Book + 

II + 

XV + 

I + 

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

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

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

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

Very gravely she listened to the lawyer from London. “The place goes to your mother for her lifetime,” he told her; “on her death, of course, it becomes yours, Miss Gordon. But your father made a separate provision; when you’re twenty-one, in about two years time, you’ll inherit quite a considerable income.” + 

She said: “Will that leave enough money for Morton?” + 

“More than enough,” he reassured her, smiling. + 

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

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

“Morton needs me; Father would want me to stay, because he taught me to love it.” + 

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

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

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

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

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

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

August came and Williams got the hunters in from grass. Stephen would sometimes get up very early and help with the exercising of the horses, but in spite of this the old man’s heart misgave him, she seemed strangely averse to discussing the hunting. + 

He would think: “Maybe it’s ’er father’s death, but the instinct be pretty strong in ’er blood, she’ll be all right after ’er’s ’ad ’er first gallop.” And perhaps he might craftily point to Raftery. “Look, Miss Stephen, did ever you see such quarters? ’E’s a mighty fine doer, keeps ’imself fit on grass! I do believe as ’e does it on purpose; I believe ’e’s afraid ’e’ll miss a day’s huntin’.” + 

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

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

II + 

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

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

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

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

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

And again she thought grimly: “Two of us will be alone, with every man’s hand against us.” + 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stephen bent forward and patted his neck. “I’m sorry, sorry, Raftery,” she said gravely. + 

XVI + 

I + 

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

“It do be a scandal,” he was now forever saying, “and ’er such a splendid woman to ’ounds!” + 

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

“There, there, Arth-thur, you’ll soon be meetin’ the master; we be old me and you⁠—it can’t be long now.” + 

At which Williams would glare: “I’m not thinkin’ of ’eaven⁠—like as not there won’t be no ’orses in ’eaven⁠—I wants the master down ’ere at me stables. Gawd knows they be needin’ a master!” + 

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

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

“Oh, Raftery, I’m so unregenerate⁠—I minded so terribly seeing them go! Don’t let’s look at their empty boxes⁠—” + 

II + 

Another year passed and Stephen was twenty-one, a rich, independent woman. At any time now she could go where she chose, could do entirely as she listed. Puddle remained at her post; she was waiting a little grimly for something to happen. But nothing much happened, beyond the fact that Stephen now dressed in tailor-made clothes to which Anna had perforce to withdraw her opposition. Yet life was gradually reasserting its claims on the girl, which was only natural, for the young may not be delivered over to the dead, nor to grief that refuses consolation. She still mourned her father, she would always mourn him, but at twenty-one with a healthful body, there came a day when she noticed the sunshine, when she smelt the good earth and was thankful for it, when she suddenly knew herself to be alive and was glad, in despite of death. + 

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

It was outside the butcher’s that the dog fight started. The butcher owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had taken up his post in the doorway of the shop, as had long been his custom. Down the street, on trim but belligerent tiptoes, came a very small, snow-white West Highland terrier; perhaps he was looking for trouble, and if so he certainly got it in less than two minutes. His yells were so loud that Stephen stopped the car and turned round in her seat to see what was happening. The butcher ran out to swell the confusion by shouting commands that no one obeyed; he was trying to grasp his dog by the tail which was short and not at all handy for grasping. And then, as it seemed from nowhere at all, there suddenly appeared a very desperate young woman; she was carrying her parasol as though it were a lance with which she intended to enter the battle. Her wails of despair rose above the dog’s yells: + 

“Tony! My Tony! Won’t anyone stop them? My dog’s being killed, won’t any of you stop them?” And she actually tried to stop them herself, though the parasol broke at the first encounter. + 

But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, moreover, the Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out of the car⁠—it seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbed the old rip by the scruff of his neck, while the butcher dashed off for a bucket of water. The desperate young woman seized her dog by a leg; she pulled, Stephen pulled, they both pulled together. Then Stephen gave a punishing twist which distracted the Airedale, he wanted to bite her; having only one mouth he must let go of Tony, who was instantly clasped to his owner’s bosom. The butcher arrived on the scene with his bucket while Stephen was still clinging to the Airedale’s collar. + 

“I’m so sorry, Miss Gordon, I do hope you’re not hurt?” + 

“I’m all right. Here, take this grey devil and thrash him; he’s no business to eat up a dog half his size.” + 

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

“Better give me your dog and come across to the chemist, your hand will want dressing,” remarked Stephen. + 

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

“It’s quite all right now,” said Stephen quickly, very much afraid the young woman meant to cry. + 

“Will he live, do you think?” inquired a weak voice. + 

“Yes, of course; but your hand⁠—come along to the chemist.” + 

“Oh, never mind that, I’m thinking of Tony!” + 

“He’s all right. We’ll take him straight off to the vet when your hand’s been seen to; there’s quite a good one.” + 

The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had been bitten on two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by the pluck of this stranger, who set her small teeth and endured in silence. The hand bandaged they drove along to the vet, who was fortunately in and could sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his front paws, while his mistress held his head as best she could in her own maimed condition. She kept pressing his face against her shoulder, presumably so that he should not see the needle. + 

“Don’t look, darling⁠—you mustn’t look at it, honey!” Stephen heard her whispering to Tony. + 

At last he too was carbolicked and bandaged, and Stephen had time to examine her companion. It occurred to her that she had better introduce herself, so she said: “I’m Stephen Gordon.” + 

“And I’m Angela Crossby,” came the reply; “we’ve taken The Grange, just the other side of Upton.” + 

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

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

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

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

“I was glad to help you⁠—I’ll drive you back to The Grange, if you’ll let me?” + 

“Why, of course we’ll let you,” came the prompt answer. “Tony says he’ll be most grateful, don’t you, Tony?” Tony wagged his tail rather faintly. + 

Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the car, where he lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the seat beside herself, helping her carefully as she did so. + 

Presently Angela said: “Thanks to Tony I’ve met you at last; I’ve been longing to meet you!” And she stared rather disconcertingly at Stephen, then smiled as though something she saw had amused her. + 

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

“Mrs. Antrim, I think⁠—yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said you were such a wonderful rider but that now, for some reason, you’d given up hunting. Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a man. Do you fence like a man?” + 

“I don’t know,” muttered Stephen. + 

“Well, I’ll tell you whether you do when I’ve seen you; my father was quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lot about fencing in the States⁠—perhaps some day, Miss Gordon, you’ll let me see you?” + 

By now Stephen’s face was the colour of a beetroot, and she gripped the wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longing to turn round and look at her companion, the desire to look at her was almost overwhelming, but even her eyes seemed too stiff to move, so she gazed at the long dusty road in silence. + 

“Don’t punish the poor, wooden thing that way,” murmured Angela, “it can’t help being just wood!” Then she went on talking as though to herself: “What should I have done if that brute had killed Tony? He’s a real companion to me on my walks⁠—I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for Tony, he’s such a devoted, cute little fellow, and these days I’m kind of thrown back on my dog⁠—it’s a melancholy business walking alone, yet I’ve always been fond of walking⁠—” + 

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

But Angela did not answer. + 

III + 

Ralph Crossby was standing at the open doorway as the car swung up and came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was immaculately dressed in a grey tweed suit that by rights should have been shabby. But everything about him looked aggressively new, his very hair had a quality of newness⁠—it was thin brown hair that shone as though polished. + 

“I wonder if he puts it out with his boots,” thought Stephen, surveying him with interest. + 

He was one of those rather indefinite men, who are neither short nor tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, good-looking nor actually ugly. As his wife would have said, had anybody asked her, he was just “plain man,” which exactly described him, for his only distinctive features were his newness and the peevish expression about his mouth⁠—his mouth was intensely peevish. + 

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

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

He bowed, and pulling himself together: “Thank you for driving my wife home, Miss Gordon, it was most kind, I’m sure.” But he did not seem friendly, he kept glaring at Angela’s dog-bitten hand, and his tone, Stephen thought, was distinctly ungracious. + 

Getting out of the car she started her engine. + 

“Goodbye,” smiled Angela, holding out her hand, the left one, which Stephen grasped much too firmly. “Goodbye⁠—perhaps one day you’ll come to tea. We’re on the telephone, Upton 25; ring up and suggest yourself some day quite soon.” + 

“Thanks awfully, I will,” said Stephen. + 

IV + 

“Had a breakdown or something?” inquired Puddle brightly, as at three o’clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom. + 

“No⁠—but Mrs. Crossby’s dog had a fight. She got bitten, so I drove her back to The Grange.” + 

Puddle pricked up her ears: “What’s she like? I’ve heard rumours⁠—” + 

“Well, she’s not at all like them,” snapped Stephen. + 

There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, but consideration does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddle made a really bad break: “She’s pretty impossible, isn’t she, Stephen? They say he unearthed her somewhere in New York; Mrs. Antrim says she was a music-hall actress. I suppose you were obliged to give her a lift, but be careful, I believe she’s fearfully pushing.” + 

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

“Oh, Lord!” murmured Puddle, frowning. + 

V + 

That evening Stephen rang up The Grange. “Is that Upton 25? It’s Miss Gordon speaking⁠—no, no, Miss Gordon, speaking from Morton. How is Mrs. Crossby and how is the dog? I hope Mrs. Crossby’s hand isn’t very painful? Yes, of course I’ll hold on while you go and inquire.” She felt shy, yet unusually daring. + 

Presently the butler came back and said gravely that Mrs. Crossby had just seen the doctor and had now gone to bed, as her hand was aching, but that Tony felt better and sent his love. He added: “Madam says would you come to tea on Sunday? She’d be very glad indeed if you would.” + 

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

XVII + 

I + 

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

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

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

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

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

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

II + 

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

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

Anna shook her head: “No, I can’t do that, Stephen⁠—I go nowhere these days; you know that, my dear.” + 

But her voice was quite gentle, so Stephen said quickly: “Well then, may I invite Mrs. Crossby to Morton?” + 

Anna hesitated a moment, then she nodded: “I suppose so⁠—that is if you really wish to.” + 

