sale had been
Stephen's; one by one she had said good-bye to the hunters, one by one
she had watched them led out of the yard, with a lump in her throat that
had almost choked her, and when they were gone she had turned back to
Raftery for comfort.

'Oh, Raftery, I'm so unregenerate--I minded so terribly seeing 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; she was waiting a little grimly
for something to happen. But nothing much happened, beyond the fact that
Stephen now dressed in tailor-made clothes to which Anna had perforce to
withdraw her opposition. Yet life was gradually reasserting its claims on
the girl, which was only natural, for the young may not be delivered over
to the dead, nor to grief that refuses consolation. She still mourned her
father, she would always mourn him, but at twenty-one with a healthful
body, there came a day when she noticed the sunshine, when she smelt the
good earth and was thankful for it, when she suddenly knew herself to be
alive and was glad, in despite of death.

On one such morning early that June, Stephen drove her car into Upton.
She was meaning to cash a cheque at the bank, she was meaning to call at
the local saddler's, she was meaning to buy a new pair of gloves--in the
end, however, she did none of these things.

It was outside the butcher's that the dog fight started. The butcher
owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had taken up his post
in the doorway of the shop, as had long been his custom. Down the street,
on trim but belligerent tiptoes, came a very small, snow-white West
Highland terrier; perhaps he was looking for trouble, and if so he
certainly got it in less than two minutes. His yells were so loud that
Stephen stopped the car and turned round in her seat to see what was
happening. The butcher ran out 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 not at all handy for grasping. And then, as it seemed
from nowhere at all there suddenly appeared a very desperate young woman;
she was carrying her parasol as though it were a lance with which she
intended to enter the battle. Her wails of despair rose above the dog'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 them herself, 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 the car--it
seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbed the old rip by the
scruff of the neck, while the butcher dashed off for a bucket of water.
The desperate young woman seized her dog by a leg; she pulled, Stephen
pulled, they both pulled together. Then Stephen gave a punishing twist
which distracted the Airedale, he wanted to bite her; having only one
mouth he must let go of Tony, who was instantly clasped to his owner's
bosom. The butcher arrived on the scene with his bucket while Stephen was
still clinging to the 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's no
business to eat up a dog half his size.'

Meanwhile, Tony was dripping all over with gore, and his mistress, it
seemed, had got herself bitten. She alternately struggled to staunch
Tony's wounds and to suck her own hand which was bleeding freely.

'Better give me your dog and come across to the chemist, your hand will
want dressing,' remarked Stephen.

Tony was instantly put into her arms, with a rather pale smile that
suggested a breakdown.

It's quite all right now,' said Stephen quickly, very much afraid 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 when your hand's
been seen to; there's quite a good one.'

The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had been bitten on
two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by the pluck of this
stranger, who set her small teeth and endured in silence. The hand
bandaged they drove along to the vet, who was fortunately in and could
sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his front paws, while his mistress held
his head as best she could in her own maimed 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 had time to
examine her companion. It occurred to her that she had better introduce
herself, so she said: 'I'm Stephen Gordon.'

And I'm Angela Crossby,' came the reply; 'we've taken The Grange, just
the other side of Upton.'

Angela Crossby was amazingly blonde, her hair was not so much golden as
silver. She wore it cut short like a mediaeval page; it was straight, and
came just to the lobes of her ears, which at that time of pompadours and
much curling gave her an unusual appearance. Her skin was very white, and
Stephen decided that this woman would never have a great deal of colour,
nor would her rather wide mouth be red, it would always remain the tint
of pale coral. All the colour that she had seemed to lie in her eyes,
which were large and fringed with long fair lashes. Her eyes were of
rather an unusual blue that almost seemed to be tinted with purple, and
their candid expression was that of a child--very innocent it was, a
trustful expression. And Stephen as she looked at those eyes felt
indignant, remembering the gossip she had heard about the Crossby's.

The Crossby's, as she knew, were deeply resented. He had been an
important Birmingham magnate who had lately retired from some hardware
concern, on account of his health, or so ran the gossip. His wife, it was
rumoured, had been on the stage in New York, so that her antecedents were
doubtful--no one really knew anything at all about her, but her curious
hair gave grounds for suspicion. An American wife who had been an actress
was a very bad asset for Crossby. Nor was Crossby himself a prepossessing
person; when judged by the county's standards, lie bounded. Moreover he
showed signs of unpardonable meanness. His subscription to the Hunt had
been a paltry five guineas. He had written to say that his very poor
health would preclude his hunting, and had actually added that he hoped
the Hunt would keep clear of his coverts! And then everyone felt a
natural resentment that The Grange should have had to be sacrificed for
money--quite a small Tudor house it was yet very perfect. But Captain
Ramsay, its erstwhile owner, had died recently, leaving large debts
behind him, so his heir, a young cousin who lived in London, had promptly
sold to the first wealthy bidder--hence the advent of Mr. Crossby.

Stephen, looking at Angela, remembered these things, but they suddenly
seemed devoid of importance, for now those child-like eyes were upon her,
and Angela was saying: 'I don't know how to thank you for saving my Tony,
it was wonderful of you! If you hadn't been there they'd have let him get
killed, and I'm just devoted to Tony!'

Her voice had the soft, thick drawl of the South, an indolent voice, very
lazy and restful. It was quite new to Stephen, that soft Southern drawl,
and she found it unexpectedly pleasant. Then it dawned on the girl that
this woman was lovely--she was like some queer flower that had grown up
in darkness, like some rare, pale flower without blemish or stain, and
Stephen said flushing:

'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. 'Tony says he'll
be most grateful, don't you, Tony?' Tony wagged his tail rather 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 seat beside 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 rather disconcertingly at Stephen,
then smiled as though something she saw had amused her.

Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet her. Feeling
suddenly shy she became suspicious: 'Who told you about me?' she asked
abruptly.

'Mrs. Antrim, I think--yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said you were such a
wonderful rider but that now, for some reason, you'd given up hunting.
Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a man. 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; my father was
quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lot about 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 she gripped the
wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longing to turn round and
look at her companion, the desire to look at her was almost overwhelming,
but even her eyes seemed too stiff to move, 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 though to
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'd do 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 a melancholy business walking alone,
yet I've always been fond of walking--'

Stephen wanted to say: 'But I like walking too; let me come with you
sometimes as well as Tony.' Then suddenly mustering up her courage, she
jerked round in the seat and looked at this woman. As their eyes met and
held each other for a moment, something vaguely disturbing stirred in
Stephen, so that the car made a dangerous swerve. 'I'm sorry,' she said
quickly, 'that was rotten bad driving.'

But Angela did not answer.


3


Ralph Crossby was standing at the open doorway as the car swung up and
came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was immaculately dressed in a
grey tweed suit that by rights should have been shabby. But everything
about him looked aggressively new, his very hair had a quality of
newness--it was thin brown hair that shone 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 short nor
tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, good-looking nor actually ugly. As his
wife would have said, had anybody asked her, he was just 'plain man,'
which exactly described him, for his only distinctive features were his
newness and the peevish expression about his mouth--his mouth was
intensely peevish.

When he spoke his high-pitched voice sounded fretful. What on earth have
you been doing? It's past two o'clock. I've been waiting since one, the
lunch must be ruined; I do wish you'd try and be punctual, Angela!' He
appeared not to notice Stephen's existence, for he went on nagging as
though no one were present. 'Oh, I see that damn dog of yours has been
fighting again, I've a good mind to give him a thrashing; and what in
God's name's the matter with your hand--you don't mean to say that you've
got yourself bitten? Really, Angela, this is a bit too bad!' His whole
manner suggested a personal grievance.

'Well,' drawled Angela, extending the bandaged hand for inspection, 'I've
not been getting manicured, Ralph.' And her voice was distinctly if
gently provoking, so that he winced with quick irritation. Then she
seemed quite suddenly to remember Stephen: 'Miss Gordon, let me introduce
my husband.'

He bowed, and pulling himself together: 'Thank you for driving my wife
home, Miss Gordon, it was most kind, I'm sure.' But he did not seem
friendly, he kept glaring at Angela's dog-bitten hand, and his 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 one day you'll come to
tea. We're on the telephone, Upton 25, ring up and suggest yourself some
day quite soon.'

'Thanks awfully, I will,' said Stephen.


4


'Had a breakdown or something?' inquired Puddle brightly, as at three
o'clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom.

'No--but Mrs. Crossby's dog had a fight. She got bitten, so I drove her
back to The Grange.'

Puddle pricked up her ears: 'What's she like? I've heard rumours--'
'Well, she's not at all like them,' snapped Stephen.

There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, but consideration
does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddle made 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 were obliged to give her a lift, but be
careful, I believe she's fearfully pushing.'

Stephen flared up like an emotional schoolgirl: 'I'm not going to discuss
her if that's your opinion; Mrs. Crossby is quite as much a lady as you
are, or any of the others round here, for that matter. I'm sick unto
death of your beastly gossip.' And turning abruptly she strode from the
room.

'Oh, Lord!' murmured Puddle, frowning.


5


That evening Stephen rang up The Grange. 'Is that Upton 25? It's Miss
Gordon speaking--no, no, Miss Gordon, speaking from Morton. 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 on while 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 her hand was aching, but
that Tony felt better and sent his love. He added: 'Madam says would you
come to tea on Sunday? She'd be very glad indeed if you would.'

And Stephen answered: 'Will you thank Mrs. Crossby and tell her that I'll
certainly come on Sunday.' Then she gave the message all over again, very
slowly, with pauses. 'Will--you thank--Mrs. Crossby and tell her--I'll
certainly come--on Sunday. Do you quite understand? Have I made it quite
clear? Say I'm coming to tea on Sunday.'



Chapter Seventeen


1


It was only five days till Sunday, yet for Stephen those five days
seemed like as many years. Every evening now she rang up The Grange to
inquire about Angela's hand and Tony, so that she grew quite familiar
with the butler, with his quality of voice, with his habit of coughing,
with the way he hung up the receiver.

She did not stop to analyse her feelings, she only knew that she felt
exultant--for no reason at all she was feeling exultant, very much alive
and full of purpose, and she walked for miles alone on the hills, unable
to stay really quiet for a moment. She found herself becoming acutely
observant, and now she discovered all manner of wonders; the network of
veins on the leaves, for instance, and the delicate hearts of the wild
dog-roses, the uncertain shimmering flight of the larks as they fluttered
up singing, close to her feet. But above all she rediscovered the
cuckoo--it was June, so the cuckoo had changed his rhythm--she must often
stand breathlessly still to listen: Cuckoo-kook, cuckoo-kook,' all over
the hills; and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes.

Her wanderings would sometimes lead her to the places that she and Martin
had visited together, only now she could think of him with affection,
with toleration, with tenderness even. In a curious way she now
understood him as never before, and in consequence condoned. It had just
been some rather ghastly mistake, his mistake, yet she understood what he
must have felt; and thinking of Martin she might grow rather
frightened--what if she should ever make such a mistake? But the fear
would be driven into the background by her sense of wellbeing, her fine
exultation. The very earth that she trod seemed exalted, and the green,
growing things that sprang out of the earth, and the birds, Cuckoo-kook,'
all over the hills--and at evening the songs of blackbirds and thrushes.

She became much more anxious about her appearance; for five mornings she
studied her face in the glass as she dressed--after all she was not so
bad looking. Her hair spoilt her a little, it was too thick and long, but
she noticed with pleasure that at least it was wavy--then she suddenly
admired the colour of her hair. Opening cupboard after cupboard she went
through her clothes. They were old, for the most part distinctly shabby.
She would go into Malvern that very afternoon and order a new flannel
suit at her tailor's. The suit should be grey with a little white pin
stripe, and the jacket, she decided, must have a breast pocket. She would
wear a black tie--no, better a grey one to match the new suit with the
little white pin stripe. She ordered not one new suit but three, and she
also ordered a pair of brown shoes; indeed she spent most of the
afternoon in ordering things for her personal adornment. She heard
herself being ridiculously fussy about details, disputing with her tailor
over buttons; disputing with her boot-maker over the shoes, their
thickness of sole, their amount of broguing; disputing regarding the
match of her ties with the young man who sold her handkerchiefs and
neckties--for such trifles had assumed an enormous importance; she had,
in fact, grown quite long-winded about them.

That evening she showed her smart neckties to Puddle, whose manner was
most unsatisfactory--she grunted.

And now someone seemed to be always near Stephen, someone for whom these
things were accomplished--the purchase of the three new suits, the brown
shoes, the six carefully chosen, expensive neckties. Her long walks on
the hills were a part of this person, as were also the hearts of the wild
dog-roses, the delicate network of veins on the leaves and the queer June
break in the cuckoo's rhythm. The night with its large summer stars and
its silence, was pregnant with a new and mysterious purpose, so that
lying at the mercy of that age-old purpose, Stephen would feel little
shivers of pleasure creeping out of the night and into her body. She
would get up and stand by the open window, thinking always of Angela
Crossby.


2


Sunday came and with it church in the morning; then two interminable
hours after lunch, during which Stephen changed her necktie three times,
and brushed back her thick chestnut hair with water, and examined her
shoes for imaginary dust, and finally gave a hard rub to her nails with a
nail pad snatched brusquely away from Puddle.

When the moment for departure arrived at last, she said rather
tentatively to Anna: 'Aren't you going to call on the Crossbys, Mother?'

Anna shook her head: 'No, I can't do that, Stephen--I go nowhere 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 suppose so--that is if you
really wish to.'

The drive only took about twenty minutes, for now Stephen was so nervous
that she positively flew. She who had been puffed up with elation and
self-satisfaction was crumbling completely--in spite of her careful new
necktie she was crumbling at the mere thought of Angela Crossby. Arrived
at The Grange she felt over life-size; her hands seemed enormous, all out
of proportion, and she thought that the butler stared at her hands.

'Miss Gordon?' he inquired.

'Yes,' she mumbled, 'Miss Gordon.' Then he coughed as he did on the
telephone, and quite suddenly Stephen felt foolish.

She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long, open
casements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple-wood burnt on the
hearth, in spite of the act that the weather was warm, for Angela was
always inclined to feel chilly--the result, so she said, 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 he nearly burst his stitches, so that
Angela, who was lying on the lounge, had perforce to get up in order to
soothe him. An extremely round bullfinch in an ornate brass cage was
piping a tune with his wings half extended. The tune sounded something
like 'Pop goes the weasel.' At all events it was an impudent tune, and
Stephen felt that she hated that bullfinch. It took all of five minutes
to calm down Tony, during which Stephen stood apologetic but tongue-tied.
She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry at this very ridiculous
anti-climax.

Then Angela decided the matter by laughing: 'I'm so sorry, Miss Gordon,
he's feeling peevish. It's quite natural, poor lamb, he had a bad night,
he just hates being all sewn up like a bolster.'

Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony now licked, so
that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela had torn her dress, and
this seemed to distress her--she kept fingering the tear. 'Can I help?'
inquired Stephen, hoping she'd say no--which she did, quite firmly, after
one look at Stephen.

At last Angela settled down again on the lounge. 'Come and sit over
here,' she suggested, smiling. Then Stephen sat down on the edge of a
chair as though she were sitting in the Prickly Cradle.

She forgot to inquire about Angela's dog-bite, though the bandaged hand
was placed on a cushion; and she also forgot to adjust her new necktie,
which in her emotion had slipped slightly crooked. A thousand times in
the last few days had she carefully rehearsed this scene of their
meeting, making up long and elaborate speeches; assuming, in her mind,
many dignified poses; and yet there she sat on the edge of a chair as
though it were the Prickly Cradle.

And now Angela was speaking in her soft, Southern drawl: 'So you'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 your coming 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 her hostess,
whose mouth twitched a little.

'I don't think so,' murmured Stephen, pretending to look, then glancing
up sideways at the impudent bullfinch.

The bullfinch was now being sentimental; he piped very low and with great
expression. '0, Tannenbaum, 0, Tannenbaum, wie grün sind Deine Natter,'
he piped, hopping rather heavily from perch to perch, with one beady
black orb fixed on Stephen.

Then Angela said: 'It's a curious thing, but I feel as though I've known
you for ages. I don't want to behave as though we were strangers--do you
think that's very American of me? Ought I to be formal and stand-offish
and British? I will if you say so, but I don't feel British.' And her
voice, although quite steady and grave, was somehow distinctly suggestive
of laughter.

Stephen lifted troubled eyes to her face: 'I want very much to be your
friend if you'll have me,' she said; and then she flushed deeply.

Angela held out her undamaged hand which Stephen took, but in great
trepidation. Barely had it lain in her own for a moment, when she
clumsily gave it back to its owner. Then Angela looked at her hand.

Stephen thought: 'Have I done something rude or awkward?' And her heart
thumped thickly against her side. She wanted to retrieve the lost hand
and stroke it, but unfortunately it was now stroking Tony. She sighed,
and Angela, hearing that sigh, glanced up, as though in inquiry.

The butler arrived, bringing in the tea.

Sugar?' asked Angela.

'No, thanks,' said Stephen; then she suddenly changed her mind three
lumps, please,' she had always detested tea without sugar.

The tea was too hot; it burnt her mouth badly. She grew scarlet and her
eyes began to water. To cover her confusion she swallowed more tea, while
Angela looked tactfully out of the window. But when she considered it
safe to turn round, her expression, although still faintly amused, had
something about it that was tender.

And now she exerted all her subtlety and skill to make this queer guest
of hers talk more freely, and Angela's subtlety was no mean thing,
neither was her skill if she chose to exert it. Very gradually the girl
became more at her ease; it was uphill work but Angela triumphed, so that
in the end Stephen talked about Morton, and a very little about herself
also. And somehow, although Stephen appeared to be talking, she found
that she was learning many things about her hostess; for instance, she
learnt that Angela was lonely and very badly in need of her friendship.
Most of Angela's troubles seemed to centre round Ralph, who was not
always kind and seldom agreeable. Remembering Ralph she could well
believe this, and she said:

'I don't think your husband liked me.'

Angela sighed: Very probably not. Ralph never likes the people I do; he
objects to my friends on principle, I think.'

Then Angela talked more openly of Ralph. Just now he was staying away
with his mother, but next week he would be returning to The Grange, and
then he was certain to be disagreeable: 'Whenever he's been with his
mother he's that way--she puts him against me, I never know why--unless,
of course, it's because I'm not English. I'm the stranger within the
gates, it may be that.' And when Stephen protested, 'Oh, yes indeed, I'm
quite often made to feel like a stranger. Take the people round here, do
you think they like me?'

And Stephen, who had not yet learnt to dissemble, stared hard at her
shoes, in embarrassed silence.

Just outside the door a dock boomed seven. Stephen started; she had been
there nearly three hours. 'I must go,' she said, getting abruptly to her
feet, 'you look tired, I've been making a visitation.'

Her hostess made no effort to retain her: 'Well,' she smiled, 'come
again, please come very often--that is if you won't find it dull, Miss
Gordon; we're terribly quiet here at The Grange.'


3


Stephen drove home slowly, for now that it was over she felt like a
machine that had suddenly run down. Her nerves were relaxed, she was
thoroughly tired, yet she rather enjoyed this unusual sensation. The hot
June evening was heavy with thunder. From somewhere in the distance came
the bleating of sheep, and the melancholy sound seemed to blend and
mingle with her mood, which was now very gently depressed. A gentle but
persistent sense of depression enveloped her whole being like a soft,
grey cloak; and she did not wish to shake off this cloak, but rather to
fold it more closely around her.

At Morton she stopped the car by the lakes and sat staring through the
trees at the glint of water. For a long while she sat there without
knowing why, unless it was that she wished to remember. But she found
that she could not even be certain of the kind of dress that Angela had
worn--it had been of some soft stuff, that much she remembered, so soft
that it had easily torn, for the rest her memories of it were
vague--though she very much wanted to remember that dress.

A faint rumble of thunder came out of the west, where the clouds were
banking up ominously purple. Some uncertain and rather hysterical
swallows flew high and then low at the sound of the thunder. Her sense of
depression was now much less gentle, it increased every moment, turning
to sadness. She was sad in spirit and mind and body--her body felt
dejected, she was sad all over. And now someone was whistling down by the
stables, old Williams, she suspected, for the whistle was tuneless. The
loss of his teeth had disgruntled his whistle; yes, she was sure that
must be Williams. A horse whinnied as one bucket clanked against
another--sounds came dearly this evening; they were watering the horses.
Anna's young carriage horses would be pawing their straw, impatient
because they were feeling thirsty.

Then a gate slammed. That would be the gate of the meadow where the
heifers were pastured--it was yellow with king-cups. One of the men from
the home farm was going his rounds, securing all gates before sunset.
Something dropped on the bonnet of the car with a ping. Looking up she
met the eyes of a squirrel; he was leaning well forward on his tiny front
paws, peering crossly; he had dropped his nut on the bonnet. She got out
of the car and retrieved his supper, throwing it under his tree while he
waited. Like a flash he was down and then back on his tree, devouring the
nut with his legs well straddled.

All around were the homely activities of evening, the watering of horses,
the care of cattle--pleasant, peaceable things that preceded the peace
and repose of the coming nightfall. And suddenly Stephen longed to share
them, an immense need to share them leapt up within her, so that she
ached with this urgent longing that was somehow a part of her bodily
dejection.

She drove on and left the car at the stables, then walked round to the
house, and when she got there she opened the door of the study and went
in, feeling terribly lonely without her father. Sitting down in the old
arm-chair that had survived him, she let her head rest where his head had
rested; and her hands she laid on the arms of the chair where his hands,
as she knew, had lain times without number. Closing her eyes, she tried
to visualize his face, his kind face that had sometimes looked anxious;
but the picture came slowly and faded at once, for the dead must often
give place to the living. It was Angela Crossby's face that persisted as
Stephen 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 suddenly laughed out loud at
her thoughts; then she suddenly frowned and spoke crossly to Tony.

She could not get Stephen out of her mind, and this irritated while it
amused her. Stephen was so large to be tongue-tied and frightened--a
curious creature, not devoid of attraction. In a way--her own way--she
was almost handsome; no, quite handsome; she had fine eyes and beautiful
hair. And her body was supple like that of an athlete--narrow-hipped and
wide shouldered, she should fence very well. Angela was anxious to see
her fence; she must certainly try to arrange it somehow.

Mrs. Antrim had conveyed a number of things, while actually saying very
little; but Angela had no need of her hints, not now that she had come to
know Stephen Gordon. And because she was idle, discontented and bored,
and certainly not over-burdened with virtue, she must let her thoughts
dwell unduly on this girl, while her curiosity kept pace with her
thoughts.

Tony stretched and whimpered, so Angela kissed him, then she sat down and
wrote quite a short little letter: 'Do come over to lunch the day after
tomorrow and advise me about the garden,' ran the letter. And it
ended--after one or two casual remarks about gardens--with: 'Tony says
please come, Stephen!'



Chapter Eighteen


1


On a beautiful evening three weeks later, Stephen took Angela over
Morton. They had had tea with Anna and Puddle, and Anna had been coldly
polite to this friend of her daughter's, but Puddle's manner had been
rather resentful--she deeply mistrusted Angela Crossby. But now Stephen
was free to show Angela Morton, and this she did gravely, as though
something sacred were involved in this first introduction to her home, as
though Morton itself must feel that the coming of this small, fair-haired
woman was in some way momentous. Very gravely, then, they went over the
house--even into Sir Philip's old study.

