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Title: The well of loneliness

Author: Radclyffe Hall

Commentator: Havelock Ellis

Release date: February 26, 2024 [eBook #73042]
Most recently updated: March 20, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Blue Ribbon Books, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73042

Credits: This ebook was produced by: Al Haines, Jen Haines & the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL OF
LONELINESS ***

Dedicated to
O U R T H R E E S E LV E S

Other novels by Radclyffe Hall

THE UNLIT LAMP
ADAM’S BREED
THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE

The Well of LONELINESS

By R A D C LY F F E H A L L
With a Commentary
by Havelock Ellis

Blue Ribbon Books, Garden City, New York

Copyright 1928
By Radclyffe Hall

CL
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

COMMENTARY

I HAVE read The Well of Loneliness with great
interest because—apart from its fine qualities as a
novel by a writer of accomplished art—it possesses a
notable psychological and sociological significance.
So far as I know, it is the first English novel which
presents, in a completely faithful and
uncompromising form, one particular aspect of

sexual life as it exists among us to-day. The relation
of certain people—who while different from their
fellow human beings, are sometimes of the highest
character and the finest aptitudes—to the often
hostile society in which they move, presents difficult
and still unsolved problems. The poignant situations
which thus arise are here set forth so vividly, and yet
with such complete absence of offence, that we must
place Radclyffe Hall’s book on a high level of
distinction.
Havelock Ellis

AUTHOR’S NOTE

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

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

BOOK ONE

CHAPTER 1

1

N ot very far from Upton-on-Severn—between it, in fact, and the
Malvern Hills—stands the country seat of the Gordons of Bramley;
well-timbered, well-cottaged, well-fenced and well-watered, having, in this
latter respect, a stream that forks in exactly the right position to feed two
large lakes in the grounds.
The house itself is of Georgian red brick, with charming circular
windows near the roof. It has dignity and pride without ostentation, self-
assurance without arrogance, repose without inertia; and a gentle aloofness
that, to those who know its spirit, but adds to its value as a home. It is
indeed like certain lovely women who, now old, belong to a bygone
generation—women who in youth were passionate but seemly; difficult to

win but when won, all-fulfilling. They are passing away, but their
homesteads remain, and such an homestead is Morton.
To Morton Hall came the Lady Anna Gordon as a bride of just over
twenty. She was lovely as only an Irish woman can be, having that in her
bearing that betokened quiet pride, having that in her eyes that betokened
great longing, having that in her body that betokened happy promise—the
archetype of the very perfect woman, whom creating God has found good.
Sir Philip had met her away in County Clare—Anna Molloy, the slim virgin
thing, all chastity, and his weariness had flown to her bosom as a spent bird
will fly to its nest—as indeed such a bird had once flown to her, she told
him, taking refuge from the perils of a storm.
Sir Philip was a tall man and exceedingly well-favoured, but his charm
lay less in feature than in a certain wide expression, a tolerant expression
that might almost be called noble, and in something sad yet gallant in his
deep-set hazel eyes. His chin, which was firm, was very slightly cleft, his
forehead intellectual, his hair tinged with auburn. His wide-nostrilled nose
was indicative of temper, but his lips were well-modelled and sensitive and
ardent—they revealed him as a dreamer and a lover.
Twenty-nine when they had married, he had sown no few wild oats, yet
Anna’s true instinct made her trust him completely. Her guardian had
disliked him, opposing the engagement, but in the end she had had her own
way. And as things turned out her choice had been happy, for seldom had
two people loved more than they did; they loved with an ardour
undiminished by time; as they ripened, so their love ripened with them.
Sir Philip never knew how much he longed for a son until, some ten
years after marriage, his wife conceived a child; then he knew that this
thing meant complete fulfilment, the fulfilment for which they had both
been waiting. When she told him, he could not find words for expression,
and must just turn and weep on her shoulder. It never seemed to cross his
mind for a moment that Anna might very well give him a daughter; he saw
her only as a mother of sons, nor could her warnings disturb him. He
christened the unborn infant Stephen, because he admired the pluck of that
Saint. He was not a religious man by instinct, being perhaps too much of a
student, but he read the Bible for its fine literature, and Stephen had gripped
his imagination. Thus he often discussed the future of their child: ‘I think I

shall put Stephen down for Harrow,’ or: ‘I’d rather like Stephen to finish off
abroad, it widens one’s outlook on life.’
And listening to him, Anna also grew convinced; his certainty wore
down her vague misgivings, and she saw herself playing with this little
Stephen, in the nursery, in the garden, in the sweet-smelling meadows. ‘And
himself the lovely young man,’ she would say, thinking of the soft Irish
speech of her peasants: ‘And himself with the light of the stars in his eyes,
and the courage of a lion in his heart!’
When the child stirred within her she would think it stirred strongly
because of the gallant male creature she was hiding; then her spirit grew
large with a mighty new courage, because a man-child would be born. She
would sit with her needlework dropped on her knees, while her eyes turned
away to the long line of hills that stretched beyond the Severn valley. From
her favourite seat underneath an old cedar, she would see these Malvern
Hills in their beauty, and their swelling slopes seemed to hold a new
meaning. They were like pregnant women, full-bosomed, courageous, great
green-girdled mothers of splendid sons! Thus through all those summer
months, she sat and watched the hills, and Sir Philip would sit with her—
they would sit hand in hand. And because she felt grateful she gave much to
the poor, and Sir Philip went to church, which was seldom his custom, and
the Vicar came to dinner, and just towards the end many matrons called to
give good advice to Anna.
But: ‘Man proposes—God disposes,’ and so it happened that on
Christmas Eve, Anna Gordon was delivered of a daughter; a narrow-hipped,
wide-shouldered little tadpole of a baby, that yelled and yelled for three
hours without ceasing, as though outraged to find itself ejected into life.

2

Anna Gordon held her child to her breast, but she grieved while it drank,
because of her man who had longed so much for a son. And seeing her
grief, Sir Philip hid his chagrin, and he fondled the baby and examined its
fingers.
‘What a hand!’ he would say. ‘Why it’s actually got nails on all its ten
fingers: little, perfect, pink nails!’

Then Anna would dry her eyes and caress it, kissing the tiny hand.
He insisted on calling the infant Stephen, nay more, he would have it
baptized by that name. ‘We’ve called her Stephen so long,’ he told Anna,
‘that I really can’t see why we shouldn’t go on—’
Anna felt doubtful, but; Sir Philip was stubborn, as he could be at times
over whims.
The Vicar said that it was rather unusual, so to mollify him they must
add female names. The child was baptized in the village church as Stephen
Mary Olivia Gertrude—and she throve, seeming strong, and when her hair
grew it was seen to be auburn like Sir Philip’s. There was also a tiny cleft in
her chin, so small just at first that it looked like a shadow; and after a while
when her eyes lost the blueness that is proper to puppies and other young
things, Anna saw that her eyes were going to be hazel—and thought that
their expression was her father’s. On the whole she was quite a well-
behaved baby, owing, no doubt, to a fine constitution. Beyond that first
energetic protest at birth she had done very little howling.
It was happy to have a baby at Morton, and the old house seemed to
become more mellow as the child, growing fast now and learning to walk,
staggered or stumbled or sprawled on the floors that had long known the
ways of children. Sir Philip would come home all muddy from hunting and
would rush into the nursery before pulling off his boots, then down he
would go on his hands and knees while Stephen clambered on to his back.
Sir Philip would pretend to be well corned up, bucking and jumping and
kicking wildly, so that Stephen must cling to his hair or his collar, and
thump him with hard little arrogant fists. Anna, attracted by the outlandish
hubbub, would find them, and would point to the mud on the carpet.
She would say: ‘Now, Philip, now, Stephen, that’s enough! It’s time for
your tea,’ as though both of them were children. Then Sir Philip would
reach up and disentangle Stephen, after which he would kiss Stephen’s
mother.

3

The son that they waited for seemed long a-coming; he had not arrived
when Stephen was seven. Nor had Anna produced other female offspring.
Thus Stephen remained cock of the roost. It is doubtful if any only child is
to be envied, for the only child is bound to become introspective; having no
one of its own ilk in whom to confide, it is apt to confide in itself. It cannot
be said that at seven years old the mind is beset by serious problems, but
nevertheless it is already groping, may already be subject to small fits of
dejection, may already be struggling to get a grip on life—on the limited
life of its surroundings. At seven there are miniature loves and hatreds,
which, however, loom large and are extremely disconcerting. There may
even be present a dim sense of frustration, and Stephen was often conscious
of this sense, though she could not have put it into words. To cope with it,
however, she would give way at times to sudden fits of hot temper, working
herself up over everyday trifles that usually left her cold. It relieved her to
stamp and then burst into tears at the first sign of opposition. After such
outbreaks she would feel much more cheerful, would find it almost easy to
be docile and obedient. In some vague, childish way she had hit back at life,
and this fact had restored her self-respect.
Anna would send for her turbulent offspring and would say: ‘Stephen
darling, Mother’s not really cross—tell Mother what makes you give way to
these tempers; she’ll promise to try to understand if you’ll tell her—’
But her eyes would look cold, though her voice might be gentle, and her
hand when it fondled would be tentative, unwilling. The hand would be
making an effort to fondle, and Stephen would be conscious of that effort.
Then looking up at the calm, lovely face, Stephen would be filled with a
sudden contrition, with a sudden deep sense of her own shortcomings; she
would long to blurt all this out to her mother, yet would stand there tongue-
tied, saying nothing at all. For these two were strangely shy with each other
—it was almost grotesque, this shyness of theirs, as existing between
mother and child. Anna would feel it, and through her Stephen, young as
she was, would become conscious of it; so that they held a little aloof when
they should have been drawing together.
Stephen, acutely responsive to beauty, would be dimly longing to find
expression for a feeling almost amounting to worship, that her mother’s

face had awakened. But Anna, looking gravely at her daughter, noting the
plentiful auburn hair, the brave hazel eyes that were so like her father’s, as
indeed were the child’s whole expression and bearing, would be filled with
a sudden antagonism that came very near to anger.
She would awake at night and ponder this thing, scourging herself in an
access of contrition; accusing herself of hardness of spirit, of being an
unnatural mother. Sometimes she would shed slow, miserable tears,
remembering the inarticulate Stephen.
She would think: ‘I ought to be proud of the likeness, proud and happy
and glad when I see it!’ Then back would come flooding that queer
antagonism that amounted almost to anger.
It would seem to Anna that she must be going mad, for this likeness to
her husband would strike her as an outrage—as though the poor, innocent
seven-year-old Stephen were in some way a caricature of Sir Philip; a
blemished, unworthy, maimed reproduction—yet she knew that the child
was handsome. But now there were times when the child’s soft flesh would
be almost distasteful to her; when she hated the way Stephen moved or
stood still, hated a certain largeness about her, a certain crude lack of grace
in her movements, a certain unconscious defiance. Then the mother’s mind
would slip back to the days when this creature had clung to her breast,
forcing her to love it by its own utter weakness; and at this thought her eyes
must fill again, for she came of a race of devoted mothers. The thing had
crept on her like a foe in the dark—it had been slow, insidious, deadly; it
had waxed strong as Stephen herself had waxed strong, being part, in some
way, of Stephen.
Restlessly tossing from side to side, Anna Gordon would pray for
enlightenment and guidance; would pray that her husband might never
suspect her feelings towards his child. All that she was and had been he
knew; in all the world she had no other secret save this one most unnatural
and monstrous injustice that was stronger than her will to destroy it. And Sir
Philip loved Stephen, he idolized her; it was almost as though he divined by
instinct that his daughter was being secretly defrauded, was bearing some
unmerited burden. He never spoke to his wife of these things, yet watching
them together, she grew daily more certain that his love for the child held an
element in it that was closely akin to pity.

CHAPTER 2

1

A t about this time Stephen first became conscious of an urgent
necessity to love. She adored her father, but that was quite different; he
was part of herself, he had always been there, she could not envisage the
world without him—it was other with Collins, the housemaid. Collins was
what was called ‘second of three’; she might one day hope for promotion.
Meanwhile she was florid, full-lipped and full-bosomed, rather ample
indeed for a young girl of twenty, but her eyes were unusually blue and
arresting, very pretty inquisitive eyes. Stephen had seen Collins sweeping
the stairs for two years, and had passed her by quite unnoticed; but one
morning, when Stephen was just over seven, Collins looked up and
suddenly smiled, then all in a moment Stephen knew that she loved her—a
staggering revelation!
Collins said politely: ‘Good morning, Miss Stephen.’
She had always said: ‘Good morning, Miss Stephen,’ but on this
occasion it sounded alluring—so alluring that Stephen wanted to touch her,
and extending a rather uncertain hand she started to stroke her sleeve.
Collins picked up the hand and stared at it. ‘Oh, my!’ she exclaimed,
‘what very dirty nails!’ Whereupon their owner flushed painfully crimson
and dashed upstairs to repair them.
‘Put them scissors down this minute, Miss Stephen!’ came the nurse’s
peremptory voice, while her charge was still busily engaged on her toilet.
But Stephen said firmly: ‘I’m cleaning my nails ’cause Collins doesn’t
like them—she says they’re dirty!’
‘What impudence!’ snapped the nurse, thoroughly annoyed. ‘I’ll thank
her to mind her own business!’
Having finally secured the large cutting-out scissors, Mrs. Bingham
went forth in search of the offender; she was not one to tolerate any
interference with the dignity of her status. She found Collins still on the top

flight of stairs, and forthwith she started to upbraid her: ‘putting her back in
her place,’ the nurse called it; and she did it so thoroughly that in less than
five minutes the ‘second-of-three’ had been told of every fault that was
likely to preclude promotion.
Stephen stood still in the nursery doorway. She could feel her heart
thumping against her side, thumping with anger and pity for Collins who
was answering never a word. There she knelt mute, with her brush
suspended, with her mouth slightly open and her eyes rather scared; and
when at long last she did manage to speak, her voice sounded humble and
frightened. She was timid by nature, and the nurse’s sharp tongue was a
byword throughout the household.
Collins was saying: ‘Interfere with your child? Oh, no, Mrs. Bingham,
never! I hope I knows my place better than that—Miss Stephen herself
showed me them dirty nails; she said: “Collins, just look, aren’t my nails
awful dirty!” And I said: “You must ask Nanny about that, Miss Stephen.”
Is it likely that I’d interfere with your work? I’m not that sort, Mrs.
Bingham.’
Oh, Collins, Collins, with those pretty blue eyes and that funny alluring
smile! Stephen’s own eyes grew wide with amazement, then they clouded
with sudden and disillusioned tears, for far worse than Collins’ poorness of
spirit was the dreadful injustice of those lies—yet this very injustice seemed
to draw her to Collins, since despising, she could still love her.
For the rest of that day Stephen brooded darkly over Collins’
unworthiness; and yet all through that day she still wanted Collins, and
whenever she saw her she caught herself smiling, quite unable, in her turn,
to muster the courage to frown her innate disapproval. And Collins smiled
too, if the nurse was not looking, and she held up her plump red fingers,
pointing to her nails and making a grimace at the nurse’s retreating figure.
Watching her, Stephen felt unhappy and embarrassed, not so much for
herself as for Collins; and this feeling increased, so that thinking about her
made Stephen go hot down her spine.
In the evening, when Collins was laying the tea, Stephen managed to
get her alone. ‘Collins,’ she whispered, ‘you told an untruth—I never
showed you my dirty nails!’

‘ ’Course not!’ murmured Collins, ‘but I had to say something—you
didn’t mind, Miss Stephen, did you?’ And as Stephen looked doubtfully up
into her face, Collins suddenly stooped and kissed her.
Stephen stood speechless from a sheer sense of joy, all her doubts swept
completely away. At that moment she knew nothing but beauty and Collins,
and the two were as one, and the one was Stephen—and yet not Stephen
either, but something more vast, that the mind of seven years found no
name for.
The nurse came in grumbling: ‘Now then, hurry up, Miss Stephen!
Don’t stand there as though you were daft! Go and wash your face and
hands before tea—how many times must I tell you the same thing?’
‘I don’t know—’ muttered Stephen. And indeed she did not; she knew
nothing of such trifles at that moment.

2

From now on Stephen entered a completely new world, that turned on an
axis of Collins. A world full of constant exciting adventures; of elation, of
joy, of incredible sadness, but withal a fine place to be dashing about in like
a moth who is courting a candle. Up and down went the days; they
resembled a swing that soared high above the tree-tops, then dropped to the
depths, but seldom if ever hung midway. And with them went Stephen,
clinging to the swing, waking up in the mornings with a thrill of vague
excitement—the sort of excitement that belonged by rights to birthdays, and
Christmas, and a visit to the pantomime at Malvern. She would open her
eyes and jump out of bed quickly, still too sleepy to remember why she felt
so elated; but then would come memory—she would know that this day she
was actually going to see Collins. The thought would set her splashing in
her sitz-bath, and tearing the buttons off her clothes in her haste, and
cleaning her nails with such ruthlessness and vigour that she made them
quite sore in the process.
She began to be very inattentive at her lessons, sucking her pencil,
staring out of the window, or what was far worse, not listening at all, except
for Collins’ footsteps. The nurse slapped her hands, and stood her in the

corner, and deprived her of jam, but all to no purpose; for Stephen would
smile, hugging closer her secret—it was worth being punished for Collins.
She grew restless and could not be induced to sit still even when her
nurse read aloud. At one time she had very much liked being read to,
especially from books that were all about heroes; but now such stories so
stirred her ambition, that she longed intensely to live them. She, Stephen,
now longed to be William Tell, or Nelson, or the whole Charge of
Balaclava; and this led to much foraging in the nursery rag-bag, much
hunting up of garments once used for charades, much swagger and noise,
much strutting and posing, and much staring into the mirror. There ensued a
period of general confusion when the nursery looked as though smitten by
an earthquake; when the chairs and the floor would be littered with
oddments that Stephen had dug out but discarded. Once dressed, however,
she would walk away grandly, waving the nurse peremptorily aside, going,
as always, in search of Collins, who might have to be stalked to the
basement.
Sometimes Collins would play up, especially to Nelson. ‘My, but you
do look fine!’ she would exclaim. And then to the cook: ‘Do come here,
Mrs. Wilson! Doesn’t Miss Stephen look exactly like a boy? I believe she
must be a boy with them shoulders, and them funny gawky legs she’s got on
her!’
And Stephen would say gravely: ‘Yes, of course I’m a boy. I’m young
Nelson, and I’m saying: “What is fear?” you know, Collins—I must be a
boy, ’cause I feel exactly like one, I feel like young Nelson in the picture
upstairs.’
Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after Stephen had
gone they would get talking, and Collins might say: ‘She is a queer kid,
always dressing herself up and play-acting—it’s funny.’
But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: ‘I don’t hold with such
nonsense, not for a young lady. Miss Stephen’s quite different from other
young ladies—she’s got none of their pretty little ways—it’s a pity!’
There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky when Stephen
could dress up as Nelson in vain. ‘Now, don’t bother me, Miss, I’ve got my

