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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 Raft