From the house they made their way to the stables, and still grave,
Stephen told her friend about Raftery. Angela listened, assuming an
interest she was very far from feeling--she was timid of horses, but she
liked to hear the girl's rather gruff voice, such an earnest young voice,
it intrigued her. She was thoroughly frightened when Raftery sniffed her
and then blew through his nostrils as though disapproving, and she
started back with a sharp exclamation, so that Stephen slapped him on his
glossy grey 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 quite soon poor
Raftery was almost forgotten, for the gardens smelt softly of
night-scented stock, and of other pale flowers that smell sweetest at
evening, and Stephen was thinking that Angela Crossby resembled such
flowers--very fragrant and pale she was, so Stephen 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 are one,' and she scarcely
understood the portent of her words; but Angela, 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, who loved that
strange light, sang singly and then all together: 'We're happy, Stephen!'

And turning to Angela, Stephen answered the birds: 'Your being here 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 we met--how quickly
our friendship's happened. I suppose it was meant, I believe in Kismet.
You were awfully scared that first day at The Grange; why were you so
scared?'

Stephen answered slowly: 'I'm frightened now--I'm frightened of you.'

'Yet you're stronger than I am--'

Yes, that's why I'm so frightened, you make me feel strong--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 altogether different
from other people.'

Stephen trembled a little: 'Do you mind?' she faltered.

'I know that you're you,' teased Angela, smiling again, but she reached
out and took Stephen's hand.

Something in the queer, vital strength of that hand stirred her deeply,
so that she tightened her fingers: What in the Lord's name are you?' she
murmured.

'I don't know. Go on holding like that to my hand--hold it tighter--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 feet falling softly
on the luminous carpet. Hand in hand they entered that place of deep
stillness, and only their breathing disturbed the stillness for a moment,
then it folded back over their breathing.

'Look,' said Stephen, and she pointed to the swan called Peter, who had
come drifting past on his own white reflection. 'Look,' she said, 'this
is Morton, all beauty and peace--it drifts like that swan does, on calm,
deep water. And all this beauty and peace is for you, because now you're
a part of Morton.'

Angela said: 'I've never known peace, it's not in me--I don't think I'd
find it here, Stephen.' And as she spoke she released her hand, moving a
little away from the girl.

But Stephen continued to talk on gently; her voice sounded almost like
that of a dreamer: 'Lovely, oh, lovely it is, our Morton. On evenings in
winter these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabs of gold
in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in the winter. And as
we walk back we can smell the log fires long before we can see them, and
we love that good smell because it means home, and our home is
Morton--and we're happy, happy--we're utterly contented and at peace,
we're filled with the peace of this place--'

'Stephen--don't!'

'We're both filled with the old peace of Morton, because we love each
other so deeply--and because we're perfect, a perfect thing, you and
I--not two separate people but one. And our love has lit a great,
comforting beacon, so that we need never be afraid of the dark any
more--we can warm ourselves at our love, we can lie down together, and my
arms will be round you--'

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 nothing else
matters in the world.'

Then, perhaps because of that glamorous evening, with its spirit of
queer, unearthly adventure, with its urge to strange, unendurable
sweetness, Angela moved a step nearer to Stephen, then another, until
their hands were touching. And all that she was, and all that she had
been and would be again, perhaps even tomorrow, was fused at that moment
into one mighty impulse, one imperative need, and that need was Stephen.
Stephen's need was now hers, by sheer force of its blind and
uncomprehending will to appeasement.

Then Stephen took Angela into her arms, and she kissed her full on the
lips, as a lover.



Chapter Nineteen


1


Through the long years of life that followed after, bringing with them
their dreams and disillusions, their joys and sorrows, their fulfilments
and frustrations, Stephen was never to forget this summer when she fell
quite simply and naturally in love, in accordance with the dictates of
her nature.

To her there seemed nothing strange or unholy in the love that she felt
for Angela Crossby. To her it seemed an inevitable thing, as much a part
of herself as her breathing; and yet it appeared transcendent of self,
and she looked up and onwards towards her love--for the eyes of the young
are drawn to the stars, and the spirit of youth is seldom earth-bound.

She loved deeply, far more deeply than many a one who could fearlessly
proclaim himself a lover. Since this is a hard and sad truth for the
telling; those whom nature has sacrificed to her ends--her mysterious
ends that often lie hidden--are sometimes endowed with a vast will to
loving, with an endless capacity for suffering also, which must go hand
in hand with their love.

But at first Stephen's eyes were drawn to the stars, and she saw only
gleam upon gleam of glory. Her physical passion for Angela Crossby had
aroused a strange response in her spirit, so that side by side with every
hot impulse that led her at times beyond her own understanding, there
would come an impulse not of the body; a fine, selfless thing of great
beauty and courage--she would gladly have given her body over to torment,
have laid down her life if need be, for the sake of this woman whom she
loved. And so blinded was she by those gleams of glory which the stars
fling into the eyes of young lovers, that she saw perfection where none
existed; saw a patient endurance that was purely fictitious, and
conceived of a loyalty far beyond the limits of Angela's nature.

All that Angela gave seemed the gift of love; all that Angela withheld
seemed withheld out of honour: 'If only I were free,' she was always
saying, 'but I can't deceive Ralph, you know I can't, Stephen--he's ill.'
Then Stephen would feel abashed and ashamed before so much pity and
honour.

She would humble herself to the very dust, as one who was altogether
unworthy: 'I'm a beast, forgive me; I'm all, all wrong--I'm mad sometimes
these days--yes, of course, there's Ralph.'

But the thought of Ralph would be past all bearing, so that she must
reach out for Angela's hand. Then, as likely as not, they would draw
together and start kissing, and Stephen would be utterly undone 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 so lonely--why
can't you understand that I'm only trying to be decent to Ralph?' So
Stephen would stay on for an hour, for two hours, 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 would be rather
bewildered at moments--she did not love Stephen, she was quite sure of
that, and yet the very strangeness of it all was an attraction. Stephen
was becoming a kind of strong drug, a kind of anodyne against boredom.
And then Angela knew her own power to subdue; she could play with fire
yet remain unscathed by it. She had only to cry long and bitterly enough
for Stephen to grow pitiful and consequently gentle.

'Stephen, don't hurt me--I'm awfully frightened when you're like
this--you simply terrify me, Stephen! Is it my fault that I married Ralph
before I met you? Be good to me, Stephen!' And then would come tears, so
that Stephen must hold her as though she were a 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 about in the air to land
on nothing more vital than herbage, they would sit very close to each
other and watch him. Stephen knew many places where lovers might sit like
this, unashamed, among those charitable hills. There were times when a
numbness descended upon her as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her
cheek lightly, she would not respond, would not even look round, but
would just go on staring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt queerly
uplifted, and turning to the woman who leant against her shoulder, she
said suddenly one day:

'Nothing matters up here. You and I are so small, we're smaller than
Tony--our love's nothing but a drop in some vast sea of love--it's rather
consoling--don't you think so, beloved?'

But Angela shook her head: 'No, my Stephen; I'm not fond of vast seas,
I'm of the earth earthy,' and then: 'Kiss me, Stephen.' So Stephen must
kiss her many times, for the hot blood of youth stirs quickly, and the
mystical sea became Angela's lips that so eagerly gave and took kisses.

But when they got back to The Grange that evening, Ralph was there--he
was hanging about in the hall. He said: 'Had a nice afternoon, you two
women? Been motoring Angela round the hills, Stephen, or what?'

He had taken to calling her Stephen, but his voice just now sounded sharp
with suspicion as his rather weak eyes peered at Angela, so that for her
sake Stephen must lie, and lie well--nor would this be the first time
either.

'Yes, thanks,' she lied calmly, 'we went over to Tewkesbury and had
another look at the abbey. We had tea in the town. I'm sorry we're so
late, the carburettor choked, I couldn't get it right at first, my car
needs a good overhauling.'

Lies, always lies! She was growing proficient at the glib kind of lying
that pacified Ralph, or at all events left him with nothing to say,
nonplussed and at a distinct disadvantage. She was suddenly seized with a
kind of horror, she felt physically sick at what she was doing, Her head
swam and she caught the jamb of the door for support--at that moment she
remembered her father.


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's vile--it's beastly,
it's soiling us both--can't you see that?'

Angela was startled: 'What on earth do you mean?'

'You and me--and then Ralph. I tell you it's beastly--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 clean thing;
we'll go anywhere you like, to Paris, to Egypt, or back to the States.
For your sake I'm ready to give up my home. Do you hear I'm ready to give
up even Morton. But I can't go on lying about you to Ralph, I want him to
know how much I adore you--I want the whole world to know how I adore
you. Ralph doesn't understand the first rudiments of loving, he's a
nagging, mean-minded cur of a man, but there's one thing that even he has
a right to, and that's the truth. I'm done with these lies--I shall tell
him the truth and so will you, Angela; and after we've told him we'll go
away, and we'll live quite openly together, you and I, which is what we
owe to ourselves and our love.'

Angela stared at her, white and aghast: 'You are mad,' she said slowly,
'you're raving mad. Tell him what? Have I let you become my lover? You
know that I've always been faithful to Ralph; you know perfectly well
that there's nothing to tell him, beyond a few rather schoolgirlish
kisses. Can I help it if you're--what you obviously 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 you want to save your own pride by pretending to
Ralph that you've been my lover. If you're willing to give up your home
I'm not willing to sacrifice mine, understand that, please. Ralph's not
much of a man, but he's better than nothing, and I've managed him so far
without any trouble. The great thing with him is to blaze a false trail,
that distracts his mind, it works like a charm. He'll follow any trail
that I want him to follow--you leave him to me, I know my own husband a
darned sight better than you do, Stephen, and I won't have you
interfering in my home.' She was terribly frightened, too frightened to
choose her words to consider their effect upon Stephen, to consider
anyone but Angela Crossby who stood in such dire and imminent peril. So
she said yet again, only now she spoke loudly: 'I won't have you
interfering in my home!'

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 the way I do; and because you like the way I
love you, you drag the love out of me day after day--Can't you understand
that I love you so much that I'd give up Morton? Anything I'd give
up--I'd give up the whole world. Angela, listen; I'd take care of you
always. Angela, I'm rich--I'd take care of you always. Why won't you trust
me? Answer me--why? Don't you think me fit to be trusted?'

She spoke wildly, scarcely knowing what she said; she only knew that she
needed this woman with a need so intense, that worthy or unworthy, Angela
was all that counted at that moment. And now she stood up, very tall,
very strong, yet a little grotesque in her pitiful passion, so that
looking at her Angela trembled--there was something rather terrible about
her. All that was heavy in her face sprang into view, the strong line of
the jaw, the square massive brow, the eyebrows too thick and too wide for
beauty; she was like some curious, primitive thing conceived in a
turbulent age of transition.

'Angela, come very far away--anywhere, only come with me soon--tomorrow.'

Then Angela forced herself to think quickly, and she said just five
words: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?'

She did not look at the girl as she said it--that she could not do,
perhaps out of something that, for her, was the nearest she would ever
come to pity. There ensued a long, almost breathless silence, while
Angela waited with her eyes turned away. A leaf dropped, and she heard
its minute, soft falling, heard the creak of the branch that had let fall
its leaf as a breeze passed over the garden.

Then the silence was broken by a quiet, dull voice, that sounded to her
like the voice of a stranger: 'No--' it said very slowly, 'no--I couldn't
marry you, Angela.' And when Angela at last gained the courage to look
up, she found that she was sitting there alone.



Chapter Twenty


1


For three weeks they kept away from each other, neither writing nor
making any effort to meet. Angela's prudence forbade her to write:
'Littera scripta manet'--a good motto, and one to which it was wise to
adhere when dealing with a firebrand like Stephen. Stephen had given her
a pretty bad scare, she realized the necessity for caution; still,
thinking over that incredible scene, she found the memory rather
exciting. Deprived of her anodyne against boredom, she looked upon Ralph
with unfriendly eyes; while he, poor, inadequate, irritable devil, with
his vague suspicions and his chronic dyspepsia, did little enough to
divert his wife--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 decided that the
garden was rampant with moles: 'If you can't keep that bloody dog in
order, he goes. I won't have him digging craters round my roses!' Then
would come a long list of Tony's misdeeds from the time he had left the
litter. He nagged about the large population of green-fly, deploring the
existence of their sexual organs: 'Nature's a fool! Fancy procreation
being extended to that sort of vermin!' And then he would grow somewhat
coarse as he dwelt on the frequent conjugal excesses of green-fly. But
most of all he nagged about Stephen, because this as he knew, irritated
his wife: 'How's your freak getting on? I haven't seen her just lately;
have you quarrelled or what? Damn good thing if you have. She's
appalling; never saw such a girl in my life; comes swaggering round here
with her legs in breeches. Why can't she ride like an ordinary woman?
Good Lord, it's enough to make any man see red; that sort of thing wants
putting down at birth, I'd like to institute state lethal chambers!'

Or perhaps he would take quite another tack and complain that recently he
had been neglected: 'Late for every damned meal--running round with that
girl--you don't care what happens to me any more. A lot you care about my
indigestion! I've got 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
your head! I pay for good meals to be served on time; on time, do you
hear? And I expect my wife to be in her rightful place at my table to see
that the omelette's properly prepared. What's the matter with you that
you can't go along and make it yourself? When we were first married you
always made my omelettes yourself: I won't eat yellow froth with a few
strings of parsley in it--it reminds me of the dog when he's sick; it's
disgusting! And I won't go on talking about it either, the next time it
happens I'll sack the cook. Damn it all, you were glad enough of my help
when I found you practically starving in New York--but now you're for
ever racing off with that girl. It's all this damned animal's fault that
you met her!' He would kick out sideways at the terrified Tony, who had
lately been made to stand proxy for Stephen.

But worst of all was it when Ralph started weeping, because, as he said,
his wife did not love him any more, and because, as he did not always
say, he felt ill with his painful, chronic dyspepsia. One day he must
make feeble love through his tears: 'Angela, come here--put your arms
around me--come and sit on my knee the way you used to.' His wet eyes
looked dejected yet rather greedy: 'Put your arms around me, as though
you cared--' He was always insistent when most ineffectual.

That night he appeared in his best silk pyjamas--the pink ones that made
his complexion look sallow. He climbed into bed with the sly expression
that Angela hated--it was so pornographic. 'Well, old girl, don't forget
that you've got a man about the house; you haven't forgotten it, have
you?' After which followed one or two flaccid embraces together with much
arrogant masculine bragging; and Angela, sighing as she lay and endured,
quite suddenly thought of Stephen.


2


Pacing restlessly up and down her bedroom, Stephen would be thinking of
Angela Crossby--haunted, tormented by Angela's words that day in the
garden: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?' and then by those other pitiless
words: 'Can I help it if you're--what you obviously are?'

She would think with a kind of despair: What am I, in God's name--some
kind of abomination?' And this thought would fill her with a very great
anguish, because, loving much, her love seemed to her sacred. She could
not endure that the slur of those words should come anywhere near her
love. So now night after night she must pace up and down, beating her
mind against a blind problem, beating her spirit against a blank
wall--the impregnable wall of non-comprehension: 'Why am I as I am--and
what am I?' Her mind would recoil while her spirit grew faint. A great
darkness would seem to descend on her spirit--there would be no light
wherewith to lighten that darkness.

She would think of Martin, for now surely she loved just as he had
loved--it all seemed like madness. She would think of her father, of his
comfortable words: 'Don't be foolish, there's nothing strange about you.'
Oh, but he must have been pitifully mistaken--he had died still very
pitifully mistaken. She would think yet again of her curious childhood,
going over each detail in an effort to remember. But after a little her
thoughts must plunge forward once more, right into her grievous present.
With a shock she would realize how completely this coming of love had
blinded her vision; she had stared at the glory of it so long that not
until now had she seen its black shadow. Then would come the most
poignant suffering of all, the deepest, the final humiliation.
Protection--she could never offer protection to the creature she loved:
'Could you marry me, Stephen?' She could neither protect nor defend nor
honour by loving; her hands were completely empty. She who would gladly
have given her life, must go empty-handed to love, like a beggar. She
could only debase what she longed to exalt, defile what she longed to
keep pure and untarnished.

The night would gradually change to dawn; and the dawn would shine in at
the open windows, bringing with it the intolerable singing of birds:
'Stephen, look at us, look at us, we're happy!' Away in the distance
there would be a harsh crying, the wild, harsh crying of swans by the
lakes--the swan called Peter protecting, defending his mate against some
unwelcome intruder. From the chimneys of Williams' comfortable cottage
smoke would rise--very dark--the first smoke of the morning. Home, that
meant home and two people together, respected because of their honourable
living. Two people who had had the right to love in their youth, and whom
old age had not divided. Two poor and yet infinitely enviable people,
without stain, without shame in the eyes of their fellows. Proud people
who could face the world unafraid, having no need to fear the world's
execration.

Stephen would fling herself down on the bed, completely exhausted by the
night's bitter vigil.


3


There was someone who went every step of the way with Stephen during
those miserable weeks, and this was the faithful and anxious Puddle, who
could have given much wise advice had Stephen only confided in her. But
Stephen hid her trouble in her heart for the sake of Angela Crossby.

With an ever-increasing presage of disaster, Puddle now stuck to the girl
like a leech, getting little enough in return for her trouble--Stephen
deeply resented this close supervision: 'Can't you leave me alone? No, of
course I'm not ill!' she would say, with a quick spurt of temper.

But Puddle, divining her illness of spirit together with its cause,
seldom left her alone. She was frightened by something in Stephen's eyes;
an incredulous, questioning, wounded expression, as though she were
trying to understand why it was that she must be so grievously wounded.
Again and again Puddle cursed her own folly for having shown such open
resentment of Angela Crossby; the result was that now Stephen never
discussed her, never mentioned her name unless Puddle clumsily dragged it
in, and then Stephen would change the subject. And now more than ever
Puddle loathed and despised the conspiracy of silence that forbade her to
speak frankly. The conspiracy of silence that had sent the girl forth
unprotected, right into the arms of this woman. A vain, shallow woman in
search of excitement, and caring less than nothing for Stephen.

There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and one evening she
came to a great resolution. She would go to the girl and say: 'I know. 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 much a part of what people call nature as anyone else;
only you're unexplained as yet--you've not got your niche in creation.
But some day that will come, and meanwhile don't shrink from yourself,
but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do the best you
can with your burden. But above all be honourable. Cling to your honour
for the sake of those others who share the same burden. For their sakes
show the world that people like you and they can be quite as selfless and
fine as the rest of mankind. Let your life go to prove this--it would be
a really great life-work, Stephen.'

But the resolution waned because of Anna, who would surely join hands
with the conspiracy of silence. She would never condone such fearless
plain-speaking. If it came to her knowledge she would turn Puddle out bag
and baggage, and that would leave Stephen alone. No, she dared not speak
plainly because of the girl for whose sake she should now, above all, be
outspoken. But supposing the day should arrive when Stephen herself
thought fit to confide in her friend, then Puddle would take the bull by
the horns: 'Stephen, I know. You can trust me, Stephen.' If only that day
were not too long in coming--

For none knew better than this little grey woman, the agony of mind that
must be endured when a sensitive, highly organized nature is first
brought face to face with its own affliction. None knew better the
terrible nerves of the invert, nerves that are always lying in wait.
Super-nerves, whose response is only equalled by the strain that calls
that response into being. Puddle was well acquainted with these
things--that was why she was deeply concerned about Stephen.

But all she could do, at least for the present, was to be very gentle and
very patient: 'Drink this cocoa, Stephen, I made it myself--And then with
a smile, 'I put four lumps of sugar!'

Then Stephen was pretty sure to turn contrite: 'Puddle--I'm a
brute--you're so good to me always.'

'Rubbish! I know you like cocoa made sweet, that's why I put in those
four lumps of sugar. Let's go for a really long walk, shall we, dear?
I've been wanting a really long walk now for weeks.'

Liar--most kind and self-sacrificing liar! Puddle hated long walks,
especially with Stephen who strode as though wearing seven league boots
and whose only idea of a country walk was to take her own line across
ditches and hedges--yes, indeed, a most kind and self-sacrificing liar!
For Puddle was not quite so young as she had been; at times her feet
would trouble her a little, and at times she would get a sharp twinge in
her knee, which she shrewdly suspected to be rheumatism. Nevertheless she
must keep close to Stephen because of the fear that tightened her
heart--the fear of that questioning, wounded expression which now never
left the girl's eyes for a moment. So Puddle got out her most practical
shoes--her heaviest shoes which were said to be damp-proof--and limped
along bravely by the side of her charge, who as often as not ignored her
existence.

There was one thing in all this that Puddle found amazing, and that was
Anna's apparent blindness. Anna appeared to notice no change in Stephen,
to feel no anxiety about her. As always, these two were gravely polite to
each other, and as always they never intruded. Still, it did seem to
Puddle an incredible thing that the girl's own mother should have noticed
nothing. And yet so it was, for Anna had gradually been growing more
silent and more abstracted. She was letting the tide of life carry her
gently towards that haven on which her thoughts rested. And this
blindness of hers troubled Puddle sorely, so that anger must often give
way to pity.

She would think: 'God help her, the sorrowful woman; she knows
nothing--why didn't he tell her? It was cruel!' And then she would think:
'Yes, but God help Stephen if the day ever comes when her mother does
know--what will happen on that day to Stephen?'

Kind and loyal Puddle; she felt torn to shreds between those two, both so
worthy of pity. And now in addition she must be tormented by memories dug
out of their graves by Stephen--Stephen, whose pain had called up a dead
sorrow that for long had lain quietly and decently buried. Her youth
would come back and stare into her eyes reproachfully, so that her finest
virtues would seem little better than dust and ashes. She would sigh,
remembering the bitter sweetness, the valiant hopelessness of her
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 no argument or
question.

Puddle nodded in silence. She had no need to question, she knew only too
well where Stephen was going.


4


With head bowed by her mortification of spirit, Stephen rode once more to
The Grange. And from time to time as she rode she flushed deeply because
of the shame of what she was doing. But from time to time her eyes filled
with tears because of the pain of her longing.

She left the cob with a man at the stables, then made her way round to
the old herb-garden; and there she found Angela sitting alone in the
shade with a book which she was not reading.

Stephen said: 'I've come back.' And then without waiting: 'I'll do
anything you want, if you'll let me come back.' And even as she spoke
those words her eyes fell.

But Angela answered: 'You had to come back--because I've been wanting
you, Stephen.'

Then Stephen went and knelt down beside her, and she hid her face against
Angela's knee, and the tears that had never so much as once fallen during
all the hard weeks of their separation, gushed out of her eyes. She cried
like a child, with her face against Angela's knee.