work to see to!’ or: ‘You go and show Nurse—yes, I know you’re a boy, but
I’ve got my work to get on with. Run away.’
And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangely unhappy
and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes she so dearly loved
donning, to replace them by the garments she hated. How she hated soft
dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and small coral beads, and openwork
stockings! Her legs felt so free and comfortable in breeches; she adored
pockets too, and these were forbidden—at least really adequate pockets.
She would gloom about the nursery because Collins had snubbed her,
because she was conscious of feeling all wrong, because she so longed to be
some one quite real, instead of just Stephen pretending to be Nelson. In a
quick fit of anger she would go to the cupboard, and getting out her dolls
would begin to torment them. She had always despised the idiotic creatures
which, however, arrived with each Christmas and birthday.
‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’ she would mutter thumping their
innocuous faces.
But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, she seemed to
be filled with a sudden contrition. ‘It’s me housemaid’s knee,’ she confided
to Stephen, ‘It’s not you, it’s me housemaid’s knee, dearie.’
‘Is that dangerous?’ demanded the child, looking frightened.
Then Collins, true to her class, said: ‘It may be—it may mean an
’orrible operation, and I don’t want no operation.’
‘What’s that?’ inquired Stephen.
‘Why, they’d cut me,’ moaned Collins; ‘they’d ’ave to cut me to let out
the water.’
‘Oh, Collins! What water?’
‘The water in me kneecap—you can see if you press it, Miss Stephen.’
They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery, where Collins
was limply making the bed. It was one of those rare and delicious occasions
when Stephen could converse with her goddess undisturbed, for the nurse
had gone out to post a letter. Collins rolled down a coarse woollen stocking
and displayed the afflicted member; it was blotchy and swollen and far from

attractive, but Stephen’s eyes filled with quick, anxious tears as she touched
the knee with her finger.
‘There now!’ exclaimed Collins, ‘See that dent? That’s the water!’ And
she added: ‘It’s so painful it fair makes me sick. It all comes from polishing
them floors, Miss Stephen; I didn’t ought to polish them floors.’
Stephen said gravely: ‘I do wish I’d got it—I wish I’d got your
housemaid’s knee, Collins, ’cause that way I could bear it instead of you.
I’d like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way that Jesus was hurt for
sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don’t you think I might catch it? Or supposing
I rub my knee against yours?’
‘Lord bless you!’ laughed Collins, ‘it’s not like the measles; no, Miss
Stephen, it’s caught from them floors.’
That evening Stephen became rather pensive, and she turned to the
Child’s Book of Scripture Stories and she studied the picture of the Lord on
His Cross, and she felt that she understood Him. She had often been rather
puzzled about Him, since she herself was fearful of pain—when she barked
her shins on the gravel in the garden, it was not always easy to keep back
her tears—and yet Jesus had chosen to bear pain for sinners, when He
might have called up all those angels! Oh, yes, she had wondered a great
deal about Him, but now she no longer wondered.
At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say her prayers—as
custom demanded—Stephen’s prayers lacked conviction. But when Anna
had kissed her and had turned out the light, then it was that Stephen prayed
in good earnest—with such fervour, indeed, that she dripped perspiration in
a veritable orgy of prayer.
‘Please, Jesus, give me a housemaid’s knee instead of Collins—do, do,
Lord Jesus. Please, Jesus, I would like to bear all Collins’ pain the way You
did, and I don’t want any angels! I would like to wash Collins in my blood,
Lord Jesus—I would like very much to be a Saviour to Collins—I love her,
and I want to be hurt like You were; please, dear Lord Jesus, do let me.
Please give me a knee that’s all full of water, so that I can have Collins’
operation. I want to have it instead of her, ’cause she’s frightened—I’m not
a bit frightened!’

This petition she repeated until she fell asleep, to dream that in some
queer way she was Jesus, and that Collins was kneeling and kissing her
hand, because she, Stephen, had managed to cure her by cutting off her
knee with a bone paper-knife and grafting it on to her own. The dream was
a mixture of rapture and discomfort, and it stayed quite a long time with
Stephen.
The next morning she awoke with the feeling of elation that comes only
in moments of perfect faith. But a close examination of her knees in the
bath, revealed them to be flawless except for old scars and a crisp, brown
scab from a recent tumble—this, of course, was very disappointing. She
picked off the scab, and that hurt her a little, but not, she felt sure, like a real
housemaid’s knee. However, she decided to continue in prayer, and not to
be too easily downhearted.
For more than three weeks she sweated and prayed, and pestered poor
Collins with endless daily questions: ‘Is your knee better yet?’ ‘Don’t you
think my knee’s swollen?’ ‘Have you faith? ’Cause I have—’ ‘Does it hurt
you less, Collins?’
But Collins would always reply in the same way: ‘It’s no better, thank
you, Miss Stephen.’
At the end of the fourth week Stephen suddenly stopped praying, and
she said to Our Lord: ‘You don’t love Collins, Jesus, but I do, and I’m
going to get housemaid’s knee. You see if I don’t!’ Then she felt rather
frightened, and added more humbly: ‘I mean, I do want to—You don’t
mind, do You, Lord Jesus?’
The nursery floor was covered with carpet, which was obviously rather
unfortunate for Stephen; had it only been parquet like the drawing-room
and study, she felt it would better have served her purpose. All the same it
was hard if she knelt long enough—it was so hard, indeed, that she had to
grit her teeth if she stayed on her knees for more than twenty minutes. This
was much worse than barking one’s shins in the garden; it was much worse
even than picking off a scab! Nelson helped her a little. She would think:
‘Now I’m Nelson. I’m in the middle of the Battle of Trafalgar—I’ve got
shots in my knees!’ But then she would remember that Nelson had been
spared such torment. However, it was really rather fine to be suffering—it

certainly seemed to bring Collins much nearer; it seemed to make Stephen
feel that she owned her by right of this diligent pain.
There were endless spots on the old nursery carpet, and these spots
Stephen could pretend to be cleaning; always careful to copy Collins’
movements, rubbing backwards and forwards while groaning a little. When
she got up at last, she must hold her left leg and limp, still groaning a little.
Enormous new holes appeared in her stockings, through which she could
examine her aching knees, and this led to rebuke: ‘Stop your nonsense,
Miss Stephen! It’s scandalous the way you’re tearing your stockings!’ But
Stephen smiled grimly and went on with the nonsense, spurred by love to
an open defiance. On the eighth day, however, it dawned upon Stephen that
Collins should be shown the proof of her devotion. Her knees were
particularly scarified that morning, so she limped off in search of the
unsuspecting housemaid.
Collins stared: ‘Good gracious, whatever’s the matter? Whatever have
you been doing, Miss Stephen?’
Then Stephen said, not without pardonable pride: ‘I’ve been getting a
housemaid’s knee, like you, Collins!’ And as Collins looked stupid and
rather bewildered—‘You see, I wanted to share your suffering. I’ve prayed
quite a lot, but Jesus won’t listen, so I’ve got to get housemaid’s knee my
own way—I can’t wait any longer for Jesus!’
‘Oh, hush!’ murmured Collins, thoroughly shocked. ‘You mustn’t say
such things: it’s wicked, Miss Stephen.’ But she smiled a little in spite of
herself, then she suddenly hugged the child warmly.
All the same, Collins plucked up her courage that evening and spoke to
the nurse about Stephen. ‘Her knees was all red and swollen, Mrs.
Bingham. Did ever you know such a queer fish as she is? Praying about my
knee too. She’s a caution! And now if she isn’t trying to get one! Well, if
that’s not real loving then I don’t know nothing.’ And Collins began to
laugh weakly.
After this Mrs. Bingham rose in her might, and the self-imposed torture
was forcibly stopped. Collins, on her part, was ordered to lie, if Stephen
continued to question. So Collins lied nobly: ‘It’s better, Miss Stephen, it

must be your praying—you see Jesus heard you. I expect He was sorry to
see your poor knees—I know as I was when I saw them!’
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ Stephen asked her, still doubting, still
mindful of that first day of Love’s young dream.
‘Why, of course I’m telling you the truth, Miss Stephen.’
And with this Stephen had to be content.

3

Collins became more affectionate after the incident of the housemaid’s
knee; she could not but feel a new interest in the child whom she and the
cook had now labelled as ‘queer,’ and Stephen basked in much surreptitious
petting, and her love for Collins grew daily.
It was spring, the season of gentle emotions, and Stephen, for the first
time, became aware of spring. In a dumb, childish way she was conscious
of its fragrance, and the house irked her sorely, and she longed for the
meadows, and the hills that were white with thorn-trees. Her active young
body was for ever on the fidget, but her mind was bathed in a kind of soft
haze, and this she could never quite put into words, though she tried to tell
Collins about it. It was all part of Collins, yet somehow quite different—it
had nothing to do with Collins’ wide smile, nor her hands which were red,
nor even her eyes which were blue, and very arresting. Yet all that was
Collins, Stephen’s Collins, was also a part of these long, warm days, a part
of the twilights that came in and lingered for hours after Stephen had been
put to bed; a part too, could Stephen have only known it, of her own
quickening childish perceptions. This spring, for the first time, she thrilled
to the cuckoo, standing quite still to listen, with her head on one side; and
the lure of that far-away call was destined to remain with her all her life.
There were times when she wanted to get away from Collins, yet at
others she longed intensely to be near her, longed to force the response that
her loving craved for, but quite wisely, was very seldom granted.
She would say: ‘I do love you awfully, Collins. I love you so much that
it makes me want to cry.’

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

4

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

Sir Philip knew all about wild flowers and berries, and the ways of
young foxes and rabbits and such people. There were many rare birds, too,
on the hills near Malvern, and these he would point out to Stephen. He
taught her the simpler laws of nature, which, though simple, had always
filled him with wonder: the law of the sap as it flowed through the
branches, the law of the wind that came stirring the sap, the law of bird life
and the building of nests, the law of the cuckoo’s varying call, which in
June changed to ‘Cuckoo-kook!’ He taught out of love for both subject and
pupil, and while he thus taught he watched Stephen.
Sometimes, when the child’s heart would feel full past bearing, she must
tell him her problems in small, stumbling phrases. Tell him how much she
longed to be different, longed to be some one like Nelson.
She would say: ‘Do you think that I could be a man, supposing I
thought very hard—or prayed, Father?’
Then Sir Philip would smile and tease her a little, and would tell her that
one day she would want pretty frocks, and his teasing was always
excessively gentle, so that it hurt not at all.
But at times he would study his daughter gravely, with his strong, cleft
chin tightly cupped in his hand. He would watch her at play with the dogs
in the garden, watch the curious suggestion of strength in her movements,
the long line of her limbs—she was tall for her age—and the poise of her
head on her over-broad shoulders. Then perhaps he would frown and
become lost in thought, or perhaps he might suddenly call her:
‘Stephen, come here!’
She would go to him gladly, waiting expectant for what he should say;
but as likely as not he would just hold her to him for a moment, and then let
go of her abruptly. Getting up he would turn to the house and his study, to
spend all the rest of that day with his books.
A queer mixture, Sir Philip, part sportsman, part student. He had one of
the finest libraries in England, and just lately he had taken to reading half
the night, which had not hitherto been his custom. Alone in that grave-
looking, quiet study, he would unlock a drawer in his ample desk, and
would get out a slim volume recently acquired, and would read and re-read
it in the silence. The author was a German, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs, and

reading, Sir Philip’s eyes would grow puzzled; then groping for a pencil he
would make little notes all along the immaculate margins. Sometimes he
would jump up and pace the room quickly, pausing now and again to stare
at a picture—the portrait of Stephen painted with her mother, by Millais, the
previous year. He would notice the gracious beauty of Anna, so perfect a
thing, so completely reassuring; and then that indefinable quality in Stephen
that made her look wrong in the clothes she was wearing, as though she and
they had no right to each other, but above all no right to Anna. After a while
he would steal up to bed, being painfully careful to tread very softly, fearful
of waking his wife who might question: ‘Philip darling, it’s so late—what
have you been reading?’ He would not want to answer, he would not want
to tell her; that was why he must tread very softly.
The next morning, he would be very tender to Anna—but even more
tender to Stephen.

5

As the spring waxed more lusty and strode into summer, Stephen grew
conscious that Collins was changing. The change was almost intangible at
first, but the instinct of children is not mocked. Came a day when Collins
turned on her quite sharply, nor did she explain it by a reference to her knee.
‘Don’t be always under my feet now, Miss Stephen. Don’t follow me
about and don’t be always staring. I ’ates being watched—you run up to the
nursery, the basement’s no place for young ladies.’ After which such rebuffs
were of frequent occurrence, if Stephen went anywhere near her.
Miserable enigma! Stephen’s mind groped about it like a little blind
mole that is always in darkness. She was utterly confounded, while her love
grew the stronger for so much hard pruning, and she tried to woo Collins by
offerings of bull’s-eyes and chocolate drops, which the maid took because
she liked them. Nor was Collins so blameworthy as she appeared, for she,
in her turn, was the puppet of emotion. The new footman was tall and
exceedingly handsome. He had looked upon Collins with eyes of approval.
He had said: ‘Stop that damned kid hanging around you; if you don’t she’ll
go blabbing about us.’

And now Stephen knew very deep desolation because there was no one
in whom to confide. She shrank from telling even her father—he might not
understand, he might smile, he might tease her—if he teased her, however
gently, she knew that she could not keep back her tears. Even Nelson had
suddenly become quite remote. What was the good of trying to be Nelson?
What was the good of dressing up any more—what was the good of
pretending? She turned from her food, growing pasty and languid; until,
thoroughly alarmed, Anna sent for the doctor. He arrived, and prescribed a
dose of Gregory powder, finding nothing much wrong with the patient.
Stephen tossed off the foul brew without a murmur—it was almost as
though she liked it!
The end came abruptly as is often the way, and it came when the child
was alone in the garden, still miserably puzzling over Collins, who had
been avoiding her for days. Stephen had wandered to an old potting-shed,
and there, whom should she see but Collins and the footman; they appeared
to be talking very earnestly together, so earnestly that they failed to hear
her. Then a really catastrophic thing happened, for Henry caught Collins
roughly by the wrists, and he dragged her towards him, still handling her
roughly, and he kissed her full on the lips. Stephen’s head felt suddenly hot
and dizzy, she was filled with a blind, uncomprehending rage; she wanted
to cry out, but her voice failed completely, so that all she could do was to
splutter. But the very next moment she had seized a broken flower-pot and
had hurled it hard and straight at the footman. It struck him in the face,
cutting open his cheek, down which the blood trickled slowly. He stood as
though stunned, gently mopping the cut, while Collins stared dumbly at
Stephen. Neither of them spoke, they were feeling too guilty—they were
also too much astonished.
Then Stephen turned and fled from them wildly. Away and away,
anyhow, anywhere, so long as she need not see them! She sobbed as she ran
and covered her eyes, tearing her clothes on the shrubs in passing, tearing
her stockings and the skin of her legs as she lunged against intercepting
branches. But suddenly the child was caught in strong arms, and her face
was pressing against her father, and Sir Philip was carrying her back to the
house, and along the wide passage to his study. He held her on his knee,
forbearing to question, and at first she crouched there like a little dumb
creature that had somehow got itself wounded. But her heart was too young

to contain this new trouble—too heavy it felt, too much over-burdened, so
the trouble came bubbling up from her heart and was told on Sir Philip’s
shoulder.
He listened very gravely, just stroking her hair. ‘Yes—yes—’ he said
softly; and then, ‘go on, Stephen.’ And when she had finished he was silent
for some moments, while he went on stroking her hair. Then he said: ‘I
think I understand, Stephen—this thing seems more dreadful than anything
else that has ever happened, more utterly dreadful—but you’ll find that it
will pass and be completely forgotten—you must try to believe me,
Stephen. And now I’m going to treat you like a boy, and a boy must always
be brave, remember. I’m not going to pretend as though you were a coward;
why should I, when I know that you’re brave? I’m going to send Collins
away to-morrow; do you understand, Stephen? I shall send her away. I
shan’t be unkind, but she’ll go away to-morrow, and meanwhile I don’t
want you to see her again. You’ll miss her at first, that will only be natural,
but in time you’ll find that you’ll forget all about her; this trouble will just
seem like nothing at all. I am telling you the truth, dear, I swear it. If you
need me, remember that I’m always near you—you can come to my study
whenever you like. You can talk to me about it whenever you’re unhappy,
and you want a companion to talk to.’ He paused, then finished rather
abruptly: ‘Don’t worry your mother, just come to me, Stephen.’
And Stephen, still catching her breath, looked straight at him. She
nodded, and Sir Philip saw his own mournful eyes gazing back from his
daughter’s tear-stained face. But her lips set more firmly, and the cleft in her
chin grew more marked with a new, childish will to courage.
Bending down, he kissed her in absolute silence—it was like the sealing
of a sorrowful pact.

6

Anna, who had been out at the time of the disaster, returned to find her
husband waiting for her in the hall.
‘Stephen’s been naughty, she’s up in the nursery; she’s had one of her
fits of temper,’ he remarked.

In spite of the fact that he had obviously been waiting to intercept Anna,
he now spoke quite lightly. Collins and the footman must go, he told her. As
for Stephen, he had had a long talk with her already—Anna had better just
let the thing drop, it had only been childish temper—
Anna hurried upstairs to her daughter. She, herself, had not been a
turbulent child, and Stephen’s outbursts always made her feel helpless;
however she was fully prepared for the worst. But she found Stephen sitting
with her chin on her hand, and calmly staring out of the window; her eyes
were still swollen and her face very pale, otherwise she showed no great
signs of emotion; indeed she actually smiled up at Anna—it was rather a
stiff little smile. Anna talked kindly and Stephen listened, nodding her head
from time to time in acquiescence. But Anna felt awkward, and as though
for some reason the child was anxious to reassure her; that smile had been
meant to be reassuring—it had been such a very unchildish smile. The
mother was doing all the talking she found. Stephen would not discuss her
affection for Collins; on this point she was firmly, obdurately silent. She
neither excused nor upheld her action in throwing a broken flower-pot at the
footman.
‘She’s trying to keep something back,’ thought Anna, feeling more
nonplussed every moment.
In the end Stephen took her mother’s hand gravely and proceeded to
stroke it, as though she were consoling. She said: ‘Don’t feel worried,
’cause that worries Father—I promise I’ll try not to get into tempers, but
you promise that you won’t go on feeling worried.’
And absurd though it seemed, Anna heard herself saying: ‘Very well
then—I do promise, Stephen.’