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

“Miss Gordon?” he inquired. + 

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

She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long, open casements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple wood burnt on the hearth, in spite of the fact that the weather was warm, for Angela was always inclined to feel chilly⁠—the result, so she said, of the English climate. The fire gave off rather a sweet, pungent odour⁠—the odour of slightly damp logs and dry ashes. By way of a really propitious beginning, Tony barked until he nearly burst his stitches, so that Angela, who was lying on the lounge, had perforce to get up in order to soothe him. An extremely round bullfinch in an ornate, brass cage, was piping a tune with his wings half extended. The tune sounded something like “Pop goes the weasel.” At all events it was an impudent tune, and Stephen felt that she hated that bullfinch. It took all of five minutes to calm down Tony, during which Stephen stood apologetic but tongue-tied. She hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry at this very ridiculous anticlimax. + 

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

Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony now licked, so that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela had torn her dress, and this seemed to distress her⁠—she kept fingering the tear. + 

“Can I help?” inquired Stephen, hoping she’d say no⁠—which she did, quite firmly, after one look at Stephen. + 

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

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

And now Angela was speaking in her soft, Southern drawl: “So you’ve found your way here at last,” she was saying. And then, after a pause: “I’m so glad, Miss Gordon, do you know that your coming has given me real pleasure?” + 

Stephen said: “Yes⁠—oh, yes⁠—” Then fell silent again, apparently intent on the carpet. + 

“Have I dropped my cigarette ash or something?” inquired her hostess, whose mouth twitched a little. + 

“I don’t think so,” murmured Stephen, pretending to look, then glancing up sideways at the impudent bullfinch. + 

The bullfinch was now being sentimental; he piped very low and with great expression. “O, Tannebaum, O, Tannebaum, wie grün sind Deine Blätter” he piped, hopping rather heavily from perch to perch, with one beady black orb fixed on Stephen. + 

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

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

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

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

The butler arrived bringing in the tea. + 

“Sugar?” asked Angela. + 

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

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

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

“I don’t think your husband liked me.” + 

Angela sighed: “Very probably not. Ralph never likes the people I do; he objects to my friends on principle I think.” + 

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

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

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

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

III + 

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

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

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

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

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

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

IV + 

In the small panelled room that gave on to the herb-garden, Angela yawned as she stared through the window; then she suddenly laughed out loud at her thoughts; then she suddenly frowned and spoke crossly to Tony. + 

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

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

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

XVIII + 

I + 

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

From the house they made their way to the stables, and still grave, Stephen told her friend about Raftery. Angela listened, assuming an interest she was very far from feeling⁠—she was timid of horses, but she liked to hear the girl’s rather gruff voice, such an earnest young voice, it intrigued her. She was thoroughly frightened when Raftery sniffed her and then blew through his nostrils as though disapproving, and she started back with a sharp exclamation, so that Stephen slapped him on his glossy grey shoulder: “Stop it, Raftery, come up!” And Raftery, disgusted, went and blew on his oats to express his hurt feelings. + 

They left him and wandered away through the gardens, and quite soon poor Raftery was almost forgotten, for the gardens smelt softly of night-scented stock and of other pale flowers that smell sweetest at evening, and Stephen was thinking that Angela Crossby resembled such flowers⁠—very fragrant and pale she was, so Stephen said to her gently: + 

“You seem to belong to Morton.” + 

Angela smiled a slow, questioning smile: “You think so, Stephen?” + 

And Stephen answered: “I do, because Morton and I are one,” and she scarcely understood the portent of her words, but Angela, understanding, spoke quickly: + 

“Oh, I belong nowhere⁠—you forget I’m the stranger.” + 

“I know that you’re you,” said Stephen. + 

They walked on in silence while the light changed and deepened, growing always more golden and yet more elusive. And the birds, who loved that strange light, sang singly and then all together: “We’re happy, Stephen!” + 

And turning to Angela, Stephen answered the birds: “Your being here makes me so happy.” + 

“If that’s true, then why are you so shy of my name?” + 

“Angela⁠—” mumbled Stephen. + 

Then Angela said: “It’s just over three weeks since we met⁠—how quickly our friendship’s happened. I suppose it was meant, I believe in Kismet. You were awfully scared that first day at The Grange; why were you so scared?” + 

Stephen answered slowly: “I’m frightened now⁠—I’m frightened of you.” + 

“Yet you’re stronger than I am⁠—” + 

“Yes, that’s why I’m so frightened, you make me feel strong⁠—do you want to do that?” + 

“Well⁠—perhaps⁠—you’re so very unusual, Stephen.” + 

“Am I?” + 

“Of course, don’t you know that you are? Why, you’re altogether different from other people.” + 

Stephen trembled a little: “Do you mind?” she faltered. + 

“I know that you’re you,” teased Angela, smiling again, but she reached out and took Stephen’s hand. + 

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

“I don’t know. Go on holding like that to my hand⁠—hold it tighter⁠—I like the feel of your fingers.” + 

“Stephen, don’t be absurd!” + 

“Go on holding my hand, I like the feel of your fingers.” + 

“Stephen, you’re hurting, you’re crushing my rings!” + 

And now they were under the trees by the lakes, their feet falling softly on the luminous carpet. Hand in hand they entered that place of deep stillness, and only their breathing disturbed the stillness for a moment, then it folded back over their breathing. + 

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

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

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

“Stephen⁠—don’t!” + 

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

She broke off abruptly, and they stared at each other. + 

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Angela whispered. + 

And Stephen answered: “I know that I love you, and that nothing else matters in the world.” + 

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

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

XIX + 

I + 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the thought of Ralph would be past all bearing, so that she must reach out for Angela’s hand. Then, as likely as not, they would draw together and start kissing, and Stephen would be utterly undone by those painful and terribly sterile kisses. + 

“God!” she would mutter, “I want to get away!” + 

At which Angela might weep: “Don’t leave me, Stephen! I’m so lonely⁠—why can’t you understand that I’m only trying to be decent to Ralph?” So Stephen would stay on for an hour, for two hours, and the next day would find her once more at The Grange, because Angela was feeling so lonely. + 

For Angela could never quite let the girl go. She herself would be rather bewildered at moments⁠—she did not love Stephen, she was quite sure of that, and yet the very strangeness of it all was an attraction. Stephen was becoming a kind of strong drug, a kind of anodyne against boredom. And then Angela knew her own power to subdue; she could play with fire yet remain unscathed by it. She had only to cry long and bitterly enough for Stephen to grow pitiful and consequently gentle. + 

“Stephen, don’t hurt me⁠—I’m awfully frightened when you’re like this⁠—you simply terrify me, Stephen! Is it my fault that I married Ralph before I met you? Be good to me, Stephen!” And then would come tears, so that Stephen must hold her as though she were a child, very tenderly, rocking her backwards and forwards. + 

They took to driving as far as the hills, taking Tony with them; he liked hunting the rabbits⁠—and while he leapt wildly about in the air to land on nothing more vital than herbage, they would sit very close to each other and watch him. Stephen knew many places where lovers might sit like this, unashamed, among those charitable hills. There were times when a numbness descended upon her as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her cheek lightly, she would not respond, would not even look round, but would just go on staring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt queerly uplifted, and turning to the woman who leant against her shoulder, she said suddenly one day: + 

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

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

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

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

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

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

II + 

Two days later as they sat alone in the garden at Morton, Stephen turned to Angela abruptly: “I can’t go on like this, it’s vile somehow⁠—it’s beastly, it’s soiling us both⁠—can’t you see that?” + 

Angela was startled. “What on earth do you mean?” + 

“You and me⁠—and then Ralph. I tell you it’s beastly⁠—I want you to leave him and come away with me.” + 

“Are you mad?” + 

“No, I’m sane. It’s the only decent thing, it’s the only clean thing; we’ll go anywhere you like, to Paris, to Egypt, or back to the States. For your sake I’m ready to give up my home. Do you hear? I’m ready to give up even Morton. But I can’t go on lying about you to Ralph, I want him to know how much I adore you⁠—I want the whole world to know how I adore you. Ralph doesn’t understand the first rudiments of loving, he’s a nagging, mean-minded cur of a man, but there’s one thing that even he has a right to, and that’s the truth. I’m done with these lies⁠—I shall tell him the truth and so will you, Angela; and after we’ve told him we’ll go away, and we’ll live quite openly together, you and I, which is what we owe to ourselves and our love.” + 

Angela stared at her, white and aghast: “You are mad,” she said slowly, “you’re raving mad. Tell him what? Have I let you become my lover? You know that I’ve always been faithful to Ralph; you know perfectly well that there’s nothing to tell him beyond a few rather schoolgirlish kisses. Can I help it if you’re⁠—what you obviously are? Oh, no, my dear, you’re not going to tell Ralph. You’re not going to let all hell loose around me just because you want to save your own pride by pretending to Ralph that you’ve been my lover. If you’re willing to give up your home I’m not willing to sacrifice mine, understand that, please. Ralph’s not much of a man but he’s better than nothing, and I’ve managed him so far without any trouble. The great thing with him is to blaze a false trail, that distracts his mind, it works like a charm. He’ll follow any trail that I want him to follow⁠—you leave him to me, I know my own husband a darned sight better than you do, Stephen, and I won’t have you interfering in my home.” She was terribly frightened, too frightened to choose her words, to consider their effect upon Stephen, to consider anyone but Angela Crossby who stood in such dire and imminent peril. So she said yet again, only now she spoke loudly: “I won’t have you interfering in my home!” + 

Then Stephen turned on her, white with passion: “You⁠—you⁠—” she stuttered, “you’re unspeakably cruel. You know how you make me suffer and suffer because I love you the way I do; and because you like the way I love you, you drag the love out of me day after day⁠—Can’t you understand that I love you so much that I’d give up Morton? Anything I’d give up⁠—I’d give up the whole world. Angela, listen; I’d take care of you always. Angela, I’m rich⁠—I’d take care of you always. Why won’t you trust me? Answer me⁠—why? Don’t you think me fit to be trusted?” + 

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

“Angela, come very far away⁠—anywhere, only come with me soon⁠—tomorrow.” + 

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

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

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

XX + 

I + 

For three weeks they kept away from each other, neither writing nor making any effort to meet. Angela’s prudence forbade her to write: “Litera scripta manet”⁠—a good motto, and one to which it was wise to adhere when dealing with a firebrand like Stephen. Stephen had given her a pretty bad scare, she realized the necessity for caution; still, thinking over that incredible scene, she found the memory rather exciting. Deprived of her anodyne against boredom, she looked upon Ralph with unfriendly eyes; while he, poor, inadequate, irritable devil, with his vague suspicions and his chronic dyspepsia, did little enough to divert his wife⁠—his days, and a fairly large part of his nights as well, were now spent in nagging. + 