Angela let her cry on for a while, then she lifted the tear-stained face
and kissed it: 'Oh, Stephen, Stephen, get used to the world--it's a
horrible place full of horrible people, but it's all there is, and we
live in it, don't wee So we've just got to do as the world does, my
Stephen.' And because it seemed strange and rather pathetic that this
creature should weep, Angela was stirred to something very like love for
a moment: 'Don't cry any more--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 came home a
good two hours before teatime to find them together among his roses; they
had followed the shade when it left the herb-garden.

'Oh, it's you!' he exclaimed as his eye lit on Stephen; and his voice was
naively disappointed, so full of dismay at her reappearance, that just
for a second she felt sorry for him.

'Yes, it's me--' she replied, not quite knowing what to say.

He grunted, and went off for his pruning knife, with which he was soon
amputating roses. But in spite of his mood he remained a good surgeon,
cutting dexterously, always above the leaf-bud, for the man was fond of
his roses. And knowing this, Stephen must play on that fondness, since
now it was her business to cajole him into friendship. A degrading
business, but it had to be done for Angela's sake, lest she suffer
through loving. Unthinkable that--'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 go down to the
shed and get me some, will you?'

She got him the bass and together they bound her, the pink-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 praised her
luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure at the praise. He was
like a father of beautiful children, always eager to hear them admired by
a stranger, and she made a note of this in her mind: '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 the whiteness--' Then
before he could stop himself: 'She reminds me of Angela, somehow.' The
moment the words were out he was frowning, 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 a mess as this
garden was in when I bought the place--had to dig in fresh soil for the
roses just here, these are all new plants; I motored half across England
to get them. See that hedge of York and Lancasters there? They didn't
cost much because they're out of fashion. But I like them, they're small
but rather distinguished I think--there's something so armorial about
them.'

She agreed: 'Yes, I'm awfully fond of them too,' and she listened quite
gravely while he explained that they dated as far back as the Wars of the
Roses.

'Historical, that's what I mean,' he explained. 'I like everything 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 that you'd
care about roses.'

'Yes, why not? We've got quite a number at Morton. Why don't you come
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've been
damaged by green-fly. Just come here and look at these standards, will
you? They're being devoured alive by the brutes!' And then as though he
were talking to a friend who would understand him: 'Roses seem good to
me--you know what I mean, there's virtue about them--the scent and the
feel and the way they grow. I always had some on the desk in my office,
they seemed to brighten up the whole place, no end.'

He started to ink in the names on the labels with a gold fountain-pen
which he took from his pocket. 'Yes,' he murmured, as he bent his face
over the labels, 'yes, I always had three or four on my desk. But
Birmingham's a foul sort of place for roses.'

And hearing him, Stephen found herself thinking that all men had
something simple about them; something that took pleasure in the things
that were blameless, that longed, as it were, to contact with Nature.
Martin had loved huge, primitive trees; and even this mean little man
loved his roses.

Angela came strolling across the lawn: 'Come, you two,' she called gaily,
'tea's waiting in the hall!'

Stephen flinched: 'Come, you two--' the words jarred on her; and she knew
that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph was out of earshot for a
moment she whispered:

'You were clever about his roses!'

At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regret his
erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which made Angela
nervous--she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, which were usually
accompanied by attacks of bad temper.

Long after they had all finished tea he lingered, until Angela said: 'Oh,
Ralph, that lawn mower. Pratt asked me to tell you that it won't work at
all; he thinks it had better go back to the makers. Will you write about
it now before the post goes?'

'I suppose so--' he muttered; but he left the room slowly.

Then they looked at each other, and drew close together, guiltily,
starting at every sound: 'Stephen--be careful for God's sake--Ralph--'

So Stephen's hands dropped from Angela's shoulders, and she set her lips
hard, for no protest must pass them any more; they had no right to
protest.



Chapter Twenty-one


1


That autumn the Crossbys went, up to Scotland, and Stephen went to
Cornwall with her mother. Anna was not well, she needed a change, and the
doctor had told them of Watergate Bay, that was why they had gone to
Cornwall. To Stephen it mattered very little where she went, since she
was not allowed to join Angela in Scotland. Angela had put her foot down
quite firmly: 'No, my dear, it wouldn't do. I know Ralph would make hell.
I can't let you follow us up to Scotland.' So that there, perforce, the
matter had ended.

And now Stephen could sit and gloom over her trouble while Anna read
placidly, asking no questions. She seldom worried her daughter with
questions, seldom even evinced any interest in her letters.

From time to time Puddle would write from Morton, and then Anna would
say, recognizing the writing: 'Is everything all right?'

And Stephen would answer: 'Yes, Mother, Puddle says everything's all
right.' As indeed it was--at Morton.

But from Scotland news seemed to come very slowly. Stephen's letters
would quite often go unanswered; and what answers she received were
unsatisfactory, for Angela's caution was a very strict censor. Stephen
herself must write with great care, she discovered, in order to pacify
that censor.

Twice daily she visited the hotel porter, a kind, red-faced man with a
sympathy for lovers.

'Any letters for me?' she would ask, trying hard to appear rather 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 you never can tell.
Anyhow she seems anxious--I do hope it's all right for the poor young
lady.' He grew to take a real interest in Stephen, and would sometimes
talk to his wife about her: 'Have you noticed her, Alice? A queer-looking
girl, very tall, wears a collar and tie--you know, mannish. And she seems
just to change her suit of an evening--puts on a dark one--never wears
evening dress. The mother's still a beautiful woman; but the girl--I
dunno, there's something about her--anyhow I'm surprised she's got a
young man; though she must have, the way she watches the posts, I
sometimes feel sorry for her.'

But her calls at his office were not always fruitless: 'Any letters for
me?'

'Yes, miss, there's just one.'

He would look at her with a paternal expression, glad enough to think
that her young man had written; and Stephen, divining his thoughts from
his face, would feel embarrassed and angry. Snatching her letters she
would hurry to the beach, where the rocks provided a merciful shelter,
and where no one seemed likely to look paternal, unless it should be an
occasional sea-gull.

But as she read, her heart would feel empty; something sharp like a
physical pain would go through her: 'Dear Stephen. I'm sorry I'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 took this large shoot...'
That was the sort of thing Angela wrote these days--perhaps because of
her caution.

However, one morning an unusually long letter arrived, telling all about
Angela's doings: 'By the way, we've met the Antrim boy, Roger. He's been
staying with some people that Ralph knows quite well, the Peacocks,
they've got a wonderful old castle; I think I must have told you about
them.' Here followed an elaborate description of the castle, together
with the ancestral tree of the Peacocks. Then: 'Roger has talked quite a
lot about you; he says he used to tease you when you were children. He
says that you wanted to fight him one day--that made me laugh awfully,
it's so like you, Stephen! He's a good-looking person and rather a nice
one. He tells me that his regiment's stationed at Worcester, so I've
asked him to come over to The Grange when he likes. It must be pretty
dreary, I imagine, in Worcester...

Stephen finished the letter and sat staring at the sea for a moment,
after which she got up abruptly. Slipping the letter into her pocket she
buttoned her jacket; she was feeling cold. What she needed was a walk, a
really long walk. She set out briskly in the direction of Newquay.


2


During those long, anxious weeks in Cornwall, it was borne in on Stephen
as never before how wide was the gulf between her and her mother, how
completely they two must always stand divided. Yet looking at Anna's
quiet ageing face, the girl would be struck afresh by its beauty, a
beauty that seemed to have mollified the years, to have risen triumphant
over time and grief. And now as in the days of her childhood, that beauty
would fill her with a kind of wonder; so calm it was, so assured, so
complete--then her mother's deep eyes, blue like distant mountains, and
now with that far-away look in their blueness, as though they were gazing
into the distance. Stephen's heart would suddenly tighten a little; a
sense of great loss would descend upon her, together with the sense of
not fully understanding just what she had lost or why she had lost
it--she would stare at Anna as a thirsty traveller in the desert will
stare at a mirage of water.

And one evening there came a preposterous impulse--the impulse to confide
in this woman within whose most gracious and perfect body her own anxious
body had lain and quickened. She wanted to speak to that motherhood, to
implore, nay, compel its understanding. To say, 'Mother, I need you. I've
lost my way--give me your hand to hold in the darkness.' But good God,
the folly, the madness of it! The base betrayal of such a confession!
Angela delivered over, betrayed--the unthinkable folly, the madness of
it.

Yet sometimes as Anna and she sat together looking out at the misty
Cornish coast-line, hearing the dull, heavy throb of the sea and the
calling of sea-gulls the one to the other--as they sat there together it
would seem to Stephen that her heart was so full of Angela Crossby, all
the bitterness, all the sweetness of her, that the mother-heart beating
close by her own must surely, in its turn, be stirred to beat faster, for
had she not once sheltered under that heart? And so extreme was her need
becoming, that now she must often find Anna's cool hand and hold it a
moment or two in her 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 upright and honourable
things that had served many simple and honourable people. Then all that
to some might appear uninspiring, would seem to her very fulfilling and
perfect. A pair of lovers walking by arm in arm just a quiet engaged
couple, neither comely nor clever nor burdened with riches; just a quiet,
engaged couple--would in her envious eyes be invested with a glory and
pride passing all understanding. For were Angela and she those fortunate
lovers, they could stand before Anna happy and triumphant. Anna, the
mother, would smile and speak gently, tolerant because of her own days of
loving. Wherever they went older folk would remember, and remembering
would smile on their love and speak gently. To know that the whole world
was glad of your gladness, must surely bring heaven very near to the
world.

One night Anna looked across at her daughter: 'Are you tired, my dear?
You seem a bit fagged.'

The question was unexpected, for Stephen was supposed not to know what it
meant to feel fagged, her physical health and strength were proverbial.
Was it possible then that her mother had divined at long last her utter
weariness of spirit? Quite suddenly Stephen felt shamelessly childish,
and she spoke as a child who wants comforting.

'Yes, I'm dreadfully tired.' Her voice shook a little; 'I'm tired
out--I'm dreadfully tired,' she repeated. With amazement she heard.
herself making this weak bid for pity, and yet she could not resist it.
Had Anna held out her arms at that moment, she might soon have learnt
about Angela Crossby.

But instead she yawned: 'It's this air, it's too woolly. I'll be very
glad when we get back to Morton. What's the time? I'm almost asleep
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's
self-respect. She pulled herself together: 'Yes, come on, it's past ten.
I detest this soft air.' And she flushed, remembering that weak bid for
pity.


3


Stephen left Cornwall without a regret; everything about it had seemed to
her depressing. Its rather grim beauty which at any other time would have
deeply appealed to her virile nature, had but added to the gloom of those
interminable weeks spent apart from Angela Crossby. For her perturbation
had been growing apace, she was constantly oppressed by doubts and vague
fears; bewildered, uncertain of her own power to hold; uncertain, too, of
Angela's will to be held by this dangerous yet bloodless loving. Her
defrauded body had been troubling her sorely, so that she had tramped
over beach and headland, cursing the strength of the youth that was in
her, trying to trample down her hot youth and only succeeding in
augmenting its vigour.

But now that the ordeal had come to an end at last, she began to feel
less despondent. In a week's time Angela would get back from Scotland;
then at least the hunger of the eyes could be appeased--a terrible thing
that hunger of the eyes for the sight of the well-loved being. And then
Angela's birthday was drawing near, which would surely provide an excuse
for a present. She had sternly forbidden the giving of presents, even
humble keepsakes, on account of Ralph--still, a birthday was different,
and in any case Stephen was quite determined to risk it. For the impulse
to give that is common to all lovers, was in her attaining enormous
proportions, so that she visualized Angela decked in diadems worthy of
Cleopatra; so that she sat and stared at her bank book with eyes that
grew angry when they lit on her balance. What was the good of plenty of
money if it could not be spent on the person one loved? Well, this time
it should be so spent, and spent largely; no limit was going to be set to
this present!

An unworthy and tiresome thing money, at best, but it can at least ease
the heart of the lover. When he lightens his purse he lightens his heart,
though this can hardly be accounted a virtue, for such giving is perhaps
the most insidious form of self-indulgence that is known to mankind.


4


Stephen had said quite casually to Anna: 'Suppose we stay three or four
days in London on our way back to Morton? You could do some shopping.'
Anna had agreed, thinking of her house linen which wanted renewing; but
Stephen had been thinking of the jewellers' shops in Bond Street.

And now here they actually were in London, established at a quiet and
expensive hotel; but the problem of Angela's birthday present had, it
seemed, only just begun for Stephen. She had not the least idea what she
wanted, or what Angela wanted, which was far more important; and she did
not know how to get rid of her mother, who appeared to dislike going out
unaccompanied. For three days of the four Stephen fretted and fumed;
never had Anna seemed so dependent. At Morton they now led quite separate
lives, yet here in London they were always together. Scheme as she might
she could find no excuse for a solitary visit to Bond Street. However, on
the morning of the fourth and last day, Anna succumbed to a devastating
headache.

Stephen said: 'I think I'll go and get some air, if you really don't need
me--I'm feeling energetic!'

'Yes, do--I don't want you to stay in,' groaned Anna, who was 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 Bond Street,' she
ordered, as she jumped in and slammed the door. Then she put her head
quickly out of the window: 'And when you get to the corner, please stop.
I don't want you to drive along Bond Street, I'll walk. I want you to
stop at the Piccadilly corner.'

But when she was actually standing on the corner--the left-hand
corner--she began to feel doubtful as to which side of Bond Street she
ought to tackle first. Should she try the right side or keep to the left?
She decided to try the right side. Crossing over, she started to walk
along slowly. At every jeweller's shop she stood still and gazed at the
wares displayed in the window. Now she was worried by quite a new
problem, the problem of stones, there were so many kinds. Emeralds or
rubies or perhaps just plain diamonds? Well, certainly neither emeralds
nor rubies--Angela's colouring demanded whiteness. Whiteness--she had it!
Pearls--no, one pearl, one flawless pearl and set as a ring. Angela had
once described such a ring with envy, but alas, it had been born in
Paris.

People stared at the masculine-looking girl who seemed so intent upon
feminine adornments. And someone, a man, laughed and nudged his
companion: 'Look at that! What is it?'

'My God! What indeed?'

She heard them and suddenly felt less elated as she made her way into 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: 'I don't quite
know--but it must be a large one.'

'For yourself?' And she thought that the man smiled a little.

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 ears the 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 she quickened her steps
and found herself striding; modifying her pace she found herself
dawdling; and always she was conscious of people who stared, or whom she
imagined were staring. She felt sure that the shop assistants looked
doubtful when she asked for a large and flawless pearl ring; and catching
a glimpse of her reflection in a glass, she decided that naturally they
would look doubtful--her appearance suggested neither pearls nor their
price. She slipped a surreptitious hand into her pocket, gaining courage
from the comforting feel of her cheque book.

When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted, she crossed
over quickly and made her way back towards her original corner. By now
she was rather depressed and disgruntled. Supposing that she did not find
what she wanted in Bond Street? She had no idea where else to look--her
knowledge of London was far from extensive. But apparently the gods were
feeling propitious, for a little further on she paused in front of a
small, and as she thought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact it was
anything but humble, hence the bars half-way up its unostentatious
window. Then she stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl
that looked like a round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slender
circlet of platinum--some sort of celestial marble! It was just such a
ring as Angela had seen in Paris, and had since never ceased to envy.

The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, and wore glasses
with tortoiseshell rims: 'Yes, madam, it's a very fine specimen indeed.
The setting's French, just a thin band of platinum, there's nothing to
detract from the beauty of the pearl.'

He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen let it
rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against her skin, which by
contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten.

Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancing curiously
at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite unperturbed, so he
said: 'Will you try the effect of the ring on your finger?'

At this, however, his customer flushed: 'It wouldn't go anywhere near 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,' then immediately
looked and felt rather self-conscious.

And now the old gentleman was openly staring: 'Excuse me,' he murmured,
'an extraordinary likeness...' Then more boldly: 'Do you happen to be
related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died--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 be anything but
his daughter.'

'You knew my father?' she inquired, in surprise.

'Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In those days Sir
Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearl studs while he
was at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins--a bit of a dandy Sir Philip
was up at Oxford. But what may interest you 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 a miniature of
Lady Anna--I remember his words. He said: "She's so 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 he spoke of your mother to me--I felt
deeply honoured. Ah, yes--dear, dear--your father was young then and very
much in 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 with which to
write out the very large cheque.

'Wouldn't you like some reference?' she inquired, as she glanced at the
sum for which he must trust her.

But at this he laughed: 'Your face is your reference, if I may be allowed
to say so, Miss Gordon.'

They shook hands because he had known her father, and she left the shop
with the ring in her pocket. As she walked down the street she was lost
in thought, so that if people stared she no longer noticed. In her ears
kept sounding those words from the past, those words of her father's when
long, long ago he too had been a young lover: She's so pure that only the
purest stones are fit to touch her finger.'


Chapter Twenty-two


1


When they got back to Morton there was Puddle in the hall, with that warm
smile of hers, always just a little mocking yet pitiful too, that queer
composite smile that made her face so arresting. And the sight of this
faithful little grey woman brought home to Stephen the fact that she had
missed her. She had missed her, she found, out of all proportion to the
size of the creature, which seemed to have diminished. Coming back to it
after those weeks of absence, Puddle's smallness seemed to be even
smaller, and Stephen could not help laughing as she hugged her. Then she
suddenly lifted her right off her feet with as much ease as though she
had been a baby.

Morton smelt good with its log fires burning, and Morton looked good with
the goodness of home. Stephen sighed with something very like
contentment: 'Lord! I'm so glad to be back again, Puddle. I must have
been a cat in my last incarnation; I hate strange places--especially
Cornwall.'

Puddle smiled grimly. She thought that she knew why Stephen had hated
Cornwall.

After tea Stephen wandered about the house, touching first this, then
that, with affectionate fingers. But presently she went off to the
stables with sugar for Collins and carrots for Raftery; and there in his
spacious, hay-scented loose box, Raftery was waiting for Stephen. He made
a queer little sound in his throat, and his soft Irish eyes said: 'You're
home, home, home. I've grown tired with 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 talked together
for quite a long while--not in Irish or English but in a quiet language
having very few words but many small sounds and many 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 sometimes with us
humbler people, we may only know God through His human image.'

'Raftery,' she murmured, 'oh, Raftery, my dear--I was so young when you
came to Morton. Do you remember that first day out hunting when you
jumped the huge hedge in our big north paddock? What a jump! It ought to
go down to history. You were splendidly cool and collected about it.
Thank the Lord you were--I was only a kid, all the same it was very
foolish of us, Raftery.'

She gave him a carrot, which he took with contentment from the hand of
his God, and proceeded to munch. And she watched him munch it, contented
in her turn, hoping that the carrot was succulent and sweet; hoping that
his innocent cup of pleasure might be full to the brim and overflowing.
Like God indeed, she tended his needs, mixing the evening meal in his
manger, holding the water bucket to his lips while he sucked in the cool,
clear, health-giving water. A groom came along with fresh trusses of
straw which he opened and tossed among Raftery's bedding; then he took
off the smart blue and red day clothing, and buckled him up in a warm
night blanket. Beyond in the far loose box by the window, Sir Philip's
young chestnut kicked loudly for supper.

'Woa horse! Get up there! Stop kicking them boards!' And the groom
hurried off to attend to the chestnut.

Collins, who had spat out his two lumps of sugar, was now busy indulging
his morbid passion. His sides were swollen well night to bursting--blown
out like an air balloon was old Collins from the evil and dyspeptic
effects of the straw, plus his own woeful lack of molars. He stared at
Stephen with whitish-blue eyes that saw nothing, and when she touched him
he grunted--a discourteous sound which meant: 'Leave me alone!' So after
a mild reproof she left him to his sins and his indigestion.

Last but not least, she strolled down to the home of the two-legged
creature who had once reigned supreme in those princely but now depleted
stables. And the lamplight streamed out through uncurtained windows to
meet her, so that she walked on lamplight. A slim streak of gold led
right up to the porch of old Williams' comfortable cottage. She found him
sitting with the Bible on his knees, peering crossly down at the
Scriptures through his glasses. He had taken to reading the Scriptures
aloud to himself--a melancholy occupation. He was at this now. As Stephen
entered she could hear him mumbling from Revelation: 'And the heads of
the horses were as the heads of lions; and out of their mouths issued
fire and smoke and brimstone.'

He looked up, and hastily twitched off his glasses: 'Miss Stephen!'

'Sit still--stop where you are, Williams.'

But Williams had the arrogance of the humble. He was proud of the stern
traditions of his service, and his pride forbade him to sit in her
presence, in spite of their long and kind years of friendship. Yet when
he spoke he must grumble a little, as though she were still the very
small child who had swaggered round the stables rubbing her chin,
imitating his every expression and gesture.

'You didn't ought to have no 'orses, Miss Stephen, the way you runs off
and leaves them,' he grumbled. Raftery's been off 'is feed these last
days. I've been talkin' to that Jim what you sets such store by! Impudent
young blight, 'e answered me back like as though I'd no right to express
me opinion. But I says to 'im: "You just wait, lad," I says, "You wait
until I gets 'old of Miss Stephen!"'

For Williams could never keep clear of the stables, and could never
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 Jim and his underling
flying to hide curry-combs and brushes out of sight. Williams needed no
glasses when it came to disorder.

'Be this place 'ere a stable or be it a pigsty, I wonder e' was now his
habitual greeting.

His wife came bustling in from the kitchen: Sit down, Miss Stephen,' and
she dusted a chair.

Stephen sat down and glanced at the Bible where it lay, still open, on
the table.

'Yes,' said Williams, dourly, as though she had spoken, 'I'm reduced to
readin' about 'eavenly 'orses. A nice endin' that for a man 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 in this county or any! And I
don't believe in them lion-headed beasts breathin' fire and brimstone,
it's all agin nature. Whoever it was wrote them Revelations, can't never
have been inside of a stable. I don't believe in no 'eavenly 'orses
neither--there won't be no 'orses in 'eaven; and a good thing too,
judgin' by the description.'

'I'm surprised at you, Arth-thur, bein' so disrespectful to The Book!'
his wife reproached him gravely.

'Well, it ain't no encyclopaedee to the stable, and that's a sure thing,'
grinned Williams.

Stephen looked from one to the other. They were old, very old, fast
approaching completion. Quite soon, their circle would be complete, and
then Williams would be able to tackle Saint John on the points of those
heavenly horses.

Mrs. Williams glanced apologetically at her: 'Excuse 'im, Miss Stephen,
'e's gettin' rather childish. 'E won't read no pretty parts of the Book;
all e'll read is them parts about chariots and such-like. All what's to
do with 'orses 'e reads; and then 'e's so unbelievin'--it's aw-ful!' But
she looked at her mate with the eyes of a mother, very gentle and
tolerant eyes.

And Stephen, seeing those two together, could picture them as they must
once have been, in the halcyon days of their youthful vigour. For she
thought that she glimpsed through the dust of the years, a faint flicker
of the girl who had lingered in the lanes when the young man Williams and
she had been courting. And looking at Williams as he stood before her
twitching and bowed, she thought that she glimpsed a faint flicker of the
youth, very stalwart and comely, who had bent his head downwards and
sideways, as he walked and whispered and kissed in the lanes. And because
they were old yet undivided, her heart ached; not for them but rather for
Stephen. Her youth seemed as dross when compared to their honourable age;
because they were undivided.