CHAPTER 3

1

S tephen never went to her father’s study in order to talk of her grief over
Collins. A reticence strange in so young a child, together with a new,

stubborn pride, held her tongue-tied, so that she fought out her battle alone,
and Sir Philip allowed her to do so. Collins disappeared and with her the
footman, and in Collins’ stead came a new second housemaid, a niece of
Mrs. Bingham’s, who was even more timid than her predecessor, and who
talked not at all. She was ugly, having small, round black eyes like currants
—not inquisitive blue eyes like Collins.
With set lips and tight throat Stephen watched this intruder as she
scuttled to and fro doing Collins’ duties. She would sit and scowl at poor
Winefred darkly, devising small torments to add to her labours—such as
stepping on dustpans and upsetting their contents, or hiding away brooms
and brushes and slop-cloths—until Winefred, distracted, would finally
unearth them from the most inappropriate places.
‘ ’Owever did them slop-cloths get in ’ere!’ she would mutter,
discovering them under a nursery cushion. And her face would grow
blotched with anxiety and fear as she glanced towards Mrs. Bingham.
But at night, when the child lay lonely and wakeful, these acts that had
proved a consolation in the morning, having sprung from a desperate kind
of loyalty to Collins—these acts would seem trivial and silly and useless,
since Collins could neither know of them nor see them, and the tears that
had been held in check through the day would well under Stephen’s eyelids.
Nor could she, in those lonely watches of the night-time, pluck up courage
enough to reproach the Lord Jesus, who, she felt, could have helped her
quite well had He chosen to accord her a housemaid’s knee.
She would think: ‘He loves neither me nor Collins—He wants all the
pain for Himself; He won’t share it!’
And then she would feel contrite: ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Lord Jesus, ’cause I
do know You love all miserable sinners!’ And the thought that perhaps she
had been unjust to Jesus would reduce her to still further tears.
Very dreadful indeed were those nights spent in weeping, spent in
doubting the Lord and His servant Collins. The hours would drag by in
intolerable blackness, that in passing seemed to envelop Stephen’s body,
making her feel now hot and now cold. The grandfather clock on the stairs
ticked so loudly that her head ached to hear its unnatural ticking—when it
chimed, which it did at the hours and the half-hours, its voice seemed to
shake the whole house with terror, until Stephen would creep down under

the bed-clothes to hide from she knew not what. But presently, huddled
beneath the blankets, the child would be soothed by a warm sense of safety,
and her nerves would relax, while her body grew limp with the drowsy
softness of bed. Then suddenly a big and most comforting yawn, and
another, and another, until darkness and Collins and tall clocks that
menaced, and Stephen herself, were all blended and merged into something
quite friendly, a harmonious whole, neither fearful nor doubting—the
blessèd illusion we call sleep.

2

In the weeks that followed on Collins’ departure, Anna tried to be very
gentle with her daughter, having the child more frequently with her, more
diligently fondling Stephen. Mother and daughter would walk in the garden,
or wander about together through the meadows, and Anna would remember
the son of her dreams, who had played with her in those meadows. A great
sadness would cloud her eyes for a moment, an infinite regret as she looked
down at Stephen; and Stephen, quick to discern that sadness, would press
Anna’s hand with small, anxious fingers; she would long to inquire what
troubled her mother, but would be held speechless through shyness.
The scents of the meadows would move those two strangely—the queer,
pungent smell from the hearts of dog-daisies; the buttercup smell, faintly
green like the grass; and then meadowsweet that grew close by the hedges.
Sometimes Stephen must tug at her mother’s sleeve sharply—intolerable to
bear that thick fragrance alone!
One day she had said: ‘Stand still or you’ll hurt it—it’s all round us—
it’s a white smell, it reminds me of you!’ And then she had flushed, and had
glanced up quickly, rather frightened in case she should find Anna laughing.
But her mother had looked at her curiously, gravely, puzzled by this
creature who seemed all contradictions—at one moment so hard, at another
so gentle, gentle to tenderness, even. Anna had been stirred, as her child had
been stirred, by the breath of the meadowsweet under the hedges; for in this
they were one, the mother and daughter, having each in her veins the warm
Celtic blood that takes note of such things—could they only have divined it,
such simple things might have formed a link between them.

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

3

Sometimes Anna would drive Stephen into Great Malvern, to the shops,
with lunch at the Abbey Hotel on cold beef and wholesome rice pudding.
Stephen loathed these excursions, which meant dressing up, but she bore
them because of the honour which she felt to be hers when escorting her
mother through the streets, especially Church Street with its long, busy hill,
because every one saw you in Church Street. Hats would be lifted with
obvious respect, while a humbler finger might fly to a forelock; women
would bow, and a few even curtsy to the lady of Morton—women in from
the country with speckled sunbonnets that looked like their hens, and kind
faces like brown, wrinkled apples. Then Anna must stop to inquire about
calves and babies and foals, indeed all such young creatures as prosper on
farms, and her voice would be gentle because she loved such young
creatures.
Stephen would stand just a little behind her, thinking how gracious and
lovely she was; comparing her slim and elegant shoulders with the toil-
thickened back of old Mrs. Bennett, with the ugly, bent spine of young Mrs.
Thompson who coughed when she spoke and then said: ‘I beg pardon!’ as
though she were conscious that one did not cough in front of a goddess like
Anna.
Presently Anna would look round for Stephen: ‘Oh, there you are,
darling! We must go into Jackson’s and change mother’s books’; or, ‘Nanny
wants some more saucers; let’s walk on and get them at Langley’s.’
Stephen would suddenly spring to attention, especially if they were
crossing the street. She would look right and left for imaginary traffic,
slipping a hand under Anna’s elbow.

‘Come with me,’ she would order, ‘and take care of the puddles, ’cause
you might get your feet wet—hold on by me, Mother!’
Anna would feel the small hand at her elbow, and would think that the
fingers were curiously strong; strong and efficient they would feel, like Sir
Philip’s, and this always vaguely displeased her. Nevertheless she would
smile at Stephen while she let the child guide her in and out between the
puddles.
She would say: ‘Thank you, dear; you’re as strong as a lion!’ trying to
keep that displeasure from her voice.
Very protective and careful was Stephen when she and her mother were
out alone together. Not all her queer shyness could prevent her protecting,
nor could Anna’s own shyness save her from protection. She was forced to
submit to a quiet supervision that was painstaking, gentle but extremely
persistent. And yet was this love? Anna often wondered. It was not, she felt
sure, the trusting devotion that Stephen had always felt for her father; it was
more like a sort of instinctive admiration, coupled with a large, patient
kindness.
‘If she’d only talk to me as she talks to Philip, I might get to understand
her,’ Anna would muse, ‘It’s so odd not to know what she’s feeling and
thinking, to suspect that something’s always being kept in the background.’
Their drives home from Malvern were usually silent, for Stephen would
feel that her task was accomplished, her mother no longer needing her
protection now that the coachman had the care of them both—he, and the
arrogant-looking grey cobs that were yet so mannerly and gentle. As for
Anna, she would sigh and lean back in her corner, weary of trying to make
conversation. She would wonder if Stephen were tired or just sulky, or if,
after all, the child might be stupid. Ought she, perhaps, to feel sorry for the
child? She could never quite make up her mind.
Meanwhile, Stephen, enjoying the comfortable brougham, would begin
to indulge in kaleidoscopic musings, those musings that belong to the end
of the day, and occasionally visit children. Mrs. Thompson’s bent spine, it
looked like a bow—not a rainbow but one of the archery kind; if you
stretched a tight string from her feet to her head, could you shoot straight
with Mrs. Thompson? China dogs—they had nice china dogs at Langley’s

—that made you think of someone; oh, yes, of course, Collins—Collins and
a cottage with red china dogs. But you tried not to think about Collins!
There was such a queer light slanting over the hills, a kind of gold glory,
and it made you feel sorry—why should a gold glory make you feel sorry
when it shone that way on the hills? Rice pudding, almost as bad as tapioca
—not quite though, because it was not so slimy—tapioca evaded your
efforts to chew it, it felt horrid, like biting down on your own gum. The
lanes smelt of wetness, a wonderful smell! Yet when Nanny washed things
they only smelt soapy—but then, of course, God washed the world without
soap; being God, perhaps He didn’t need any—you needed a lot, especially
for hands—did God wash His hands without soap? Mother, talking about
calves and babies, and looking like the Virgin Mary in church, the one in
the stained-glass window with Jesus, which reminded you of Church Street,
not a bad place after all; Church Street was really rather exciting—what fun
it must be for men to have hats that they could take off, instead of just
smiling—a bowler must be much more fun than a Leghorn—you couldn’t
take that off to Mother—
The brougham would roll smoothly along the white road, between stout
leafy hedges starred with dog-roses; blackbirds and thrushes would be
singing loudly, so loudly that Stephen could hear their voices above the
quick clip, clip, of the cobs and the muffled sounds of the carriage. Then
from under her brows she must glance across at Anna, who she knew loved
the songs of blackbirds and thrushes; but Anna’s face would be hidden in
shadow, while her hands lay placidly folded.
And now the horses, nearing their stables, would redouble their efforts
as they swung through the gates, the tall, iron gates of the parklands of
Morton, faithful gates that had always meant home. Old trees would fly
past, then the paddocks with their cattle—Worcestershire cattle with
uncanny white faces; then the two quiet lakes where the swans reared their
cygnets; then the lawns, and at last the wide curve in the drive, near the
house, that would lead to the massive entrance.
The child was too young to know why the beauty of Morton would
bring a lump to her throat when seen thus in the gold haze of late afternoon,
with its thoughts of evening upon it. She would want to cry out in a kind of
protest that was very near tears: ‘Stop it—stop it, you’re hurting!’ But
instead she would blink hard and shut her lips tightly, unhappy yet happy. It

was a queer feeling; it was too big for Stephen, who was still rather little
when it came to affairs of the spirit. For the spirit of Morton would be part
of her then, and would always remain somewhere deep down within her,
aloof and untouched by the years that must follow, by the stress and the
ugliness of life. In those after-years certain scents would evoke it—the scent
of damp rushes growing by water; the kind, slightly milky odour of cattle;
the smell of dried roseleaves and orris-root and violets, that together with a
vague suggestion of beeswax always hung about Anna’s rooms. Then that
part of Stephen that she still shared with Morton would know what it was to
feel terribly lonely, like a soul that wakes up to find itself wandering,
unwanted, between the spheres.

4

Anna and Stephen would take off their coats, and go to the study in search
of Sir Philip who would usually be there waiting.
‘Hallo, Stephen!’ he would say in his pleasant, deep voice, but his eyes
would be resting on Anna.
Stephen’s eyes invariably followed her father’s, so that she too would
stand looking at Anna, and sometimes she must catch her breath in surprise
at the fullness of that calm beauty. She never got used to her mother’s
beauty, it always surprised her each time she saw it; it was one of those
queerly unbearable things, like the fragrance of meadowsweet under the
hedges.
Anna might say: ‘What’s the matter, Stephen? For goodness’ sake
darling, do stop staring!’ And Stephen would feel hot with shame and
confusion because Anna had caught her staring.
Sir Philip usually came to her rescue: ‘Stephen, here’s that new picture-
book about hunting’; or, ‘I know of a really nice print of young Nelson; if
you’re good I’ll order it for you to-morrow.’
But after a little he and Anna must get talking, amusing themselves
irrespective of Stephen, inventing absurd little games, like two children,
which games did not always include the real child. Stephen would sit there
silently watching, but her heart would be a prey to the strangest emotions—
emotions that seven-years-old could not cope with, and for which it could

find no adequate names. All she would know was that seeing her parents
together in this mood, would fill her with longings for something that she
wanted yet could not define—a something that would make her as happy as
they were. And this something would always be mixed up with Morton,
with grave, stately rooms like her father’s study, with wide views from
windows that let in much sunshine, and the scents of a spacious garden. Her
mind would go groping about for a reason, and would find no reason—
unless it were Collins—but Collins would refuse to fit into these pictures;
even love must admit that she did not belong there any more than the
brushes and buckets and slop-cloths belonged in that dignified study.
Presently Stephen must go off to her tea, leaving the two grown-up
children together; secretly divining that neither of them would miss her—
not even her father.
Arrived in the nursery she would probably be cross, because her heart
felt very empty and tearful; or because, having looked at herself in the
glass, she had decided that she loathed her abundant long hair. Snatching at
a slice of thick bread and butter, she would upset the milk jug, or break a
new tea-cup, or smear the front of her dress with her fingers, to the fury of
Mrs. Bingham. If she spoke at such times it was usually to threaten: ‘I shall
cut all my hair off, you see if I don’t!’ or, ‘I hate this white dress and I’m
going to burn it—it makes me feel idiotic!’ But once launched she would
dig up the grievances of months, going back to the time of the would-be
young Nelson, loudly complaining that being a girl spoilt everything—even
Nelson. The rest of the evening would be spent in grumbling, because one
does grumble when one is unhappy—at least one does grumble when one is
seven—later on it may seem rather useless.
At last the hour of the bath would arrive, and still grumbling, Stephen
must submit to Mrs. Bingham, fidgeting under the nurse’s rough fingers like
a dog in the hands of a trimmer. There she would stand pretending to shiver,
a strong little figure, narrow-hipped and wide-shouldered; her flanks as
wiry and thin as a greyhound’s and even more ceaselessly restless.
‘God doesn’t use soap!’ she might suddenly remark.
At which Mrs. Bingham must smile, none too kindly: ‘Maybe not, Miss
Stephen—He don’t ’ave to wash you; if He did He’d need plenty of soap,
I’ll be bound!’

The bath over, and Stephen garbed in her nightgown, a long pause
would ensue, known as: ‘Waiting for Mother,’ and if mother, for some
reason, did not happen to arrive, the pause could be spun out for quite
twenty minutes, or for half an hour even, if luck was with Stephen, and the
nursery clock not too precise and old-maidish.
‘Now come on, say your prayers;’ Mrs. Bingham would order, ‘and
you’d better ask the dear Lord to forgive you—impious I calls it, and you a
young lady! Carrying on because you can’t be a boy!’
Stephen would kneel by the side of the bed, but in such moods as these
her prayers would sound angry. The nurse would protest: ‘Not so loud, Miss
Stephen! Pray slower, and don’t shout at the Lord, He won’t like it!’
But Stephen would continue to shout at the Lord in a kind of impotent
defiance.

CHAPTER 4

1

T he sorrows of childhood are mercifully passing, for it is only when
maturity has rendered soil mellow that grief will root very deeply.
Stephen’s grief for Collins, in spite of its violence, or perhaps because of
that very violence, wore itself out like a passing tempest and was all but
spent by the autumn. By Christmas, the gusts when they came were quite
gentle, rousing nothing more disturbing than a faint melancholy—by
Christmas it required quite an effort of will to recapture the charm of
Collins.
Stephen was nonplussed and rather uneasy; to have loved so greatly and
now to forget! It made her feel childish and horribly silly, as though she had
cried over cutting her finger. As on all grave occasions, she considered the
Lord, remembering His love for miserable sinners:
‘Teach me to love Collins Your way,’ prayed Stephen, trying hard to
squeeze out some tears in the process, ‘teach me to love her ’cause she’s
mean and unkind and won’t be a proper sinner that repenteth.’ But the tears

would not come, nor was prayer what it had been; it lacked something—she
no longer sweated when she prayed.
Then an awful thing happened, the maid’s image was fading, and try as
she would Stephen could not recall certain passing expressions that had
erstwhile allured her. Now she could not see Collins’ face at all clearly even
if she willed very hard in the dark. Thoroughly disgruntled, she bethought
her of books, books of fairy tales, hitherto not much in favour, especially of
those that treated of spells, incantations and other unlawful proceedings.
She even requested the surprised Mrs. Bingham to read from the Bible:
‘You know where,’ coaxed Stephen, ‘it’s the place they were reading in
church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch with a name like Edna—the
place where she makes some person come up, ’cause the king had forgotten
what he looked like.’
But if prayer had failed Stephen, her spells also failed her; indeed they
behaved as spells do when said backwards, making her see, not the person
she wished to, but a creature entirely different. For Collins now had a most
serious rival, one who had lately appeared at the stables. He was not
possessed of a real housemaid’s knee, but instead, of four deeply thrilling
brown legs—he was two up on legs, and one up on a tail, which was rather
unfair on Collins! That Christmas, when Stephen was eight years old, Sir
Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she was learning to ride him, could
ride him already, being naturally skilful and fearless. There had been quite a
heated discussion with Anna, because Stephen had insisted on riding
astride. In this she had shown herself very refractory, falling off every time
she tried the side-saddle—quite obvious, of course, this falling off process,
but enough to subjugate Anna.
And now Stephen would spend long hours at the stables, swaggering
largely in corduroy breeches, hobnobbing with Williams, the old stud
groom, who had a soft place in his heart for the child.
She would say: ‘Come up, horse!’ in the same tone as Williams; or,
pretending to a knowledge she was far from possessing: ‘Is that fetlock a bit
puffy? It looks to me puffy, supposing we put on a nice wet bandage.’
Then Williams would rub his rough chin as though thinking: ‘Maybe
yes—maybe no—’ he would temporize, wisely.

She grew to adore the smell of the stables; it was far more enticing than
Collins’ perfume—the Erasmic she had used on her afternoons out, and
which had once smelt so delicious. And the pony! So strong, so entirely
fulfilling, with his round, gentle eyes, and his heart big with courage—he
was surely more worthy of worship than Collins, who had treated you badly
because of the footman! And yet—and yet—you owed something to
Collins, just because you had loved her, though you couldn’t any more. It
was dreadfully worrying, all this hard thinking, when you wished to enjoy a
new pony! Stephen would stand there rubbing her chin in an almost exact
imitation of Williams. She could not produce the same scrabbly sound, but
in spite of this drawback the movement would soothe her.
Then one morning she had a bright inspiration: ‘Come up, horse!’ she
commanded, slapping the pony, ‘Come up, horse, and let me get close to
your ear, ’cause I’m going to whisper something dreadfully important.’
Laying her cheek against his firm neck she said softly: ‘You’re not you any
more, you’re Collins!’
So Collins was comfortably transmigrated. It was Stephen’s last effort
to remember.

2

Came the day when Stephen rode out with her father to a meet, a glorious
and memorable day. Side by side the two of them jogged through the gates,
and the lodgekeeper’s wife must smile to see Stephen sitting her smart bay
pony astride, and looking so comically like Sir Philip.
‘It do be a pity as her isn’t a boy, our young lady,’ she told her husband.
It was one of those still, slightly frosty mornings when the landing is
tricky on the north side of the hedges; when the smoke from farm chimneys
rises straight as a ramrod; when the scent of log fires or of burning
brushwood, though left far behind, still persists in the nostrils. A crystal
clear morning, like a draught of spring water, and such mornings are good
when one is young.
The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was trembling with
pleasure for he was no novice; he knew all about signs and wonders in
stables, such as large feeds of corn administered early, and extra long

groomings, and pink coats with brass buttons, like the hunt coat Sir Philip
was wearing. He frisked down the road, a mass of affectation, demanding
some skill on the part of his rider; but the child’s hands were strong yet
exceedingly gentle—she possessed that rare gift, perfect hands on a horse.
‘This is better than being young Nelson,’ thought Stephen, ‘ ’cause this
way I’m happy just being myself.’
Sir Philip looked down at his daughter with contentment; she was good
to look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment was not quite complete,
so that he looked away again quickly, sighing a little, because, somehow
these days, he had taken to sighing over Stephen.
The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; Colonel Antrim, the
Master, rode up and spoke kindly: ‘You’ve a fine pony there, but he’ll need
a bit of holding!’ And then to her father: ‘Is she safe astride, Philip? Violet’s
learning to ride, but side-saddle, I prefer it—I never think girl children get
the grip astride; they aren’t built for it, haven’t the necessary muscle; still,
no doubt she’ll stick on by balance.’
Stephen flushed: ‘No doubt she’ll stick on by balance!’ The words
rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was learning to ride side-
saddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed if you pinched her; that
terrified creature of muslins and ribbons and hair that curled over the
nurse’s finger! Why, Violet could never come to tea without crying, could
never play a game without getting herself hurt! She had fat, wobbly legs
too, just like a rag doll—and you, Stephen, had been compared to Violet!
Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you felt less impressive in
your fine riding breeches. You felt—well, not foolish exactly, but self-
conscious—not quite at your ease, a little bit wrong. It was almost as
though you were playing at young Nelson again, were only pretending.
But you said: ‘I’ve got muscles, haven’t I, Father? Williams says I’ve
got riding muscles already!’ Then you dug your heels sharply into the pony,
so that he whisked round, bucking and rearing. As for you, you stuck to his
back like a limpet. Wasn’t that enough to convince them?
‘Steady on, Stephen!’ came Sir Philip’s voice, warning. Then the
Master’s: ‘She’s got a fine seat. I’ll admit it—Violet’s a little bit scared on a
horse, but I think she’ll get confidence later; I hope so.’