He nagged about Tony who, as ill luck would have it, had decided that the garden was rampant with moles: “If you can’t keep that bloody dog in order, he goes. I won’t have him digging craters round my roses!” Then would come a long list of Tony’s misdeeds from the time he had left the litter. He nagged about the large population of greenfly, deploring the existence of their sexual organs: “Nature’s a fool! Fancy procreation being extended to that sort of vermin!” And then he would grow somewhat coarse as he dwelt on the frequent conjugal excesses of greenfly. But most of all he nagged about Stephen, because this as he knew, irritated his wife: “How’s your freak getting on? I haven’t seen her just lately; have you quarrelled or what? Damned good thing if you have. She’s appalling; never saw such a girl in my life; comes swaggering round here with her legs in breeches. Why can’t she ride like an ordinary woman? Good Lord, it’s enough to make any man see red; that sort of thing wants putting down at birth, I’d like to institute state lethal chambers!” + 

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

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

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

II + 

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

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

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

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

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

III + 

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

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

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

There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and one evening she came to a great resolution. She would go to the girl and say: “I know. I know all about it, you can trust me, Stephen.” And then she would counsel and try to give courage: “You’re neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad; you’re as much a part of what people call nature as anyone else; only you’re unexplained as yet⁠—you’ve not got your niche in creation. But some day that will come, and meanwhile don’t shrink from yourself, but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do the best you can with your burden. But above all be honourable. Cling to your honour for the sake of those others who share the same burden. For their sakes show the world that people like you and they can be quite as selfless and fine as the rest of mankind. Let your life go to prove this⁠—it would be a really great lifework, Stephen.” + 

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

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

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

Then Stephen was pretty sure to turn contrite: “Puddle⁠—I’m a brute⁠—you’re so good to me always.” + 

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

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

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

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

Kind and loyal Puddle; she felt torn to shreds between those two, both so worthy of pity. And now in addition she must be tormented by memories dug out of their graves by Stephen⁠—Stephen, whose pain had called up a dead sorrow that for long had lain quietly and decently buried. Her youth would come back and stare into her eyes reproachfully, so that her finest virtues would seem little better than dust and ashes. She would sigh, remembering the bitter sweetness, the valiant hopelessness of her youth⁠—and then she would look at Stephen. + 

But one morning Stephen announced abruptly: “I’m going out. Don’t wait lunch for me, will you.” And her voice permitted of no argument or question. + 

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

IV + 

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

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

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

But Angela answered: “You had to come back⁠—because I’ve been wanting you, Stephen.” + 

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

Angela let her cry on for a while, then she lifted the tear-stained face and kissed it: “Oh, Stephen, Stephen, get used to the world⁠—it’s a horrible place full of horrible people, but it’s all there is, and we live in it, don’t we? So we’ve just got to do as the world does, my Stephen.” And because it seemed strange and rather pathetic that this creature should weep, Angela was stirred to something very like love for a moment: “Don’t cry any more⁠—don’t cry, honey,” she whispered, “we’re together; nothing else really matters.” + 

And so it began all over again. + 

V + 

Stephen stayed on to lunch, for Ralph was in Worcester. He came home a good two hours before teatime to find them together among his roses; they had followed the shade when it left the herb-garden. + 

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

“Yes, it’s me⁠—” she replied, not quite knowing what to say. + 

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

“Ralph, look here;” she called, “Mrs. John Laing’s got broken! We may be in time if we bind her with bass.” + 

“Oh, dear, has she?” He came hurrying up as he spoke, “Do go down to the shed and get me some, will you?” + 

She got him the bass and together they bound her, the pink-cheeked, full-bosomed Mrs. John Laing. + 

“There,” he said, as he snipped off the ends of her bandage, “that ought to set your leg for you, madam!” + 

Near by grew a handsome Frau Karl Druschki, and Stephen praised her luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure at the praise. He was like a father of beautiful children, always eager to hear them admired by a stranger, and she made a note of this in her mind: “He likes one to praise his roses.” + 

He wanted to talk about Frau Karl Druschki: “She’s a beauty! There’s something so wonderfully cool⁠—as you say, it’s the whiteness⁠—” Then before he could stop himself: “She reminds me of Angela, somehow.” The moment the words were out he was frowning, and Stephen stared hard at Frau Karl Druschki. + 

But as they passed from border to border, his brow cleared: “I’ve spent over three hundred,” he said proudly, “never saw such a mess as this garden was in when I bought the place⁠—had to dig in fresh soil for the roses just here, these are all new plants; I motored half across England to get them. See that hedge of York and Lancasters there? They didn’t cost much because they’re out of fashion. But I like them, they’re small but rather distinguished I think⁠—there’s something so armorial about them.” + 

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

“Historical, that’s what I mean,” he explained. “I like everything old, you know, except women.” + 

She thought with an inward smile of his newness. + 

Presently he said in a tone of surprise: “I never imagined that you’d care about roses.” + 

“Yes, why not? We’ve got quite a number at Morton. Why don’t you come over tomorrow and see them?” + 

“Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?” he inquired. + 

“I think so.” + 

“Mine don’t. I can’t make it out. This year, of course, they’ve been damaged by greenfly. Just come here and look at these standards, will you? They’re being devoured alive by the brutes!” And then as though he were talking to a friend who would understand him: “Roses seem good to me⁠—you know what I mean, there’s virtue about them⁠—the scent and the feel and the way they grow. I always had some on the desk in my office, they seemed to brighten up the whole place, no end.” + 

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

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

Angela came strolling across the lawn: “Come, you two,” she called gaily, “tea’s waiting in the hall!” + 

Stephen flinched: “Come, you two⁠—” the words jarred on and she knew that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph was out of earshot for a moment she whispered: + 

“You were clever about his roses!” + 

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

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

“I suppose so⁠—” he muttered; but he left the room slowly. + 

Then they looked at each other and drew close together, guiltily, starting at every sound: “Stephen⁠—be careful for God’s sake⁠—Ralph⁠—” + 

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

XXI + 

I + 

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

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

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

And Stephen would answer: “Yes, Mother, Puddle says everything’s all right.” As indeed it was⁠—at Morton. + 

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

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

“Any letters for me?” she would ask, trying hard to appear rather bored at the mere thought of letters. + 

“No, miss.” + 

“There’s another post in at seven?” + 

“Yes, miss.” + 

“Well⁠—thank you.” + 

She would wander away, leaving the porter to think to himself: “She don’t look like a girl as would have a young man, but you never can tell. Anyhow she seems anxious⁠—I do hope it’s all right for the poor young lady.” He grew to take a real interest in Stephen, and would sometimes talk to his wife about her: “Have you noticed her, Alice? A queer-looking girl, very tall, wears a collar and tie⁠—you know, mannish. And she seems just to change her suit of an evening⁠—puts on a dark one⁠—never wears evening dress. The mother’s still a beautiful woman; but the girl⁠—I dunno, there’s something about her⁠—anyhow I’m surprised she’s got a young man; though she must have, the way she watches the posts, I sometimes feel sorry for her.” + 

But her calls at his office were not always fruitless: “Any letters for me?” + 

“Yes, miss, there’s just one.” + 

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

But as she read, her heart would feel empty; something sharp like a physical pain would go through her: “Dear Stephen. I’m sorry I’ve not written before, but Ralph and I have been fearfully busy. We’re having a positive social orgy up here, I’m so glad he took this large shoot.⁠ ⁠…” That was the sort of thing Angela wrote these days⁠—perhaps because of her caution. + 

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

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

II + 

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

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

Yet sometimes as Anna and she sat together looking out at the misty Cornish coastline, hearing the dull, heavy throb of the sea and the calling of seagulls the one to the other⁠—as they sat there together it would seem to Stephen that her heart was so full of Angela Crossby, all the bitterness, all the sweetness of her, that the mother-heart beating close by her own must surely, in its turn, be stirred to beat faster, for had she not once sheltered under that heart? And so extreme was her need becoming, that now she must often find Anna’s cool hand and hold it a moment or two in her own, trying to draw from it some consolation. + 

But the touch of that cool, pure hand would distress her, causing her spirit to ache with longing for the simple and upright and honourable things that had served many simple and honourable people. Then all that to some might appear uninspiring, would seem to her very fulfilling and perfect. A pair of lovers walking by arm in arm⁠—just a quiet, engaged couple, neither comely nor clever nor burdened with riches; just a quiet, engaged couple⁠—would in her envious eyes be invested with a glory and pride passing all understanding. For were Angela and she those fortunate lovers, they could stand before Anna happy and triumphant. Anna, the mother, would smile and speak gently, tolerant because of her own days of loving. Wherever they went older folk would remember, and remembering would smile on their love and speak gently. To know that the whole world was glad of your gladness, must surely bring heaven very near to the world. + 

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

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

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

But instead she yawned: “It’s this air, it’s too woolly. I’ll be very glad when we get back to Morton. What’s the time? I’m almost asleep already⁠—let’s go up to our beds, don’t you think so, Stephen?” + 

It was like a cold douche; and a good thing too for the girl’s self-respect. She pulled herself together: “Yes, come on, it’s past ten. I detest this soft air.” And she flushed, remembering that weak bid for pity. + 

III + 

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

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

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

IV + 

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

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

Stephen said: “I think I’ll go and get some air, if you really don’t need me⁠—I’m feeling energetic!” + 

“Yes, do⁠—I don’t want you to stay in,” groaned Anna, who was longing for peace and an aspirin tablet. + 

Once out on the pavement Stephen hailed the first taxi she met; she was quite absurdly elated. “Drive to the Piccadilly end of Bond Street,” she ordered, as she jumped in and slammed the door. Then she put her head quickly out of the window: “And when you get to the corner, please stop. I don’t want you to drive along Bond Street, I’ll walk. I want you to stop at the Piccadilly corner.” + 

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

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

“My God! What indeed?” + 

She heard them and suddenly felt less elated as she made her way into the shop. + 

She said rather loudly: “I want a pearl ring.” + 

“A pearl ring? What kind, madam?” + 

She hesitated, unable now to describe what she did want: “I don’t quite know⁠—but it must be a large one.” + 