She said: 'Make him sit down, I don't want him to stand.' And she got up
and pushed her own chair towards him.

But old Mrs. Williams shook her white head slowly: 'No, Miss Stephen, 'e
wouldn't sit down in your presence. Beggin' your pardon, 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 come again very
soon; and Williams hobbled out to the path which was now quite golden
from border to border, for the door of the cottage was standing wide open
and the glow from the lamp streamed over the path. Once more she found
herself walking on lamplight, while Williams, bareheaded, stood and
watched her departure. Then her feet were caught up and entangled in
shadows again, as she made her way under the trees.

But presently came a familiar fragrance--logs burning on the wide,
friendly hearths of Morton. Logs burning--quite soon the lakes would be
frozen--'and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and
I come and stand here in the winter...and as we walk back we can smell
the log fires long before we 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 is Morton...

Oh, intolerable fragrance of log fires burning!



Chapter Twenty-three


1


Angela did not return in a week, she had decided to remain another
fortnight in Scotland. She was staying now with the Peacocks, it seemed,
and would not get back until after her birthday. Stephen looked at the
beautiful ring as it gleamed in its little white velvet box, and her
disappointment and chagrin were childish.

But Violet Antrim, who had also been staying with the Peacocks, had
arrived home full of importance. She walked in on Stephen one afternoon
to announce her engagement to young Alec Peacock. She was so much engaged
and so haughty about it that Stephen, whose nerves were already on edge,
was very soon literally itching to slap her. Violet was now able to look
down on Stephen from the height of her newly gained knowledge of
men--knowing Alec she felt that she knew the whole species.

'It's a terrible pity you dress as you do, my dear,' she remarked, with
the manner of sixty, 'a young girl's so much more attractive when she's
soft--don't you think you could soften your 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, no woman can really stand alone, she always needs a
man to protect her.'

Stephen said: 'I'm all right--getting on nicely, thank you!'

'Oh, no, but you can't be!' Violet insisted. 'I was talking to Alec and
Roger about you, and Roger was saying it's an awful mistake for women to
get false ideas into their heads. He thinks you've got rather a bee in
your bonnet; he told Alec that you'd be quite a womanly woman if you'd
only stop trying to ape what you're not.' Presently she said, staring
rather hard: 'That Mrs. Crossby--do you really like her? Of course I know
you're friends and all that--But why are you friends? You've got nothing
in common. She's what Roger calls a thorough man's woman. I think myself
she's a bit of a climber. Do you want to be used as a scaling ladder for
storming the fortifications of the county? The Peacocks have known old
Crossby for years, he's a wonderful shot for an ironmonger, but they
don't care for her very much I believe--Alec says she's man-mad, whatever
that means, anyhow she 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 cold as 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 sense of
direction seemed to have left her, for she struck her head a pretty sharp
blow against the side of a heavy bookcase. She stood swaying with her
hands pressed against her temples. Angela and Roger Antrim--those
two--but it couldn't be, Violet had been purposely lying. She loved to
torment, she was like her brother, a bully, a devil who loved to
torment--it couldn't be--Violet had been lying.

She steadied herself and leaving the room and the house, went and fetched
her car from the stables. She drove to the telegraph office at Upton:
'Come back, I must see you at once,' she wired, taking great care to
prepay the reply, lest Angela should find an excuse for not answering.

The clerk counted the words with her stump of a pencil, then she looked
at Stephen rather strangely.


2


The next morning came Angela's frigid answer: 'Coming home Monday
fortnight not one day sooner please no more wires Ralph very much upset.'

Stephen tore the thing into a hundred fragments and then hurled it away.
She was suddenly shaking all over with uncontrollable anger.


3


Right up to the moment of Angela's return that hot anger supported
Stephen. It was like a flame that leapt through her veins, a flame that
consumed and yet stimulated, so that she purposely fanned the fire from a
sense of self-preservation.

Then came the actual day of arrival. Angela must be in London by now, she
would certainly have travelled by the night express. She would catch the
12.47 to Malvern and then motor to Upton--it was nearly twelve. It was
afternoon. At 3.17 Angela's train would arrive at Great Malvern--it had
arrived now--in about twenty minutes she would drive past the very gates
of Morton. Half-past four. Angela must have got home; she was probably
having tea in the parlour--in the little oak parlour with its piping
bullfinch whose cage always stood near the casement window. A long time
ago, a lifetime ago, Stephen had blundered into that parlour, and Tony
had barked, and the bullfinch had piped a sentimental old German tune--but
that was surely a lifetime ago. Five o'clock. Violet Antrim had obviously
lied; she had lied on purpose to torment Stephen--Angela and Roger--it
couldn't be; Violet had lied because she liked to torment. A quarter-past
five. What was Angela doing now? She was near, just a few miles
away--perhaps she was ill, as she had not written; yes, that must be it,
of course Angela was ill. The persistent, aching hunger of the eyes.
Anger, what was it? A folly, a delusion, a weakness that crumbled before
that hunger. And Angela was only a few miles away.

She went up to her room and unlocked a drawer from which she took the
little white case. Then she slipped the case into her jacket pocket.


4


Sim found Angela helping her maid to unpack; they appeared to be all but
snowed under by masses of soft, inadequate garments. The bedroom smelt
strongly of Angela's scent, which was heavy yet slightly 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 you have 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 inquired politely
after Ralph.

'He's in London on business for a couple of days; he's all right,
thanks,' Angela answered briefly, and she turned once more to sorting her
stockings.

Stephen studied her. Angela was not looking well, her mouth had a
childish droop at the corners; there were quite new shadows, too, under
her eyes, and these shadows accentuated her pallor. And as though that
earnest gaze made her nervous, she suddenly bundled the stockings
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 into the little
oak-panelled parlour. Stephen closed the door; then they faced each
other.

'Well, Angela?'

'Well, Stephen?' And after a pause: 'What on earth made you send that
absurd telegram? Ralph got hold of the thing and began to ask questions.
You are such an almighty fool sometimes--you knew perfectly well that I
couldn't come back. Why will you behave as though 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 her so that
she faced the light. She put her question with youthful crudeness: 'Do
you find Roger Antrim physically attractive--do you find that he attracts
you that way more than I do?' She waited calmly, 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 such questions; I won't
allow them even from you, Stephen. God knows where you get your fantastic
ideas! Have you been discussing me with 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 not very gentlemanly of you, my dear, to discuss my
affairs with our neighbours, was it?'

'I refused to discuss you with Violet Antrim,' Stephen told her, still
speaking quite calmly. But she clung to her point: 'Was it all 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 suddenly stretching
out her hand she switched off the little lamp on the table, so that the
room was lit only by firelight. They could not see each other's faces
very clearly any more, because there was only firelight. And Stephen
spoke such words as a lover will speak when his heart is burdened to
breaking; when his doubts must bow down and be swept away before the
unruly flood of his passion. There in that shadowy, firelit room, she
spoke such words as lovers have spoken ever since the divine, sweet
madness of God flung the thought of love into Creation.

But Angela suddenly pushed her away: 'Don't, don't--I can't bear it--it's
too much, Stephen. It hurts me--I can't bear 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 you understand? It's too much--' She could not, she dared not
explain. 'If you were a man--' She stopped abruptly, and burst into
uncontrollable weeping.

And somehow this weeping was different from any that had gone before, so
that Stephen trembled. There was something frightened and desolate about
it; it was like the sobbing of a terrified child. The girl forgot her own
desolation in her pity and the need that she felt to comfort. More
strongly than ever before she felt the need to protect this woman, and to
comfort.

She said, grown suddenly passionless and gentle: 'Tell me--try to tell me
what's wrong, beloved. Don't be afraid of making me angry--we love each
other, and that's all that matters. 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'm only so
tired. It's been a fearful strain these last months. I'm just a weak,
human creature, Stephen--sometimes I think we've been worse than mad. I
must have been mad to have allowed you to love me like this--one day
you'll despise and hate me. It's my fault, but I was so terribly lonely
that I let you come into my life, 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 Angela really
believed in her feelings. At that moment of sudden fear and remorse,
remembering those guilty weeks in Scotland, she believed that she felt
compassion and regret for this creature who loved her, and whose ardent
loving had paved the way for another. In her weakness she could not part
from the girl, not yet--there was something so strong about her. She
seemed to combine the strength of a man with the gentler and more subtle
strength of a woman. And thinking of the crude young animal Roger, with
his brusque, rather brutal appeal to the senses, she was filled with a
kind of regretful shame, and she hated herself for what she had done, and
for what she well knew she would do again, because of that urge to
passion.

Feeling humble, she groped for the girl's kind hand; then she tried to
speak lightly: 'Would you always forgive this very miserable sinner,
Stephen?'

Stephen said, not apprehending her meaning, 'If our love is a sin, then
heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning as ours.'

They sat down close together. They were weary unto death, and Angela
whispered: 'Put your arms around me again--but gently, because I'm so
tired. You're a kind lover, Stephen--sometimes I think you're almost too
kind.'

And Stephen answered: 'It's not kindness that makes me unwilling to 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 her sense of
wrong-doing--she was thoroughly unstrung, almost ill with self pity--so
that lacking the courage to confess the present, she let her thoughts
dwell on the past. Stephen had always forborne to question, and therefore
that past had never been discussed, but now Angela felt a great need to
discuss it. She did not analyse her feelings; she only knew that she
longed intensely to humble herself, to plead for compassion, to wring
from the queer, strong, sensitive being who loved her, some hope of
ultimate forgiveness. At that moment, as she lay there in Stephen's arms,
the girl assumed an enormous importance. It was strange, but the very
fact of betrayal appeared to have strengthened her will to hold 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 been thinking.
There arc some things I ought to tell you. You've never asked 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 Colonial home in
Virginia. A grave, grey house, with a columned entrance, and a garden
that looked down on deep, running water, and that water had rather a
beautiful name--it was called the Potomac River. Up the side of the house
grew magnolia blossoms, and many old trees gave their shade to its
garden. In summer the fire-flies lit lamps on those trees, shifting lamps
that moved swiftly among the branches. And the hot summer darkness was
splashed with lightning, and the hot summer air was heavy with sweetness.

She described her mother who had died when Angela was twelve--a pathetic,
inadequate creature; the descendant of women who had owned many slaves to
minister to their most trivial requirements: 'She could hardly put on her
own stockings and shoes,' smiled Angela, as she pictured that mother.

She described her father, George Benjamin Maxwell--a charming, but quite
incorrigible spendthrift. She said: 'He lived in past glories, Stephen.
Because he was a Maxwell--a Maxwell of Virginia--he wouldn't admit that
the Civil War had deprived us all of the right to spend money. God knows,
there was little enough of it left--the War practically ruined the old
Southern gentry! My grandma could remember those days quite well; she
scraped lint from her sheets for our wounded soldiers. If Grandma had
lived, my life might have been different--but she died a couple of months
after Mother.'

She described the eventual cataclysm, when the home had been sold up with
everything in it, and she and her father had set out for New York--she
just seventeen and he broken and ailing--to rebuild his dissipated
fortune. And because she was now painting a picture of real life,
untinged by imagination, her words lived, and her voice grew intensely
bitter.

'Hell--it was hell! We went under so quickly. There were days when I
hadn't enough to eat. Oh, Stephen, the filth, the unspeakable
squalor--the heat and the cold and the hunger and the squalor. God, how I
hate that great hideous city! It's a monster, it crushes you down, it
devours--even now I couldn't go back to New York without feeling a kind
of unreasoning terror. Stephen, that damnable city broke my nerve. Father
got calmly out of it all by dying one day--and that was so like him! He'd
had about enough, so he just lay down and died; but I couldn't do that
because I was young--and I didn't want to die, either. I hadn't the least
idea what I could do, but I knew that I was supposed to be pretty and
that good-looking girls had a chance on the stage, so I started out to
look for a job. My God! Shall I ever forget it!'

And now she described the long, angular streets, miles and miles of
streets; miles and miles of faces all strange and unfriendly--faces like
masks. Then the intimate faces of would-be employers, too intimate when
they peered into her own--faces that had suddenly thrown off their masks.

Stephen, are you listening? I put up a fight, I swear it! I swear I put
up a fight--I was only nineteen when I got my first 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 pay was rotten, not
enough to live on--I used to think that they did it on purpose, lots of
the girls used to think that way too--they never gave us quite enough to
live on. You see, I hadn't a vestige of talent, I could only dress up and
try to look pretty. 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 through
the gloom, but Stephen's face was hidden in shadow. Well then,
darling--Stephen, I want to feel your arms, hold me closer--well then
I--there was a man who wanted me--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
so frightened; why sometimes my shoes would let in the slush because they
were old and I hadn't the money to buy myself new ones--try to think of
that, darling. And I'd cry when I washed my hands in the winter because
they'd be bleeding from broken chilblains. Well, I couldn't stay the
course any longer, that's all...

The little gilt dock on the desk ticked loudly. Tick, tick! Tick, tick!
An astonishing voice to come from so small and fragile a 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 I just had to
drag along as I had done, and I sort of crocked up--couldn't sleep at
night, couldn't smile and look happy when I went on to dance--that was
how Ralph found me--he saw me dance and came round to the back, the way
some men do. I remember thinking that Ralph didn't look like that sort of
man; he looked--well, just like Ralph, not a bit like that sort of man.
Then he started sending me flowers; never presents or anything like that,
just flowers with his card. And we had lunch together a good 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 Ralph trying to horse-whip a man! They
knew each other quite well, I discovered; you see, they were both in the
hardware business. Ralph was out after some big contract for his firm,
that was why he happened to be in New York--and one day he asked me to
marry him, Stephen. I suppose he was really in love with me then, anyhow
I thought it was wonderful of him--I thought he was very broadminded 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 before we sailed for Europe. I
wasn't in love, but what could I do? I'd nowhere to turn and my health
was crocking; lots of our girls ended up 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's terribly and awfully suspicious. He thinks that because I
took a lover when I was literally down and out, I'm likely to do the same
thing now. He doesn't trust me, it's natural enough, but sometimes he
throws it all up in my face, and when he does that, my God, how I hate
him! But oh, Stephen, I could never go through it all again--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 if he really turned nasty. He knows
that, I think, so he's not afraid to bully--he's bullied me many a time
over you--but of course you're a woman so he couldn't divorce me--I
expect that's really what makes him so angry. All the same, when you
asked me 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 have made; he'd
have hounded us down to the ends of the earth, he'd have branded us,
Stephen. I know him, he's revengeful, he'd stop at nothing, that weak
sort of man is often that way. It's as though what Ralph lacks in
virility, he tries to make up for by being revengeful. My dear, I
couldn't go under again--I couldn't be one of those apologetic people who
must always exist just under the surface, only coming up for a moment,
like fish--I've been through that particular hell. I want life, and yet
I'm always afraid. Every time that Ralph looks at me I feel frightened,
because he knows that I hate him most when he tries to make love--' She
broke off abruptly.

And now she was crying a little to herself, letting the tears trickle
down unheeded. One of them splashed on to Stephen's coat sleeve and lay
there, a small, dark blot on the cloth, while the patient arms never
faltered.

'Stephen, say something--say you don't hate me!'

A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Stephen stared
down into Angela's face. It was marred by weeping; it looked almost ugly,
splotched and reddened as it was by her weeping. And because of that
pitiful, blemished face, with the pitiful weakness that lay behind it,
the unworthiness even, Stephen loved her so deeply 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 little white box
in her pocket: 'Look, Angela, I got you this for your birthday--Ralph
can't bully you about it, it's a birthday present.'

'Stephen--my dear!'

'Yes--I want you to wear it always, so that you'll remember how much I
love you. I think you forgot that just now when you talked about
hating--Angela, give me your hand, the hand that used 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 were quite close to Stephen's, but
Stephen kissed her instead on the forehead. You must rest,' she said,
'you're simply worn out. Can't you sleep if I keep you safe in my arms?'

For at moments such is the blindness and folly, yet withal the redeeming
glory of love.



Chapter Twenty-four


1


Ralph said very little about the ring. What could he say? A present given
to his wife by the daughter of a neighbour--an unusually costly present
of course--still, after all, what could he say? He took refuge in sulky
silence. But Stephen would see him staring at the pearl, which Angela
wore on her right-hand third finger, and his weak little eyes would look
redder than usual, perhaps with anger--one could never quite tell from
his eyes whether he was tearful or angry.

And because of those eyes with their constant menace, Stephen must play
her conciliatory role; and this she must do in spite of his rudeness, for
now he was openly rude and hostile. And he bullied. It was almost as
though he took pleasure in bullying his wife when Stephen was present;
her presence seemed to arouse in the man everything that was ill-bred,
petty and cruel. He would make thinly-veiled allusions to the past,
glancing sideways at Stephen the while he did so; and one day when she
flushed to the roots of her hair with rage to see Angela humble and
fearful, he laughed loudly: 'I'm just a plain tradesman, you know; if you
don't like my ways 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 would feel
herself gradually losing all sense of pride, of common decency even, so
that when she returned in the evening to Morton she would not want to
look the old house in the eyes. She would not want to face those pictures
of Gordons that hung in its hall, and must turn away, lest they by their
very silence rebuke this descendant of theirs who was so unworthy. Yet
sometimes it seemed to her that she loved more intensely because she had
lost so much--there was nothing left now but Angela Crossby.


2


Watching this deadly decay that threatened all that was fine in her
erstwhile pupil, Puddle must sometimes groan loudly in spirit; she must
even argue with God about it. Yes, she must actually argue with God like
Job; and remembering his words in affliction, she must speak those words
on behalf of Stephen: 'Thine hands have made me and fashioned me together
round about; yet Thou dost destroy me.' For now in addition to everything
else, she had learnt of the advent of Roger Antrim. Not that Stephen had
confided in her, far from it, but gossip has a way of travelling quickly.
Roger spent most of his leisure at The Grange. She had heard that he was
always going over from Worcester. So now. Puddle, who had not been much
given to prayer in the past, must argue with God, like Job. And perhaps,
since God probably listens to the heart rather than to the lips, He
forgave her.


3


Stupid with misery and growing more inept every day, Stephen found
herself no match for Roger. He was calm, self-assured, insolent and
triumphant, and his love of tormenting had not waned with his manhood.
Roger was no fool; he put two and two together and his masculine instinct
deeply resented this creature who might challenge his right of
possession. Moreover that masculine instinct was outraged. He would stare
at Stephen as though she were a horse whom he strongly suspected of
congenital unsoundness, and then he would let his eyes rest on Angela's
face. They would be the eyes of a lover, possessive, demanding, insistent
eyes--if Ralph did not happen to be present. And into Angela's eyes there
would come an expression that Stephen had seen many times. A mist would
slowly cloud over their blueness; they would dim, as though they were
hiding something. Then Stephen would be seized with a violent trembling,
so that she could not stand any more but must sit with her hands clasped
tightly together, lest those trembling hands betray her to Roger. But
Roger would have seen already, and would smile his slow, understanding,
masterful smile.

Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly, and their
youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable thing; the instinctive
repulsion of two human bodies, the one for the other, which neither could
help--not now that those bodies were stirred by a woman. Then into this
vortex of secret emotion would come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen to
Roger and then at his wife, and his eyes would be red--one never knew
whether from tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque triangle
for a moment, those three who must share a common desire. But after a
little the two male creatures who hated each other, would be shamefully
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 that Christmas
was a time of recriminations. Angela's infatuation was growing, and she
did not always hide this from Stephen. Letters would arrive in Roger's
handwriting, and Stephen, half-crazy with jealousy 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 for this--that you
should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that letter!'

'How dare you suggest that Roger's my lover! But if he were it's no
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, for God's
sake don't treat me like this--I can't bear it. When you loved me it was
easier to bear--I endured it for your sake, but now--listen, listen...'
Stark naked confessions dragged from lips that grew white the while they
confessed: 'Angela, listen...

And now the terrible nerves of the invert, those nerves that are always
lying in wait, gripped Stephen. They ran like live wires through her
body, causing a constant and ruthless torment, so that the sudden closing
of a door or the barking of Tony would fall like a blow on her shrinking
flesh. At night in her bed she must cover her ears from the ticking of
the clock, which would sound like thunder in the darkness.

Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext or another--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 why Angela 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 them as clearly as though they
were here before me in the room.' And then she would cover her eyes with
her hands, but this would only strengthen the pictures.

Like some earth-bound spirit she would haunt The Grange on the pretext of
taking Tony for a walk. And there, as likely as not, would be Ralph
wandering about in his bare rose garden. He would glance up and see her
perhaps, and then--most profound shame of all--they would both look
guilty, for each would know the loneliness of the other, and that
loneliness would draw them together for the moment; they would be almost
friends in their hearts.

'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're after the
dog, he's in the kitchen,' and turning his back, he might make a pretence
of examining his standard rose-trees.

Calling Tony, Stephen would walk into Upton, then along the mist-swept
bank of the river. She would stand very still staring down at the water,
but the impulse would pass, and whistling the dog, she would turn and go
hurrying back to Upton.

Then one afternoon Roger came with his car to take Angela for a drive
through the hills. The New Year was slipping into the spring, and the air
smelt of sap and much diligent growing. A warm February had succeeded the
winter. Many birds would be astir on those hills where lovers might sit
unashamed--where Stephen had sat holding Angela clasped in her arms,
while she eagerly took and gave kisses. And remembering these things
Stephen turned and left them, unable just then to endure any longer.
Going home, she made her way to the lakes, and there she quite suddenly
started weeping. Her whole body seemed to dissolve itself in weeping; and
she flung herself down on the kind earth of Morton, shedding tears as of
blood. There was no one to witness those tears except the white swan
called Peter.


5


Terrible, heart-breaking months. She grew gaunt with her unappeased love
for Angela Crossby. And now she would sometimes turn in despair to the
thought of her useless and unspent money. Thoughts would come that were
altogether unworthy, but nevertheless those thoughts would persist. Roger
was not rich; she was rich already and some day she would be even richer.

She went up to London and chose new clothes at a West End tailor's; the
man in Malvern who had made for her father was getting old, she would
have her suits made in London in future. She ordered herself a rakish red
car; a long-bodied, sixty horsepower Métallurgique. It was one of the
fastest cars of its year, and it certainly cost her a great deal of
money. She bought twelve pairs of gloves, some heavy silk stockings, a
square sapphire scarf pin and a new umbrella. Nor could she resist the
lure of pyjamas made of white crêpe de Chine which she spotted in Bond
Street. The pyjamas led to a man's dressing-gown of brocade--an amazingly
ornate garment. Then she had her nails manicured but not polished and
from that shop she carried away toilet water and a box of soap that smelt
of carnations and some cuticle 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 a fleeting
satisfaction. But on her way back in the train to Malvern, she gazed out
of the window with renewed desolation. Money could not buy the one thing
that she needed in life; it could not buy Angela's love.