And now hounds were moving away towards cover, tails waving—they
looked like an army with banners. ‘Hi, Starbright—Fancy! Get in, little
bitch! Hi, Frolic, get on with it, Frolic!’
The long lashes shot out with amazing precision, stinging a flank or
stroking a shoulder, while the four-legged Amazons closed up their ranks
for the serious business ahead. ‘Hi, Starbright!’ Whips cracked and horses
grew restless; Stephen’s mount required undivided attention. She had no
time to think of her muscles or her grievance, but only of the creature
between her small knees.
‘All right, Stephen?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, go steady at your fences; it may be a little bit slippery this
morning.’ But Sir Philip’s voice did not sound at all anxious; indeed there
was a note of deep pride in his voice.
‘He knows that I’m not just a rag doll, like Violet; he knows that I’m
different to her!’ thought Stephen.

3

The strange, implacable heart-broken music of hounds giving tongue as
they break from cover; the cry of the huntsman as he stands in his stirrups;
the thud of hooves pounding ruthlessly forward over long, green,
undulating meadows. The meadows flying back as though seen from a train,
the meadows streaming away behind you; the acrid smell of horse sweat
caught in passing; the smell of damp leather, of earth and bruised herbage—
all sudden, all passing—then the smell of wide spaces, the air smell, cool
yet as potent as wine.
Sir Philip was looking back over his shoulder: ‘All right, Stephen?’
‘Oh, yes—’ Stephen’s voice sounded breathless.
‘Steady on! Steady on!’
They were coming to a fence, and Stephen’s grip tightened a little. The
pony took the fence in his stride, very gaily; for an instant he seemed to stay

poised in mid-air as though he had wings, then he touched earth again, and
away without even pausing.
‘All right, Stephen?’
‘Yes, yes!’
Sir Philip’s broad back was bent forward over the shoulder of his
hunter; the crisp auburn hair in the nape of his neck showed bright where
the winter sunshine touched it; and as the child followed that purposeful
back, she felt that she loved it utterly, entirely. At that moment it seemed to
embody all kindness, all strength, and all understanding.

4

They killed not so very far from Worcester; it had been a stiff run, the best
of the season. Colonel Antrim came jogging along to Stephen, whose
prowess had amused and surprised him.
‘Well, well,’ he said, grinning, ‘so here you are, madam, still with a leg
on each side of your horse—I’m going to tell Violet she’ll have to buck up.
By the way, Philip, can Stephen come to tea on Monday, before Roger goes
back to school? She can? Oh, splendid! And now where’s that brush? I
think our young Stephen here, takes it.’
Strange it is, but unforgettable moments are often connected with very
small happenings, happenings that assume fictitious proportions, especially
when we are children. If Colonel Antrim had offered Stephen the crown of
England on a red velvet cushion, it is doubtful whether her pride would
have equalled the pride that she felt when the huntsman came forward and
presented her with her first hunting trophy—the rather pathetic, bedraggled
little brush, that had weathered so many hard miles. Just for an instant the
child’s heart misgave her, as she looked at the soft, furry thing in her hand;
but the joy of attainment was still hot upon her, and that incomparable
feeling of elation that comes from the knowledge of personal courage, so
that she forgot the woes of the fox in remembering the prowess of Stephen.
Sir Philip fastened the brush to her saddle. ‘You rode well,’ he said
briefly, then turned to the Master.

But she knew that that day she had not failed him, for his eyes had been
bright when they rested on hers; she had seen great love in those
melancholy eyes, together with a curiously wistful expression of which her
youth lacked understanding. And now many people smiled broadly at
Stephen, patting her pony and calling him a flier.
One old farmer remarked: ‘ ’E do be a good plucked un, and so be ’is
rider—beggin’ your pardon.’
At which Stephen must blush and grow slightly mendacious, pretending
to give all the credit to the pony, pretending to feel very humble of spirit,
which she knew she was far from feeling.
‘Come along!’ called Sir Philip, ‘No more to-day, Stephen, your poor
little fellow’s had enough for one day.’ Which was true, since Collins was
all of a tremble, what with excitement and straining short legs to keep up
with vainglorious hunters.
Whips touched hats: ‘Good-bye, Stephen, come out soon again—See
you on Tuesday, Sir Philip, with the Croome.’ And the field settled down to
the changing of horses, before drawing yet one more cover.

5

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

And she answered: ‘I’m dreadfully happy, Father. I’m so dreadfully
happy that it makes me feel frightened, ’cause I mayn’t always last happy—
not this way.’
He did not ask why she might not last happy; he just nodded, as though
he admitted of a reason; but he laid his hand over hers on the bridle for a
moment, a large, and comforting hand. Then the peace of the evening took
possession of Stephen, that and the peace of a healthy body tired out with
fresh air and much vigorous movement, so that she swayed a little in her
saddle and came near to falling asleep. The pony, even more tired than his
rider, jogged along with neck drooping and reins hanging slackly, too weary
to shy at the ogreish shadows that were crouching ready to scare him. His
small mind was doubtless concentrated on fodder; on the bucket of water
nicely seasoned with gruel; on the groom’s soothing hiss as he rubbed down
and bandaged; on the warm blanket clothing, so pleasant in winter, and
above all on that golden bed of deep straw that was sure to be waiting in his
stable.
And now a great moon had swung up very slowly; and the moon
seemed to pause, staring hard at Stephen, while the frost rime turned white
with the whiteness of diamonds, and the shadows turned black and lay
folded like velvet round the feet of the drowsy hedges. But the meadows
beyond the hedges turned silver, and so did the road to Morton.

6

It was late when they reached the stables at last, and old Williams was
waiting in the yard with a lantern.
‘Did you kill?’ he inquired, according to custom; then he saw Stephen’s
trophy and chuckled.
Stephen tried to spring easily out of the saddle as her father had done,
but her legs seemed to fail her. To her horror and chagrin her legs hung
down stiffly as though made of wood; she could not control them; and to
make matters worse, Collins now grew impatient and began to walk off to
his loosebox. Then Sir Philip put two strong arms around Stephen, and he
lifted her bodily as though she were a baby, and he carried her, only faintly
protesting, right up to the door of the house and beyond it—right up indeed,

to the warm pleasant nursery where a steaming hot bath was waiting. Her
head fell back and lay on his shoulder, while her eyelids drooped, heavy
with well-earned sleep; she had to blink very hard several times over in
order to get the better of that sleep.
‘Happy, darling?’ he whispered, and his grave face bent nearer. She
could feel his cheek, rough at the end of the day, pressed against her
forehead, and she loved that kind roughness, so that she put up her hand and
stroked it.
‘So dreadfully, dreadfully happy, Father,’ she murmured, ‘so—
dreadfully happy—’

CHAPTER 5

1

O n the Monday that followed Stephen’s first day out hunting she woke
with something very like a weight on her chest; in less than two
minutes she knew why this was—she was going to tea with the Antrims.
Her relations with other children were peculiar, she thought so herself and
so did the children; they could not define it and neither could Stephen, but
there it was all the same. A high-spirited child she should have been
popular, and yet she was not, a fact which she divined, and this made her
feel ill at ease with her playmates, who in their turn felt ill at ease. She
would think that the children were whispering about her, whispering and
laughing for no apparent reason; but although this had happened on one
occasion, it was not always happening as Stephen imagined. She was
painfully hyper-sensitive at times, and she suffered accordingly.
Of all the children that Stephen most dreaded, Violet and Roger Antrim
took precedence; especially Roger, who was ten years old, and already full
to the neck of male arrogance—he had just been promoted to Etons that
winter, which added to his overbearing pride. Roger Antrim had round,
brown eyes like his mother, and a short, straight nose that might one day be
handsome; he was rather a thick-set, plump little boy, whose buttocks

looked too large in a short Eton jacket, especially when he stuck his hands
in his pockets and strutted, which he did very often.
Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly have loved to
bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her arms were so strong, he
could never wrench Stephen’s arms backwards like Violet’s; he could never
make her cry or show any emotion when he pinched her, or tugged roughly
at her new hair ribbon, and then Stephen would often beat him at games, a
fact which he deeply resented. She could bowl at cricket much straighter
than he could; she climbed trees with astonishing skill and prowess, and
even if she did tear her skirts in the process it was obviously cheek for a girl
to climb at all. Violet never climbed trees; she stood at the bottom admiring
the courage of Roger. He grew to hate Stephen as a kind of rival, a kind of
intruder into his especial province; he was always longing to take her down
a peg, but being slow-witted he was foolish in his methods—no good daring
Stephen, she responded at once, and usually went one better. As for
Stephen, she loathed him, and her loathing was increased by a most
humiliating consciousness of envy. Yes, despite his shortcomings she
envied young Roger with his thick, clumping boots, his cropped hair and
his Etons; envied his school and his masculine companions of whom he
would speak grandly as: ‘all the other fellows!’; envied his right to climb
trees and play cricket and football—his right to be perfectly natural; above
all she envied his splendid conviction that being a boy constituted a
privilege in life; she could well understand that conviction, but this only
increased her envy.
Stephen found Violet intolerably silly, she cried quite as loudly when
she bumped her own head as when Roger applied his most strenuous
torments. But what irritated Stephen, was the fact that she suspected that
Violet almost enjoyed those torments.
‘He’s so dreadfully strong!’ she had confided in Stephen, with
something like pride in her voice.
Stephen had longed to shake her for that: ‘I can pinch quite as hard as
he can!’ she had threatened, ‘If you think he’s stronger than I am, I’ll show
you!’ At which Violet had rushed away screaming.
Violet was already full of feminine poses; she loved dolls, but not quite
so much as she pretended. People said: ‘Look at Violet, she’s like a little

mother; it’s so touching to see that instinct in a child!’ Then Violet would
become still more touching. She was always thrusting her dolls upon
Stephen, making her undress them and put them to bed. ‘Now you’re
Nanny, Stephen, and I’m Gertrude’s mother, or you can be mother this time
if you’d rather—Oh, be careful, you’ll break her! Now you’ve pulled off a
button! I do think you might play more like I do!’ And then Violet knitted,
or said that she knitted—Stephen had never seen anything but knots. ‘Can’t
you knit?’ she would say, looking scornfully at Stephen, ‘I can—Mother
called me a dear little housewife!’ Then Stephen would lose her temper and
speak rudely: ‘You’re a dear little sop, that’s what you are!’ For hours she
must play stupid doll-games with Violet, because Roger would not always
play real games in the garden. He hated to be beaten, yet how could she
help it? Could she help throwing straighter than Roger?
They had nothing whatever in common, these children, but the Antrims
were neighbours, and even Sir Philip, indulgent though he was, insisted that
Stephen should have friends of her own age to play with. He had spoken
quite sharply on several occasions when the child had pleaded to be allowed
to stay at home. Indeed he spoke sharply that very day at luncheon:
‘Eat your pudding please, Stephen; come now, finish it quickly! If all
this fuss is about the little Antrims, then Father won’t have it, it’s ridiculous,
darling.’
So Stephen had hastily swallowed her pudding, and escaped upstairs to
the nursery.

2

The Antrims lived half a mile from Ledbury, on the other side of the hills. It
was quite a long drive to their house from Morton—Stephen was driven
over in the dog-cart. She sat beside Williams in gloomy silence, with the
collar of her coat turned up to her ears. She was filled with a sense of bitter
injustice; why should they insist on this stupid expedition? Even her father
had been cross at luncheon because she preferred to stay at home with him.
Why should she be forced to know other children? They didn’t want her nor
she them. And above all the Antrims! That idiotic Violet—Violet who was
learning to ride side-saddle—and Roger strutting about in his Etons, and

bragging, always bragging because he was a boy—and their mother who
was quite sure to patronize Stephen, because being grown-up made her put
on a manner. Stephen could hear her infuriating voice, the voice she
reserved for children ‘Ah, here you are, Stephen! Now then, little people,
run along and have a good feed in the schoolroom. There’s plenty of cake; I
knew Stephen was coming; we all know Stephen’s capacity for cake!’
Stephen could hear Violet’s timorous giggle and Roger’s guffaw as they
greeted this sally. She could feel his fat fingers pinching her arm; pinching
cruelly, slyly, as he strutted beside her. Then his whisper: ‘You’re a pig! You
eat much more than I do, mother said so to-day, and boys need more than
girls!’ Then Violet: ‘I’m not very fond of plum cake, it makes me feel sicky
—mother says it’s indigestion. I could never eat big bits of plum cake like
Stephen. Nanny says I’m a dainty feeder.’ Then Stephen herself, saying
nothing at all, but glaring sideways at Roger.
The dog-cart was slowly climbing British Camp, that long, steep hill out
of Little Malvern. The cold air grew colder, but marvellously pure it was,
up there above the valleys. The peak of the Camp stood out clearly defined
by snow that had fallen lightly that morning, and as they breasted the crest
of the hill, the sun shone out on the snow. Away to the right lay the valley of
the Wye, a long, lovely valley of deep blue shadows; a valley of small
homesteads and mothering trees, of soft undulations and wide, restful
spaces leading away to a line of dim mountains—leading away to the
mountains of Wales, that lay just over the border. And because she loved
this kind English valley, Stephen’s sulky eyes must turn and rest upon it;
not all her apprehension and sense of injustice could take from her eyes the
joy of that seeing. She must gaze and gaze, she must let it possess her, the
peace, the wonder that lay in such beauty; while the unwilling tears welled
up under her lids—she not knowing why they had come there.
And now they were trotting swiftly downhill; the valley had vanished,
but the woods of Eastnor stood naked and lovely, and the forms of their
trees were more perfect than forms that are made with hands—unless with
the hands of God. Stephen’s eyes turned again; she could not stay sulky for
these were the woods where she drove with her father. Twice every spring
they drove up to these woods and through them to the stretching parkland
beyond. There were deer in the park—they would sometimes get out of the
dog-cart so that Stephen could feed the does.

She began to whistle softly through her teeth, an accomplishment in
which she took a great pride. Impossible to go on feeling resentful when the
sun was shining between the bare branches, when the air was as clear and as
bright as crystal, when the cob was literally flying through the air, taking all
Williams’ strength to hold him.
‘Steady boy—steady on! He be feeling the weather—gets into his blood
and makes him that skittish—Now go quiet, you young blight! Just look at
him, will you, he’s got himself all of a lather!’
‘Let me drive,’ pleaded Stephen, ‘Oh, please, please Williams!’
But Williams shook his head as he grinned at her broadly: ‘I’ve got old
bones, Miss Stephen, and old bones breaks quick when it’s frosty, so I’ve
heard tell.’

3

Mrs. Antrim was waiting for Stephen in the lounge—she was always
waiting to waylay her in the lounge, or so it appeared to Stephen. The
lounge was a much overdressed apartment, full of small, useless tables and
large, clumsy chairs. You bumped into the chairs and tripped over the
tables; at least you did if you were Stephen. There was one deadly pitfall
you never could avoid, a huge polar bear skin that lay on the floor. Its
stuffed head protruded at a most awkward angle; you invariably stubbed
your big toe on that head. Stephen, true to tradition, stubbed her toe rather
badly as she blundered towards Mrs. Antrim.
‘Dear me,’ remarked her hostess, ‘you are a great girl; why your feet
must be double the size of Violet’s! Come here and let me have a look at
your feet.’ Then she laughed as though something amused her.
Stephen was longing to rub her big toe, but she thought better of it,
enduring in silence.
‘Children!’ called Mrs. Antrim, ‘Here’s Stephen, I’m sure she’s as
hungry as a hunter!’
Violet was wearing a pale blue silk frock; even at seven she was vain of
her appearance. She had cried until she had got permission to wear that
particular pale blue frock, which was usually reserved for parties. Her

brown hair was curled into careful ringlets, and tied with a very large bow
of blue ribbon. Mrs. Antrim glanced quickly from Stephen to Violet with a
look of maternal pride.
Roger was bulging inside his Etons; his round cheeks were puffed, very
pink and aggressive. He eyed Stephen coldly from above a white collar that
was obviously fresh from the laundry. On their way upstairs he pinched
Stephen’s leg, and Stephen kicked backwards, swiftly and neatly.
‘I suppose you think you can kick!’ grunted Roger, who was suffering
acutely at that moment from his shin, ‘You’ve not got the strength of a flea;
I don’t feel it!’
At Violet’s request they were left alone for tea; she liked playing the
hostess, and her mother spoilt her. A special small teapot had had to be
unearthed, in order that Violet could lift it.
‘Sugar?’ she inquired with tongs poised in mid air, ‘And milk?’ she
added, imitating her mother. Mrs. Antrim always said: ‘And milk,’ in that
tone—it made you feel that you must be rather greedy.
‘Oh, chuck it!’ growled Roger, whose shin was still aching, ‘You know I
want milk and four lumps of sugar.’
Violet’s underlip began to tremble, but she held her ground with
unexpected firmness. ‘May I give you a little more milk, Stephen dear? Or
would you prefer no milk, only lemon?’
‘There isn’t any lemon and you know it!’ bawled Roger. ‘Here, give me
my tea or I’ll spoil your hair ribbon.’ He grabbed at his cup and nearly upset
it.
‘Oh, oh!’ shrilled Violet, ‘My dress!’
They settled down to the meal at last, but Stephen observed that Roger
was watching; every mouthful she ate she could feel him watching, so that
she grew self-conscious. She was hungry, not having eaten much luncheon,
but now she could not enjoy her cake; Roger himself was stuffing like a
grampus, but his eyes never left her face. Then Roger, the slow-witted in his
dealings with Stephen, all but choked in the throes of a great inspiration.
‘I say, you,’ he began, with his mouth very full, ‘what about a certain
young lady out hunting? What about a fat leg on each side of her horse like

a monkey on a stick, and everybody laughing!’
‘They were not!’ exclaimed Stephen, growing suddenly red.
‘Oh, yes, but they were, though!’ mocked Roger.
Now had Stephen been wise she would have let the thing drop, for no
fun is derived from a one-sided contest, but at eight years old one is not
always wise, and moreover her pride had been stung to the quick.
She said: ‘I’d like to see you get the brush; why you can’t stick on just
riding round the paddock! I’ve seen you fall off jumping nothing but a
hurdle; I’d like to see you out hunting!’
Roger swallowed some more cake; there was now no great hurry; he
had thrown his sprat and had landed his mackerel. He had very much feared
that she might not be drawn—it was not always easy to draw Stephen.
‘Well now, listen,’ he drawled, ‘and I’ll tell you something. You thought
they admired you squatting on your pony; you thought you were being very
grand, I’ll bet, with your new riding breeches and your black velvet cap;
you thought they’d suppose that you looked like a boy, just because you
were trying to be one. As a matter of fact, if you really want to know, they
were busting their sides; why, my father said so. He was laughing all the
time at your looking so funny on that rotten old pony that’s as fat as a
porpoise. Why, he only gave you the brush for fun, because you were such a
small kid—he said so. He said: “I gave Stephen Gordon the brush because I
thought she might cry if I didn’t.” ’
‘You’re a liar,’ breathed Stephen, who had turned very pale.
‘Oh, am I? Well, you ask father.’
‘Do stop—’ whimpered Violet, beginning to cry; ‘you’re horrid, you’re
spoiling my party.’
But Roger was launched on his first perfect triumph; he had seen the
expression in Stephen’s eyes: ‘And my mother said,’ he continued more
loudly, ‘that your mother must be funny to allow you to do it; she said it
was horrid to let girls ride that way; she said she was awfully surprised at
your mother; she said that she’d have thought that your mother had more
sense; she said that it wasn’t modest; she said—’

Stephen had suddenly sprung to her feet: ‘How dare you! How dare you
—my mother!’ she spluttered. And now she was almost beside herself with
rage, conscious only of one overwhelming impulse, and that to belabour
Roger.
A plate crashed to the ground and Violet screamed faintly. Roger, in his
turn, had pushed back his chair; his round eyes were staring and rather
frightened; he had never seen Stephen quite like this before. She was
actually rolling up the sleeves of her smock.
‘You cad!’ she shouted, ‘I’ll fight you for this!’ And she doubled up her
fist and shook it at Roger while he edged away from the table.
She stood there an enraged and ridiculous figure in her Liberty smock,
with her hard, boyish forearms. Her long hair had partly escaped from its
ribbon, and the bow sagged down limply, crooked and foolish. All that was
heavy in her face sprang into view, the strong line of the jaw, the square,
massive brow, the eyebrows, too thick and too wide for beauty. And yet
there was a kind of large splendour about her—absurd though she was, she
was splendid at that moment—grotesque and splendid, like some primitive
thing conceived in a turbulent age of transition.
‘Are you going to fight me, you coward?’ she demanded, as she stepped
round the table and faced her tormentor.
But Roger thrust his hands deep into his pockets: ‘I don’t fight with
girls!’ he remarked very grandly. Then he sauntered out of the schoolroom.
Stephen’s own hands fell and hung at her sides; her head drooped, and
she stood staring down at the carpet. The whole of her suddenly drooped
and looked helpless, as she stood staring down at the carpet.
‘How could you!’ began Violet, who was plucking up courage. ‘Little
girls don’t have fights—I don’t, I’d be frightened—’
But Stephen cut her short: ‘I’m going,’ she said thickly; ‘I’m going
home to my father.’
She went heavily downstairs and out into the lobby, where she put on
her hat and coat; then she made her way round the house to the stables, in
search of old Williams and the dog-cart.