“For yourself?” And she thought that the man smiled a little. + 

Of course he did nothing of the kind; but she stammered: “No⁠—oh, no⁠—it’s not for myself, it’s for a friend. She’s asked me to choose her a large pearl ring.” To her own ears the words sounded foolish and flustered. + 

There was nothing in that shop that fulfilled her requirements, so once more she must face the guns of Bond Street. Now she quickened her steps and found herself striding; modifying her pace she found herself dawdling; and always she was conscious of people who stared, or whom she imagined were staring. She felt sure that the shop assistants looked doubtful when she asked for a large and flawless pearl ring; and catching a glimpse of her reflection in a glass, she decided that naturally they would look doubtful⁠—her appearance suggested neither pearls nor their price. She slipped a surreptitious hand into her pocket, gaining courage from the comforting feel of her cheque book. + 

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

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

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

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

At this, however, his customer flushed: “It wouldn’t go anywhere near my finger!” + 

“I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.” + 

“Thanks, but it’s not for me⁠—it’s for a friend.” + 

“Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves? Is her hand large or small do you think?” + 

Stephen answered promptly: “It’s a very small hand,” then immediately looked and felt rather self-conscious. + 

And now the old gentleman was openly staring: “Excuse me,” he murmured, “an extraordinary likeness.⁠ ⁠…” Then more boldly: “Do you happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died⁠—it must be about two years ago⁠—from some accident? I believe a tree fell⁠—” + 

“Oh, yes, I’m his daughter,” said Stephen. + 

He nodded and smiled: “Of course, of course, you couldn’t be anything but his daughter.” + 

“You knew my father?” she inquired, in surprise. + 

“Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In those days Sir Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearl studs while he was at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins⁠—a bit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at Oxford. But what may interest you is the fact that I made your mother’s engagement ring for him; a large half-hoop of very fine diamonds⁠—” + 

“Did you make that ring?” + 

“I did, Miss Gordon. I remember quite well his showing me a miniature of Lady Anna⁠—I remember his words. He said: ‘She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.’ You see, he’d known me ever since he was at Eton, that’s why he spoke of your mother to me⁠—I felt deeply honoured. Ah, yes⁠—dear, dear⁠—your father was young then and very much in love.⁠ ⁠…” + 

She said suddenly: “Is this pearl as pure as those diamonds?” + 

And he answered: “It’s without a blemish.” + 

Then she found her cheque book and he gave her his pen with which to write out the very large cheque. + 

“Wouldn’t you like some reference?” she inquired, as she glanced at the sum for which he must trust her. + 

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

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

XXII + 

I + 

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

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

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

After tea Stephen wandered about the house, touching first this, then that, with affectionate fingers. But presently she went off to the stables with sugar for Collins and carrots for Raftery; and there in his spacious, hay-scented loose box, Raftery was waiting for Stephen. He made a queer little sound in his throat, and his soft Irish eyes said: “You’re home, home, home. I’ve grown tired with waiting, and with wishing you home.” + 

And she answered: “Yes, I’ve come back to you, Raftery.” + 

Then she threw her strong arm around his neck, and they talked together for quite a long while⁠—not in Irish or English but in a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds and many small movements, that meant much more than words. + 

“Since you went I’ve discovered a wonderful thing,” he told her, “I’ve discovered that for me you are God. It’s like that some times with us humbler people, we may only know God through His human image.” + 

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

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

“Woa horse! Get up there! Stop kicking them boards!” And the groom hurried off to attend to the chestnut. + 

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

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

He looked up, and hastily twitched off his glasses: “Miss Stephen!” + 

“Sit still⁠—stop where you are, Williams.” + 

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

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

For Williams could never keep clear of the stables, and could never refrain from nagging when he got there. Deposed he might be, but not yet defeated even by old age, as grooms knew to their cost. The tap of his heavy oak stick in the yard was enough to send Jim and his underling flying to hide currycombs and brushes out of sight. Williams needed no glasses when it came to disorder. + 

“Be this place ’ere a stable or be it a pigsty, I wonder?” was now his habitual greeting. + 

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

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

“Yes,” said Williams dourly, as though she had spoken, “I’m reduced to readin’ about ’eavenly ’orses. A nice endin’ that for a man like me, what’s been in the service of Sir Philip Gordon, what’s ’ad ’is legs across the best ’unters as ever was seen in this county or any! And I don’t believe in them lion-headed beasts breathin’ fire and brimstone, it’s all agin nature. Whoever it was wrote them Revelations, can’t never have been inside of a stable. I don’t believe in no ’eavenly ’orses neither⁠—there won’t be no ’orses in ’eaven; and a good thing too, judgin’ by the description.” + 

“I’m surprised at you, Arth-thur, bein’ so disrespectful to The Book!” his wife reproached him gravely. + 

“Well, it ain’t no encyclopaedee to the stable, and that’s a sure thing,” grinned Williams. + 

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

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

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

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

But old Mrs. Williams shook her white head slowly: “No, Miss Stephen, ’e wouldn’t sit down in your presence. Beggin’ your pardon, it would ’urt Arth-thur’s feelin’s to be made to sit down; it would make ’im feel as ’is days of service was really over.” + 

“I don’t need to sit down,” declared Williams. + 

So Stephen wished them both a good night, promising to come again very soon; and Williams hobbled out to the path which was now quite golden from border to border, for the door of the cottage was standing wide open and the glow from the lamp streamed over the path. Once more she found herself walking on lamplight, while Williams, bareheaded, stood and watched her departure. Then her feet were caught up and entangled in shadows again, as she made her way under the trees. + 

But presently came a familiar fragrance⁠—logs burning on the wide, friendly hearths of Morton. Logs burning⁠—quite soon the lakes would be frozen⁠—“and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in the winter⁠ ⁠… and as we walk back we can smell the log fires long before we can see them, and we love that good smell because it means home, and our home is Morton⁠ ⁠… because it means home and our home is Morton.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Oh, intolerable fragrance of log fires burning! + 

XXIII + 

I + 

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

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

“It’s a terrible pity you dress as you do, my dear,” she remarked, with the manner of sixty, “a young girl’s so much more attractive when she’s soft⁠—don’t you think you could soften your clothes just a little? I mean, you do want to get married, don’t you! No woman’s complete until she’s married. After all, no woman can really stand alone, she always needs a man to protect her.” + 

Stephen said: “I’m all right⁠—getting on nicely, thank you!” + 

“Oh, no, but you can’t be!” Violet insisted. “I was talking to Alec and Roger about you, and Roger was saying it’s an awful mistake for women to get false ideas into their heads. He thinks you’ve got rather a bee in your bonnet; he told Alec that you’d be quite a womanly woman if you’d only stop trying to ape what you’re not.” Presently she said, staring rather hard: “That Mrs. Crossby⁠—do you really like her? Of course I know you’re friends and all that⁠—But why are you friends? You’ve got nothing in common. She’s what Roger calls a thorough man’s woman. I think myself she’s a bit of a climber. Do you want to be used as a scaling ladder for storming the fortifications of the county? The Peacocks have known old Crossby for years, he’s a wonderful shot for an ironmonger, but they don’t care for her very much I believe⁠—Alec says she’s man-mad, whatever that means, anyhow she seems desperately keen about Roger.” + 

Stephen said: “I’d rather we didn’t discuss Mrs. Crossby, because, you see, she’s my friend.” And her voice was as icy cold as her hands. + 

“Oh, of course if you’re feeling like that about it⁠—” laughed Violet, “no, but honest, she is keen on Roger.” + 

When Violet had gone, Stephen sprang to her feet, but her sense of direction seemed to have left her, for she struck her head a pretty sharp blow against the side of a heavy bookcase. She stood swaying with her hands pressed against her temples. Angela and Roger Antrim⁠—those two⁠—but it couldn’t be, Violet had been purposely lying. She loved to torment, she was like her brother, a bully, a devil who loved to torment⁠—it couldn’t be⁠—Violet had been lying. + 

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

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

II + 

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

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

III + 

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

Then came the actual day of arrival. Angela must be in London by now, she would certainly have travelled by the night express. She would catch the 12:47 to Malvern and then motor to Upton⁠—it was nearly twelve. It was afternoon. At 3:17 Angela’s train would arrive at Great Malvern⁠—it had arrived now⁠—in about twenty minutes she would drive past the very gates of Morton. Half-past four. Angela must have got home; she was probably having tea in the parlour⁠—in the little oak parlour with its piping bullfinch whose cage always stood near the casement window. A long time ago, a lifetime ago, Stephen had blundered into that parlour, and Tony had barked, and the bullfinch had piped a sentimental old German tune⁠—but that was surely a lifetime ago. Five o’clock. Violet Antrim had obviously lied; she had lied on purpose to torment Stephen⁠—Angela and Roger⁠—it couldn’t be; Violet had lied because she liked to torment. A quarter past five. What Was Angela doing now? She was near, just a few miles away⁠—perhaps she was ill, as she had not written; yes, that must be it, of course Angela was ill. The persistent, aching hunger of the eyes. Anger, what was it? A folly, a delusion, a weakness that crumbled before that hunger. And Angela was only a few miles away. + 

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

IV + 

She found Angela helping her maid to unpack; they appeared to be all but snowed under by masses of soft, inadequate garments. The bedroom smelt strongly of Angela’s scent, which was heavy yet slightly pungent. + 

She glanced up from a tumbled heap of silk stockings: “Hallo, Stephen!” Her greeting was casually friendly. + 

Stephen said: “Well, how are you after all these weeks? Did you have a good journey down from Scotland?” + 

The maid said: “Shall I wash your new crêpe de Chine nightgowns, ma’am? Or ought they to go to the cleaners?” + 

Then, somehow, they all fell silent. + 

To break this suggestive and awkward silence, Stephen inquired politely after Ralph. + 

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

Stephen studied her. Angela was not looking well, her mouth had a childish droop at the corners; there were quite new shadows, too, under her eyes, and these shadows accentuated her pallor. And as though that earnest gaze made her nervous, she suddenly bundled the stockings together with a little sound of impatience. + 

“Come on, let’s go down to my room!” And turning to her maid: “I’d rather you washed the new nightgowns, please.” + 

They went down the wide oak stairs without speaking, and into the little oak panelled parlour. Stephen closed the door; then they faced each other. + 