6


That night she stared at herself in the glass; and even as she did so she
hated her body with its muscular shoulders, its small compact breasts,
and its slender flanks of an athlete. All her life she must drag this
body of hers like a monstrous fetter imposed on her spirit. This
strangely ardent yet sterile body that must worship yet never be
worshipped in return by the creature of its adoration. She longed to maim
it, for it made her feel cruel; it was so white, so strong and so
self-sufficient; yet withal so poor and unhappy a thing that her eyes
filled with tears and her hate turned to pity. She began to grieve over
it, touching her breasts with pitiful fingers, stroking her shoulders,
letting her hands slip along her straight thighs--Oh, poor and most
desolate body!

Then she, for whom Puddle was actually praying at that moment, must now
pray also, but blindly; finding few words that seemed worthy of prayer,
few words that seemed to encompass her meaning--for she did not know the
meaning of herself: But she loved, and loving groped for the God who had
fashioned her, even unto this bitter loving.



Chapter Twenty-five


1


Stephen's troubles had begun to be aggravated by Violet, who was always
driving over to Morton, ostensibly to talk about Alec, in reality to
collect information as to what might be happening at The Grange. She
would stay for hours, very skilfully pumping while she dropped unwelcome
hints anent Roger.

'Father's going to cut down his allowance,' she declared, 'if he doesn't
stop hanging about that woman. Oh, I'm sorry! I always forget she's your
friend--' Then looking at Stephen with inquisitive eyes: 'But I can't
understand that friendship of yours; for one thing, how can you put up
with Crossby?' And Stephen knew that yet once again county gossip was
rife about her.

Violet was going to be married in September, they would then live 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 the bountiful parent Peacock. She
was in the highest possible fettle these days, invested with an enormous
importance in her own eyes, as also in those of her neighbours. Oh, yes,
the whole world smiled broadly 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 silver bowl
from the Hunt, and a massive salver from the grateful Scottish tenants.

On the wedding day not a few eyes would be wet at the sight of so
youthful a man and maiden 'joined together in an honourable estate,
instituted of God in the time of man's innocency,' For such ancient
traditions--in spite of the fact that man's innocency could not even
survive one bite of an apple shared with a woman--are none the less apt
to be deeply moving. There they would kneel, the young newly wed, ardent
yet sanctified by a blessing, so that all, or at least nearly all, they
would do, must be considered both natural and pleasing to a God in the
image of man created. And the fact that this God, in a thoughtless
moment, had created in His turn those pitiful thousands who must stand
for ever outside His blessing, would in no way disturb the large
congregation or their white surpliced pastor, or the couple who knelt on
the gold-braided, red velvet cushions. And afterwards there would be
plentiful champagne to warm the cooling blood of the elders, and much
shaking of hands and congratulating, and many kind smiles for the bride
and her bridegroom. Some might even murmur a fleeting prayer in their
hearts, as the two departed: 'God bless them!'

So now Stephen must actually learn at first hand how straight can run the
path of true love, in direct contradiction to the time-honoured proverb.
Must realize more clearly than ever, that love is only permissible to
those who are cut in every respect to life's pattern; must feel like some
ill-conditioned pariah, hiding her sores under lies and pretences. And
after those visits of Violet Antrim's, her spirits would be at a very low
ebb, for she had not yet gained that steel-bright courage which can only
be forged in the furnace of affliction, and which takes many weary years
in the forging.


2


The splendid new motor arrived from London, to the great delight and
excitement of Burton. The new suits were completed and worn by their
owner, and Angela's costly gold bag was received with apparent delight,
which seemed rather surprising considering her erstwhile ban upon
presents. Yet could Stephen have known it, this was not so surprising
after all, for the bag infuriated Ralph, thereby distracting his facile
attention for the moment from something that was far more dangerous.

Filled with an ever-increasing need to believe, Stephen listened to
Angela Crossby: 'You know there's nothing between me and Roger--if you
don't, then you above all people ought to,' and her blue, childlike eyes
would look up at Stephen, who could never resist the appeal of their
blueness.

And as though to bear out the truth of her words, Roger now came to The
Grange much less often; and when he did come he was quietly friendly, not
at all lover-like if Stephen was present, so that gradually her need to
believe had begun to allay her worst fears. Yet she knew with the true
instinct of the lover, that Angela was secretly unhappy. She might try to
appear light-hearted and flippant, but her smiles and her jests could not
deceive Stephen.

'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 suspicious and more intolerant
of Roger Antrim, so that now her deadly fear of her husband was always at
war with her passion.

Sometimes it seemed to the girl that Angela used her as a whip wherewith
to lash Ralph. She would lead Stephen on to show signs of affection which
would never have been permitted in the past. Ralph's little red eyes
would look deeply resentful, and getting up he would slouch from the
room. They would hear the front door being closed, and would know that he
had gone for a walk with Tony. Yet when they were alone and in
comparative safety, there would be something crude, almost cruel in their
kisses; a restless, dissatisfied, hungry thing--their lips would seem
bent on scourging their bodies. Neither of them would find deliverance
nor ease from the ache that was in them, for each would be kissing with a
well-nigh intolerable sense of loss, with a passionate knowledge of
separation. After a little they would sit with bent heads, not speaking
because of what might not be spoken; not daring to look each other in the
eyes nor to touch each other, lest they should cry out against this
preposterous lovemaking.

Completely confounded, Stephen racked her brains for anything that might
give them both a respite. She suggested that Angela should see her fence
with a celebrated London fencing master whom she had bribed to come down
to Morton. She tried to arouse an interest in the car, the splendid new
car that had cost so much money. She tried to find out if Angela had an
ungratified wish that money could fulfil.

'Only tell me what I can do,' she pleaded, but apparently there was
nothing.

Angela came several times to Morton and dutifully attended the fencing
lessons. But they did not go well, for Stephen would glimpse her staring
abstractedly out of the window; then the sly, agile foil with its
blunt-tipped nose, would slip in under Stephen's guard and shame her.

They would sometimes go far afield in the car, and one night they stopped
at an inn and had dinner--Angela ringing up her husband with the old and
now threadbare excuse of a breakdown. They dined in a quiet little room
by themselves; the scents of the garden 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
never dined all alone at a wayside inn miles away from their homes, just
they two, and Stephen stretched out her hand and covered Angela's where
it rested very white and still on the table. And Stephen's eyes held an
urgent question, for now it was May and the blood of youth leaps and
strains with the sap in early summer. The air seemed breathless, since
neither would speak, afraid of disturbing the thick, sweet silence--but
Angela shook her head very slowly. Then they could not eat, for each was
filled with the same and yet with a separate longing; so after a while
they must get up and go, both conscious of a sense of painful
frustration.

They drove back on a road that was paved with moonlight, and presently
Angela fell fast asleep like an unhappy child--she had taken her hat off
and her head lay limply against Stephen's shoulder. Seeing her thus, so
helpless in sleep, Stephen felt strangely moved, and she drove very
slowly, fearful of waking the woman who slept like a child with her fair
head against her shoulder. The car climbed the steep hill from Ledbury
town, and presently there lay the wide Wye valley whose beauty had
saddened a queer little girl long before she had learnt the pain of all
beauty. And now the valley was bathed in whiteness, while here and there
gleamed a roof or a window, but whitely, as though all the good valley
folk had extinguished their lamps and retired to their couches. Far away,
like dark clouds coming up out of Wales, rose range upon range of the old
Black Mountains, with the tip of Gadrfawr peering over the others, and
the ridge of Pen-cerrig-calch sharp against the skyline. A little wind
ruffled the bracken on the hillsides, and Angela's hair blew across her
closed eyes so that she stirred and sighed in her sleep. Stephen bent
down and began to soothe her.

Then from out of that still and unearthly night, there crept upon Stephen
an unearthly longing. A longing that was not any more of the body but
rather of the weary and home-sick spirit that endured the chains of that
body. And when she must drive past the gates of Morton, the longing
within her seemed beyond all bearing, for she wanted to lift the sleeping
woman in her arms and carry her in through those gates; and carry her in
through the heavy white door; and carry her up the wide, shallow
staircase, and lay her down on her own bed, still sleeping, but safe in
the good care of Morton.

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.



Chapter Twenty-six


1


Like a river that has gradually risen to flood, until it sweeps
everything before it, so now events rose and gathered in strength towards
their inevitable conclusion. At the end of May Ralph must go to his
mother, who was said to be dying at her house in Brighton. With all his
faults he had been a good son, and the redness of his eyes was indeed
from real tears as he kissed his wife good-bye at the station on his way
to his dying mother. The next morning he wired that his mother was dead,
but that he could not get home for a couple of weeks. As it happened, he
gave the actual day and hour of his return, so that Angela knew it.

The relief of his unexpectedly long absence went to Stephen's head; she
grew much more exacting, suggesting all sorts of intimate plans.
Supposing they went for a few days to London? Supposing they motored to
Symond's Yat and stayed at the little hotel by the river? They might even
push on to Abergavenny and from there motor up and explore the Black
Mountains--why not? It was glorious weather.

'Angela, please come away with me, darling--just for a few days--we've
never done it, and I've longed to so often. You can't refuse, there's
nothing on earth to prevent your coming.'

But Angela would not make up her mind, she seemed suddenly anxious about
her husband: 'Poor devil, he was awfully fond of his mother. I oughtn't
to go, it would look so heartless with the old woman dead and Ralph so
unhappy--'

Stephen said bitterly: 'What about me? Do you think I'm never unhappy?'

So the time slipped by in heartaches and quarrels, for Stephen's taut
nerves were like spurs to her temper, and she stormed or reproached in
her dire disappointment:

'You pretend that you love me and yet you won't come--and I've waited so
long--oh, my God, how I've waited! But you're utterly cruel. And I ask
for so little, just to have you with me for a few days and nights just to
sleep with you in my arms; just to feel you beside me when I wake up in
the morning--I want to open my eyes and see your face, as though we
belonged to each other. Angela, I swear I wouldn't torment you--we'd be
just as we are now, if that's what you're afraid of. You must know, after
all 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, and sometimes she
must ride rather wildly for miles--now on Raftery, now on Sir Philip's
young chestnut. All alone she would ride in the early mornings, getting
up from a sleepless night unrefreshed, yet terribly alive because of
those nerves that tortured her luckless body. She would get back to
Morton still unable to rest, and a little later would order the motor and
drive herself across to The Grange, where Angela would usually be
dreading her coming.

Her reception would be cold: 'I'm fairly busy, Stephen--I must pay off
all these bills before Ralph gets home'; or: 'I've got a foul headache,
so don't scold me this morning; I think if you did that I just couldn't
bear it!' Stephen would flinch as though struck in the face; she might
even turn round and go back to Morton.

Came the last precious day before Ralph's return, and that day they did
spend quite peaceably together, for Angela seemed bent upon soothing. She
went out of her way to be gentle to Stephen, and Stephen, quick as always
to respond, was very gentle in her turn. But after they had dined in the
little herb garden--taking advantage of the hot, still weather--Angela
developed one of her headaches.

Oh, my Stephen--oh, darling, my head's too awful. It must be the
thunder--it's been coming on all day. What a perfectly damnable thing to
happen, on our last evening too--but I know this kind well; I'll just
have to give in and go to my bed. I'll take a cachet and then try to
sleep, so don't ring me up when you get back to Morton. Come
to-morrow--come early. I'm so miserable, darling, when I think that this
is our last peaceful evening--'

'I know. But are you all right to be left?'

'Yes, of course. All I need is to get some sleep. You won't worry, 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 you can't get to
sleep, then I'll come back at once.'

'Yes, but don't do that, will you, unless I ring up--I should hear you,
of course, and that would wake me and start my head throbbing.' Then as
though impelled, in spite of herself by the 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 Angela Crossby
rung up?' she inquired of Puddle, who appeared to have been waiting in
the hall.

'No, she hasn't!' snapped Puddle, who was getting to the stage when 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 at once, Stephen.'

'You go to bed, Puddle, if you're tired--where's Mother?'

'In her bath. For heaven's sake do come to bed! I can't bear to see you
looking as you do these days.'

'I'm all right.'

'No, you're not, you're all wrong. Go and look at your face.'

'I don't very much want to, it doesn't attract me,' smiled Stephen.

So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to sit with a book
in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angela should ring. And
there, like the faithful creature she was, she must sit on all through
the night, patiently waiting. But when the first tinges of dawn greyed
the window and the panes of the semicircular fanlight, she left her chair
stiffly to pace up and down, filled with a longing to be near this woman,
if only to stand and keep watch in her garden--Snatching up a coat she
went out to her car.


3


She left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up the drive,
taking cart to tread softly. The air had an indefinable smell of dew and
of very newly born morning. The tall, ornate Tudor chimneys of the house
stood out gauntly against a brightening sky, and as Stephen crept into
the small herb garden, one tentative bird had already begun singing--but
his voice was still rather husky from sleep. She stood there and shivered
in her heavy coat; the long night of vigil had devitalized her. She was
sometimes like this now--she would shiver at the least provocation, the
least sign 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 the house
which was reddening with sunrise. Her heart beat anxiously, fearfully
even, as though in some painful anticipation of she knew not what--every
window was dark except one or two that were fired by the sunrise. How
long she stood there she never knew, it might have been moments, it might
have been a life-time; and then suddenly there was something that
moved--the little oak door that led into that garden. It moved
cautiously, opening inch by inch, until at last it was standing wide
open, and Stephen saw a man and a woman who turned to clasp as though
neither of them could endure to be parted from the arms of the other; and
as they clung there together and kissed, they swayed unsteadily--drunk
with loving.

Then, as sometimes happens in moments of great anguish, Stephen could
only remember the grotesque. She could only remember a plump-bosomed
housemaid in the arms of a coarsely amorous footman, and she laughed and
she laughed like a creature demented--laughed and laughed until she must
gasp for breath and spit blood from, her tongue, which had somehow got
bitten in her efforts to stop her hysterical laughing; and some of the
blood remained on her chin, jerked there by that agonized laughter.

Pale as death, Roger Antrim stared out into the garden, and his tiny
moustache looked quite black--like an ink stain smeared above his
tremulous mouth by some careless schoolboy finger.

And now Angela's voice came to Stephen, but faintly. She was saying
something--what was she saying? It soundly absurdly as though it were a
prayer--' Christ!' Then sharply--razor-sharp it sounded as it cut through
the air: 'You, Stephen!'

The laughter died abruptly away, as Stephen turned and walked out of the
garden and down the short drive that led to the gates of the Grange,
where the motor was waiting. Her face was a mask, quite without
expression. She moved stiffly, yet with a curious precision; and she
swung up the handle and started the powerful engine without any apparent
effort.

She drove at great speed but with accurate judgment, for now her mind
felt as clear as spring water, and yet there were strange little gaps in
her mind--she had not the least idea where she was going. Every road for
miles around Upton was familiar, yet she had not the least idea where she
was going. Nor did she know how long she drove, nor when she stopped to
procure fresh petrol. The sun rose high and hot in the heavens; it beat
down on her without warming her coldness, for always she had the sense of
a dead thing that lay close against her heart and oppressed it. A
corpse--she was carrying a corpse about with her. Was it the corpse of
her love for Angela? If so that love was more terrible dead--oh, far more
terrible dead than living.

The first stars were shining, but as yet very faintly, when she found
herself driving through the gates of Morton. Heard Puddle's voice
calling: 'Wait a minute. Stop. Stephen!' Saw Puddle barring her 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,' and now she
was talking very fast, 'listen, Stephen--is it--is it Angela Crossby It
is. I can see the thing in your face. My God, what's that woman done to
you, Stephen?'

Then Stephen, in spite of the corpse against her heart, or perhaps
because of it, defended the woman: 'She's done nothing at all--it was all
my fault, but you wouldn't understand--I got very angry and then
I laughed and couldn't stop laughing--' Steady, go steady! She was
telling too much: 'No--it wasn't that exactly. Oh, you know my vile
temper, it always goes off at half cock for nothing. Well, then I just
drove round 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 your mother--she thinks
that you started quite early for Worcester, I lied--I've been nearly
distracted, child. If you hadn't come soon, 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 this again--But I do understand, oh, I do indeed, Stephen.'

But Stephen shook her head: 'No, my dear, you couldn't--and I'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 icy coldness,
melted; and it flowed out in such a torrent of grief that she could, not
stand up against that torrent, so that drowning though she was she found
pen and paper, and she wrote to Angela Crossby.

What a letter! All the pent-up passion of months, all the terrible,
rending, destructive frustrations must burst forth from her heart: 'Love
me, only love me the way I love you. Angela, for God'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 humble
now; I'm just a poor, heart-broken freak of a creature who loves you and
needs you much more than its life, because life's worse than death, ten
times worse without you. I'm some awful mistake--God's mistake--I don't
know if there are any more 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. I thought it was dead, but it wasn't. It's alive--so terribly alive
tonight in my bedroom...' And so it went on for page after page.

But never a word about Roger Antrim and what she had seen that morning in
the garden. Some fine instinct of utterly selfless protection towards
this woman had managed to survive all the anguish and all the madness of
that day. The letter was a terrible indictment against Stephen, a
complete vindication of Angela Crossby.


5


Angela went to her husband's study, and she stood before him utterly
shaken, utterly appalled at what she would do, yet utterly and ruthlessly
determined to do it from a primitive instinct of self-preservation. In
her ears she could still hear that terrible laughter--that uncanny,
hysterical, agonized laughter. Stephen was mad, and God only knew what
she might do or say in a moment of madness, and then--but she dared not
look into the future. Cringing in spirit and trembling in body, she
forgot the girl's faithful and loyal devotion, her will to forgive, her
desire to protect, so clearly set forth in that pitiful letter.

She said: 'Ralph, I want to ask your advice. I'm in an awful mess--it's
Stephen Gordon. You think I've been carrying on with Roger--good Lord, if
you only knew what I've endured these past few months! I have seen a
great deal of Roger, I admit--quite innocently of course--still, all the
same, I've seen him--I thought it would show her that I'm not--that I'm
not--' For one moment her voice seemed about to fail her, then she went
on quite firmly: 'that I'm not a pervert; 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 advice about it,
but I really did like the girl just at first, and after that, well--I set
out to reform her. Oh, I know, I've been crazy, worse than crazy if you
like; it was hopeless right from the very beginning. If I'd only known
more about that sort of thing I'd have come to you at once, but I'd never
met it. She was our neighbour, too, which made it more awkward, and not
only that--her position in the county--oh, Ralph, you must help me, I'm
completely bewildered. How on earth does one answer this sort of thing?
It's quite mad--I believe the girl's half mad herself.'

And she handed him Stephen's letter.

He read it slowly, and as he did so his weak little eyes grew literally
scarlet--puffy and scarlet all over their lids, and when he had finished
reading that letter he turned and spat on the ground. Then Ralph's
language became a thing to forget; every filthy invective learnt in the
slums of his youth and later on in the workshops, he hurled against
Stephen and all her kind. He called down the wrath of the Lord upon them.
He deplored the non-existence of the stake, and racked his brains for
indecent tortures. And finally: 'I'll answer this letter, yes, by God I
will! You leave her to me, I know how I'm going to answer this letter!'

Angela asked him, and now her voice shook: 'Ralph, what will you do to
her--to Stephen?'

He laughed loudly: 'I'll hound her out of the county before I've
done--and with luck out of England; the same as I'd hound you out if I
thought that there'd ever been anything between you two women. It's
damned lucky for you that she wrote this letter, damned lucky, otherwise
I might have my suspicions. You've got off this time, but don't try your
reforming again--you're not cut out to be a reformer. If there's any of
that Lamb of God stuff wanted I'll see to it myself and don't you forget
it!' He slipped the letter into his pocket, 'I'll sec to it myself next
time--with an axe!'

Angela turned and went out of the study with bowed head. She was saved
through this great betrayal, yet most strangely bitter she found her
salvation, and most shameful the price she paid for her safety. So,
greatly daring, she went to her desk and with trembling fingers took a
sheet of paper. Then she wrote in her large, rather childish handwriting:
'Stephen--when you know what I've done, forgive me.'



Chapter Twenty-seven


1


Two days later Anna Gordon sent for her daughter. Stephen found her
sitting quite still in that vast drawing-room of hers, which as always
smelt faintly of orris-root, beeswax and violets. Her thin, white hands
were folded in her lap, closely folded over a couple of letters; and it
seemed to Stephen that all of a sudden she saw in her mother a very old
woman--a very old woman with terrible eyes, pitiless, hard and deeply
accusing, so that she could but shrink 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 those two
confronted each other, flesh of flesh, blood of blood, they confronted
each other across the wide gulf set between them.

Then Anna handed her daughter a letter: 'Read this,' she said briefly.
And Stephen read:

DEAR LADY ANNA,

With deep repugnance I take up my pen, for certain things won't bear
thinking about, much less being written. But I feel that I owe you some
explanation of my reasons for having come to the decision that I cannot
permit your daughter to enter my house again, or my wife to visit Morton.
I enclose a copy of your daughter's letter to my wife, which I feel is
sufficiently dear to make it unnecessary for me to write further, except
to add that my wife is returning the 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 so much as a
muscle twitched; then she handed the letter back to her mother without
speaking, and in silence Anna received it. 'Stephen--when you know what
I've done, forgive me.' The childish scrawl seemed suddenly on fire, it
seemed to scorch Stephen's fingers as she touched it in her pocket--so
this was what Angela had done. In a blinding flash the girl saw it all;
the miserable weakness, the fear of betrayal, the terror of Ralph and of
what he would do should he learn of that guilty night with Roger. Oh, but
Angela might have spared her this, this last wound to her loyal and
faithful devotion; this last insult to all that was best and most sacred
in her love--Angela had feared betrayal at the hands of the creature who
loved her!

But now her mother was speaking again: 'And this--read this and tell me
if you wrote it, or if that man's lying.' And Stephen must read her own
misery jibing at her from those pages in Ralph Crossby's stiff and
clerical handwriting.

She looked up: 'Yes, Mother, I wrote it.'

Then Anna began to speak very slowly as though nothing of what she would
say must be lost; and that slow, quiet voice was more dreadful than
anger: All your life I've felt very strangely towards you', she was
saying, 'I've felt a kind of physical repulsion, a desire not to touch or
to be touched by you--a terrible thing for a mother to feel--it has often
made me deeply unhappy. I've often felt that I was being unjust,
unnatural--but now I know that my instinct was right; it is you who are
unnatural, not I...'

'Mother--stop!'

'It is you who are unnatural, not I. And this thing that you are is a sin
against creation. Above all is this thing a sin against the father who
bred you, the father whom you dare to resemble. You dare to look like
your father, and your face is a living insult to his memory, Stephen. I
shall never be able to look at you now without thinking of the deadly
insult of your face and your body to the memory of the father who bred
you. I can only thank God that your father died before he was asked to
endure this great shame. As for you, I would rather see you dead at my
feet than standing before me with this thing upon you--this unspeakable
outrage that you call love in that letter which you don't deny having
written. In that letter you say things that may only be said between man
and woman, and coming from you they are vile and filthy words of
corruption--against nature, against God who created nature. My gorge
rises; you have made me feel physically sick--'

'Mother--you don't know what you're saying--you're my mother--'

'Yes, I am your mother, but for all that, you seem to me like a scourge.
I ask myself what I have ever done to be dragged down into the depths by
my daughter. And your father--what had he ever done? And you have
presumed to use the word love in connection with this--with these lusts
of your body; these unnatural cravings of your unbalanced mind and
undisciplined body--you have used that word. I have loved--do you heart I
have loved your father, and your father loved me. That was love.'