4

‘You’re home very early, Stephen,’ said Anna, but Sir Philip was staring at
his daughter’s face.
‘What’s the matter?’ he inquired, and his voice sounded anxious. ‘Come
here and tell me about it.’
Then Stephen quite suddenly burst into tears, and she wept and she wept
as she stood there before them, and she poured out her shame and
humiliation, telling all that Roger had said about her mother, telling all that
she, Stephen, would have done to defend her, had it not been that Roger
would not fight with a girl. She wept and she wept without any restraint,
scarcely knowing what she said—at that moment not caring. And Sir Philip
listened with his head on his hand, and Anna listened bewildered and
dumbfounded. She tried to kiss Stephen, to hold her to her, but Stephen,
still sobbing, pushed her away; in this orgy of grief she resented
consolation, so that in the end Anna took her to the nursery and delivered
her over to the care of Mrs. Bingham, feeling that the child did not want
her.
When Anna went quietly back to the study, Sir Philip was still sitting
with his head on his hand. She said: ‘It’s time you realized, Philip, that if
you’re Stephen’s father, I’m her mother. So far you’ve managed the child
your own way, and I don’t think it’s been successful. You’ve treated
Stephen as though she were a boy—perhaps it’s because I’ve not given you
a son—’ Her voice trembled a little but she went on gravely: ‘It’s not good
for Stephen; I know it’s not good, and at times it frightens me, Philip.’
‘No, no!’ he said sharply.
But Anna persisted: ‘Yes, Philip, at times it makes me afraid—I can’t
tell you why, but it seems all wrong—it makes me feel—strange with the
child.’
He looked at her out of his melancholy eyes: ‘Can’t you trust me?
Won’t you try to trust me, Anna?’
But Anna shook her head: ‘I don’t understand, why shouldn’t you trust
me, Philip?’

And then in his terror for this well-beloved woman, Sir Philip
committed the first cowardly action of his life—he who would not have
spared himself pain, could not bear to inflict it on Anna. In his infinite pity
for Stephen’s mother, he sinned very deeply and gravely against Stephen,
by withholding from that mother his own conviction that her child was not
as other children.
‘There’s nothing for you to understand,’ he said firmly, ‘but I like you to
trust me in all things.’
After this they sat talking about the child, Sir Philip very quiet and
reassuring.
‘I’ve wanted her to have a healthy body,’ he explained, ‘that’s why I’ve
let her run more or less wild; but perhaps we’d better have a governess now,
as you say; a French governess, my dear, if you’d prefer one—Later on I’ve
always meant to engage a bluestocking, some woman who’s been to
Oxford. I want Stephen to have the finest education that care and money
can give her.’
But once again Anna began to protest. ‘What’s the good of it all for a
girl?’ she argued. ‘Did you love me any less because I couldn’t do
mathematics? Do you love me less now because I count on my fingers?’
He kissed her. ‘That’s different, you’re you,’ he said, smiling, but a look
that she knew well had come into his eyes, a cold, resolute expression,
which meant that all persuasion was likely to be unavailing.
Presently they went upstairs to the nursery, and Sir Philip shaded the
candle with his hand, while they stood together gazing down at Stephen—
the child was heavily asleep.
‘Look, Philip,’ whispered Anna, pitiful and shaken, ‘look, Philip—she’s
got two big tears on her cheek!’
He nodded, slipping his arm around Anna: ‘Come away,’ he muttered,
‘we may wake her.’

CHAPTER 6

1

M rs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her stead
reigned Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French governess with a
long, pleasant face that reminded Stephen of a horse. This equine
resemblance was fortunate in one way—Stephen took to Mademoiselle
Duphot at once—but it did not make for respectful obedience. On the
contrary, Stephen felt very familiar, kindly familiar and quite at her ease;
she petted Mademoiselle Duphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely and
homesick, and it must be admitted that she liked being petted. Stephen
would rush off to get her a cushion, or a footstool or her glass of milk at
eleven.
‘Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite fille, elle a si bon cœur,’
would think Mademoiselle Duphot, and somehow geography would not
seem to matter quite so much, or arithmetic either—in vain did
Mademoiselle try to be strict, her pupil could always beguile her.
Mademoiselle Duphot knew nothing about horses, in spite of the fact
that she looked so much like one, and Stephen would complacently
entertain her with long conversations anent splints and spavins, cow hocks
and colic, all mixed up together in a kind of wild veterinary jumble. Had
Williams been listening, he might well have rubbed his chin, but Williams
was not there to listen.
As for Mademoiselle Duphot, she was genuinely impressed: ‘Mais quel
type, quel type!’ she was always exclaiming. ‘Vous êtes déjà une vraie
petite Amazone, Stévenne.’
‘N’est-ce pas?’ agreed Stephen, who was picking up French.
The child showed a real ability for French, and this delighted her
teacher; at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely, making
quick little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She liked talking French,
it rather amused her, nor was she averse to mastering the grammar; what
she could not endure were the long, foolish dictées from the edifying
Bibliothèque Rose. Weak in all other respects with Stephen, Mademoiselle
Duphot clung to these dictées; the Bibliothèque Rose became her last trench
of authority, and she held it.

‘ “Les Petites Filles Modèles,” ’ Mademoiselle would announce, while
Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom; ‘Maintenant nous allons
retrouver Sophie—Where to did we arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: “Cette
preuve de confiance toucha Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d’avoir
été si méchante.
‘ “Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère? Comment
ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que celles que j’ai ici, et
si hardie envers une personne aussi douce, aussi tendre que Mme. de
Fleurville!” ’
From time to time the programme would be varied by extracts of an
even more edifying nature, and ‘Les Bons Enfants’ would be chosen for
dictation, to the scorn and derision or Stephen.
‘La Maman. Donne-lui ton cœur, mon Henri; c’est ce que tu pourras lui
donner de plus agréable.
‘—Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en ouvrant sa
chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un couteau.’ At which Stephen
would giggle.
One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin: ‘Little
beast, he was only shamming!’ and Mademoiselle, coming on this
unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing by her pupil. After which
there was naturally less discipline than ever in the schoolroom, but
considerably more friendship.
However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was becoming so
proficient in French; and observing that his wife looked less anxious these
days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on
the part of his daughter should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile,
Stephen grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn adored
the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles to Stephen, those
family troubles in which governesses abound—her Maman was old and
delicate and needy; her sister had a wicked and spendthrift husband, and
now her sister must make little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid
very badly, her sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making
those little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very badly.
Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and sometimes, of course,

she must help her sister. Her Maman must have her chicken on Sundays:
‘Bon Dieu, il faut vivre—il faut manger, au moins—’ And afterwards that
chicken came in very nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his
carcass and a few leaves of cabbage—Maman loved Petite Marmite, the
warmth of it eased her old gums.
Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience and with
apparent understanding. She would nod her head wisely: ‘Mais c’est dur,’
she would comment, ‘c’est terriblement dur, la vie!’
But she never confided her own special troubles, and Mademoiselle
Duphot sometimes wondered about her: ‘Est-elle heureuse, cet étrange petit
être?’ she would wonder. ‘Sera-t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!’

2

Idleness and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more than two years,
when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon and proceeded to
announce that he taught gymnastics and fencing. From that moment peace
ceased to reign in the schoolroom, or indeed anywhere in the house for that
matter. In vain did Mademoiselle Duphot protest that gymnastics and
fencing thickened the ankles, in vain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen
merely ignored them and consulted her father.
‘I want to go in for Sandowing,’ she informed him, as though they were
discussing a career.
He laughed: ‘Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?’
Then Stephen explained about ex-Sergeant Smylie.
‘I see,’ nodded Sir Philip, ‘you want to learn fencing.’
‘And how to lift weights with my stomach,’ she said quickly.
‘Why not with your large front teeth?’ he teased her. ‘Oh, well,’ he
added, ‘there’s no harm in fencing or gymnastics either—provided, of
course, that you don’t try to wreck Morton Hall like a Sampson wrecking
the house of the Philistines; I foresee that that might easily happen—’
Stephen grinned: ‘But it mightn’t if I cut off my hair! May I cut off my
hair? Oh, do let me, Father!’

‘Certainly not, I prefer to risk it,’ said Sir Philip, speaking quite firmly.
Stephen went pounding back to the schoolroom. ‘I’m going to those
classes!’ she announced in triumph. ‘I’m going to be driven over to Malvern
next week; I’m going to begin on Tuesday, and I’m going to learn fencing
so as I can kill your brother-in-law who’s a beast to your sister, I’m going to
fight duels for wives in distress, like men do in Paris, and I’m going to learn
how to lift pianos on my stomach by expanding something—the diapan
muscles—and I’m going to cut my hair off!’ she mendaciously concluded,
glancing sideways to observe the effect of this bombshell.
‘Bon Dieu, soyez clément!’ breathed Mademoiselle Duphot, casting her
eyes to heaven.

3

It was not very long before ex-Sergeant Smylie discovered that in Stephen
he had a star pupil. ‘Some day you ought to make a champion fencer, if you
work really hard at it, Miss,’ he told her.
Stephen did not learn to lift pianos with her stomach, but as time went
on she did become quite an expert gymnast and fencer; and as
Mademoiselle Duphot confided to Anna, it was after all very charming to
watch her, so supple and young and quick in her movements.
‘And she fence like an angel,’ said Mademoiselle fondly, ‘she fence
now almost as well as she ride.’
Anna nodded. She herself had seen Stephen fencing many times, and
had thought it a fine performance for so young a child, but the fencing
displeased her, so that she found it hard to praise Stephen.
‘I hate all that sort of thing for girls,’ she said slowly.
‘But she fence like a man, with such power and such grace,’ babbled
Mademoiselle Duphot, the tactless.
And now life was full of new interest for Stephen, an interest that
centred entirely in her body. She discovered her body for a thing to be
cherished, a thing of real value since its strength could rejoice her; and
young though she was she cared for her body with great diligence, bathing

it night and morning in dull, tepid water—cold baths were forbidden, and
hot baths, she had heard, sometimes weakened the muscles. For gymnastics
she wore her hair in a pigtail, and somehow that pigtail began to intrude on
other occasions. In spite of protests, she always forgot and came down to
breakfast with a neat, shining plait, so that Anna gave in in the end and said,
sighing:
‘Have your pigtail do, child, if you feel that you must—but I can’t say it
suits you, Stephen.’
And Mademoiselle Duphot was foolishly loving. Stephen would stop in
the middle of lessons to roll back her sleeves and examine her muscles; then
Mademoiselle Duphot, instead of protesting, would laugh and admire her
absurd little biceps. Stephen’s craze for physical culture increased, and now
it began to invade the schoolroom. Dumb-bells appeared in the schoolroom
bookcases, while half worn-out gym shoes skulked in the corners.
Everything went by the board but this passion of the child’s for training her
body. And what must Sir Philip elect to do next, but to write out to Ireland
and purchase a hunter for his daughter to ride—a real, thoroughbred hunter.
And what must he say but: ‘That’s one for young Roger!’ So that Stephen
found herself comfortably laughing at the thought of young Roger; and that
laugh went a long way towards healing the wound that had rankled within
her—perhaps this was why Sir Philip had written out to Ireland for that
thoroughbred hunter.
The hunter, when he came, was grey-coated and slender, and his eyes
were as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage was as bright as an Irish
sunrise, and his heart was as young as the wild heart of Ireland, but devoted
and loyal and eager for service, and his name was sweet on the tongue as
you spoke it—being Raftery, after the poet. Stephen loved Raftery and
Raftery loved Stephen. It was love at first sight, and they talked to each
other for hours in his loose box—not in Irish or English, but in a quiet
language having very few words but many small sounds and many small
movements, which to both of them meant more than words. And Raftery
said: ‘I will carry you bravely, I will serve you all the days of my life.’ And
she answered: ‘I will care for you night and day, Raftery—all the days of
your life.’ Thus Stephen and Raftery pledged their devotion, alone in his
fragrant, hay-scented stable. And Raftery was five and Stephen was twelve
when they solemnly pledged their devotion.

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

4

Happy days, splendid days of childish achievements; but they passed all too
soon, giving place to the seasons, and there came the winter when Stephen
was fourteen.
On a January afternoon of bright sunshine, Mademoiselle Duphot sat
dabbing her eyes; for Mademoiselle Duphot must leave her loved Stévenne,
must give place to a rival who could teach Greek and Latin—she would go
back to Paris, the poor Mademoiselle Duphot, and take care of her ageing
Maman.
Meanwhile, Stephen, very angular and lanky at fourteen, was standing
before her father in his study. She stood still, but her glance kept straying to
the window, to the sunshine that seemed to be beckoning through the
window. She was dressed for riding in breeches and gaiters, and her
thoughts were with Raftery.

‘Sit down,’ said Sir Philip, and his voice was so grave that her thoughts
came back with a leap and a bound; ‘you and I have got to talk this thing
out, Stephen.’
‘What thing, Father?’ she faltered, sitting down abruptly.
‘Your idleness, my child. The time has now come when all play and no
work will make a dull Stephen, unless we pull ourselves together.’
She rested her large, shapely hands on her knees and bent forward,
searching his face intently. What she saw there was a quiet determination
that spread from his lips to his eyes. She grew suddenly uneasy, like a
youngster who objects to the rather unpleasant process of mouthing.
‘I speak French,’ she broke out, ‘I speak French like a native; I can read
and write French as well as Mademoiselle does.’
‘And beyond that you know very little,’ he informed her; ‘it’s not
enough, Stephen, believe me.’
There ensued a long silence, she tapping her leg with her whip, he
speculating about her. Then he said, but quite gently: ‘I’ve considered this
thing—I’ve considered this matter of your education. I want you to have the
same education, the same advantages as I’d give to my son—that is as far as
possible—’ he added, looking away from Stephen.
‘But I’m not your son, Father,’ she said very slowly, and even as she
said it her heart felt heavy—heavy and sad as it had not done for years, not
since she was quite a small child.
And at this he looked back at her with love in his eyes, love and
something that seemed like compassion; and their looks met and mingled
and held for a moment, speechless yet somehow expressing their hearts.
Her own eyes clouded and she stared at her boots, ashamed of the tears that
she felt might flow over. He saw this and went on speaking more quickly, as
though anxious to cover her confusion.
‘You’re all the son that I’ve got,’ he told her. ‘You’re brave and strong-
limbed, but I want you to be wise—I want you to be wise for your own
sake, Stephen, because at the best life requires great wisdom. I want you to
learn to make friends of your books; some day you may need them, because
—’ He hesitated, ‘because you mayn’t find life at all easy, we none of us do,

and books are good friends. I don’t want you to give up your fencing and
gymnastics or your riding, but I want you to show moderation. You’ve
developed your body, now develop your mind; let your mind and your
muscles help, not hinder each other—it can be done, Stephen, I’ve done it
myself, and in many respects you’re like me. I’ve brought you up very
differently from most girls, you must know that—look at Violet Antrim.
I’ve indulged you, I suppose, but I don’t think I’ve spoilt you, because I
believe in you absolutely. I believe in myself too, where you’re concerned; I
believe in my own sound judgment. But you’ve now got to prove that my
judgment’s been sound, we’ve both got to prove it to ourselves and to your
mother—she’s been very patient with my unusual methods—I’m going to
stand trial now, and she’ll be my judge. Help me, I’m going to need all your
help; if you fail then I fail, we shall go down together. But we’re not going
to fail, you’re going to work hard when your new governess comes, and
when you’re older you’re going to become a fine woman; you must, dear—
I love you so much that you can’t disappoint me.’ His voice faltered a little,
then he held out his hand: ‘and Stephen, come here—look me straight in the
eyes—what is honour, my daughter?’
She looked into his anxious, questioning eyes: ‘You are honour,’ she
said quite simply.