“Well, Angela?” + 

“Well, Stephen?” And after a pause: “What on earth made you send that absurd telegram? Ralph got hold of the thing and began to ask questions. You are such an almighty fool sometimes⁠—you knew perfectly well that I couldn’t come back. Why will you behave as though you were six, have you no common sense? What’s it all about? Your methods are not only infantile⁠—they’re dangerous.” + 

Then taking Angela firmly by the shoulders, Stephen turned her so that she faced the light. She put her question with youthful crudeness; “Do you find Roger Antrim physically attractive⁠—do you find that he attracts you that way more than I do?” She waited calmly, it seemed, for her answer. + 

And because of that distinctly ominous calm, Angela was scared, so she blustered a little: “Of course I don’t! I resent such questions; I won’t allow them even from you, Stephen. God knows where you get your fantastic ideas! Have you been discussing me with that girl Violet? If you have, I think it’s simply outrageous! She’s quite the most evil-minded prig in the county. It was not very gentlemanly of you, my dear, to discuss my affairs with our neighbours, was it?” + 

“I refused to discuss you with Violet Antrim,” Stephen told her, still speaking quite calmly. But she clung to her point: “Was it all a mistake? Is there no one between us except your husband? Angela, look at me⁠—I will have the truth.” + 

For answer Angela kissed her. + 

Stephen’s strong but unhappy arms went round her, and suddenly stretching out her hand, she switched off the little lamp on the table, so that the room was lit only by firelight. They could not see each other’s faces very clearly any more, because there was only firelight. And Stephen spoke such words as a lover will speak when his heart is burdened to breaking; when his doubts must bow down and be swept away before the unruly flood of his passion. There in that shadowy, firelit room, she spoke such words as lovers have spoken ever since the divine, sweet madness of God flung the thought of love into Creation. + 

But Angela suddenly pushed her away: “Don’t, don’t⁠—I can’t bear it⁠—it’s too much, Stephen. It hurts me⁠—I can’t bear this thing⁠—for you. It’s all wrong, I’m not worth it, anyhow it’s all wrong. Stephen, it’s making me⁠—can’t you understand? It’s too much⁠—” She could not, she dared not explain. “If you were a man⁠—” She stopped abruptly, and burst into uncontrollable weeping. + 

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

She said, grown suddenly passionless and gentle: “Tell me⁠—try to tell me what’s wrong, beloved. Don’t be afraid of making me angry⁠—we love each other, and that’s all that matters. Try to tell me what’s wrong, and then let me help you; only don’t cry like this⁠—I can’t endure it.” + 

But Angela hid her face in her hands: “No, no, it’s nothing; I’m only so tired. It’s been a fearful strain these last months. I’m just a weak, human creature, Stephen⁠—sometimes I think we’ve been worse than mad. I must have been mad to have allowed you to love me like this⁠—one day you’ll despise and hate me. It’s my fault, but I was so terribly lonely that I let you come into my life, and now⁠—oh, I can’t explain, you wouldn’t understand; how could you understand, Stephen?” + 

And so strangely complex is poor human nature, that Angela really believed in her feelings. At that moment of sudden fear and remorse, remembering those guilty weeks in Scotland, she believed that she felt compassion and regret for this creature who loved her, and whose ardent loving had paved the way for another. In her weakness she could not part from the girl, not yet⁠—there was something so strong about her. She seemed to combine the strength of a man with the gentler and more subtle strength of a woman. And thinking of the crude young animal Roger, with his brusque, rather brutal appeal to the senses, she was filled with a kind of regretful shame, and she hated herself for what she had done, and for what she well knew she would do again, because of that urge to passion. + 

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

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

They sat down close together. They were weary unto death, and Angela whispered: “Put your arms around me again⁠—but gently, because I’m so tired. You’re a kind lover, Stephen⁠—some times I think you’re almost too kind.” + 

And Stephen answered: “It’s not kindness that makes me unwilling to force you⁠—I can’t conceive of that sort of love.” + 

Angela Crossby was silent. + 

But now she was longing for the subtle easement of confession, so dear to the soul of woman. Her self-pity was augmented by her sense of wrongdoing⁠—she was thoroughly unstrung, almost ill with self-pity⁠—so that lacking the courage to confess the present, she let her thoughts dwell on the past. Stephen had always forborne to question, and therefore that past had never been discussed, but now Angela felt a great need to discuss it. She did not analyse her feelings; she only knew that she longed intensely to humble herself, to plead for compassion, to wring from the queer, strong, sensitive being who loved her, some hope of ultimate forgiveness. At that moment, as she lay there in Stephen’s arms, the girl assumed an enormous importance. It was strange, but the very fact of betrayal appeared to have strengthened her will to hold her, and Angela stirred, so that Stephen said softly: + 

“Lie still⁠—I thought you were fast asleep.” + 

And Angela answered: “No, I’m not asleep, dearest, I’ve been thinking. There are some things I ought to tell you. You’ve never asked me about my past life⁠—why haven’t you, Stephen?” + 

“Because,” said Stephen, “I knew that some day you’d tell me.” + 

Then Angela began at the very beginning. She described a Colonial home in Virginia. A grave, grey house, with a columned entrance, and a garden that looked down on deep, running water, and that water had rather a beautiful name⁠—it was called the Potomac River. Up the side of the house grew magnolia blossoms, and many old trees gave their shade to its garden. In summer the fireflies lit lamps on those trees, shifting lamps that moved swiftly among the branches. And the hot summer darkness was splashed with lightning, and the hot summer air was heavy with sweetness. + 

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

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

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

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

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

“Stephen, are you listening? I put up a fight, I swear it! I swear I put up a fight⁠—I was only nineteen when I got my first job⁠—nineteen’s not so awfully old, is it, Stephen?” + 

Stephen said: “Go on,” and her voice sounded husky. + 

“Oh, my dear⁠—it’s so dreadfully hard to tell you. The pay was rotten, not enough to live on⁠—I used to think that they did it on purpose, lots of the girls used to think that way too⁠—they never gave us quite enough to live on. You see, I hadn’t a vestige of talent, I could only dress up and try to look pretty. I never got a real speaking part, I just danced, not well, but I’d got a good figure.” She paused and tried to look up through the gloom, but Stephen’s face was hidden in shadow. “Well then, darling⁠—Stephen, I want to feel your arms, hold me closer⁠—well then, I⁠—there was a man who wanted me⁠—not as you want me, Stephen, to protect and care for me; God, no, not that way! And I was so poor and so tired and so frightened; why sometimes my shoes would let in the slush because they were old and I hadn’t the money to buy myself new ones⁠—try to think of that, darling. And I’d cry when I washed my hands in the winter because they’d be bleeding from broken chilblains. Well, I couldn’t stay the course any longer, that’s all.⁠ ⁠…” + 

The little gilt clock on the desk ticked loudly. Tick, tick! Tick, tick! An astonishing voice to come from so small and fragile a body. Somewhere out in the garden a dog barked⁠—Tony, chasing imaginary rabbits through the darkness. + 

“Stephen!” + 

“Yes, my dear?” + 

“Have you understood me?” + 

“Yes⁠—oh, yes, I’ve understood you. Go on.” + 

“Well then, after a while he turned round and left me, and I just had to drag along as I had done, and I sort of crocked up⁠—couldn’t sleep at night, couldn’t smile and look happy when I went on to dance⁠—that was how Ralph found me⁠—he saw me dance and came round to the back, the way some men do. I remember thinking that Ralph didn’t look like that sort of man; he looked⁠—well, just like Ralph, not a bit like that sort of man. Then he started sending me flowers; never presents or anything like that, just flowers with his card. And we had lunch together a good few times, and he talked about that other man who’d left me. He said he’d like to go out with a horsewhip⁠—imagine Ralph trying to horsewhip a man! They knew each other quite well, I discovered; you see, they were both in the hardware business. Ralph was out after some big contract for his firm, that was why he happened to be in New York⁠—and one day he asked me to marry him, Stephen. I suppose he was really in love with me then, anyhow I thought it was wonderful of him⁠—I thought he was very broad-minded and noble. Good God! He’s had his pound of flesh since; it gave him the hold over me that he wanted. We were married before we sailed for Europe. I wasn’t in love, but what could I do? I’d nowhere to turn and my health was crocking; lots of our girls ended up in the hospital wards⁠—I didn’t want to end up that way. Well, so you see why I’ve got to be careful how I act; he’s terribly and awfully suspicious. He thinks that because I took a lover when I was literally down and out, I’m likely to do the same thing now. He doesn’t trust me, it’s natural enough, but sometimes he throws it all up in my face, and when he does that, my God, how I hate him! But oh, Stephen, I could never go through it all again⁠—I haven’t got an ounce of fight left in me. That’s why, although Ralph’s no cinch as a husband, I’d be scared to death if he really turned nasty. He knows that, I think, so he’s not afraid to bully⁠—he’s bullied me many a time over you⁠—but of course you’re a woman so he couldn’t divorce me⁠—I expect that’s really what makes him so angry. All the same, when you asked me to leave him for you, I hadn’t the courage to face that either. I couldn’t have faced the public scandal that Ralph would have made; he’d have hounded us down to the ends of the earth, he’d have branded us, Stephen. I know him, he’s revengeful, he’d stop at nothing, that weak sort of man is often that way. It’s as though what Ralph lacks in virility, he tries to make up for by being revengeful. My dear, I couldn’t go under again⁠—I couldn’t be one of those apologetic people who must always exist just under the surface, only coming up for a moment, like fish⁠—I’ve been through that particular hell. I want life, and yet I’m always afraid. Every time that Ralph looks at me I feel frightened, because he knows that I hate him most when he tries to make love⁠—” She broke off abruptly. + 

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

“Stephen, say something⁠—say you don’t hate me!” + 

A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Stephen stared down into Angela’s face. It was marred by weeping; it looked almost ugly, splotched and reddened as it was by her weeping. And because of that pitiful, blemished face, with the pitiful weakness that lay behind it, the unworthiness even, Stephen loved her so deeply at that moment, that she found no adequate words. + 

“Say something⁠—speak to me, Stephen!” + 

Then Stephen gently released her arm, and she found the little white box in her pocket: “Look, Angela, I got you this for your birthday⁠—Ralph can’t bully you about it, it’s a birthday present.” + 

“Stephen⁠—my dear!” + 

“Yes⁠—I want you to wear it always, so that you’ll remember how much I love you. I think you forgot that just now when you talked about hating⁠—Angela, give me your hand, the hand that used to bleed in the winter.” + 