Then, suddenly, Stephen knew that unless she could, indeed, drop dead at
the feet of this woman in whose womb she had quickened, there was one
thing that she dared not let pass unchallenged, and that was this
terrible slur upon her love. And all that was in her rose up to refute
it; to protect her love from such unbearable soiling. It was part of
herself, and unless she could save it, she could not save herself any
more. She must stand or fall by the courage 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 loved you, I loved.
As a man loves a woman, that was how I loved--protectively, like my
father. I wanted to give all I had in me to give. It made me feel
terribly strong...and gentle. It was good, good, good--I'd have laid down
my life a thousand times over for Angela Crossby. If I could have I'd
have married her and brought her home--I wanted to bring her home here to
Morton. If I loved her the way a man loves a woman, it's because I can't
feel that I am a woman. All my life I've never felt like a woman, and you
know it--you say you've always disliked me, that you've always felt a
strange physical repulsion...I don't know what I am; no one's ever told
me that I'm different and yet I know that I'm different--that's why, I
suppose, you've felt as you 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
will never 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 was
stammering a little wildly, 'Good and--and fine it was,' she stammered,
'the best part of myself--I gave all and I asked nothing in return--I
just went on hopelessly loving--' she broke off, she was shaking from
head to foot, and Anna's cold voice fell like icy water on that angry and
sorely tormented spirit.

'You have spoken, Stephen. I don't think there's much more that needs to
be said between us except this, we two cannot live together at
Morton--not now, because I might grow to hate you. Yes, although you are
my child I might grow to hate you. The same roof mustn't shelter us both
any more; one of us must go--which of us shall it bet' And she looked at
Stephen and waited.

Morton! They could not both live at Morton. Something seemed to catch
hold of the girl's heart and twist it. She stared at her mother, aghast
for a moment, while Anna stared back--she was waiting for her answer.

But quite suddenly Stephen found her manhood and she said: 'I understand.
I'll leave Morton.'

Then Anna made her daughter sit down beside her, while she talked of how
this thing might be accomplished in a way that would cause the least
possible scandal: 'For the sake of your father's honourable name, I must
ask you to help me, Stephen.' It was better, she said, that Stephen
should take Puddle with her, if Puddle would consent to go. They might
live in London or somewhere abroad, on the pretext that Stephen wished to
study. From time to time Stephen would come back to Morton and visit her
mother, and during those visits they two would take care to be seen
together for appearances' sake, for the sake of her father. She could
take from Morton whatever she needed, the horses, and anything else she
wished. Certain of the rent-roll would be paid over to her, should her
own income prove insufficient. All things must be done in a way that was
seemly--no undue haste, no suspicion of a breach between mother and
daughter: 'For the sake of your father I ask this of you, not for your
sake or mine, but for his. Do you consent to this, Stephen?'

And Stephen answered: 'Yes, I consent.'

Then Anna said: 'I'd like you to leave me now--I feel tired and I want to
be alone for a little--but presently I shall send for Puddle to discuss
her living with you in the future.'

So Stephen got up, and she went away, leaving Anna Gordon alone.


2


As though drawn there by some strong natal instinct, Stephen went
straight to her father's study; and she sat in the old arm-chair that had
survived him; then she buried her face in her hands.

All the loneliness that had gone before was as nothing to this new
loneliness of spirit. An immense desolation swept down upon her, an
immense need to cry out and claim understanding for herself, an immense
need to find an answer to the riddle of her unwanted being. All around
her were grey and crumbling ruins, and under those ruins her love lay
bleeding; shamefully wounded by Angela Crossby, shamefully soiled and
defiled by her mother--a piteous, suffering, defenceless thing, it lay
bleeding under the ruins.

She felt blind when she tried to look into the future, stupefied when she
tried to look back on the past. She must go--she was going away from
Morton: 'From Morton--I'm going away from Morton,' the words thudded
drearily in her brain: 'I'm going away from Morton.'

The grave, comely house would not know her any more, nor the garden where
she had heard the cuckoo with the dawning understanding of a child, nor
the lakes where she had kissed Angela Crossby for the first time--full on
the lips as a lover. The good, sweet-smelling meadows with their placid
cattle, she was going to leave them; and the hills that protected poor,
unhappy lovers--the merciful hills; and the lanes with their sleepy
dog-roses at evening; and the little, old township of Upton-on-Severn
with its battle-scarred church and its yellowish river; that was where
she had first seen Angela Crossby...

The spring would come sweeping across Castle Morton, bringing strong,
clean winds to the open common. The spring would come sweeping across the
whole valley, from the Cotswold Hills right up to the Malverns; bringing
daffodils by their hundreds and thousands, bringing bluebells to the
beech wood down by the lakes, bringing cygnets for Peter the swan to
protect; bringing sunshine to warm the old bricks of the house--but she
would not be there any more in the spring. In summer the roses would not
be her roses, nor the luminous carpet of leaves in the autumn, nor the
beautiful winter forms of the beech trees: 'And on evenings in winter
these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the
sunset, when, you and I come and stand here in the winter...' No, no, not
that memory, it was too much--'when you and I come and stand here in the
winter...

Getting up, she wandered about the room, touching its kind and familiar
objects; stroking the desk, examining a pen, grown rusty from long disuse
as it lay there; then she opened a little drawer in 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 would take one or two of her father's books. She
had never examined this special book-case, and she could not have told
why she suddenly did so. As she slipped the key into the lock and turned
it, the action seemed curiously automatic. She began to take out the
volumes slowly and with listless fingers, scarcely glancing at their
titles. It gave her something to do, that was all--she thought that she
was trying to distract her attention. Then she noticed that on a shelf
near the bottom was a row of books standing behind the others; the next
moment she had one of these in her hand, and was looking at the name of
the author: Krafft Ebing--she had never heard of that author before. All
the same she opened the battered old book, then she looked more closely,
for there on its margins were notes in her father's small, scholarly hand
and she saw that her own name appeared in those notes--She began to read,
sitting down rather abruptly. For a long time she read; then went back to
the book-case and got out another of those volumes, and another...The sun
was now setting behind the hills; the garden was growing dusky with
shadows. In the study there was little light left to read by, so that she
must take her book to the window and must bend her face closer over the
page; but still she read on and on in the dusk.

Then suddenly she had got to her feet and was talking aloud--she was
talking to her father: 'You knew! All the time you knew this thing, but
because of your pity you wouldn't tell me. Oh, Father--and there are so
many of us--thousands of miserable, unwanted people, who have no right to
love, no right to compassion because they're maimed, hideously maimed and
ugly--God's cruel; He let us get flawed in the making.'

And then, before she knew what she was doing, she had found her father's
old, well-worn Bible. There she stood demanding a sign from
heaven--nothing less than a sign from heaven she demanded. The Bible fell
open near the beginning. She read: 'And the Lord set a mark upon Cain...

Then Stephen hurled the Bible away, and she sank down completely hopeless
and beaten, rocking her body backwards and forwards with a kind of abrupt
yet methodical rhythm: 'And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, 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 this moment I've
suffered. It was when I was very young like you--but I still remember.'

Stephen looked up with bewildered eyes: 'Would you go with Cain whom God
marked?' she said slowly, for she had not understood Puddle's meaning, so
she asked her once more: 'Would you go with Caine?'

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 you are what you are,
you may actually find that you've got an advantage. You may write with a
curious double insight--write both men and women from a personal
knowledge. Nothing's completely misplaced or wasted, I'm sure of
that--and we're all part of nature. Some day the world will recognize
this, but meanwhile there's plenty of work that's waiting. For the sake
of all the others 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,
and I'm here to help you to do it, Stephen.'




BOOK THREE



Chapter Twenty-eight


1


A pale glint of sunshine devoid of all warmth lay over the wide expanse
of the river, touching the funnel of a passing tug that tore at the water
like a clumsy harrow; but a field of water is not for 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 sharp March wind. The wind was urging the sap in
their branches to flow with a more determined purpose, but the skin of
their bodies was blackened and soot-clogged so that when touched it left
soot on the fingers, and knowing this they were always disheartened and
therefore a little slow to respond to the urge of the wind--they were
city trees which are always somewhat disheartened. Away to the right
against a toneless sky stood the tall factory chimneys beloved of young
artists--especially those whose skill is not great, for few can go wrong
over factory chimneys--while across the stream Battersea Park still
looked misty as though barely convalescent from fog.

In her large, long, rather low-ceilinged study whose casement windows
looked over the river, sat Stephen with her feet stretched out to the
fire and her hands thrust in her jacket pockets. Her eyelids drooped, she
was all but asleep although it was early afternoon. She had worked
through the night, a deplorable habit and one of which Puddle quite
rightly disapproved, but when the spirit of work was on her it was
useless to argue with Stephen.

Puddle looked up from her embroidery frame and pushed her spectacles on
to her forehead the better to see the drowsy Stephen, for Puddle's eyes
had grown very long-sighted so that the room looked blurred through her
glasses.

She thought: 'Yes, she's changed a good deal in these two years--' then
she sighed half in sadness and half in contentment. 'All the same she is
making good,' thought Puddle, remembering with a quick thrill of pride
that the long-limbed creature who lounged by the fire had suddenly sprung
into something like fame thanks to a fine first novel.

Stephen yawned, and readjusting her spectacles Puddle resumed her
wool-work.

It was true that the two long years of exile had left their traces on
Stephen's face; it had grown much thinner and more determined, some might
have said that the face had hardened, for the mouth was less ardent and
much less gentle, and the lips now drooped at the corners. The strong
rather massive line of the jaw looked aggressive these days by reason of
its thinness. Faint furrows had come between the thick brows and faint
shadows showed at times under the eyes; the eyes themselves were the eyes
of a writer, always a little tired in expression. Her complexion was
paler than it had been in the past, it had lost the look of wind and
sunshine--the open-air look--and the fingers of the hand that slowly
emerged from her jacket pocket were heavily stained with nicotine--she
was now a voracious smoker. Her hair was quite short. In a mood of
defiance she had suddenly walked off to the barber's one morning and had
made him crop it dose like a man's. And mightily did the fashion become
her, for now the fine shape of her head was unmarred by the stiff clumpy
plait in the nape of her neck. Released from the torment imposed upon it
the thick auburn hair could breathe and wave freely, and Stephen had
grown fond and proud of her hair--a hundred strokes must it have with the
brush every night until it looked burnished. Sir Philip also had been
proud of his hair in the days of his youthful manhood.

Stephen's life in London had been one long endeavour, for work to her had
become a narcotic. Puddle it was who had found the flat with the casement
windows that looked on the river, and Puddle it was who now kept the
accounts, paid the rent, settled bills and managed the servants; all
these details Stephen calmly ignored and the faithful Puddle allowed her
to do so. Like an ageing and anxious Vestal Virgin she tended the holy
fire of inspiration, feeding the flame with suitable food--good grilled
meat, light puddings and much fresh fruit, varied by little painstaking
surprises from Jackson's or Fortnum & Mason. For Stephen's appetite 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 she did so protesting,
fidgeting to go back to her desk. At such times Puddle would steal into
the study with a tin of Brand's Essence--she had even been known to feed
the recalcitrant author piecemeal, until Stephen must laugh and gobble up
the jelly for the sake of getting on with her writing.

Only one duty apart from her work had Stephen never for a moment
neglected, and that was the care and the welfare of Raftery. The cob had
been sold, and her father's chestnut she had given away to Colonel
Antrim, who had sworn not to let the horse out of his hands for the sake
of his life-long friend, Sir Philip--but Raftery she had brought up to
London. She herself had found and rented his stable with comfortable
rooms above for Jim, the groom she had taken from Morton. Every morning
she rode very early in the Park, which seemed a futile and dreary
business, but now only thus could the horse and his owner contrive to be
together for a little. Sometimes she fancied that Raftery sighed as she
cantered him round and round the Row, and then she would stoop down and
speak to him softly:

'My Raftery, I know, it's not Castle Morton or the hills or the big,
green Severn Valley--but I love you.'

And because he had understood her he would throw up his head and begin to
prance sideways, pretending that he still felt very youthful, pretending
that he was wild with delight at the prospect of cantering round the Row.
But after a while these two sorry exiles would droop and move forward
without much spirit. Each in a separate way would divine the ache in the
other, the ache that was Morton, so that Stephen would cease to urge the
beast forward, and Raftery would cease to pretend to Stephen. But when
twice a year at her mother's request, Stephen must go back to visit her
home, then Raftery went too, and his joy was immense when he felt the
good springy turf beneath him, when he sighted the red brick stables of
Morton, 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 these visits of theirs were
anguish because of her love for Morton. She would feel like a stranger
within the gates, an unwanted stranger there only on sufferance. It would
seem to her that the old house withdrew itself from her love very gravely
and sadly, that its windows no longer beckoned, invited: 'Come home, come
home, come inside quickly, Stephen!' And she would not dare to proffer
her love, which would burden her heart to breaking.

She must now pay many calls with her mother, must attend all the formal
social functions--this for the sake of appearances, lest the neighbours
should guess the breach between them. She must keep up the fiction that
she found in a city the stimulus necessary to her work, she who was
filled with a hungry longing for the green of the hills, for the air of
wide spaces, for the mornings and the noontides and the evenings of
Morton. All these things she must do for 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 you perhaps, though it's
painful to me to reopen the subject. There has been no scandal--that man
held his tongue--you'll be glad to know this because of your father. And
Stephen--the Crossbys have sold The Grange and gone to America, I
believe--' she had stopped abruptly, not looking at Stephen, who had
nodded, unable to answer.

So now there were quite different folk at The Grange, folk very much more
to the taste of the county--Admiral Carson and his apple-checked wife
who, childless herself, adored Mothers' Meetings. Stephen must sometimes
go to The Grange with Anna, who liked the Carsons. Very grave and aloof
had Stephen become; too reserved, too self-assured, thought her
neighbours. They supposed that success had gone to her head, for no one
was now allowed to divine the terrible shyness that made social
intercourse such a miserable torment. Life had already taught Stephen one
thing, and that was that never must human beings be allowed to suspect
that a creature fears them. The fear of the one is a spur to the many,
for the primitive hunting instinct dies hard--it is better to face a
hostile world than to turn one's back for a moment.

But at least she was spared meeting Roger Antrim, and for this she was
most profoundly thankful. Roger had gone with his regiment to Malta, so
that they two did not see each other. Violet was married and living in
London in the 'perfect duck of a house in Belgravia'. From time to time
she would blow in on Stephen, but not often, because she was very much
married with one baby already and another on the way. She was somewhat
subdued and much less maternal than she had been when first she met Alec.

If Anna was proud of her daughter's achievement she said nothing beyond
the very few words that must of necessity be spoken: 'I'm so glad your
book has succeeded, Stephen.'

'Thank you, mother--'

Then as always these two fell silent. Those long and eloquent silences of
theirs were now of almost daily occurrence when they found themselves
together. Nor could they look each other in the eyes any more, their eyes
were for ever shifting, and sometimes Anna's pale cheeks would flush very
slightly when she was alone with Stephen--perhaps at her thoughts.

And Stephen would think: 'It's because she can't help remembering.'

For the most part, however, they shunned all contact by common consent,
except when in public. And this studied avoidance tore at their nerves;
they were now wellnigh obsessed by each other, for ever secretly laying
their plans in order to avoid a meeting. Thus it was that these
obligatory visits to Morton were a pretty bad strain on Stephen. She
would go back to London unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to write,
and with such a despairing and sickening heartache for the grave old
house the moment she had left it, that Puddle would have to be very
severe in order to pull her together.

'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-book author!'

Scowling darkly, Stephen would go to her desk--she had no wish to be a
one-book author.


2


Yet as everything comes as grist to the mill of those who arc destined
from birth to be writers--poverty or riches, good or evil, gladness or
sorrow, all grist to the mill--so the pain of Morton burning down to the
spirit in Stephen had kindled a bright, hot flame, and all that she had
written she had written by its light, seeing exceedingly clearly. As
though in a kind of self-preservation, her mind had turned to quite
simple people, humble people sprung from the soil, from the same kind
soil that had nurtured Morton. None of her own strange emotions had
touched them, and yet they were part of her own emotions; a part of her
longing for simplicity and peace, a part of her curious craving for the
normal. And although at this time Stephen did not know it, their
happiness sprung from her moments of joy; their sorrows from the sorrow
she had known and still knew; their frustrations from her own bitter
emptiness; their fulfilments from her longing to be fulfilled. These
people had drawn life and strength from their creator. Like infants they
had sucked at her breasts of inspiration, and drawn from them blood,
waxing wonderfully strong; demanding, compelling thereby recognition. For
surely thus only are fine books written, they must somehow partake of the
miracle of blood--the strange and terrible miracle of blood, the giver of
life, the purifier, the great final expiation.


3


But one thing there was that Puddle still feared, and this was the girl's
desire for isolation. To her it appeared like a weakness in Stephen; she
divined the bruised humility of spirit that now underlay this desire for
isolation, and she did her best to frustrate it. It was Puddle who had
forced the embarrassed Stephen to let in the Press photographers, and
Puddle it was who had given the details for the captions that were to
appear with the pictures: 'If you choose to behave like a hermit crab I
shall use my own judgment about what I say!'

'I don't care a tinker's darn what you say! Now leave me in peace do,
Puddle.'

It was Puddle who answered the telephone calls: 'I'm afraid Miss Gordon
will be busy working--what name did you say? Oh, The Literary Monthly! I
see--well suppose you come on Wednesday.' And on Wednesday there was old
Puddle waiting to waylay the anxious young man who had been commanded to
dig up some copy about the new novelist, Stephen Gordon. Then Puddle had
smiled at the anxious young man and had shepherded him into her own
little sanctum, and had given him a comfortable chair, and had stirred
the fire the better to warm him. And the young man had noticed her
charming smile and had thought how kind was this ageing woman, and how
damned hard it was to go tramping the streets in quest of erratic,
unsociable authors.

Puddle had said, still smiling kindly: 'I'd hate you to go back without
your copy, but Miss Gordon's been working overtime lately, I dare not
disturb her, you don't mind, do you? Now if you could possibly make shift
with me--I really do know a great deal about her; as a matter of fact I'm
her ex-governess, so I really do know quite a lot about her.'

Out had come notebook and copying pencil; it was easy to talk to this
sympathetic woman: 'Well, if you could give me some interesting
details--say, her taste in books and her recreations, I'd be awfully
grateful. She hunts, I believe?'

'Oh, not now!'

'I see--well then, she did hunt. And wasn't her father Sir Philip Gordon
who had a place down in Worcestershire and was killed by a falling tree
or something? What kind of a pupil did you find Miss Gordon? I'll send
her my notes when I've worked them up, but I really would like to see
her, you know.' Then being a fairly sagacious young man: 'I've just read
The Furrow, it's a wonderful book!'

Puddle talked glibly while the young man scribbled, and when at last he
was just about going she let him out on to the balcony from which he
could look in Stephen's study.

'There she is at her desk! What more could you ask?' she said
triumphantly, pointing to Stephen whose hair was literally standing on
end, as is sometimes the way with youthful authors. She even managed
occasionally to make Stephen see the journalists herself:


4


Stephen got up, stretched, and went to the window. The sun had retreated
behind the clouds; a kind of brown twilight hung over the Embankment, for
the wind had now dropped and a fog was threatening. The discouragement
common to all fine writers was upon her, she was hating what she had
written. Last night's work seemed inadequate and unworthy; she decided to
put a blue pencil through it and to rewrite the chapter from start to
finish. She began to give way to a species of panic; her new book would
be a ludicrous failure, she felt it, she would never again write a novel
possessing the quality of The Furrow. The Furrow had been the result of
shock to which she had, strangely enough, reacted by a kind of unnatural
mental vigour. But now she could not react any more, her brain felt like
over-stretched elastic, it would not spring back, it was limp,
unresponsive. And then there was something else that distracted,
something she was longing to put into words yet that shamed her so that
it held her tongue-tied. She lit a cigarette and when it was finished
found another and kindled it at the stump.

'Stop embroidering that curtain, for God's sake, Puddle. I simply can't
stand the sound of your needle; it makes a booming noise like a drum
every time you prod that tightly stretched linen.'

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 kind of spiritual
dryness. This new book is going to be a failure, sometimes I think I'd
better destroy it.' She began to pace up and down the room, dull-eyed yet
tense as a tightly-drawn bow string.

'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 much moved by this
sudden depression, she had grown quite accustomed to these literary
moods, yet she looked a little more closely at Stephen 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's the matter
with you?' And then very gently: Stephen, come here and sit down by me,
please, I must know what's the matter.'

Stephen obeyed as though once again they two were back in the old Morton
schoolroom, then she suddenly buried her face in her hands: 'I don't want
to tell you--why must I, Puddle?'

'Because,' said Puddle, 'I've a right to know; your career's very dear to
me, Stephen.'

Then suddenly Stephen could not resist the blessed relief of confiding in
Puddle once more, of taking this great new trouble to the faithful and
wise little grey-haired woman whose hand had been stretched out to save
in the past. Perhaps yet again that hand might find the strength that was
needful to save her.

Not looking at Puddle, she began to talk quickly: 'There's something I've
been wanting to tell you, Puddle--it's about my work, there's something
wrong with it. I mean that my work could be much more vital; I feel it, I
know it, I'm holding it back in some way, there's something I'm always
missing. Even in Time Furrow I feel I missed something--I know it was
fine, but it wasn't complete because I'm not complete and I never shall
be--can't you understand? I'm not complete...' She paused, unable to find
the words she wanted, then blundered on again blindly: 'There's a great
chunk of life that I've never known, and I want to know it, I ought to
know it if I'm to become a really fine writer. There's the greatest thing
perhaps in the world, and I've missed it--that's what's so awful, Puddle,
to know that it exists everywhere, all round me, to be constantly near it
yet always held back--to feel that the poorest people in the streets, the
most ignorant people, know more than I do. And I dare to take up my pen
and write, knowing less than these poor men and women in the street! Why
haven't I got a right to it, Puddle? Can't you understand that I'm strong
and young, so that sometimes this thing that I'm missing torments me, so
that I can't concentrate on my work any more? Puddle, help me--you were
young yourself once.'

'Yes, Stephen--a long time ago I was young...

'But can't you remember back for my sake?' And now her voice sounded
almost angry in her distress: 'It's unfair, it's unjust. Why should I
live in this great isolation of spirit and body--why should I, why? Why
have I been afflicted with a body that must never be indulged, that must
always be repressed until it grows much stronger than my spirit because
of this unnatural repression? What have I done to be so cursed? And now
it's attacking my holy of holies, my work--I shall never be a great
writer because of my maimed and insufferable body--' She fell silent,
suddenly shy and ashamed, too much ashamed to go on speaking.