5

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

The tears ran down on to Mademoiselle’s tippet, and they wet the poor
fur which already looked jaded, and the fur clogged together, turning black
with those tears, so that Mademoiselle tried to wipe it. But the more she
wiped it the wetter it grew, since her handkerchief only augmented the
trouble; nor was Stephen’s large handkerchief very dry either, as she found
when she started to help.
The old station fly that had come out from Malvern, drove up, and the
footman seized Mademoiselle’s luggage. It was such meagre luggage that
he waved back assistance from the driver, and lifted the trunk single-
handed. Then Mademoiselle Duphot broke out into English—heaven only
knew why, perhaps from emotion.
‘It’s not farewell, it shall not be for ever—’ she sobbed. ‘You come, but
I feel it, to Paris. We meet once more, Stévenne, my poor little baby, when
you grow up bigger, we two meet once more—’ And Stephen, already taller
than she was, longed to grow small again, just to please Mademoiselle.
Then, because the French are a practical people even in moments of real
emotion, Mademoiselle found her handbag, and groping in its depths she
produced a half sheet of paper.
‘The address of my sister in Paris,’ she said, snuffling; ‘the address of
my sister who makes little bags—if you should hear of anyone, Stévenne—
any lady who would care to buy one little bag—’
‘Yes, yes, I’ll remember,’ muttered Stephen.
At last she was gone; the fly rumbled away down the drive and finally
turned the corner. To the end a wet face had been thrust from the window, a
wet handkerchief waved despondently at Stephen. The rain must have
mingled with Mademoiselle’s tears, for the weather had broken and now it
was raining. It was surely a desolate day for departure, with the mist closing
over the Severn Valley and beginning to creep up the hillsides. . . .
Stephen made her way to the empty schoolroom, empty of all save a
general confusion; the confusion that stalks in some people’s trail—it had
always stalked Mademoiselle Duphot. On the chairs, which stood crooked,
lay odds and ends meaning nothing—crumpled paper, a broken shoehorn, a
well-worn brown glove that had lost its fellow and likewise two of its
buttons. On the table lay a much abused pink blotting pad, from which

Stephen had torn off the corners, unchidden—it was crossed and re-crossed
with elegant French script until its scarred face had turned purple. And there
stood the bottle of purple ink, half-empty, and green round its neck with
dribbles; and a pen with a nib as sharp as a pin point, a thin, peevish nib that
jabbed at the paper. Chock-a-block with the bottle of purple ink lay a little
piety card of St. Joseph that had evidently slipped out of Mademoiselle’s
missal—St. Joseph looked very respectable and kind, like the fishmonger in
Great Malvern. Stephen picked up the card and stared at St. Joseph;
something was written across his corner; looking closer she read the minute
handwriting: ‘Priez pour ma petite Stévenne.’
She put the card away in her desk; the ink and the blotter she hid in the
cupboard together with the peevish steel nib that jabbed paper, and that
richly deserved cremation. Then she straightened the chairs and threw away
the litter, after which she went in search of a duster; one by one she dusted
the few remaining volumes in the bookcase, including the Bibliothèque
Rose. She arranged her dictation notebooks in a pile with others that were
far less accurately written—books of sums, mostly careless and marked
with a cross; books of English history, in one of which Stephen had begun
to write the history of the horse! Books of geography with Mademoiselle’s
comments in strong purple ink: ‘Grand manque d’attention.’ And lastly she
collected the torn lesson books that had lain on their backs, on their sides,
on their bellies—anyhow, anywhere in drawers or in cupboards, but not
very often in the bookcase. For the bookcase was harbouring quite other
things, a motley and most unstudious collection; dumb-bells, wooden and
iron, of varying sizes—some Indian clubs, one split off at the handle—
cotton laces, for gym shoes, the belt of a tunic. And then stable keepsakes,
including a headband that Raftery had worn on some special occasion; a
miniature horseshoe kicked sky-high by Collins; a half-eaten carrot, now
withered and mouldy, and two hunting crops that had both lost their lashes
and were waiting to visit the saddler.
Stephen considered, rubbing her chin—a habit which by now had
become automatic—she finally decided on the ample box-sofa as a seemly
receptacle. Remained only the carrot, and she stood for a long time with it
clasped in her hand, disturbed and unhappy—this clearing of decks for stern
mental action was certainly very depressing. But at last she threw the thing
into the fire, where it shifted distressfully, sizzling and humming. Then she

sat down and stared rather grimly at the flames that were burning up
Raftery’s first carrot.

CHAPTER 7

1

S oon after the departure of Mademoiselle Duphot, there occurred two
distinct innovations at Morton. Miss Puddleton arrived to take
possession of the schoolroom, and Sir Philip bought himself a motor-car.
The motor was a Panhard, and it caused much excitement in the
neighbourhood of Upton-on-Severn. Conservative, suspicious of all
innovations, people had abstained from motors in the Midlands, and,
incredible as it now seems to look back on, Sir Philip was regarded as a
kind of pioneer. The Panhard was a high-shouldered, snub-nosed abortion
with a loud, vulgar voice and an uncertain temper. It suffered from frequent
fits of dyspepsia, brought about by an unhealthy spark-plug. Its seats were
the very acme of discomfort, its primitive gears unhandy and noisy, but
nevertheless it could manage to attain to a speed of about fifteen miles per
hour—given always that, by God’s good grace and the chauffeur’s, it was
not in the throes of indigestion.
Anna felt doubtful regarding this new purchase. She was one of those
women who, having passed forty, were content to go on placidly driving in
their broughams, or, in summer, in their charming little French victorias.
She detested the look of herself in large goggles, detested being forced to tie
on her hat, detested the heavy, mannish coat of rough tweed that Sir Philip
insisted she must wear when motoring. Such things were not of her; they
offended her sense of the seemly, her preference for soft, clinging garments,
her instinct for quiet, rather slow, gentle movements, her love of the
feminine and comely. For Anna at forty-four was still slender, and her dark
hair, as yet, was untouched with grey, and her blue Irish eyes were as clear
and candid as when she had come as a bride to Morton. She was beautiful
still, and this fact rejoiced her in secret, because of her husband. Yet Anna
did not ignore middle age; she met it half-way with dignity and courage;
and now her soft dresses were of reticent colours, and her movements a

little more careful than they had been, and her mind more severely
disciplined and guarded—too much guarded these days, she was gradually
growing less tolerant as her interests narrowed. And the motor, an
unimportant thing in itself, served nevertheless to crystallize in Anna a
certain tendency towards retrogression, a certain instinctive dislike of the
unusual, a certain deep-rooted fear of the unknown.
Old Williams was openly disgusted and hostile; he considered the car to
be an outrage to his stables—those immaculate stables with their spacious
coach-houses, their wide plaits of straw neatly interwoven with yards of red
and blue saddler’s tape, and their fine stable-yard hitherto kept so spotless.
Came the Panhard, and behold, pools of oil on the flagstones, greenish, bad-
smelling oil that defied even scouring; and a medley of odd-looking tools in
the coach-house, all greasy, all soiling your hands when you touched them;
and large tins of what looked like black vaseline; and spare tyres for which
nails had been knocked into the woodwork; and a bench with a vice for the
motor’s insides which were frequently being dissected. From this coach-
house the dog-cart had been ruthlessly expelled, and now it must stand
chock-a-block with the phaeton, so that room might be made for the garish
intruder together with its young bodyservant. The young bodyservant was
known as a chauffeur—he had come down from London and wore clothes
made of leather. He talked Cockney, and openly spat before Williams in the
coach-house, then rubbed his foot over the spittle.
‘I’ll ’ave none of yer expectoration ’ere in me coach-house, I tells ee!’
bawled Williams, apoplectic with temper.
‘Oh, come orf it, do, Grandpa; we’re not in the ark!’ was how the new
blood answered Williams.
There was war to the knife between Williams and Burton—Burton who
expressed large disdain of the horses.
‘Yer time’s up now, Grandpa,’ he was constantly remarking; ‘it’s all up
with the gees—better learn to be a shovver!’
‘ ’Opes I’ll die afore ever I demean meself that way, you young blight!’
bawled the outraged Williams. Very angry he grew, and his dinner
fermented, dilating his stomach and causing discomfort, so that his wife
became anxious about him.

‘Now don’t ee go worryin’, Arth-thur,’ she coaxed; ‘us be old, me and
you, and the world be progressin’.’
‘It be goin’ to the devil, that’s what it be doin’!’ groaned Williams,
rubbing his stomach.
To make matters worse, Sir Philip’s behaviour was that of a schoolboy
with some horrid new contraption. He was caught by his stud-groom lying
flat on his back with his feet sticking out beneath the bonnet of the motor,
and when he emerged there was soot on his cheek-bones, on his hair, and
even on the tip of his nose. He looked terribly sheepish, and as Williams
said later to his wife:
‘It were somethin’ aw-ful to see ’im all mucked up, and ’im such a neat
gentleman, and ’im in a filthy old coat of that Burton’s, and that Burton
agrinnin’ at me and just pointin’, silent, because the master couldn’t see
’im, and the master a-callin’ up familiar-like to Burton: “I say! She’s got
somethin’ all wrong with ’er exhaust pipe!” and Burton acontradictin’ the
master: “It’s that piston,” says ’e, as cool as yer please.’
Nor was Stephen less thrilled by the car than was her father. Stephen
made friends with the execrable Burton, and Burton, who was only too
anxious to gain allies, soon started to teach her the parts of the engine; he
taught her to drive too, Sir Philip being willing, and off they would go, the
three of them together, leaving Williams to glare at the disappearing motor.
‘And ’er such a fine ’orse-woman and all!’ he would grumble, rubbing a
disconsolate chin.
It is not too much to say that Williams felt heart-broken, he was like a
very unhappy old baby; quite infantile he was in his fits of bad temper, in
his mouthings and his grindings of toothless gums. And all about nothing,
for Sir Philip and his daughter had the lure of horseflesh in their very bones
—and then there was Raftery, and Raftery loved Stephen, and Stephen
loved Raftery.

2

The motoring, of course, was the most tremendous fun, but—and it was a
very large but indeed—when Stephen got home to Morton and the

schoolroom, a little grey figure would be sitting at the table correcting an
exercise book, or preparing some task for the following morning. The little
grey figure might look up and smile, and when it did this its face would be
charming; but if it refrained from smiling, then its face would be ugly, too
hard and too square in formation—except for the brow, which was rounded
and shiny like a bare intellectual knee. If the little grey figure got up from
the table, you were struck by the fact that it seemed square all over—square
shoulders, square hips, a flat, square line of bosom; square tips to the
fingers, square toes to the shoes, and all tiny; it suggested a miniature box
that was neatly spliced at the corners. Of uncertain age, pale, with iron-grey
hair, grey eyes, and invariably dressed in dark grey, Miss Puddleton did not
look very inspiring—not at all as one having authority, in fact. But on close
observation it had to be admitted that her chin, though minute, was
extremely aggressive. Her mouth, too, was firm, except when its firmness
was melted by the warmth and humour of her smile—a smile that mocked,
pitied and questioned the world, and perhaps Miss Puddleton as well.
From the very first moment of Miss Puddleton’s arrival, Stephen had
had an uncomfortable conviction that this queer little woman was going to
mean something, was going to become a fixture. And sure enough she had
settled down at once, so that in less than two months it seemed to Stephen
that Miss Puddleton must always have been at Morton, must always have
been sitting at the large walnut table, must always have been saying in that
dry, toneless voice with the Oxford accent: ‘You’ve forgotten something,
Stephen,’ and then, ‘the books can’t walk to the bookcase, but you can, so
suppose that you take them with you.’
It was truly amazing, the change in the schoolroom, not a book out of
place, not a shelf in disorder; even the box lounge had had to be opened and
its dumb-bells and clubs paired off nicely together—Miss Puddleton always
liked things to be paired, perhaps an unrecognized matrimonial instinct.
And now Stephen found herself put into harness for the first time in her life,
and she loathed the sensation. There were so many rules that a very large
time-sheet had had to be fastened to the blackboard in the schoolroom.
‘Because,’ said Miss Puddleton as she pinned the thing up, ‘even my
brain won’t stand your complete lack of method, it’s infectious; this time-
sheet is my anti-toxin, so please don’t tear it to pieces!’

Mathematics and algebra, Latin and Greek, Roman history, Greek
history, geometry, botany, they reduced Stephen’s mind to a species of
beehive in which every bee buzzed on the least provocation. She would
gaze at Miss Puddleton in a kind of amazement; that tiny, square box to
hold all this grim knowledge! And seeing that gaze Miss Puddleton would
smile her most warm, charming smile, and would say as she did so:
‘Yes, I know—but it’s only the first effort, Stephen; presently your mind
will get neat like the schoolroom, and then you’ll be able to find what you
want without all this rummaging and bother.’
But her tasks being over, Stephen must often slip away to visit Raftery
in the stables: ‘Oh, Raftery, I’m hating it so!’ she would tell him. ‘I feel like
you’d feel if I put you in harness—hard wooden shafts and a kicking strap,
Raftery—but my darling, I’d never put you into harness!’
And Raftery would hardly know what he should answer, since all
human creatures, so far as he knew them, must run between shafts—God-
like though they were, they undoubtedly had to run between shafts. . . .
Nothing but Stephen’s great love for her father helped her to endure the
first six months of learning—that and her own stubborn, arrogant will that
made her hate to be beaten. She would swing clubs and dumb-bells in a
kind of fury, consoling herself with the thought of her muscles, and, finding
her at it, Miss Puddleton had laughed.
‘You must feel that your teacher’s some sort of midge, Stephen—a
tiresome midge that you want to brush off!’
Then Stephen had laughed too: ‘Well, you are little, Puddle—oh, I’m
sorry—’
‘I don’t mind,’ Miss Puddleton had told her; ‘call me Puddle if you like,
it’s all one to me.’ After which Miss Puddleton disappeared somehow, and
Puddle took her place in the household.
An insignificant creature this Puddle, yet at moments unmistakably self-
assertive. Always willing to help in domestic affairs, such as balancing
Anna’s chaotic account books, or making out library lists for Jackson’s, she
was nevertheless very guardful of her rights, very quick to assert and
maintain her position. Puddle knew what she wanted and saw that she got it,
both in and out of the schoolroom. Yet every one liked her; she took what

she gave and she gave what she took, yes, but sometimes she gave just a
little bit more—and that little bit more is the whole art of teaching, the
whole art of living, in fact, and Miss Puddleton knew it. Thus gradually, oh,
very gradually at first, she wore down her pupil’s unconscious resistance.
With small, dexterous fingers she caught Stephen’s brain, and she stroked it
and modelled it after her own fashion. She talked to that brain and showed
it new pictures; she gave it new thoughts, new hopes and ambitions; she
made it feel certain and proud of achievement. Nor did she belittle
Stephen’s muscles in the process, never once did Puddle make game of the
athlete, never once did she show by so much as the twitch of an eyelid that
she had her own thoughts about her pupil. She appeared to take Stephen as
a matter of course, nothing surprised or even amused her it seemed, and
Stephen grew quite at ease with her.
‘I can always be comfortable with you, Puddle,’ Stephen would say in a
tone of satisfaction, ‘you’re like a nice chair; though you are so tiny yet
one’s got room to stretch, I don’t know how you do it.’
Then Puddle would smile, and that smile would warm Stephen while it
mocked her a little; but it also mocked Puddle—they would share that warm
smile with its fun and its kindness, so that neither of them could feel hurt or
embarrassed. And their friendship took root, growing strong and verdant,
and it flourished like a green bay-tree in the schoolroom.
Came the time when Stephen began to realize that Puddle had genius—
the genius of teaching; the genius of compelling her pupil to share in her
own enthusiastic love of the Classics.
‘Oh, Stephen, if only you could read this in Greek!’ she would say, and
her voice would sound full of excitement; ‘the beauty, the splendid dignity
of it—it’s like the sea, Stephen, rather terrible but splendid; that’s the
language, it’s far more virile than Latin.’ And Stephen would catch that
sudden excitement, and determine to work even harder at Greek.
But Puddle did not live by the ancients alone, she taught Stephen to
appreciate all literary beauty, observing in her pupil a really fine judgment,
a great feeling for balance in sentences and words. A vast tract of new
interest was thus opened up, and Stephen began to excel in composition; to
her own deep amazement she found herself able to write many things that
had long lain dormant in her heart—all the beauty of nature, for instance,

she could write it. Impressions of childhood—gold light on the hills; the
first cuckoo, mysterious, strangely alluring; those rides home from hunting
together with her father—bare furrows, the meaning of those bare furrows.
And later, how many queer hopes and queer longings, queer joys and even
more curious frustrations. Joy of strength, splendid physical strength and
courage; joy of health and sound sleep and refreshed awakening; joy of
Raftery leaping under the saddle, joy of wind racing backward as Raftery
leapt forward. And then, what? A sudden impenetrable darkness, a sudden
vast void all nothingness and darkness; a sudden sense of acute
apprehension: ‘I’m lost, where am I? Where am I? I’m nothing—yes I am,
I’m Stephen—but that’s being nothing—’ then that horrible sense of
apprehension.
Writing, it was like a heavenly balm, it was like the flowing out of deep
waters, it was like the lifting of a load from the spirit; it brought with it a
sense of relief, of assuagement. One could say things in writing without
feeling self-conscious, without feeling shy and ashamed and foolish—one
could even write of the days of young Nelson, smiling a very little as one
did so.
Sometimes Puddle would sit alone in her bedroom reading and re-
reading Stephen’s strange compositions; frowning, or smiling a little in her
turn, at those turbulent, youthful outpourings.
She would think: ‘Here’s real talent, real red-hot talent—interesting to
find it in that great, athletic creature; but what is she likely to make of her
talent? She’s up agin the world, if she only knew it!’ Then Puddle would
shake her head and look doubtful, feeling sorry for Stephen and the world
in general.

3

This then was how Stephen conquered yet another kingdom, and at
seventeen was not only athlete but student. Three years under Puddle’s
ingenious tuition, and the girl was as proud of her brains as of her muscles
—a trifle too proud, she was growing conceited, she was growing self-
satisfied, arrogant even, and Sir Philip must tease her: ‘Ask Stephen, she’ll
tell us. Stephen, what’s that reference to Adeimantus, something about a

mind fixed on true being—doesn’t it come in Euripides, somewhere? Oh,
no, I’m forgetting, of course it’s Plato; really my Greek is disgracefully
rusty!’ Then Stephen would know that Sir Philip was laughing at her, but
very kindly.
In spite of her newly acquired book learning, Stephen still talked quite
often to Raftery. He was now ten years old and had grown much in wisdom
himself, so he listened with care and attention.
‘You see,’ she would tell him, ‘it’s very important to develop the brain
as well as the muscles; I’m now doing both—stand still, will you, Raftery!
Never mind that old corn-bin, stop rolling your eye round—it’s very
important to develop the brain because that gives you an advantage over
people, it makes you more able to do as you like in this world, to conquer
conditions, Raftery.’
And Raftery, who was not really thinking of the corn-bin, but rolling his
eye in an effort to answer, would want to say something too big for his
language, which at best must consist of small sounds and small movements;
would want to say something about a strong feeling he had that Stephen
was missing the truth. But how could he hope to make her understand the
age-old wisdom of all the dumb creatures? The wisdom of plains and
primeval forests, the wisdom come down from the youth of the world.