So the pearl that was pure as her mother’s diamonds were pure, Stephen slipped on to Angela’s finger. Then she sat very still, while Angela gazed at the pearl wide-eyed, because of its beauty. Presently she lifted her wondering face, and now her lips were quite close to Stephen’s, but Stephen kissed her instead on the forehead. “You must rest,” she said, “you’re simply worn out. Can’t you sleep if I keep you safe in my arms?” + 

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

XXIV + 

I + 

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

And because of those eyes with their constant menace, Stephen must play her conciliatory role; and this she must do in spite of his rudeness, for now he was openly rude and hostile. And he bullied. It was almost as though he took pleasure in bullying his wife when Stephen was present; her presence seemed to arouse in the man everything that was ill-bred, petty and cruel. He would make thinly-veiled allusions to the past, glancing sideways at Stephen the while he did so; and one day when she flushed to the roots of her hair with rage to see Angela humble and fearful, he laughed loudly: “I’m just a plain tradesman, you know; if you don’t like my ways, then you’d better not come here.” Catching Angela’s eye, Stephen tried to laugh too. + 

A soul-sickening business. She would feel degraded; she would feel herself gradually losing all sense of pride, of common decency, even, so that when she returned in the evening to Morton she would not want to look the old house in the eyes. She would not want to face those pictures of Gordons that hung in its hall, and must turn away, lest they by their very silence rebuke this descendant of theirs who was so unworthy. Yet sometimes it seemed to her that she loved more intensely because she had lost so much⁠—there was nothing left now but Angela Crossby. + 

II + 

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

III + 

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

Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly, and their youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable thing; the instinctive repulsion of two human bodies, the one for the other, which neither could help⁠—not now that those bodies were stirred by a woman. Then into this vortex of secret emotion would come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen to Roger and then at his wife, and his eyes would be red⁠—one never knew whether from tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque triangle for a moment, those three who must share a common desire. But after a little the two male creatures who hated each other, would be shamefully united in the bond of their deeper hatred of Stephen; and divining this, she in her turn would hate. + 

IV + 

It could not go on without some sort of convulsion, and that Christmas was a time of recriminations. Angela’s infatuation was growing, and she did not always hide this from Stephen. Letters would arrive in Roger’s handwriting, and Stephen, half crazy with jealousy by now, would demand to see them. She would be refused, and a scene would ensue. + 

“That man’s your lover! Have I gone starving only for this⁠—that you should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that letter!” + 

“How dare you suggest that Roger’s my lover! But if he were it’s no business of yours.” + 

“Will you show me that letter?” + 

“I will not.” + 

“It’s from Roger.” + 

“You’re intolerable. You can think what you please.” + 

“What am I to think?” Then because of her longing, “Angela, for God’s sake don’t treat me like this⁠—I can’t bear it. When you loved me it was easier to bear⁠—I endured it for your sake, but now⁠—listen, listen.⁠ ⁠…” Stark naked confessions dragged from lips that grew white the while they confessed: “Angela, listen.⁠ ⁠…” + 

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

Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext or another⁠—she must see her dentist; she must fit a new dress. + 

“Well then, let me come with you.” + 

“Good heavens, why? I’m only going to the dentist!” + 

“All right, I’ll come too.” + 

“You’ll do nothing of the kind.” Then Stephen would know why Angela was going. + 

All that day she would be haunted by insufferable pictures. Whatever she did, wherever she went, she would see them together, Angela and Roger.⁠ ⁠… She would think: “I’m going mad! I can see them as clearly as though they were here before me in the room.” And then she would cover her eyes with her hands, but this would only strengthen the pictures. + 

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

“Angela’s gone up to London, Stephen.” + 

“Yes, I know. She’s gone up to fit her new dress.” + 

Their eyes would drop. Then Ralph might say sharply: “If you’re after the dog, he’s in the kitchen,” and turning his back, he might make a pretence of examining his standard rose-trees. + 

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

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

V + 

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

She went up to London and chose new clothes at a West End tailor’s; the man in Malvern who had made for her father was getting old, she would have her suits made in London in future. She ordered herself a rakish red car; a long-bodied, sixty horse power Métallurgique. It was one of the fastest cars of its year, and it certainly cost her a great deal of money. She bought twelve pairs of gloves, some heavy silk stockings, a square sapphire scarf pin and a new umbrella. Nor could she resist the lure of pyjamas made of white crêpe de Chine which she spotted in Bond Street. The pyjamas led to a man’s dressing-gown of brocade⁠—an amazingly ornate garment. Then she had her nails manicured but not polished, and from that shop she carried away toilet water and a box of soap that smelt of carnations and some cuticle cream for the care of her nails. And last but not least, she bought a gold bag with a clasp set in diamonds for Angela. + 

All told she had spent a considerable sum, and this gave her a fleeting satisfaction. But on her way back in the train to Malvern, she gazed out of the window with renewed desolation. Money could not buy the one thing that she needed in life; it could not buy Angela’s love. + 

VI + 

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

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

XXV + 

I + 

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

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

Violet was going to be married in September, they would then live in London, for Alec was a barrister. Their house, it seemed, was already bespoken: “A perfect duck of a house in Belgravia,” where Violet intended to entertain largely on the strength of a bountiful parent Peacock. She was in the highest possible fettle these days, invested with an enormous importance in her own eyes, as also in those of her neighbours. Oh, yes, the whole world smiled broadly on Violet and her Alec: “Such a charming young couple,” said the world, and at once proceeded to shower them with presents. Apostle teaspoons arrived in their dozens, so did coffeepots, cream-jugs and large fish slices; to say nothing of a heavy silver bowl from the Hunt, and a massive salver from the grateful Scottish tenants. + 

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

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

II + 

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

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

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

“You’re miserable. What is it?” + 

And Angela would answer: “Ralph’s been vile to me again⁠—” But she would not add that Ralph was daily becoming more suspicious and more intolerant of Roger Antrim, so that now her deadly fear of her husband was always at war with her passion. + 

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

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

“Only tell me what I can do,” she pleaded, but apparently there was nothing. + 

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

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

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

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

Angela suddenly opened her eyes: “Where am I?” she muttered, stupid with sleep. Then after a moment her eyes filled with tears, and there she sat all huddled up, crying. + 

Stephen said gently: “It’s all right, don’t cry.” + 

But Angela went on crying. + 

XXVI + 

I + 

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

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

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

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

Stephen said bitterly; “What about me? Do you think I’m never unhappy?” + 

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

“You pretend that you love me and yet you won’t come⁠—and I’ve waited so long⁠—oh, my God, how I’ve waited! But you’re utterly cruel. And I ask for so little, just to have you with me for a few days and nights⁠—just to sleep with you in my arms; just to feel you beside me when I wake up in the morning⁠—I want to open my eyes and see your face, as though we belonged to each other. Angela, I swear I wouldn’t torment you⁠—we’d be just as we are now, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You must know, after all these months, that you can trust me⁠—” + 

But Angela set her lips and refused: “No, Stephen, I’m sorry, but I’d rather not come.” + 

Then Stephen would feel that life was past bearing, and sometimes she must ride rather wildly for miles⁠—now on Raftery, now on Sir Philip’s young chestnut. All alone she would ride in the early mornings, getting up from a sleepless night unrefreshed, yet terribly alive because of those nerves that tortured her luckless body. She would get back to Morton still unable to rest, and a little later would order the motor and drive herself across to The Grange, where Angela would usually be dreading her coming. + 

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

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

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

“I know. But are you all right to be left?” + 

“Yes, of course. All I need is to get some sleep. You won’t worry, will you? Promise, my Stephen!” + 

Stephen hesitated. Quite suddenly Angela was looking very ill, and her hands were like ice. “Swear you’ll telephone to me if you can’t get to sleep, then I’ll come back at once.” + 

“Yes, but don’t do that, will you, unless I ring up⁠—I should hear you, of course, and that would wake me and start my head throbbing.” Then as though impelled, in spite of herself, by the girl’s strange attraction, she lifted her face: “Kiss me⁠ ⁠… oh, God⁠ ⁠… Stephen!” + 

“I love you so much⁠—so much⁠—” whispered Stephen. + 

II + 

It was past ten o’clock when she got back to Morton: “Has Angela Crossby rung up?” she inquired of Puddle, who appeared to have been waiting in the hall. + 

“No, she hasn’t!” snapped Puddle, who was getting to the stage when she hated the mere name of Angela Crossby. Then she added: “You look like nothing on earth; in your place I’d go to bed at once, Stephen.” + 

“You go to bed, Puddle, if you’re tired⁠—where’s Mother?” + 

“In her bath. For heaven’s sake do come to bed! I can’t bear to see you looking as you do these days.” + 

“I’m all right.” + 

“No, you’re not, you’re all wrong. Go and look at your face.” + 

“I don’t very much want to, it doesn’t attract me,” smiled Stephen. + 

So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to sit with a book in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angela should ring. And there, like the faithful creature she was, she must sit on all through the night, patiently waiting. But when the first tinges of dawn greyed the window and the panes of the semicircular fanlight, she left her chair stiffly, to pace up and down, filled with a longing to be near this woman, if only to stand and keep watch in her garden⁠—Snatching up a coat she went out to her car. + 

III + 

She left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up the drive, taking care to tread softly. The air had an indefinable smell of dew and of very newly born morning. The tall, ornate Tudor chimneys of the house stood out gauntly against a brightening sky, and as Stephen crept into the small herb garden, one tentative bird had already begun singing⁠—but his voice was still rather husky from sleep. She stood there and shivered in her heavy coat; the long night of vigil had devitalized her. She was sometimes like this now⁠—she would shiver at the least provocation, the least sign of fatigue, for her splendid physical strength was giving, worn out by its own insistence. + 

She dragged the coat more closely around her, and stared at the house which was reddening with sunrise. Her heart beat anxiously, fearfully even, as though in some painful anticipation of she knew not what⁠—every window was dark except one or two that were fired by the sunrise. How long she stood there she never knew, it might have been moments, it might have been a lifetime; and then suddenly there was something that moved⁠—the little oak door that led into that garden. It moved cautiously, opening inch by inch, until at last it was standing wide open, and Stephen saw a man and a woman who turned to clasp as though neither of them could endure to be parted from the arms of the other; and as they clung there together and kissed, they swayed unsteadily⁠—drunk with loving. + 