And there sat Puddle as pale as death and as speechless, having no
comfort to offer--no comfort, that is, that she dared to offer--while all
her fine theories about making good for the sake of those others; being
noble, courageous, patient, honourable, physically pure, enduring because
it was right to endure, the terrible birthright of the invert--all
Puddle's fine theories lay strewn around her like the ruins of some false
and flimsy temple, and she saw at that moment but one thing clearly--true
genius in chains, in the chains of the flesh, a fine spirit subject to
physical bondage. And as once before she had argued with God on behalf of
this sorely afflicted creature, so now she inwardly cried yet again to
the Maker whose will had created Stephen: 'Thine hands have made me and
fashioned me together and round about; yet Thou dost destroy me.' Then
into her heart crept a bitterness very hard to endure: 'Yet Thou dost
destroy me--'

Stephen looked up and saw her face: 'Never mind,' she said sharply, 'it's
all right, Puddle--forget it!'

But Puddle's eyes filled with tears, and seeing this, Stephen went to her
desk. Sitting down she groped for her manuscript: 'I'm going to turn you
out now, I must work. Don't wait for me if I'm late for dinner.'

Very humbly Puddle crept out of the study.



Chapter Twenty-nine


1


Soon after the New Year, nine months later, Stephen's second novel was
published. It failed to create the sensation that the first had created,
there was something disappointing about it. One critic described this as:
'A lack of grip,' and his criticism, on the whole, was a fair one.
However, the Press was disposed to be kind, remembering the merits of The
Furrow.

But the heart of the Author knoweth its own sorrows and is seldom
responsive to false consolation, so that when Puddle said: 'Never mind,
Stephen, you can't expect every book to be The Furrow--and this one is
full of literary merit.' Stephen replied as she turned away: I was
writing a novel, my dear, not an essay.'

After this they did not discuss it any more, for what was the use of
fruitless discussion? Stephen knew well and Puddle knew also that this
book fell far short of its author's powers. Then suddenly, that spring,
Raftery went very lame, and everything else was forgotten.

Raftery was aged, he was now eighteen, so that lameness in him was 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-hard bed that lay under
the tan of the Row had jarred his legs badly.

The vet shook his head and looked very grave: 'He's an aged horse, you
know, and of course in his youth you hunted him pretty freely--it all
counts. Everyone comes to the end of their tether, Miss Gordon. Yes, at
times I'm afraid it is painful.' Then, seeing Stephen's face: 'I'm
awfully sorry not to give a more cheerful diagnosis.'

Other experts arrived. Every good vet in London was consulted, including
Professor Hobday. No cure, no cure, it was always the same, and at times,
they told Stephen, the old horse suffered; but this she well knew--she
had seen the sweat break out darkly on Raftery's shoulders.

So one morning she went into Raftery's loosebox, and she sent the groom
Jim out of the stable, and she laid her check against the beast's neck,
while he turned his head and began to nuzzle. Then they looked at each
other very quietly and gravely, and in Raftery's eyes was a strange, new
expression--a kind of half-anxious, protesting wonder at this thing men
call pain: 'What is it, Stephen?'

She answered, forcing back her hot tears: 'Perhaps, for you, the
beginning, Raftery...'

After a while she went to his manger and let the fodder slip through her
fingers; but he would not eat, not even to please her, so she called the
groom back and ordered some gruel. Very gently she readjusted the
clothing that had slipped to one side, first the under-blanket, then the
smart blue rug that was braided in red--red and blue, the old stable
colours of Morton.

The groom Jim, now a thick-set stalwart young man, stared at her with
sorrowful understanding, but he did not speak; he was almost as dumb as
the beasts whom his life had been passed in tending--even dumber,
perhaps, for his language consisted of words, having no small sounds and
small movements such as Raftery used when he spoke with Stephen, and
which meant so much more than words.

She said: 'I'm going now to the station to order a horse-box for
to-morrow, I'll let you know the time we start, later. And wrap him up
well; put on plenty of clothing for the journey, please, he mustn't feel
cold.'

The man nodded. She had not told him their destination, but he knew it
already; it was Morton. Then the great clumsy fellow must pretend to be
busy with a truss of fresh straw for the horse's bedding, because his
face had turned a deep crimson, because his coarse lips were actually
trembling--and this was not really so very strange, for those who served
Raftery loved him.


2


Raftery stepped quietly into his horse-box and Jim with great deftness
secured the halter, then he touched his cap and hurried away to his
third-class compartment, for Stephen herself would travel with Raftery on
his last journey back to the fields of Morton. Sitting down on the seat
reserved for a groom she opened the little wooden window into the box,
whereupon Raftery's muzzle came up and his face looked out of the window.
She fondled the soft, grey plush of his muzzle. Presently she took a
carrot from her pocket, but the carrot was rather hard now for his teeth,
so she bit off small pieces and these she gave him in the palm of her
hand; then she watched him eat them uncomfortably, slowly, because he was
old, and this seemed so strange, for old age and Raftery went very ill
together.

Her mind slipped back and back over the years until it recaptured the
coming of Raftery--grey-coated and slender, and his eyes as soft as an
Irish morning, and his courage as bright as an Irish sunrise, and his
heart as young as the wild, eternally young heart of Ireland. She
remembered what they had said to each other. Raftery had said: 'I will
carry you bravely, I will serve you all the days of my life.' She had
answered: 'I will care for you night and day, Raftery--all the days of
your life.' She remembered their first run with the hounds together--she
a youngster of twelve, he a youngster of five. Great deeds they had done
on that day together, at least they had seemed like great deeds to
them--she had had a kind of fire in her heart as she galloped astride of
Raftery. She remembered her father, his protective look, so broad, so
kind, so patiently protective; and towards the end it had stooped a
little as though out of kindness it carried a burden. Now she knew whose
burden that back had been bearing so that it stooped a little. He had
been very proud of the fine 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
they were over he had turned round and smiled, as he had done in the days
when the impudent Collins had stretched his inadequate legs to their
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 its shadows, and now
after him, limping a little, went Raftery; Raftery with hollows above his
eyes and down his grey neck that had once been so firm; Raftery whose
splendid white teeth were now yellowed and 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 seemed glad of her hand:
'Don't be frightened, Raftery. Did that hurt you Raftery acquainted with
pain on the road that led into the shadows.

Presently the hills showed over on the left, but a long way off, and when
they came nearer they were suddenly very near on the right, so near that
she saw the white houses on them. They looked dark; a kind of still,
thoughtful darkness brooded over the hills and their low white houses. It
was always so in the later afternoons, for the sun moved across to the
wide Wye Valley--it would set on the western side of the hills, over the
wide Wye Valley. The smoke from the chimney-stacks bent downwards after
rising a little and formed a blue haze, for the air was heavy with spring
and dampness. Leaning from the window she could smell the spring, the
time of mating, the time of fruition. When the train stopped a minute
outside the station she fancied that she heard the singing of birds; very
softly it came but the sound was persistent--yes, surely, that was the
singing of birds...


3


They took Raftery in an ambulance from Great Malvern in order to spare
him the jar of the roads. That night he slept in his own spacious
loosebox, and the faithful Jim would not leave him that night; he sat up
and watched while Raftery slept in so deep a bed of yellow-gold straw
that it all but reached his knees when standing. A last inarticulate
tribute this to the most gallant horse, the most courteous horse that
ever stepped out of stable.

But when the sun came up over Bredon, flooding the breadth of the Severn
Valley, touching the slopes of the Malvern Hills that stand opposite
Bredon across the valley, gilding the old red bricks of Morton and the
weather-vane on its quiet stables, Stephen went into her father's study
and she loaded his heavy revolver.

Then they led Raftery out and into the morning; they led him with care to
the big north paddock and stood him beside the mighty hedge that had set
the seal on his youthful valour. Very still he stood with the sun on his
flanks, the groom, Jim, holding the bridle.

Stephen said: 'I'm going to send you away, a long way away, and I've
never left you except for a little while since you came when I was a
child and you were quite young--but I'm going to send you a long way away
because of your pain. Raftery, this is death; and beyond, they say,
there's no more suffering.' She paused, then spoke in a voice so low that
the groom could not hear her: 'Forgive me, Raftery.'

And Raftery stood there looking at Stephen, and his eyes were as soft as
an Irish morning, yet as brave as the eyes that looked into his. Then it
seemed to Stephen that he had spoken, that Raftery had said: 'Since to me
you are God, what have I to forgive you, Stephen?'

She took a step forward and pressed the revolver high up against
Raftery's smooth, grey forehead. She fired, and he dropped to the ground
like a stone, lying perfectly still by the mighty hedge that had 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...' Then loud sobbing as
though some very young child had fallen down and hurt itself badly. And
there in a small, creaky, wicker bath-chair sat Williams, being bumped
along over the paddock by a youthful niece, who had come to Morton to
take care of the old and now feeble couple; for Williams had had his
first stroke that Christmas, in addition to which he was almost childish.
God only knew who had told him this thing; the secret had been very
carefully guarded by Stephen, who, knowing his love for the horse, had
taken every precaution to spare him. Yet now here he was with his face
all twisted by the stroke and the sobs that kept on rising. He was trying
to lift his half-paralysed hand which kept dropping back on to the arm of
the bath-chair; he was trying to get out of the bath-chair and run to
where Raftery lay stretched out in the sunshine; he was trying to speak
again, but his voice had grown thick so that no one could understand him.
Stephen thought that his mind had begun to wander, for now he was surely
not screaming 'Raftery' any more, but something that sounded like:
'Master!' and again, 'Oh, Master, Master!'

She said: 'Take him home,' for he did not know her; 'take him home. You'd
no business to bring him here at all--it's against my orders, Who told
him about it?'

And the young girl answered: 'It seemed 'e just knowed--it was 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 good to be
seein' you, Master--seems like a long while...' His voice was now clear
but exceedingly small, a small, far-away thing. If a doll had spoken, its
voice might have sounded very much as the old man's did at that moment.

Stephen bent over him. 'Williams, I'm Stephen--don't you know me? It's
Miss Stephen. You must go straight home and get back to bed--it's still
rather cold on these early spring mornings--to please me, Williams, you
must go straight home. Why, your hands are frozen!'

But Williams shook his head and began to remember. 'Raftery,' he mumbled,
'something's 'appened to Raftery.' And his sobs and his tears 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 'e carryin' on in
this wise. What will auntie say when she sees 'e all mucked up with
weepin', and yer poor nose all red and dir-ty? I'll be takin' e' 'ome as
Miss Stephen 'ere says. Now, uncle dear, do be qui-et!'

She lugged the bath-chair round with a jolt and trundled it, lurching,
towards the cottage. All the way back down the big north paddock Williams
wept and wailed and tried to get out, but his niece put one hefty young
hand on his shoulder; with the other she guided the lurching bath-chair.

Stephen watched them go, then she turned to the groom. 'Bury him here,'
she said briefly.


4


Before she left Morton that same afternoon, she went once more into the
large, bare stables. The stables were now completely empty, for Anna had
moved her carriage horses to new quarters nearer the coachman's cottage.

Over one loosebox was a warped oak board bearing Collin's studbook title,
'Marcus,' in red and blue letters; but the paint was dulled to a ghostly
grey by encroaching mildew, while a spider had spun a large, purposeful
web across one side of Collins' manger. A cracked, sticky wine bottle lay
on the floor; no doubt used at some time for drenching Collins, who had
died in a fit of violent colic a few months after Stephen herself had
left Morton. On the window-sill of the farthest loosebox stood a curry
comb and couple of brushes; the comb was being eaten by rust, the brushes
had lost several clumps of bristles. A jam pot of hoof-polish, now hard
as stone, clung tenaciously to a short stick of firewood which time had
petrified into the polish. But Raftery's loosebox smelt fresh and
pleasant with the curious dry, clean smell of new straw. A deep
depression towards the middle showed where his body had lain in sleep,
and seeing this Stephen stooped down and touched it for a moment. Then
she whispered: 'Sleep peacefully, Raftery.'

She could not weep, for a great desolation too deep for tears lay 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 passing away--no, not for so much as a
moment? She looked round her now at the empty stables, the unwanted,
uncared for stables of Morton. So proud they had been that were now so
humbled; and they had the feeling of all disused places that have once
teemed with life, they felt pitifully lonely. She closed her eyes so as
not to see them. Then the thought came to Stephen that this was the end,
the end of her courage and patient endurance--that this was somehow the
end of Morton. She must not see the place any more; she must, she would,
go a long way away. Raftery had gone a long way away--she had sent him
beyond all hope of recall--but she could not follow him over that
merciful frontier, for her God was more stern than Raftery's; and yet she
must fly from her love for Morton. Turning, she hurriedly left the
stables.


5


Anna was standing at the foot of the stairs. 'Are you leaving now,
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 you like him
buried?'

'In the large north paddock where he died--I've told Jim.'

'Very well, I'll see that they carry out your orders.' She hesitated, as
though suddenly shy of Stephen again, as she had been in the past; but
after a moment she went on quickly: 'I thought--I wondered, would you
like a small stone with his name and some sort of inscription on it, just
to mark the place?'

'If you'd care to put one--I shan't need any stone to remember.'

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.



Chapter Thirty



1


At an old-fashioned, Kensington luncheon party, not very long after
Raftery's death, Stephen met and renewed her acquaintance with Jonathan
Brockett, the playwright. Her mother had wished her to go to this
luncheon, for the Carringtons were old family friends, and Anna insisted
that from time to time her daughter should accept their invitations. At
their house it was that Stephen had first seen this young man, rather
over a year ago. Brockett was a connection of the Carringtons; had he not
been Stephen might never have met him, for such gatherings bored him
exceedingly, and therefore it was not his habit to attend them. But on
that occasion he had not been bored, for his sharp, grey eyes had lit
upon Stephen; and as soon as he well could, the meal being over, he had
made his way to her side and had remained there. She had found him
exceedingly easy to talk to, as indeed he had wished her to find him.

This first meeting had led to one or two rides in the Row together, since
they both rode early. Brockett had joined her quite casually one morning;
after which he had called, and had talked to Puddle as if he had come on
purpose to see her and her only--he had charming and thoughtful manners
towards all elderly people. Puddle had accepted him while disliking his
clothes, which were always just a trifle too careful; moreover she had
disapproved of his cuff-links--platinum links set with tiny diamonds. All
the same, she had made him feel very welcome, for to her it had been any
port in a storm just then--she would gladly have welcomed the devil
himself, had she thought that he might rouse Stephen.

But Stephen was never able to decide whether Jonathan Brockett attracted
or repelled her. Brilliant he could be at certain times, yet curiously
foolish and puerile at others; and his hands were as white and soft as a
woman's--she would feel a queer little sense 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 face was slightly sardonic and almost disconcertingly
clever; an inquisitive face too--one felt that it pried into everyone's
secrets without shame or mercy. It may have been genuine liking on his
part or mere curiosity that had made him persist in thrusting his
friendship on Stephen. But whatever it had been it had taken the form of
ringing her up almost daily at one time; of worrying her to lunch or dine
with him, of inviting himself to her flat in Chelsea, or what was still
worse, of dropping in on her whenever the spirit moved him. His work
never seemed to worry him at all, and Stephen often wondered when his
fine plays got written, for Brockett very seldom if ever discussed them
and apparently very seldom wrote them; yet they always appeared at the
'critical moment when their author had run short of money.

Once, for the sake of peace, she had dined with him in a species of
glorified cellar. He had just then discovered the queer little place down
in Seven Dials, and was very proud of it; indeed he was making it rather
the fashion among certain literary people. He had taken a great deal of
trouble that evening to make Stephen feel that she belonged to these
people by right of her talent, and had introduced her as 'Stephen Gordon,
the author of The Furrow.' But all the while he had secretly watched her
with his sharp and inquisitive eyes. She had felt very much at ease with
Brockett as they sat at their dimly-lit table, perhaps because her
instinct divined that this man would never require of her more than she
could give--that the most he would ask for at any time would be
friendship.

Then one day he had casually disappeared, and she heard that he had gone
to Paris for some months, as was often his custom when the climate of
London had begun to get on his nerves. He had drifted away like
thistledown, without so much as a word of warning. He had not said
good-bye nor had he written, so that Stephen felt that she had never
known him, so completely did he go out of her life during his sojourn in
Paris. Later on she was to learn, when she knew him better, that these
disconcerting lapses of interest, amounting as they did to a breach of
good manners, were highly characteristic of the man, and must of
necessity be accepted by all who accepted Jonathan Brockett.

And now here he was back again in England, and sitting next to Stephen at
the Carringtons' luncheon. And as though they had met but a few hours
ago, he took her up calmly just where he had left her.

'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 quiet as a
mouse.'

Oh, no, Brockett, please don't; I should know you were there and that
would disturb me.'

'I see. A new book?'

'Well, no--I'm trying to write some short stories; I've got a commission
from The Good Housewife.'

Sounds thrifty. I hope you're getting well paid.' Then after a rather
long pause: 'How's Raftery?'

For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quick intuition,
regretted his question. 'Not...not...' he stammered.

Yes,' she said slowly, 'Raftery's dead--he went lame. I shot him.' He was
silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, still without speaking,
pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by the look in his eyes, so
sorrowful it was, and so understanding. He had liked the old horse, for
he liked all dumb creatures. But Raftery's death could mean nothing to
him; yet his sharp, grey eyes had now softened with pity because she had
had to shoot Raftery.

She thought: 'What a curious fellow he is. At this moment I suppose he
actually feels something almost like grief--it's my grief he's
getting--and tomorrow, of course, he'll forget all about it.'

Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot of emotion
into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze a kind of emotional
beef-tea from all those with whom life brought him into contact--a strong
brew, and one that served to sustain and revivify his inspiration.


2


For ten days Stephen heard nothing more, of Brockett; then he rang up to
announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat that very same evening.

You'll get awfully little to eat,' warned Stephen, who was tired to 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 loaded like a
pack-mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he had spoilt his
new reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had oozed through a box
containing the lobster salad.

He thrust the box into Stephen's hands. 'Here, you take it--it's
dripping. Can I have a wash rag?' But after a moment he forgot the new
gloves. 'I've raided Fortnum & Mason--such fun--I do love eating things
out of cardboard boxes. Hullo, Puddle darling! I sent you a plant. Did
you get it? A nice little plant with brown bobbles. It smells good, and
it's got a ridiculous name like an old Italian dowager or something. Wait
a minute--what's it called? Oh, yes, a baroniait's so humble to have such
a pompous name! Stephen, do be careful--don't rock the lobster about like
that. I told you the thing was dripping--

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 the whole
thing; you leave it to me. I adore other people's kitchens.'

He was in his most foolish and tiresome mood--the mood when his white
hands made odd little gestures, when his laugh was too high and his
movements too small for the size of his broad-shouldered, rather gaunt
body. Stephen had grown to dread him in this mood; there was something
almost aggressive about it; it would seem to her that he thrust it upon
her, showing off like a child at a Christmas party.

She said sharply: 'If you'll wait, I'll ring for the maid.' But Brockett
bad already invaded the kitchen.

She followed, to find the cook looking offended.

'I want lots and lots of dishes,' he announced. Then unfortunately he
happened to notice the parlourmaid's washing, just back from the laundry.

'Brockett, what on earth are you doing?'

He had put on the girl's ornate frilled cap, and was busily tying 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 worst of
Jonathan Brockett, he could make you laugh in spite of yourself--when you
most disapproved you found yourself laughing.

The food he had brought was the oddest assortment; lobster, caramels,
pâté de foie gras, olives, a tin of rich-mixed biscuits and a Camembert
cheese that was smelling loudly. There was also a bottle of Rose's
lime-juice and another of ready-made cocktails. He began to unpack the
things one by one, clamouring for plates and entrée dishes. In the
process he made a great mess on the table by upsetting most of the
lobster salad.

He swore roundly. 'Damn the thing, it's too utterly bloody! It's ruined
my gloves, and now look at the table!' In grim silence the cook repaired
the damage.

This mishap appeared to have damped his ardour, for he sighed and removed
his cap and apron. 'Can anyone open this bottle of olives? And the
cocktails? Here, Stephen, you can tackle the cheese; it seems rather shy,
it won't leave its kennel.' In the end it was Stephen and the cook who
must do all the work, while Brockett sat down on the floor and gave them
ridiculous orders.


3


Brockett it was who ate most of the dinner, for Stephen was too overtired
to feel hungry; while Puddle, whose digestion was not what it had been,
was forced to content herself with a cutlet. But Brockett ate largely,
and as he did so he praised himself and his food between mouthfuls.

Clever of me to have discovered the pâté--I'm so sorry for the geese
though, aren't you, Stephen? The awful thing is that it's simply
delicious--I wish I knew the esoteric meaning of these mixed emotions!'
And he dug with a spoon at the side that appeared to contain the most
truffles.

From time to time he paused to inhale the gross little cigarettes he
affected. Their tobacco was black, their paper was yellow, and they came
from an unpropitious island where, as Brockett declared, the inhabitants
died in shoals every year of some tropical fever. He drank a good deal of
the Rose's lime-juice, for this strong, rough tobacco always made him
thirsty. Whisky went to his head and wine to his liver, so that on the
whole he was forced to be temperate; but when he got home he would brew
himself coffee as viciously black as his tobacco.

Presently he said with a sigh of repletion: 'Well, you two, I've
finished--let's go into the study.'

As they left the table he seized the mixed biscuits and the caramel
creams, for he dearly loved sweet things. He would often go out and buy
himself sweets in Bond Street, for solitary consumption.

In the study he sank down on to the divan. 'Puddle dear, do you mind if I
put my feet up? It's my new boot-maker, he's given me a corn on my right
little toe. It's too heart-breaking. It was such a beautiful toe,' he
murmured; 'quite perfect--the one toe without a blemish!'

After this he seemed disinclined to talk. He had made himself a nest with
the cushions, and was smoking, and nibbling rich-mixed biscuits, routing
about in the tin for his favourites. But his eyes kept straying across to
Stephen with a puzzled and rather anxious expression.

At last she said: 'What's the matter, Brockett? Is my necktie crooked?'

'No--it's not your necktie; it's something else.' He sat up abruptly. '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 that Puddle put
down her embroidery. 'You listen to me, you, Stephen Gordon. Your last
book was inexcusably bad. It was no more like what we all expected, had a
right to expect of you after The Furrow, than that plant I sent Puddle is
like an oak tree--I won't even compare it to that little plant, for the
plant's alive; your book isn't. Oh, I don't mean to say that it's not
well written; it's well written because you're just a born writer--you
feel words, you've a perfect ear for balance, and a 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. And this time you've hung the
dress on a dummy--a dummy can't stir our emotions, Stephen. I was talking
to Ogilvy only last night. He gave you a good review, he told me, because
he's got such a respect for your talent that he didn't want to put on the
damper. He's like that--too merciful I always think--they've all been too
merciful to you, my dear. They ought to have literally skinned you
alive--that might have helped to show you your danger. My God! and you
wrote a thing like The 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 it mustn't go on--we've got to do
something, quickly.'

He paused, and she stared at him in amazement. Until now she had never
seen this side of Brockett, the side of the man that belonged to his art,
to all art--the one thing in life he respected.

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 my work?' for
she realized that he had been speaking the stark, bitter truth; that
indeed she had needed no one to tell her that her last book had been
altogether unworthy--a poor, lifeless thing, having no health in it.