CHAPTER 8

1

A t seventeen Stephen was taller than Anna, who had used to be
considered quite tall for a woman, but Stephen was nearly as tall as her
father—not a beauty this, in the eyes of the neighbours.
Colonel Antrim would shake his head and remark: ‘I like ’em plump
and compact, it’s more taking.’
Then his wife, who was certainly plump and compact, so compact in her
stays that she felt rather breathless, would say: ‘But then Stephen is very

unusual, almost—well, almost a wee bit unnatural—such a pity, poor child,
it’s a terrible drawback; young men do hate that sort of thing, don’t they?’
But in spite of all this Stephen’s figure was handsome in a flat, broad-
shouldered and slim flanked fashion; and her movements were purposeful,
having fine poise, she moved with the easy assurance of the athlete. Her
hands, although large for a woman, were slender and meticulously tended;
she was proud of her hands. In face she had changed very little since
childhood, still having Sir Philip’s wide, tolerant expression. What change
there was only tended to strengthen the extraordinary likeness between
father and daughter, for now that the bones of her face showed more clearly,
as the childish fullness had gradually diminished, the formation of the
resolute jaw was Sir Philip’s. His too the strong chin with its shade of a
cleft; the well modelled, sensitive lips were his also. A fine face, very
pleasing, yet with something about it that went ill with the hats on which
Anna insisted—large hats trimmed with ribbons or roses or daisies, and
supposed to be softening to the features.
Staring at her own reflection in the glass, Stephen would feel just a little
uneasy: ‘Am I queer looking or not?’ she would wonder, ‘Suppose I wore
my hair more like Mother’s?’ and then she would undo her splendid, thick
hair, and would part it in the middle and draw it back loosely.
The result was always far from becoming, so that Stephen would hastily
plait it again. She now wore the plait screwed up very tightly in the nape of
her neck with a bow of black ribbon. Anna hated this fashion and constantly
said so, but Stephen was stubborn: ‘I’ve tried your way, Mother, and I look
like a scarecrow; you’re beautiful, darling, but your young daughter isn’t,
which is jolly hard on you.’
‘She makes no effort to improve her appearance,’ Anna would reproach,
very gravely.
These days there was constant warfare between them on the subject of
clothes; quite a seemly warfare, for Stephen was learning to control her hot
temper, and Anna was seldom anything but gentle. Nevertheless it was open
warfare, the inevitable clash of two opposing natures who sought to express
themselves in apparel, since clothes, after all, are a form of self-expression.
The victory would be now on this side, now on that; sometimes Stephen
would appear in a thick woollen jersey, or a suit of rough tweeds

surreptitiously ordered from the excellent tailor in Malvern. Sometimes
Anna would triumph, having journeyed to London to procure soft and very
expensive dresses, which her daughter must wear in order to please her,
because she would come home quite tired by such journeys. On the whole,
Anna got her own way at this time, for Stephen would suddenly give up the
contest, reduced to submission by Anna’s disappointment, always more
efficacious than mere disapproval.
‘Here, give it to me!’ she would say rather gruffly, grabbing the delicate
dress from her mother.
Then off she would rush and put it on all wrong, so that Anna would
sigh in a kind of desperation, and would pat, readjust, unfasten and fasten,
striving to make peace between wearer and model, whose inimical feelings
were evidently mutual.
Came a day when Stephen was suddenly outspoken: ‘It’s my face,’ she
announced, ‘something’s wrong with my face.’
‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed Anna, and her cheeks flushed a little, as though
the girl’s words had been an offence, then she turned away quickly to hide
her expression.
But Stephen had seen that fleeting expression, and she stood very still
when her mother had left her, her own face growing heavy and sombre with
anger, with a sense of some uncomprehended injustice. She wrenched off
the dress and hurled it from her, longing intensely to rend it, to hurt it,
longing to hurt herself in the process, yet filled all the while with that sense
of injustice. But this mood changed abruptly to one of self pity; she wanted
to sit down and weep over Stephen; on a sudden impulse she wanted to pray
over Stephen as though she were some one apart, yet terribly personal too
in her trouble. Going over to the dress she smoothed it out slowly; it seemed
to have acquired an enormous importance; it seemed to have acquired the
importance of prayer, the poor, crumpled thing lying crushed and dejected.
Yet Stephen, these days, was not given to prayer, God had grown so unreal,
so hard to believe in since she had studied Comparative Religion; engrossed
in her studies she had somehow mislaid Him. But now, here she was, very
wishful to pray, while not knowing how to explain her dilemma: ‘I’m
terribly unhappy, dear, improbable God—’ would not be a very propitious
beginning. And yet at this moment she was wanting a God and a tangible

one, very kind and paternal; a God with a white flowing beard and wide
forehead, a benevolent parent Who would lean out of Heaven and turn His
face sideways the better to listen from His cloud, upheld by cherubs and
angels. What she wanted was a wise old family God, surrounded by endless
heavenly relations. In spite of her troubles she began to laugh weakly, and
the laughter was good for it killed self pity; nor can it have offended that
Venerable Person whose image persists in the hearts of small children.
She donned the new dress with infinite precaution, pulling out its bows
and arranging its ruffles. Her large hands were clumsy but now they were
willing, very penitent hands full or deep resignation. They fumbled and
paused, then continued to fumble with the endless small fastenings so
cunningly hidden. She sighed once or twice but the sighs were quite patient,
so perhaps in this wise, after all, Stephen prayed.

2

Anna worried continually over her daughter; for one thing Stephen was a
social disaster, yet at seventeen many a girl was presented, but the bare idea
of this had terrified Stephen, and so it had had to be abandoned. At garden
parties she was always a failure, seemingly ill at ease and ungracious. She
shook hands much too hard, digging rings into fingers, this from sheer
automatic nervous reaction. She spoke not at all, or else gabbled too freely,
so that Anna grew vague in her own conversation; all eyes and ears she
would be as she listened—it was certainly terribly hard on Anna. But if hard
on Anna, it was harder on Stephen who dreaded these festive gatherings
intensely; indeed her dread of them lacked all proportion, becoming a kind
of unreasoning obsession. Every vestige of self-confidence seemed to desert
her, so that Puddle, supposing she happened to be present would find
herself grimly comparing this Stephen with the graceful, light-footed,
proficient young athlete, with the clever and somewhat opinionated student
who was fast outstripping her own powers as a teacher. Yes, Puddle would
sit there grimly comparing, and would feel not a little uneasy as she did so.
Then something of her pupil’s distress would reach her, so that perforce she
would have to share it and as like as not she would want to shake Stephen.
‘Good Lord,’ she would think, ‘why can’t she hit back? It’s absurd, it’s
outrageous to be so disgruntled by a handful of petty, half-educated yokels

—a girl with her brain too, it’s simply outrageous! She’ll have to tackle life
more forcibly than this, if she’s not going to let herself go under!’
But Stephen, completely oblivious of Puddle, would be deep in the
throes of her old suspicion, the suspicion that had haunted her ever since
childhood—she would fancy that people were laughing at her. So sensitive
was she, that a half-heard sentence, a word, a glance, made her inwardly
crumble. It might well be that people were not even thinking about her,
much less discussing her appearance—no good, she would always imagine
that the word, the glance, had some purely personal meaning. She would
twitch at her hat with inadequate fingers, or walk clumsily, slouching a little
as she did so, until Anna would whisper:
‘Hold your back up, you’re stooping.’
Or Puddle exclaim crossly: ‘What on earth’s the matter, Stephen!’
All of which only added to Stephen’s tribulation by making her still
more self-conscious.
With other young girls she had nothing in common, while they, in their
turn, found her irritating. She was shy to primness regarding certain
subjects, and would actually blush if they happened to be mentioned. This
would strike her companions as queer and absurd—after all, between girls
—surely every one knew that at times one ought not to get one’s feet wet,
that one didn’t play games, not at certain times—there was nothing to make
all this fuss about surely! To see Stephen Gordon’s expression of horror if
one so much as threw out a hint on the subject, was to feel that the thing
must in some way be shameful, a kind of disgrace, a humiliation! And then
she was odd about other things too; there were so many things that she
didn’t like mentioned.
In the end, they completely lost patience with her, and they left her
alone with her fads and her fancies, disliking the check that her presence
imposed, disliking to feel that they dare not allude to even the necessary
functions of nature without being made to feel immodest.
But at times Stephen hated her own isolation, and then she would make
little awkward advances, while her eyes would grow rather apologetic, like
the eyes of a dog who has been out of favour. She would try to appear quite
at ease with her companions, as she joined in their light-hearted

conversation. Strolling up to a group of young girls at a party, she would
grin as though their small jokes amused her, or else listen gravely while
they talked about clothes or some popular actor who had visited Malvern.
As long as they refrained from too intimate details, she would fondly
imagine that her interest passed muster. There she would stand with her
strong arms folded, and her face somewhat strained in an effort of attention.
While despising these girls, she yet longed to be like them—yes, indeed, at
such moments she longed to be like them. It would suddenly strike her that
they seemed very happy, very sure of themselves as they gossiped together.
There was something so secure in their feminine conclaves, a secure sense
of oneness, of mutual understanding; each in turn understood the other’s
ambitions. They might have their jealousies, their quarrels even, but always
she discerned, underneath, that sense of oneness.
Poor Stephen! She could never impose upon them; they always saw
through her as though she were a window. They knew well enough that she
cared not so much as a jot about clothes and popular actors. Conversation
would falter, then die down completely, her presence would dry up their
springs of inspiration. She spoilt things while trying to make herself
agreeable; they really liked her better when she was grumpy.
Could Stephen have met men on equal terms, she would always have
chosen them as her companions; she preferred them because of their blunt,
open outlook, and with men she had much in common—sport for instance.
But men found her too clever if she ventured to expand, and too dull if she
suddenly subsided into shyness. In addition to this there was something
about her that antagonized slightly, an unconscious presumption. Shy
though she might be, they sensed this presumption; it annoyed them, it
made them feel on the defensive. She was handsome but much too large and
unyielding both in body and mind, and they liked clinging women. They
were oak-trees, preferring the feminine ivy. It might cling rather close, it
might finally strangle, it frequently did, and yet they preferred it, and this
being so, they resented Stephen, suspecting something of the acorn about
her.

3

Stephen’s worst ordeals at this time were the dinners given in turn by a
hospitable county. They were long, these dinners, overloaded with courses;
they were heavy, being weighted with polite conversation; they were stately,
by reason of the family silver; above all they were firmly conservative in
spirit, as conservative as the marriage service itself, and almost as insistent
upon sex distinction.
‘Captain Ramsay, will you take Miss Gordon in to dinner?’
A politely crooked arm: ‘Delighted, Miss Gordon.’
Then the solemn and very ridiculous procession, animals marching into
Noah’s Ark two by two, very sure of divine protection—male and female
created He them! Stephen’s skirt would be long and her foot might get
entangled, and she with but one free hand at her disposal—the procession
would stop and she would have stopped it! Intolerable thought, she had
stopped the procession!
‘I’m so sorry, Captain Ramsay!’
‘I say, can I help you?’
‘No—it’s really—all right, I think I can manage—’
But oh, the utter confusion of spirit, the humiliating feeling that some
one must be laughing, the resentment at having to cling to his arm for
support, while Captain Ramsay looked patient.
‘Not much damage, I think you’ve just torn the frill, but I often wonder
how you women manage. Imagine a man in a dress like that, too awful to
think of—imagine me in it!’ Then a laugh, not unkindly but a trifle self-
conscious, and rather more than a trifle complacent.
Safely steered to her seat at the long dinner-table, Stephen would
struggle to smile and talk brightly, while her partner would think: ‘Lord,
she’s heavy in hand; I wish I had the mother; now there’s a lovely woman!’
And Stephen would think: ‘I’m a bore, why is it?’ Then, ‘But if I were
he I wouldn’t be a bore, I could just be myself, I’d feel perfectly natural.’
Her face would grow splotched with resentment and worry; she would
feel her neck flush and her hands become awkward. Embarrassed, she

would sit staring down at her hands, which would seem to be growing more
and more awkward. No escape! No escape! Captain Ramsay was kind-
hearted, he would try very hard to be complimentary; his grey eyes would
try to express admiration, polite admiration as they rested on Stephen. His
voice would sound softer and more confidential, the voice that nice men
reserve for good women, protective, respectful, yet a little sex-conscious, a
little expectant of a tentative response. But Stephen would feel herself
growing more rigid with every kind word and gallant allusion. Openly
hostile she would be feeling, as poor Captain Ramsay or some other victim
was manfully trying to do his duty.
In such a mood as this she had once drunk champagne, one glass only,
the first she had ever tasted. She had gulped it all down in sheer desperation
—the result had not been Dutch courage but hiccups. Violent, insistent,
incorrigible hiccups had echoed along the whole length of the table. One of
those weird conversational lulls had been filled, as it were, to the brim with
her hiccups. Then Anna had started to talk very loudly; Mrs. Antrim had
smiled and so had their hostess. Their hostess had finally beckoned to the
butler: ‘Give Miss Gordon a glass of water,’ she had whispered. After that
Stephen shunned champagne like the plague—better hopeless depression,
she decided, than hiccups!
It was strange how little her fine brain seemed able to help her when she
was trying to be social; in spite of her confident boasting to Raftery, it did
not seem able to help her at all. Perhaps is was the clothes, for she lost all
conceit the moment she was dressed as Anna would have her; at this period
clothes greatly influenced Stephen, giving her confidence or the reverse.
But be that as it might, people thought her peculiar, and with them that was
tantamount to disapproval.
And thus, it was being borne in upon Stephen, that for her there was no
real abiding city beyond the strong, friendly old gates of Morton, and she
clung more and more to her home and to her father. Perplexed and unhappy
she would seek out her father on all social occasions and would sit down
beside him. Like a very small child this large muscular creature would sit
down beside him because she felt lonely, and because youth most rightly
resents isolation, and because she had not yet learnt her hard lesson—she
had not yet learnt that the loneliest place in this world is the no-man’s-land
of sex.

CHAPTER 9

1

S ir Philip and his daughter had a new common interest; they could now
discuss books and the making of books and the feel and the smell and
the essence of books—a mighty bond this, and one full of enchantment.
They could talk of these things with mutual understanding; they did so for
hours in the father’s study, and Sir Philip discovered a secret ambition that
had lain in the girl like a seed in deep soil; and he, the good gardener of her
body and spirit, hoed the soil and watered this seed of ambition. Stephen
would show him her queer compositions, and would wait very breathless
and still while he read them; then one evening he looked up and saw her
expression, and he smiled:
‘So that’s it, you want to be a writer. Well, why not? You’ve got plenty
of talent, Stephen; I should be a proud man if you were a writer.’ After
which their discussions on the making of books held an even more vital
enchantment.
But Anna came less and less often to the study, and she would be sitting
alone and idle. Puddle, upstairs at work in the schoolroom, might be
swatting at her Greek to keep pace with Stephen, but Anna would be sitting
with her hands in her lap in the vast drawing-room so beautifully
proportioned, so restfully furnished in old polished walnut, so redolent of
beeswax and orris root and violets—all alone in its vastness would Anna be
sitting, with her white hands folded and idle.
A lovely and most comfortable woman she had been, and still was, in
spite of her gentle ageing, but not learned, oh, no, very far from learned—
that, indeed, was why Sir Philip had loved her, that was why he had found
her so infinitely restful, that was why he still loved her after very many
years; her simplicity was stronger to hold him than learning. But now Anna
went less and less often to the study.
It was not that they failed to make her feel welcome, but rather that they
could not conceal their deep interest in subjects of which she knew little or
nothing. What did she know of or care for the Classics? What interest had

she in the works of Erasmus? Her theology needed no erudite discussion,
her philosophy consisted of a home swept and garnished, and as for the
poets, she liked simple verses; for the rest her poetry lay in her husband. All
this she well knew and had no wish to alter, yet lately there had come upon
Anna an aching, a tormenting aching that she dared give no name to. It
nagged at her heart when she went to that study and saw Sir Philip together
with their daughter, and knew that her presence contributed nothing to his
happiness when he sat reading to Stephen.
Staring at the girl she would see the strange resemblance, the invidious
likeness of the child to the father, she would notice their movements so
grotesquely alike; their hands were alike, they made the same gestures, and
her mind would recoil with that nameless resentment, the while she
reproached herself, penitent and trembling. Yet penitent and trembling
though Anna might be, she would sometimes hear herself speaking to
Stephen in a way that would make her feel secretly ashamed. She would
hear herself covertly, cleverly gibing, with such skill that the girl would
look up at her bewildered; with such skill that even Sir Philip himself could
not well take exception to what she was saying; then, as like as not, she
would laugh if off lightly, as though all the time she had only been jesting,
and Stephen would laugh too, a big, friendly laugh. But Sir Philip would
not laugh, and his eyes would seek Anna’s, questioning, amazed,
incredulous and angry. That was why she now went so seldom to the study
when Sir Philip and his daughter were together.
But sometimes, when she was alone with her husband, Anna would
suddenly cling to him in silence. She would hide her face against his hard
shoulder clinging closer and closer, as though she were frightened, as
though she were afraid for this great love of theirs. He would stand very
still, forbearing to move, forbearing to question, for why should he
question? He knew already, and she knew that he knew. Yet neither of them
spoke it, this most unhappy thing, and their silence spread round them like a
poisonous miasma. The spectre that was Stephen would seem to be
watching, and Sir Philip would gently release himself from Anna, while
she, looking up, would see his tired eyes, not angry any more, only very
unhappy. She would think that those eyes were pleading, beseeching; she
would think: ‘He’s pleading with me for Stephen.’ Then her own eyes

would fill with tears of contrition, and that night she would kneel long in
prayer to her Maker:
‘Give me peace,’ she would entreat, ‘and enlighten my spirit, so that I
may learn how to love my own child.’

2

Sir Philip looked older now than his age, and seeing this, Anna could
scarcely endure it. Everything in her cried out in rebellion so that she
wanted to thrust back the years, to hold them at bay with her own weak
body. Had the years been an army of naked swords she would gladly have
held them at bay with her body. He would constantly now remain in his
study right into the early hours of the morning. This habit of his had been
growing on him lately, and Anna, waking to find herself alone, and feeling
uneasy would steal down to listen. Backwards and forwards, backwards and
forwards! She would hear his desolate sounding footsteps. Why was he
pacing backwards and forwards, and why was she always afraid to ask him?
Why was the hand she stretched out to the door always fearful when it came
to turning the handle? Oh, but it was strong, this thing that stood between
them, strong with the strength of their united bodies. It had drawn its own
life from their youth, their passion, from the splendid and purposeful
meaning of their passion—that was how it had leapt full of power into life,
and now it had thrust in between them. They were ageing, they had little left
but their loving—that gentler loving, perhaps the more perfect—and their
faith in each other, which was part of that loving, and their peace, which
was part of the peace of Morton. Backwards and forwards, backwards and
forwards! Those incessant and desolate sounding footsteps. Peace? There
was surely no peace in that study, but rather some affliction, menacing,
prophetic! Yet prophetic of what? She dared not ask him, she dared not so
much as turn the door-handle, a haunting premonition of disaster would
make her creep away with her question unasked.
Then something would draw her, not back to her bedroom, but on up the
stairs to the room of their daughter. She would open that door very gently—
by inches. She would hold her hand so that it shaded the candle, and would
stand looking down at the sleeping Stephen as she and her husband had
done long ago. But now there would be no little child to look down on, no

small helplessness to arouse mother-pity. Stephen would be lying very
straight, very large, very long, underneath the neatly drawn covers. Quite
often an arm would be outside the bedspread, the sleeve having fallen away
as it lay there, and that arm would look firm and strong and possessive, and
so would the face by the light of the candle. She slept deeply. Her breathing
would be even and placid. Her body would be drinking in its fill of
refreshment. It would rise up clean and refreshed in the morning; it would
eat, speak, move—it would move about Morton. In the stables, in the
gardens, in the neighbouring paddocks, in the study—it would move about
Morton. Intolerable dispensation of nature, Anna would stare at that
splendid young body, and would feel, as she did so, that she looked on a
stranger. She would scourge her heart and her anxious spirit with memories
drawn from this stranger’s beginnings: ‘Little—you were so very little!’ she
would whisper, ‘and you sucked from my breast because you were hungry
—little and always so terribly hungry—a good baby though, a contented
little baby—’
And Stephen would sometimes stir in her sleep as though she were
vaguely conscious of Anna. It would pass and she would lie quiet again,
breathing in those deep, placid draughts of refreshment. Then Anna, still
ruthlessly scourging her heart and her anxious spirit, would stoop and kiss
Stephen, but lightly and very quickly on the forehead, so that the girl should
not be awakened. So that the girl should not wake and kiss back, she would
kiss her lightly and quickly on the forehead.