Then, as sometimes happens in moments of great anguish, Stephen could only remember the grotesque. She could only remember a plump-bosomed housemaid in the arms of a coarsely amorous footman, and she laughed and she laughed like a creature demented⁠—laughed and laughed until she must gasp for breath and spit blood from her tongue, which had somehow got bitten in her efforts to stop her hysterical laughing; and some of the blood remained on her chin, jerked there by that agonized laughter. + 

Pale as death, Roger Antrim stared out into the garden, and his tiny moustache looked quite black⁠—like an ink stain smeared above his tremulous mouth by some careless, schoolboy finger. + 

And now Angela’s voice came to Stephen, but faintly. She was saying something⁠—what was she saying? It sounded absurdly as though it were a prayer⁠—“Christ!” Then sharply⁠—razor-sharp it sounded as it cut through the air: “You, Stephen!” + 

The laughter died abruptly away, as Stephen turned and walked out of the garden and down the short drive that led to the gates of The Grange, where the motor was waiting. Her face was a mask, quite without expression. She moved stiffly, yet with a curious precision; and she swung up the handle and started the powerful engine without any apparent effort. + 

She drove at great speed but with accurate judgment, for now her mind felt as clear as spring water, and yet there were strange little gaps in her mind⁠—she had not the least idea where she was going. Every road for miles around Upton was familiar, yet she had not the least idea where she was going. Nor did she know how long she drove, nor when she stopped to procure fresh petrol. The sun rose high and hot in the heavens; it beat down on her without warming her coldness, for always she had the sense of a dead thing that lay close against her heart and oppressed it. A corpse⁠—she was carrying a corpse about with her. Was it the corpse of her love for Angela? If so that love was more terrible dead⁠—oh, far more terrible dead than living. + 

The first stars were shining, but as yet very faintly, when she found herself driving through the gates of Morton. Heard Puddle’s voice calling: “Wait a minute. Stop, Stephen!” Saw Puddle barring her way in the drive, a tiny yet dauntless figure. + 

She pulled up with a jerk: “What’s the matter? What is it?” + 

“Where have you been?” + 

“I⁠—don’t know, Puddle.” + 

But Puddle had clambered in beside her: “Listen, Stephen,” and now she was talking very fast, “listen, Stephen⁠—is it⁠—is it Angela Crossby? It is. I can see the thing in your face. My God, what’s that woman done to you, Stephen?” + 

Then Stephen, in spite of the corpse against her heart, or perhaps because of it, defended the woman: “She’s done nothing at all⁠—it was all my fault, but you wouldn’t understand⁠—I got very angry and then I laughed and couldn’t stop laughing⁠—” Steady⁠—go steady! She was telling too much: “No⁠—it wasn’t that exactly. Oh, you know my vile temper, it always goes off at half cock for nothing. Well, then I just drove round and round the country until I cooled down. I’m sorry, Puddle, I ought to have rung up, of course you’ve been anxious.” + 

Puddle gripped her arm: “Stephen, listen, it’s your mother⁠—she thinks that you started quite early for Worcester, I lied⁠—I’ve been nearly distracted, child. If you hadn’t come soon, I’d have had to tell her that I didn’t know where you were. You must never, never go off without a word like this again⁠—But I do understand, oh, I do indeed, Stephen.” + 

But Stephen shook her head: “No, my dear, you couldn’t⁠—and I’d rather not tell you, Puddle.” + 

“Some day you must tell me,” said Puddle, “because⁠—well, because I do understand, Stephen.” + 

IV + 

That night the weight against Stephen’s heart, with its icy coldness, melted; and it flowed out in such a torrent of grief that she could not stand up against that torrent, so that drowning though she was she found pen and paper, and she wrote to Angela Crossby. + 

What a letter! All the pent-up passion of months, all the terrible, rending, destructive frustrations must burst from her heart: “Love me, only love me the way I love you. Angela, for God’s sake, try to love me a little⁠—don’t throw me away, because if you do I’m utterly finished. You know how I love you, with my soul and my body; if it’s wrong, grotesque, unholy⁠—have pity. I’ll be humble. Oh, my darling, I am humble now; I’m just a poor, heartbroken freak of a creature who loves you and needs you much more than its life, because life’s worse than death, ten times worse without you. I’m some awful mistake⁠—God’s mistake⁠—I don’t know if there are any more like me, I pray not for their sakes, because it’s pure hell. But oh, my dear, whatever I am, I just love you and love you. I thought it was dead, but it wasn’t. It’s alive⁠—so terribly alive tonight in my bedroom.⁠ ⁠…” And so it went on for page after page. + 

But never a word about Roger Antrim and what she had seen that morning in the garden. Some fine instinct of utterly selfless protection towards this woman had managed to survive all the anguish and all the madness of that day. The letter was a terrible indictment against Stephen, a complete vindication of Angela Crossby. + 

V + 

Angela went to her husband’s study, and she stood before him utterly shaken, utterly appalled at what she would do, yet utterly and ruthlessly determined to do it from a primitive instinct of self-preservation. In her ears she could still hear that terrible laughter⁠—that uncanny, hysterical, agonized laughter. Stephen was mad, and God only knew what she might do or say in a moment of madness, and then⁠—but she dared not look into the future. Cringing in spirit and trembling in body, she forgot the girl’s faithful and loyal devotion, her will to forgive, her desire to protect, so clearly set forth in that pitiful letter. + 

She said: “Ralph, I want to ask your advice. I’m in an awful mess⁠—it’s Stephen Gordon. You think I’ve been carrying on with Roger⁠—good Lord, if you only knew what I’ve endured these last few months! I have seen a great deal of Roger, I admit⁠—quite innocently of course⁠—still, all the same, I’ve seen him⁠—I thought it would show her that I’m not⁠—that I’m not⁠—” For one moment her voice seemed about to fail her, then she went on quite firmly: “that I’m not a pervert; that I’m not that sort of degenerate creature.” + 

He sprang up: “What?” he bellowed. + 

“Yes, I know, it’s too awful. I ought to have asked your advice about it, but I really did like the girl just at first, and after that, well⁠—I set out to reform her. Oh, I know I’ve been crazy, worse than crazy if you like; it was hopeless right from the very beginning. If I’d only known more about that sort of thing I’d have come to you at once, but I’d never met it. She was our neighbour too, which made it more awkward, and not only that⁠—her position in the county⁠—oh, Ralph, you must help me, I’m completely bewildered. How on earth does one answer this sort of thing? It’s quite mad⁠—I believe the girl’s half mad herself.” + 

And she handed him Stephen’s letter. + 

He read it slowly, and as he did so his weak little eyes grew literally scarlet⁠—puffy and scarlet all over their lids, and when he had finished reading that letter he turned and spat on the ground. Then Ralph’s language became a thing to forget; every filthy invective learnt in the slums of his youth and later on in the workshops, he hurled against Stephen and all her kind. He called down the wrath of the Lord upon them. He deplored the nonexistence of the stake, and racked his brains for indecent tortures. And finally: “I’ll answer this letter, yes, by God I will! You leave her to me, I know how I’m going to answer this letter!” + 

Angela asked him, and now her voice shook: “Ralph, what will you do to her⁠—to Stephen?” + 

He laughed loudly: “I’ll hound her out of the county before I’ve done⁠—and with luck out of England; the same as I’d hound you out if I thought that there’d ever been anything between you two women. It’s damned lucky for you that she wrote this letter, damned lucky, otherwise I might have my suspicions. You’ve got off this time, but don’t try your reforming again⁠—you’re not cut out to be a reformer. If there’s any of that Lamb of God stuff wanted I’ll see to it myself and don’t you forget it!” He slipped the letter into his pocket, “I’ll see to it myself next time⁠—with an axe!” + 

Angela turned and went out of the study with bowed head. She was saved through this great betrayal, yet most strangely bitter she found her salvation, and most shameful the price she had paid for her safety. So, greatly daring, she went to her desk and with trembling fingers took a sheet of paper. Then she wrote in her large, rather childish handwriting: “Stephen⁠—when you know what I’ve done, forgive me.” + 

XXVII + 

I + 

Two days later Anna Gordon sent for her daughter. Stephen found her sitting quite still in that vast drawing-room of hers, which as always smelt faintly of orris-root, beeswax and violets. Her thin, white hands were folded in her lap, closely folded over a couple of letters; and it seemed to Stephen that all of a sudden she saw in her mother a very old woman⁠—a very old woman with terrible eyes, pitiless, hard and deeply accusing, so that she could but shrink from their gaze, since they were the eyes of her mother. + 

Anna said: “Lock the door, then come and stand here.” + 

In absolute silence Stephen obeyed her. Thus it was that those two confronted each other, flesh of flesh, blood of blood, they confronted each other across the wide gulf set between them. + 

Then Anna handed her daughter a letter: “Read this,” she said briefly. + 

And Stephen read: + 

Dear Lady Anna, + 

With deep repugnance I take up my pen, for certain things won’t bear thinking about, much less being written. But I feel that I owe you some explanation of my reasons for having come to the decision that I cannot permit your daughter to enter my house again, or my wife to visit Morton. I enclose a copy of your daughter’s letter to my wife, which I feel is sufficiently clear to make it unnecessary for me to write further, except to add that my wife is returning the two costly presents given her by Miss Gordon. + 

Stephen stood as though turned to stone for a moment, not so much as a muscle twitched; then she handed the letter back to her mother without speaking, and in silence Anna received it. “Stephen⁠—when you know what I’ve done, forgive me.” The childish scrawl seemed suddenly on fire, it seemed to scorch Stephen’s fingers as she touched it in her pocket⁠—so this was what Angela had done. In a blinding flash the girl saw it all; the miserable weakness, the fear of betrayal, the terror of Ralph and of what he would do should he learn of that guilty night with Roger. Oh, but Angela might have spared her this, this last wound to her loyal and faithful devotion; this last insult to all that was best and most sacred in her love⁠—Angela had feared betrayal at the hands of the creature who loved her! + 

But now her mother was speaking again: “And this⁠—read this and tell me if you wrote it, or if that man’s lying.” And Stephen must read her own misery jibing at her from those pages in Ralph Crossby’s stiff and clerical handwriting. + 