He considered. 'It's a difficult question, Stephen. Your own temperament
is so much against you. You're so strong in some ways and yet so
timid--such a mixture--and you're terribly frightened of life. Now why?
You must try to stop being frightened, to stop hiding your head. You need
life, you need people. People are 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 in those
words--but something very like it.'

'Then your father must have been a sensible man,' smiled Brockett. '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 real change. Why not go abroad somewhere?
Get right away for a bit from your England. You'll probably write it a
damned sight better when you're far enough off to see the perspective.
Start with Paris--it's an excellent jumping-off place. Then you might go
across 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 about people in
Paris. You ought to know Valérie Seymour, for instance. She's very good
fun and a perfect darling; I'm sure you'd like her, every one does. Her
parties are a kind of human bran-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 worth while to go to her parties. Oh, but good Lord, there are so
many things that stimulate one in Paris.'

He talked on about Paris for a little while longer, then he got up to go.
'Well, good-bye, my dears, I'm off. I've given myself indigestion. And do
look at Puddle, she's blind with fury; I believe 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 sounded cold.


4


After he had gone they stared at each other, then Stephen said, What a
queer revelation. Who would have thought that Brockett could get so
worked up? His moods are kaleidoscopic.' She was purposefully forcing
herself to speak lightly.

But Puddle was angry, bitterly angry. Her pride was wounded to the 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 of your work, they all
are. They're a mean-minded lot, these writing people.'

And looking at her Stephen thought sadly, She's tired--I'm wearing her
out in my service. A few years ago she'd never have tried to deceive me
like this--she's losing courage.' Aloud she 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 been feeling slack lately, and it's told on my writing--I
suppose it was bound to.' Then the merciful lie, 'But I'm not a bit
frightened!'


5


Stephen rested her head on her hand as she sat at her desk--it was well
past midnight. She was heartsick as only a writer can be whose day has
been spent in useless labour. All that she had written that day she would
destroy, and now it was well past midnight. She turned, looking wearily
round the study, and it came upon her with a slight sense of shock that
she was seeing this room for the very first time, and that everything in
it was abnormally ugly. The flat had been furnished when her mind had
been too much afflicted to care in the least what she bought, and now all
her possessions seemed clumsy or puerile, from the small, foolish chairs
to the large, roll-top desk there was nothing personal about any of them.
How had she endured this room for so long? Had she really written a fine
book in it? Had she sat in it evening after evening and come back to it
morning after morning t Then she must have been blind indeed--what a
place for any author to work in! She had taken nothing with her from
Morton but the 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 ancient and
honoured possessions.

Morton--so quietly perfect a thing, yet the thing of all others that she
must fly from, that she must forget; but she could not forget it in these
surroundings; they reminded by contrast. Curious what Brockett had said
that evening about putting the sea between herself and England...In view
of her own half-formed plan to do so, his words had come as a kind of
echo of her thoughts; it was almost as though he had peeped through a
secret keyhole into her mind, had been spying upon her trouble. By what
right did this curious man spy upon her--this man with the soft, white
hands of a woman, with the movements befitting those soft, white hands,
yet so ill-befitting the rest of his body? By no right; and how much had
the creature found out when his eye had been pressed to that secret
keyhole? Clever--Brackett was fiendishly clever--all his whims and his
foibles could not disguise it. His face gave him away, a hard, clever
face with sharp eyes that were glued to other people's keyholes. That was
why Brockett wrote such fine plays, such cruel plays; he fed his genius
on live flesh and blood. Carnivorous genius. Moloch, fed upon live flesh
and blood! But she, Stephen, had tried to feed her inspiration upon
herbage, the kind, green herbage of Morton. For a little while such food
had sufficed, but now her talent had sickened, was dying perhaps--or had
she too fed it on blood, her heart's blood when she had written The
Furrow If so, her heart would not bleed any more--perhaps it could
not--perhaps it was dry. A dry, withered thing; for she did not feel love
these days when she thought of Angela Crossby--that must mean that her
heart had died within her. A gruesome companion to have, a dead heart.

Angela Crossby--and yet there were times when she longed intensely to see
this woman, to hear her speak, to stretch out her arms and clasp them
around the woman's body--not gently, not patiently as in the past, but
roughly, brutally even. Beastly--it was beastly! She felt degraded. She
had no love to offer Angela Crossby, not now, only something that, lay
like a stain on the beauty of what had once been love. Even this memory
was marred and defiled, by herself even more than by Angela Crossby.

Came the thought of that unforgettable scene with her mother. 'I would
rather see you dead at my feet.' Oh, yes--very easy to talk about death,
but not so easy to manage the dying. 'We two cannot live together at
Morton...One of us must go, which of us shall it be?' The subtlety, the
craftiness of that question which in common decency could have but one
answer! Oh, well she had gone and would go even farther. Raftery was
dead, there was nothing to hold her, she was free--what a terrible thing
could be freedom. Trees were free when they were uprooted by the wind;
ships were free when they were torn from their moorings; men were free
when they were cast out of their homes--free to starve, free to perish of
cold and hunger.

At Morton there lived an ageing woman with sorrowful eyes now a little
dim from gazing for so long into the distance. Only once, since her gaze
had been fixed on the dead, had this woman turned it full on her
daughter; and then her eyes had been changed into something accusing,
ruthless, abominably cruel. Through looking upon what had seemed
abominable to them, they themselves had become an abomination. Horrible!
And yet how dared they accuse? What right had a mother to abominate the
child that had sprung from her own secret moments of passion? She the
honoured, the fulfilled, the fruitful, 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 to face
this terrible freedom. Like a vine that clings to a warm southern wall it
had clung to her father--it still clung to Morton. In the spring had come
gentle and nurturing rains, in the summer the strong and health-giving
sunshine, in the winter a deep, soft covering of snow--cold yet
protecting the delicate tendrils. All, all she had had. She had never
gone empty of love in the 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 been
able to indulge in it with honour. Still with honour, she had borne a
child to her mate--but a child who, unlike her, must go unfulfilled all
her days, or else live in abject dishonour. Oh, but a hard and pitiless
woman this mother must be for all her soft beauty; shamelessly finding
shame in her offspring. 'I would rather see you dead at my feet...' 'Too
late, too late, your love gave me life. Here am I the creature you made
through your loving; by your passion you created the thing that I am. Who
are you to deny me the right to love? But for you I need never have known
existence.'

And now there crept into Stephen's brain the worst torment of all, a
doubt of her father. He had known and knowing he had not told her; he had
pitied and pitying had not protected; he had feared and fearing had saved
only himself. Had she had a coward for a father? She sprang up and began
to pace the room. Not this--she could not face this new torment. She had
stained her love, the love of a lover--she dared not stain this one thing
that remained, the love of the child for the father. If this light went
out the engulfing darkness would consume her, destroying her entirely.
Man could not live by darkness alone, one point of light he must have for
salvation--one point of light. The most perfect Being of all had cried
out for light in His darkness--even He, the most perfect Being of all.
And then as though in answer to prayer, to some prayer that her trembling
lips had not uttered, came the memory of a patient, protective back,
bowed as though bearing another's burden. Came the memory of horrible,
soul-sickening pain: 'No--not that--something urgent--I want--to say. No
drugs--I know I'm--dying--Evans.' And again a heroic and tortured effort:
'Anna--it's Stephen--listen.' Stephen suddenly held out her arms to this
man who, though dead, was still her father.

But even in this blessed moment of easement, her heart hardened again at
the thought of her mother. A fresh wave of bitterness flooded her soul so
that the light seemed all but extinguished; very faintly it gleamed like
the little lantern on a buoy that is tossed by tempest. Sitting down at
her desk she found pen and paper.

She wrote: 'Mother, I am going abroad quite soon, but I shall not see you
to say good-bye, because I don't want to come back to Morton. These
visits of mine have always been painful, and now my work is beginning to
suffer--that I cannot allow; I live only for my work and so I intend to
guard it in future. There can now be no question of gossip or scandal,
for everyone knows that I am a writer and as such may have occasion to
travel. But in any case I care very little these days for the gossip of
neighbours. For nearly three years I have borne your yoke--I have tried
to be patient and understanding. I have tried to think that your yoke was
a just one, a just punishment, perhaps, for my being what I am, the
creature whom you and my father created; but now I am going to bear it 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 hour of great need you
utterly failed me; you turned me away like some unclean thing that was
unfit to live any longer at Morton. You insulted what to me seemed both
natural and sacred. I went, but now I shall not come back any more to you
or to Morton. Puddle will be with me because she loves me; if I'm saved
at all it is she who has saved me, and so for as long as she wishes to
throw in her lot with me I shall let her. Only one thing more; she will
send you our address from time to time, but don't write to me, Mother, I
am going away in order to forget, and your letters would only remind me
of 'Morton.'

She read over what she had written, three times, finding nothing at all
that she wished to add, no word of tenderness, or of regret. She felt
numb and then unbelievably lonely, but she wrote the address in her firm
handwriting: 'The Lady Anna Gordon,' she wrote, 'Morton Hall, Near
Upton-on-Severn.' And when she wept, as she presently must do, covering
her face with her large, brown hands, her spirit felt unrefreshed by this
weeping, for the hot, angry tears seemed to scorch her spirit. Thus was
Anna Gordon baptized through her child as by fire, unto the loss of their
mutual salvation.



Chapter Thirty-one


1


It was Jonathan Brockett who had recommended the little hotel in the Rue
St. Roch, and when Stephen and Puddle arrived one evening that June,
feeling rather tired and dejected, they found their sitting-room bright
with roses--roses for Puddle--and on the table two boxes of Turkish
cigarettes for Stephen. Brockett, they learnt, had ordered these things
by writing specially from London.

Barely had they been in Paris a week, when Jonathan Brockett turned up in
person: 'Hallo, my dears, I've come over to see you. Everything all
right? Are you being looked after?' He sat down in the only comfortable
chair and proceeded to make himself charming to Puddle. It seemed that
his flat in Paris being let, he had tried to get rooms at their hotel but
had failed, so had gone instead to the Meurice. 'But I'm not going to
take you to lunch there,' he told 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
and to pass on the left?' His voice sounded anxious. Stephen reassured
him good-humouredly, she knew that he was apt to be nervous in motors.

They lunched at the Hôtel des Reservoirs, Brockett taking great pains to
order special dishes. The waiters were zealous, they evidently knew him:
Oui, monsieur, tout de suite--a l'instant, monsieur!' Other clients were
kept waiting while Brackett was served, and Stephen could see that this
pleased him. All through the meal he talked about Paris with ardour, as a
lover might talk of a mistress.

'Stephen, I'm not going back for ages. I'm going to make you simply adore
her. You'll see, I'll make you adore her so much that you'll find
yourself writing like a heaven-born genius. There's nothing so
stimulating as love--you've got to have an affair with Paris!' Then
looking at Stephen rather intently, 'I suppose you're capable of falling
in love?'

She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his question, but she thought: 'He's
putting his eye to the keyhole. His curiosity's positively childish at
times,' for she saw that his face had fallen.

Oh, well, if you don't want to tell me--' he grumbled.

'Don't be silly! There's nothing to tell,' smiled Stephen. But she made a
mental note to be careful. Brockett's curiosity was always most dangerous
when apparently merely childish.

With quick tact he dropped the personal note. No good trying to force her
to confide, he decided, she was too damn clever to give herself away,
especially before the watchful old Puddle. He sent for 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's another
mistake, I ordered two portions of potatoes, not three; I do wish to God
you'd be careful!' When Brockett felt cross he always felt mean. 'Correct
this at once, it's disgusting!' he said rudely. Stephen sighed, and
hearing her Brockett looked up unabashed: 'Well, why pay for what we've
not ordered?' Then he suddenly found his temper again and left a very
large tip for the waiter.


2


There is nothing more difficult to attain to than the art of being a
perfect guide. Such an art, indeed, requires a real artist, one who has a
keen perception for contrasts, and an eye for the large effects rather
than for details, above all one possessed of imagination; and Brockett,
when he chose, could be such a guide.

Having waved the professional guides to one side, he himself took them
through a part of the palace, and his mind re-peopled the place for
Stephen so that she seemed to see the glory of the dancers led by the
youthful Roi Soleil; seemed to hear the rhythm of the throbbing violins,
and the throb of the rhythmic dancing feet as they beat down the length
of the Galerie des Glaces; seemed to see those other mysterious dancers
who followed step by step, in the long line of mirrors. But most
skilfully of all did he recreate for her the image of the luckless queen
who came after; as though for some reason this unhappy woman must appeal
in a personal way to Stephen. And true it was that the small, humble
rooms which the queen had chosen out of all that vast palace, moved
Stephen profoundly--so desolate they seemed, so full of unhappy thoughts
and emotions that were even now only half forgotten.

Brockett pointed to the simple garniture on the mantelpiece of the little
salon, then he looked at Stephen: 'Madame de Lamballe gave those to the
queen,' he murmured softly.

She nodded, only vaguely apprehending his meaning.

Presently they followed him out into the gardens and stood looking across
the Tapis Vert that stretches its quarter mile of greenness 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 were rowed 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 get tired 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 rests amid the
great silence of the years that have long lain upon the dead hearts of
its lovers; and from there to the Hameau, built by the queen for a
whim--the tactless and foolish whim of a tactless and foolish but loving
woman--by the queen who must play at being a peasant, at a time when her
downtrodden peasants were starving. The cottages were badly in need of
repair; a melancholy spot it looked, this Hameau, in spite of the birds
that sang in its trees and the golden glint of the afternoon sunshine.

On the drive back to Paris they were all very silent. Puddle was feeling
too tired to talk, and Stephen was oppressed by a sense of sadness--the
vast and rather beautiful sadness that may come to us when we have looked
upon beauty, the sadness that aches in the heart of Versailles. Brockett
was content to sit opposite Stephen on the hard little let-down seat of
her motor. He might have been comfortable next to the driver, but instead
he preferred to sit opposite Stephen, and he too was silent,
surreptitiously watching 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 the Conciergerie. It's
very enlightening--cause and effect.'

At that moment Stephen disliked him intensely. All the same he had
stirred her imagination.


3


In the weeks that followed, Brockett showed Stephen just as much of Paris
as he wished her to see, and this principally consisted of the tourist's
Paris. Into less simple pastures he would guide her later on, always
provided that his interest lasted. For the present, however, he
considered it wiser to tread delicately like Agag. The thought of this
girl had begun to obsess him to a very unusual extent. He who had prided
himself on his skill in ferreting out other people's secrets, was
completely baffled by this youthful abnormal. That she was abnormal he
had no doubt whatever, but what he was keenly anxious to find out was
just how her own abnormality struck her--he felt pretty sure that she
worried about it. And he genuinely liked her. Unscrupulous he might be in
his vivisection of men and women; cynical too when it came to his
pleasures, himself an invert, secretly hating the world which he knew
hated him in secret; and yet in his way he felt sorry for Stephen, and
this amazed him, for Jonathan Brockett had long ago, as he thought, done
with pity. But his pity was a very poor thing at best, it would never
defend and never protect her; it would always go down before any new
whim, and his whim at the moment was to keep her in Paris.

All unwittingly Stephen played into his hands, while having no illusions
about him. He represented a welcome distraction that helped her to keep
her thoughts off England. And because under Brockett's skilful guidance
she developed a fondness for the beautiful city, she felt tolerant of him
at moments, almost grateful she felt, grateful too towards Paris. And
Puddle also felt grateful.

The strain of the sudden complete rupture with Morton had told on the
faithful little grey woman. She would scarcely have known how to counsel
Stephen had the girl come to her and asked for her counsel. Sometimes she
would lie awake now at nights thinking of that ageing and unhappy mother
in the great silent house, and then would come pity, the old pity that
had come in the past for Anna--she would pity until she remembered
Stephen. Then Puddle would try to think very calmly, to keep the brave
heart that had never failed her, to keep her strong faith in Stephen's
future--only now there were days when she felt almost old, when she
realized that indeed she was ageing. When Anna would write her a calm,
friendly letter, but with never so much as a mention of Stephen, she
would feel afraid, yes, afraid of this woman, and at moments almost
afraid of Stephen. For none might know from those guarded letters what
emotions lay in the heart of their writer; and none might know from
Stephen's set face when she recognized the writing, what lay in her
heart. She would turn away, asking no questions about Morton.

Oh, yes, Puddle felt old and actually frightened, both of which
sensations she deeply resented; so being what she was, an indomitable
fighter, she thrust out her chin and ordered a tonic. She struggled along
through the labyrinths of Paris beside the untiring Stephen and Brockett;
through the galleries of the Luxembourg and the Louvre; up the Eiffel
Tower--in a lift, thank heaven; down the Rue de la Paix, up the hill to
Montmartre--sometimes in the car but quite often on foot, for Brockett
wished Stephen to learn her Paris--and as likely as not, ending up with
rich food that disagreed badly with the tired Puddle. In the restaurants
people would stare at Stephen, and although the girl would pretend not to
notice, Puddle would know that in spite of her calm, Stephen was inwardly
feeling resentful, was inwardly feeling embarrassed and awkward. And then
because she was tired, Puddle too would feel awkward when she noticed
those people staring.

Sometimes Puddle must really give up and rest, in spite of the aggressive
chin and the tonic. Then all alone in the Paris hotel, she would suddenly
grow very homesick for England--absurd of course, and yet there it was,
she would feel the sharp tug of England. At such moments she would long
for ridiculous things; a penny bun in the train at Dover; the good red
faces of English porters--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 ridiculous things, Puddle
would feel the sharp tug of England.

And one evening her weary mind must switch back to the earliest days of
her friendship with Stephen. What a lifetime ago it seemed since the days
when a lanky colt of a girl of fourteen had been licked into shape in the
schoolroom at Morton. She could hear her own words: 'You've forgotten
something, Stephen; the books can't walk to the bookcase, but you can, so
suppose that you take them with you,' and then: 'Even my brain won't
stand your complete lack of method.' Stephen fourteen--that was twelve
years ago. In those years she, Puddle, had grown very tired, tired with
trying to see some way out, some way of escape, of fulfilment for
Stephen. And always they seemed to be toiling, they two, down an endless
road that had no turning; she an ageing woman herself unfulfilled;
Stephen still young and as yet still courageous--but the day would come
when her youth would fail, and her courage, because of that endless
toiling.

She thought of Brockett, Jonathan Brockett, surely an unworthy companion
for Stephen; a thoroughly vicious and cynical man, a dangerous one too
because he was brilliant. Yet she, Puddle, was actually grateful to this
man; so dire were their straits that she was grateful to Brockett. Then
came the remembrance of that other man, Martin Hallam--she had had such
high hopes. He had been very simple and honest and good--Puddle felt that
there was much to be said for goodness. But for such as Stephen men like
Martin 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 was honourable and courageous;
she was steadfast in friendship and selfless in loving; intolerable to
think that her only companions must be men and women like Jonathan
Brockett--and yet--after all what else? What remained? Loneliness, or
worse still, far worse because it so deeply degraded the spirit, a life
of perpetual subterfuge, of guarded opinions and guarded actions, of lies
of omission if not of speech, of becoming an accomplice in the world's
injustice by maintaining at all times a judicious silence, making and
keeping the friends one respected, on false pretences, because if they
knew they would turn aside, even the friends one respected.

Puddle abruptly controlled her thoughts; this was no way to be helpful to
Stephen. Sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof. Getting up she
went into her bedroom where she bathed her face and tidied her hair.

'I look scarcely human,' she thought ruefully, as she stared at her own
reflection in the glass; and indeed at that moment she looked more than
her age.


4


It was not until nearly the middle of July that Brockett took Stephen to
Valérie Seymour's. Valérie had been away for some time, and was even now
only passing through Paris en route for her villa at St. Tropez.

As they drove to her apartment on the Quai Voltaire, Brockett began to
extol their hostess, praising her wit, her literary talent. She wrote
delicate satires and charming sketches of Greek maeurs--the latter were
very outspoken, but then Valérie's life was very outspoken--she was, said
Brockett, a kind of pioneer who would probably go down to history. Most
of her sketches were written in French, for among other things Valérie
was bilingual; she was also quite rich, an American uncle had had the
foresight to leave her his fortune; she was also quite young, being just
over thirty, and according to Brockett, good-looking. She lived her life
in great calmness of spirit, for nothing worried and few things
distressed her. She was firmly convinced that in this ugly age one should
strive to the top of one's bent after beauty. But Stephen might find her
a bit of a free-lance, she was libre penseuse when it came to the heart;
her love affairs would fill quite three volumes, even after they had been
expurgated. Great men had loved her, great writers had written about her,
one had died, it was said, because she refused him, but Valérie was not
attracted to men--yet as Stephen would see if she went to her parties,
she had many devoted friends among men. In this respect she was almost
unique, being what she was, for men did not resent her. But then of
course all intelligent people realized that she was a creature apart, as
would Stephen the moment she met her.

Brockett babbled away, and as he did so his voice took on the effeminate
timbre that Stephen always hated and dreaded: 'Oh, my dear!' he exclaimed
with a high little laugh. 'I'm so excited about this meeting of yours,
I've a feeling it may be momentous. What fun!' And his soft, white hands
grew restless making their foolish gestures.

She looked at him coldly, wondering the while how she could tolerate this
young man--why indeed, she chose to endure him.


5


The first thing that struck Stephen about Valérie's flat was its large
and rather splendid disorder. There was something blissfully unkempt
about it, as though its mistress were too much engrossed in other affairs
to control its behaviour. Nothing was quite where it ought to have been,
and much was where it ought not to have been, while over the whole lay a
faint layer of dust--even over the spacious salon. The odour of
somebody's Oriental scent was mingling with the odour of tuberoses in a
sixteenth-century chalice. On a divan, whose truly regal proportions
occupied the best part of a shadowy alcove, lay a box of Fuller's
peppermint creams and a lute, but the strings of the lute were broken.

Valérie came forward with a smile of welcome. She was not beautiful nor
was she imposing, but her limbs were very perfectly proportioned, which
gave her a fictitious look of tallness. She moved well, with the quiet
and unconscious grace that sprang from those perfect proportions. Her
face was humorous, placid and worldly; her eyes very kind, very blue,
very lustrous. She was dressed all in white, and a large white fox skin
was clasped round her slender and shapely shoulders. For the rest she had
masses of thick fair hair, which was busily ridding itself of its
hairpins; one could see at a glance that it hated restraint, like the
flat it was in rather splendid disorder.

She said: 'I'm so delighted to meet you at last, Miss Gordon, do come and
sit down. And please smoke if you want to,' she added quickly, glancing
at Stephen's tell-tale fingers.

Brockett said: 'Positively, this is too splendid! I feel that you're
going to be wonderful friends.'

Stephen thought: 'So this is Valérie Seymour.'

No sooner were they seated than Brockett began to ply their hostess with
personal questions. The mood that had incubated in the motor was now
become extremely aggressive, so that he fidgeted about on his chair,
making his little inadequate gestures. 'Darling, you're looking perfectly
lovely! But do tell me, what have you done with Polinska? Have you
drowned her in the blue grotto at Capri? I hope so, my dear, she was such
a bore and so dirty! Do tell me about Polinska. How did she behave when
you got her to Capri? Did she bite anybody before you drowned her? I
always felt frightened; I loathe being bitten!'

Valé