She looked up: “Yes, Mother, I wrote it.” + 

Then Anna began to speak very slowly as though nothing of what she would say must be lost; and that slow, quiet voice was more dreadful than anger: “All your life I’ve felt very strangely towards you;” she was saying, “I’ve felt a kind of physical repulsion, a desire not to touch or to be touched by you⁠—a terrible thing for a mother to feel⁠—it has often made me deeply unhappy. I’ve often felt that I was being unjust, unnatural⁠—but now I know that my instinct was right; it is you who are unnatural, not I.⁠ ⁠…” + 

“Mother⁠—stop!” + 

“It is you who are unnatural, not I. And this thing that you are is a sin against creation. Above all is this thing a sin against the father who bred you, the father whom you dare to resemble. You dare to look like your father, and your face is a living insult to his memory, Stephen. I shall never be able to look at you now without thinking of the deadly insult of your face and your body to the memory of the father who bred you. I can only thank God that your father died before he was asked to endure this great shame. As for you, I would rather see you dead at my feet than standing before me with this thing upon you⁠—this unspeakable outrage that you call love in that letter which you don’t deny having written. In that letter you say things that may only be said between man and woman, and coming from you they are vile and filthy words of corruption⁠—against nature, against God who created nature. My gorge rises; you have made me feel physically sick⁠—” + 

“Mother⁠—you don’t know what you’re saying⁠—you’re my mother⁠—” + 

“Yes, I am your mother, but for all that, you seem to me like a scourge. I ask myself what I have ever done to be dragged down into the depths by my daughter. And your father⁠—what had he ever done? And you have presumed to use the word love in connection with this⁠—with these lusts of your body; these unnatural cravings of your unbalanced mind and undisciplined body⁠—you have used that word. I have loved⁠—do you hear? I have loved your father, and your father loved me. That was love.” + 

Then, suddenly, Stephen knew that unless she could, indeed, drop dead at the feet of this woman in whose womb she had quickened, there was one thing that she dared not let pass unchallenged, and that was this terrible slur upon her love. And all that was in her rose up to refute it; to protect her love from such unbearable soiling. It was part of herself, and unless she could save it, she could not save herself any more. She must stand or fall by the courage of that love to proclaim its right to toleration. + 

She held up her hand, commanding silence; commanding that slow, quiet voice to cease speaking, and she said: “As my father loved you, I loved. As a man loves a woman, that was how I loved⁠—protectively, like my father. I wanted to give all I had in me to give. It made me feel terribly strong⁠ ⁠… and gentle. It was good, good, good⁠—I’d have laid down my life a thousand times over for Angela Crossby. If I could have, I’d have married her and brought her home⁠—I wanted to bring her home here to Morton. If I loved her the way a man loves a woman, it’s because I can’t feel that I am a woman. All my life I’ve never felt like a woman, and you know it⁠—you say you’ve always disliked me, that you’ve always felt a strange physical repulsion.⁠ ⁠… I don’t know what I am; no one’s ever told me that I’m different and yet I know that I’m different⁠—that’s why, I suppose, you’ve felt as you have done. And for that I forgive you, though whatever it is, it was you and my father who made this body⁠—but what I will never forgive is your daring to try and make me ashamed of my love. I’m not ashamed of it, there’s no shame in me.” And now she was stammering a little wildly, “Good and⁠—and fine it was,” she stammered, “the best part of myself⁠—I gave all and I asked nothing in return⁠—I just went on hopelessly loving⁠—” she broke off, she was shaking from head to foot, and Anna’s cold voice fell like icy water on that angry and sorely tormented spirit. + 

“You have spoken, Stephen. I don’t think there’s much more that needs to be said between us except this, we two cannot live together at Morton⁠—not now, because I might grow to hate you. Yes, although you’re my child, I might grow to hate you. The same roof mustn’t shelter us both any more; one of us must go⁠—which of us shall it be?” And she looked at Stephen and waited. + 

Morton! They could not both live at Morton. Something seemed to catch hold of the girl’s heart and twist it. She stared at her mother, aghast for a moment, while Anna stared back⁠—she was waiting for her answer. + 

But quite suddenly Stephen found her manhood and she said: “I understand. I’ll leave Morton.” + 

Then Anna made her daughter sit down beside her, while she talked of how this thing might be accomplished in a way that would cause the least possible scandal: “For the sake of your father’s honourable name, I must ask you to help me, Stephen.” It was better, she said, that Stephen should take Puddle with her, if Puddle would consent to go. They might live in London or somewhere abroad, on the pretext that Stephen wished to study. From time to time Stephen would come back to Morton and visit her mother, and during those visits, they two would take care to be seen together for appearances’ sake, for the sake of her father. She could take from Morton whatever she needed, the horses, and anything else she wished. Certain of the rent-rolls would be paid over to her, should her own income prove insufficient. All things must be done in a way that was seemly⁠—no undue haste, no suspicion of a breach between mother and daughter: “For the sake of your father I ask this of you, not for your sake or mine, but for his. Do you consent to this, Stephen?” + 

And Stephen answered: “Yes, I consent.” + 

Then Anna said: “I’d like you to leave me now⁠—I feel tired and I want to be alone for a little⁠—but presently I shall send for Puddle to discuss her living with you in the future.” + 

So Stephen got up, and she went away, leaving Anna Gordon alone. + 

II + 

As though drawn there by some strong natal instinct, Stephen went straight to her father’s study; and she sat in the old armchair that had survived him; then she buried her face in her hands. + 

All the loneliness that had gone before was as nothing to this new loneliness of spirit. An immense desolation swept down upon her, an immense need to cry out and claim understanding for herself, an immense need to find an answer to the riddle of her unwanted being. All around her were grey and crumbling ruins, and under those ruins her love lay bleeding; shamefully wounded by Angela Crossby, shamefully soiled and defiled by her mother⁠—a piteous, suffering, defenceless thing, it lay bleeding under the ruins. + 

She felt blind when she tried to look into the future, stupefied when she tried to look back on the past. She must go⁠—she was going away from Morton: “From Morton⁠—I’m going away from Morton,” the words thudded drearily in her brain: “I’m going away from Morton.” + 

The grave, comely house would not know her any more, nor the garden where she had heard the cuckoo with the dawning understanding of a child, nor the lakes where she had kissed Angela Crossby for the first time⁠—full on the lips as a lover. The good, sweet-smelling meadows with their placid cattle, she was going to leave them; and the hills that protected poor, unhappy lovers⁠—the merciful hills; and the lanes with their sleepy dog-roses at evening; and the little, old township of Upton-on-Severn with its battle-scarred church and its yellowish river; that was where she had first seen Angela Crossby.⁠ ⁠… + 

The spring would come sweeping across Castle Morton, bringing strong, clean winds to the open common. The spring would come sweeping across the whole valley, from the Cotswold Hills right up to the Malverns; bringing daffodils by their hundreds and thousands, bringing bluebells to the beech wood down by the lakes, bringing cygnets for Peter the swan to protect; bringing sunshine to warm the old bricks of the house⁠—but she would not be there any more in the spring. In summer the roses would not be her roses, nor the luminous carpet of leaves in the autumn, nor the beautiful winter forms of the beech trees: “And on evenings in winter these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in the winter.⁠ ⁠…” No, no, not that memory, it was too much⁠—“when you and I come and stand here in the winter.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Getting up, she wandered about the room, touching its kind and familiar objects; stroking the desk, examining a pen, grown rusty from long disuse as it lay there; then she opened a little drawer in the desk and took out the key of her father’s locked bookcase. Her mother had told her to take what she pleased⁠—she would take one or two of her father’s books. She had never examined this special bookcase, and she could not have told why she suddenly did so. As she slipped the key into the lock and turned it, the action seemed curiously automatic. She began to take out the volumes slowly and with listless fingers, scarcely glancing at their titles. It gave her something to do, that was all⁠—she thought that she was trying to distract her attention. Then she noticed that on a shelf near the bottom was a row of books standing behind the others; the next moment she had one of these in her hand, and was looking at the name of the author: Krafft Ebing⁠—she had never heard of that author before. All the same she opened the battered old book, then she looked more closely, for there on its margins were notes in her father’s small, scholarly hand and she saw that her own name appeared in those notes⁠—She began to read, sitting down rather abruptly. For a long time she read; then went back to the bookcase and got out another of those volumes, and another.⁠ ⁠… The sun was now setting behind the hills; the garden was growing dusky with shadows. In the study there was little light left to read by, so that she must take her book to the window and must bend her face closer over the page; but still she read on and on in the dusk. + 

Then suddenly she had got to her feet and was talking aloud⁠—she was talking to her father: “You knew! All the time you knew this thing, but because of your pity you wouldn’t tell me. Oh, Father⁠—and there are so many of us⁠—thousands of miserable, unwanted people, who have no right to love, no right to compassion because they’re maimed, hideously maimed and ugly⁠—God’s cruel; He let us get flawed in the making.” + 

And then, before she knew what she was doing, she had found her father’s old, well-worn Bible. There she stood demanding a sign from heaven⁠—nothing less than a sign from heaven she demanded. The Bible fell open near the beginning. She read: “And the Lord set a mark upon Cain.⁠ ⁠…” + 

Then Stephen hurled the Bible away, and she sank down completely hopeless and beaten, rocking her body backwards and forwards with a kind of abrupt yet methodical rhythm: “And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, upon Cain.⁠ ⁠…” she was rocking now in rhythm to those words, “And the Lord set a mark upon Cain⁠—upon Cain⁠—upon Cain. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain.⁠ ⁠…” + 

That was how Puddle came in and found her, and Puddle said: “Where you go, I go, Stephen. All that you’re suffering at this moment I’ve suffered. It was when I was very young like you⁠—but I still remember.” + 

Stephen looked up with bewildered eyes: “Would you go with Cain whom God marked?” she said slowly, for she had not understood Puddle’s meaning, so she asked her once more: “Would you go with Cain?” + 

Puddle put an arm round Stephen’s bowed shoulders, and she said: “You’ve got work to do⁠—come and do it! Why, just because you are what you are, you may actually find that you’ve got an advantage. You may write with a curious double insight⁠—write both men and women from a personal knowledge. Nothing’s completely misplaced or wasted, I’m sure of that⁠—and we’re all part of nature. Some day the world will recognize this, but meanwhile there’s plenty of work that’s waiting. For the sake of all the others who are like you, but less strong and less gifted perhaps, many of them, it’s up to you to have the courage to make good, and I’m here to help you to do it, Stephen.” + 