3

The eye of youth is very observant. Youth has its moments and keen
intuition, even normal youth—but the intuition of those who stand midway
between the sexes, is so ruthless, so poignant, so accurate, so deadly, as to
be in the nature of an added scourge; and by such an intuition did Stephen
discover that all was not well with her parents.
Their outward existence seemed calm and unruffled; so far nothing had
disturbed the outward peace of Morton. But their child saw their hearts with
the eyes of the spirit; flesh of their flesh, she had sprung from their hearts,
and she knew that those hearts were heavy. They said nothing, but she
sensed that some deep, secret trouble was afflicting them both; she could

see it in their eyes. In the words that they left unspoken she could hear it—it
would be there, filling the small gaps of silence. She thought that she
discerned it in her father’s slow movements—surely his movements had
grown slower of late? And his hair was quite grey; it was quite grey all
over. She realized this with a slight shock one morning as he sat in the
sunlight—it had used to look auburn in the nape of his neck when the sun
fell upon it—and now it was dull grey all over.
But this mattered little. Even their trouble mattered little in comparison
with something more vital, with their love—that, she felt, was the only
thing that mattered, and that was the thing that now stood most in danger.
This love of theirs had been a great glory; all her life she had lived with it
side by side, but never until it appeared to be threatened, did she feel that
she had really grasped its true meaning—the serene and beautiful spirit of
Morton clothed in flesh, yes, that had been its true meaning. Yet that had
been only part of its meaning for her, it had meant something greater than
Morton, it had stood for the symbol of perfect fulfilment—she remembered
that even as a very small child she had vaguely discerned that perfect
fulfilment. This love had been glowing like a great friendly beacon, a thing
that was steadfast and very reassuring. All unconscious, she must often have
warmed herself at it, must have thawed out her doubts and her vague
misgivings. It had always been their love, the one for the other; she knew
this, and yet it had been her beacon. But now those flames were no longer
steadfast; something had dared to blemish their brightness. She longed to
leap up in her youth and strength and cast this thing out of her holy of
holies. The fire must not die and leave her in darkness.
And yet she was utterly helpless, and she knew it. All that she did
seemed inadequate and childish: ‘When I was a child I spake as a child, I
understood as a child, I thought as a child.’ Remembering Saint Paul, she
decided grimly that surely she had remained as a child. She could sit and
stare at them—these poor, stricken lovers—with eyes that were scared and
deeply reproachful: ‘You must not let anything spoil your loving, I need it,’
her eyes could send them that message. She could love them in her turn,
possessively, fiercely: ‘You’re mine, mine, mine, the one perfect thing
about me. You’re one and you’re mine, I’m frightened, I need you!’ Her
thoughts could send them that message. She could start to caress them,
awkwardly, shyly, stroking their hands with her strong, bony fingers—first

his hand, then hers, then perhaps both together, so that they smiled in spite
of their trouble. But she dared not stand up before them accusing, and say:
‘I’m Stephen, I’m you, for you bred me. You shall not fail me by failing
yourselves. I’ve a right to demand that you shall not fail me!’ No, she dared
not stand up and speak such words as these—she had never demanded
anything from them.
Sometimes she would think them quietly over as two fellow creatures
whom chance had made her parents. Her father, her mother—a man, a
woman; and then she would be amazed to discover how little she knew of
this man and this woman. They had once been babies, and later small
children, ignorant of life and utterly dependent. That seemed so curious,
ignorant of life—her father utterly weak and dependent. They had come to
adolescence even as she had, and perhaps at times they too had felt
unhappy. What had their thoughts been, those thoughts that lie hidden, those
nebulous misgivings that never get spoken? Had her mother shrunk back
resentful, protesting, when the seal of her womanhood had been stamped
upon her? Surely not, for her mother was somehow so perfect, that all that
befell her must in its turn, be perfect—her mother gathered nature into her
arms and embraced it as a friend, as a well loved companion. But she,
Stephen, had never felt friendly like that, which must mean, she supposed,
that she lacked some fine instinct.
There had been those young years of her mother’s in Ireland; she spoke
of them sometimes but only vaguely, as though they were now very far
away, as though they had never seriously counted. And yet she had been
lovely, lovely Anna Molloy, much admired, much loved and constantly
courted—And her father, he too had been in the world, in Rome, in Paris,
and often in London—he had not lived much at Morton in those days; and
how queer it seemed, there had been a time when her father had actually not
known her mother. They had been completely unconscious of each other, he
for twenty-nine years, she for just over twenty, and yet all the while had
been drawing together, in spite of themselves, always nearer together. Then
had come that morning away in County Clare, when those two had
suddenly seen each other, and had known from that moment the meaning of
life, of love, just because they had seen each other. Her father spoke very
seldom of such things, but this much he had told her, it had all grown quite

clear—What had it felt like when they realized each other? What did it feel
like to see things quite clearly, to know the innermost reason for things?
Morton—her mother had come home to Morton, to wonderful, gently
enfolding Morton. She had passed for the first time through the heavy white
doorway under the shining semi-circular fanlight. She had walked into the
old square hall with its bearskins, and its pictures of funny, dressed-up
looking Gordons—the hall with the whip-rack where Stephen kept her
whips—the hall with the beautiful iridescent window, that looked over the
lawns and herbaceous borders. Then, perhaps hand in hand, they had passed
beyond the hall, her father a man, her mother a woman, with their destiny
already upon them—and that destiny of theirs had been Stephen.
Ten years. For ten years they had just had each other, each other and
Morton—surely wonderful years. But what had they been thinking about all
those years? Had they perhaps thought a little about Stephen? Oh, but what
could she hope to know of these things, their thoughts, their feelings, their
secret ambitions—she, who had not even been conceived, she, who had not
yet come into existence? They had lived in a world that her eyes had not
looked on; days and nights had slipped into the weeks, months and years.
Time had existed, but she, Stephen, had not. They had lived through that
time; it had gone to their making; their present had been the result of its
travail, had sprung from its womb as she from her mother’s, only she had
not been a part of that travail, as she had been a part of her mother’s.
Hopeless! And yet she must try to know them, these two, every inch of their
hearts, of their minds; and knowing them, she must then try to guard them
—but him first, oh, him first—she did not ask why, she only knew that
because she loved him as she did, he would always have to come first. Love
was simply like that; it just followed its impulse and asked no questions—it
was beautifully simple. But for his sake she must also love the thing that he
loved, her mother, though this love was somehow quite different; it was less
hers than his, he had thrust it upon her; it was not an integral part of her
being. Nevertheless it too must be served, for the happiness of one was that
of the other. They were indivisible, one flesh, one spirit, and whatever it
was that had crept in between them was trying to tear asunder this oneness
—that was why she, their child, must rise up and help them if she could, for
was she not the fruit of their oneness?

4

There were times when she would think that she must have been mistaken,
that no trouble was overshadowing her father; these would be when they
two were sitting in his study, for then he would seem contented. Surrounded
by his books, caressing their bindings, Sir Philip would look carefree again
and light-hearted.
‘No friends in the world like books,’ he would tell her. ‘Look at this
fellow in his old leather jacket!’
There were times, too, out hunting when he seemed very young, as
Raftery had been that first season. But the ten-year-old Raftery was now
wiser than Sir Philip, who would often behave like a foolhardy schoolboy.
He would give Stephen leads over hair-raising places, and then, she safely
landed, turn round and grin at her. He liked her to ride the pick of his
hunters these days, and would slyly show off her prowess. The sport would
bring back the old light to his eyes, and his eyes would look happy as they
rested on his daughter.
She would think: ‘I must have been terribly mistaken,’ and would feel a
great peace surge over her spirit.
He might say, as they slowly jogged home to Morton: ‘Did you notice
my youngster here take that stiff timber? Not bad for a five-year-old, he’ll
do nicely.’ And perhaps he might add: ‘Put a three on that five, and then tell
your old sire that he’s not so bad either! I’m fifty-three, Stephen, I’ll be
going in the wind if I don’t knock off smoking quite soon, and that’s
certain!’
Then Stephen would know that her father felt young, very young, and
was wanting her to flatter him a little.
But this mood would not last; it had often quite changed by the time that
the two of them reached the stables. She would notice with a sudden pain in
her heart that he stooped when he walked, not much yet, but a little. And
she loved his broad back, she had always loved it—a kind, reassuring
protective back. Then the thought would come that perhaps its great
kindness had caused it to stoop as though bearing a burden; and the thought
would come: ‘He is bearing a burden, not his own, it’s some one else’s—but
whose?’

CHAPTER 10

1

C hristmas came and with it the girl’s eighteenth birthday, but the
shadows that clung round her home did not lessen; nor could Stephen,
groping about in those shadows, find a way to win through to the light.
Every one tried to be cheerful and happy, as even sad people will do at
Christmas, while the gardeners brought in huge bundles of holly with which
to festoon the portraits of Gordons—rich, red-berried holly that came from
the hills, and that year after year would be sent down to Morton. The
courageous-eyed Gordons looked out from their wreaths unsmiling, as
though they were thinking of Stephen.
In the hall stood the Christmas-tree of her childhood, for Sir Philip
loved the old German custom which would seem to insist that even the aged
be as children and play with God on His birthday. At the top of the tree
swung the little wax Christ-child in His spangled nightgown with gold and
blue ribbons; and the little wax Christ-child bent downwards and sideways
because, although small, He was rather heavy—or, as Stephen had thought
when she too had been small, because He was trying to look for His
presents.
In the morning they all went to church in the village, and the church
smelt of coldness and freshly bruised greenstuff—of the laurel and holly
and pungent pine branches, that wreathed the oak pulpit and framed the
altar; and the anxious-faced eagle who must carry the Scriptures on his
wings, he too was looking quite festive. Very redolent of England it was,
that small church, with its apple-cheeked choirboys in newly washed
garments; with its young Oxford parson who in summer played cricket to
the glory of God and the good of the county; with its trim congregation of
neighbouring gentry who had recently purchased an excellent organ, so that
now they could hear the opening bars of the hymns with a feeling of self-
satisfaction, but with something else too that came nearer to Heaven,
because of those lovely old songs of Christmas. The choir raised their

sexless, untroubled voices: ‘While shepherds watched their flocks . . .’ sang
the choir; and Anna’s soft mezzo mingled and blended with her husband’s
deep boom and Puddle’s soprano. Then Stephen sang too for the sheer joy
of singing, though her voice at best was inclined to be husky: ‘While
shepherds watched their flocks by night,’ carolled Stephen—for some
reason thinking of Raftery.
After church the habitual Christmas greetings: ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Merry Christmas.’ ‘Same to you, many of them!’ Then home to Morton
and the large mid-day dinner—turkey, plum pudding with its crisp brandy
butter, and the mince-pies that invariably gave Puddle indigestion. Then
dessert with all sorts of sweet fruits out of boxes, crystallized fruits that
made your hands sticky, together with fruit from the Morton green-houses;
and from somewhere that no one could ever remember, the elegant
miniature Lady-apples that you ate skins and all in two bites if you were
greedy.
A long afternoon spent in waiting for darkness when Anna could light
the Christmas-tree candles; and no ringing of bells to disturb the servants,
not until they must all file in for their presents which were piled up high
round the base of the tree on which Anna would light the small candles.
Dusk—draw the curtains, it was dark enough now, and some one must go
and fetch Anna the taper, but she must take care of the little wax Christ-
child, Who liked many lights even though they should melt Him.
‘Stephen, climb up, will you, and tie back the Christ-child, His toe is
almost touching that candle!’
Then Anna applying the long lighted taper from branch to branch, very
slowly and gravely, as though she accomplished some ritual, as though she
herself were a ministering priestess—Anna very slender and tall in a dress
whose soft folds swept her limbs and lay round her ankles.
‘Ring three times, will you, Philip? I think they’re all lighted—no, wait
—all right now, I’d missed that top candle. Stephen, begin to sort out the
presents, please, dear, your father’s just rung for the servants. Oh, and
Puddle, you might push over the table, I may need it—no, not that one, the
table by the window—’

A subdued sound of voices, a stifled giggle. The servants filing in
through the green baize door, and only the butler and footmen familiar in
appearance, the others all strangers, in mufti. Mrs. Wilson, the cook, in
black silk with jet trimming, the scullery maid in electric blue cashmere,
one housemaid in mauve, another in green, and the upper of three in dark
terracotta, while Anna’s own maid wore an old dress of Anna’s. Then the
men from outside, from the gardens and stables—men bareheaded who
were usually seen in their caps—old Williams displaying a widening bald
patch, and wearing tight trousers instead of his breeches; old Williams
walking stiffly because his new suit felt like cardboard, and because his
white collar was too high, and because his hard, made-up black bow would
slip crooked. The grooms and the boys, all exceedingly shiny from their
neatly oiled heads to their well polished noses—the boys very awkward,
short-sleeved and rough-handed, shuffling a little because trying not to. And
the gardeners led in by the grave Mr. Hopkins, who wore black of a Sunday
and carried a Church Service, and whose knowledge of the ills that all
grape-flesh is heir to, had given his face a patient, pained expression. Men
smelling of soil these, in spite of much scrubbing; men whose necks and
whose hands were crossed and re-crossed by a network of tiny and earth-
clogged furrows—men whose backs would bend early from tending the
earth. There they stood in the wake of the grave Mr. Hopkins, with their
eyes on the big, lighted Christmas-tree, while they never so much as
glanced at the flowers that had sprung from many long hours of their
labour. No, instead they must just stand and gape at the tree, as though with
its candles and Christ-child and all, it were some strange exotic plant in
Kew Gardens.
Then Anna called her people by name, and to each one she gave the
gifts of that Christmas; and they thanked her, thanked Stephen and thanked
Sir Philip; and Sir Philip thanked them for their faithful service, as had
always been the good custom at Morton for more years than Sir Philip
himself could remember. Thus the day had passed by in accordance with
tradition, every one from the highest to the lowest remembered; nor had
Anna forgotten her gifts for the village—warm shawls, sacks of coal, cough
mixture and sweets. Sir Philip had sent a cheque to the vicar, which would
keep him for a long time in cricketing flannels; and Stephen had carried a
carrot to Raftery and two lumps of sugar to the fat, aged Collins, who
because he was all but blind of one eye, had bitten her hand in place of his

sugar. And Puddle had written at great length to a sister who lived down in
Cornwall and whom she neglected, except on such memory-jogging
occasions as Christmas, when somehow we always remember. And the
servants had gorged themselves to repletion, and the hunters had rested in
their hay-scented stables; while out in the fields, sea-gulls, come far inland,
had feasted in their turn on humbler creatures—grubs and slugs, and other
unhappy small fry, much relished by birds and hated by farmers.
Night closed down on the house, and out of the darkness came the
anxious young voices of village schoolchildren: ‘Noël, Noël—’ piped the
anxious young voices, lubricated by sweets from the lady of Morton. Sir
Philip stirred the logs in the hall to a blaze, while Anna sank into a deep
chair and watched them. Her hands that were wearied by much ministration,
lay over the arms of the chair in the firelight, and the firelight sought out the
rings on her hands, and it played with the whiter flames in her diamonds.
Then Sir Philip stood up, and he gazed at his wife, while she stared at the
logs not appearing to notice him; but Stephen, watching in silence from her
corner, seemed to see a dark shadow that stole in between them—beyond
this her vision was mercifully dim, otherwise she must surely have
recognized that shadow.

2

On New Year’s Eve Mrs. Antrim gave a dance in order, or so she said, to
please Violet, who was still rather young to attend the hunt balls, but who
dearly loved gaiety, especially dancing. Violet was plump, pert and
adolescent, and had lately insisted on putting her hair up. She liked men,
who in consequence always liked her, for like begets like when it comes to
the sexes, and Violet was full of what people call: ‘allure,’ or in simpler
language, of sexual attraction. Roger was home for Christmas from
Sandiest, so that he would be there to assist his mother. He was now nearly
twenty, a good-looking youth with a tiny moustache which he tentatively
fingered. He assumed the grand air of the man of the world who has
actually weathered about nineteen summers. He was hoping to join his
regiment quite soon, which greatly augmented his self-importance.
Could Mrs. Antrim have ignored Stephen Gordon’s existence, she
would almost certainly have done so. She disliked the girl; she had always

disliked her; what she called Stephen’s ‘queerness’ aroused her suspicion—
she was never quite clear as to what she suspected, but felt sure that it must
be something outlandish: ‘A young woman of her age to ride like a man, I
call it preposterous!’ declared Mrs. Antrim.
It can safely be said that Stephen at eighteen had in no way outgrown
her dread of the Antrims; there was only one member of that family who
liked her, she knew, and that was the small, hen-pecked Colonel. He liked
her because, a fine horseman himself, he admired her skill and her courage
out hunting.
‘It’s a pity she’s so tall, of course—’ he would grumble, ‘but she does
know a horse and how to stick on one. Now my children might have been
brought up at Margate, they’re just about fitted to ride the beach donkeys!’
But Colonel Antrim would not count at the dance; indeed in his own
house he very seldom counted. Stephen would have to endure Mrs. Antrim
and Violet—and then Roger was home from Sandiest. Their antagonism
had never quite died, perhaps because it was too fundamental. Now they
covered it up with a cloak of good manners, but these two were still
enemies at heart, and they knew it. No, Stephen did not want to go to that
dance, though she went in order to please her mother. Nervous, awkward
and apprehensive, Stephen arrived at the Antrims that night, little thinking
that Fate, the most expert of tricksters, was waiting to catch her just round
the corner. Yet so it was, for during that evening Stephen met Martin and
Martin met Stephen, and their meeting was great with portent for them
both, though neither of them could know it.
It all happened quite simply as such things will happen. It was Roger
who introduced Martin Hallam; it was Stephen who explained that she
danced very badly; it was Martin who suggested that they sit out their
dances. Then—how quickly it occurs if the thing is pre-destined—they
suddenly knew that they liked each other, that some chord had been struck
to a pleasant vibration; and this being so they sat out many dances, and they
talked for quite a long while that evening.
Martin lived in British Columbia, it seemed, where he owned several
farms and a number of orchards. He had gone out there after the death of
his mother, for six months, but had stayed on for love of the country. And
now he was having a holiday in England—that was how he had got to know

young Roger Antrim, they had met up in London and Roger had asked him
to come down for a week, and so here he was—but it felt almost strange to
be back again in England. Then he talked of the vastness of that new
country that was yet so old; of its snow-capped mountains, of its canyons
and gorges, of its deep, princely rivers, of its lakes, above all of its mighty
forests. And when Martin spoke of those mighty forests, his voice changed,
it became almost reverential; for this young man loved trees with a
primitive instinct, with a strange and inexplicable devotion. Because he
liked Stephen he could talk of his trees, and because she liked him she
could listen while he talked, feeling that she too would love his great
forests. His face was very young, clean-shaven and bony; he had bony,
brown hands with spatulate fingers; for the rest, he was tall with a loosely
knit figure, and he slouched a little when he walked, from much riding. But
his face had a charming quality about it, especially when he talked of his
trees; it glowed, it seemed to be inwardly kindled, and it asked for a real
and heart-felt understanding of the patience and the beauty and the
goodness of trees—it was eager for your understanding. Yet in spite of this
touch of romance in his make-up, which he could not keep out of his voice
at moments, he spoke simply, as one man will speak to another, very
simply, not trying to create an impression. He talked about trees as some
men talk of ships, because they love them and the element they stand for.
And Stephen, the awkward, the bashful, the tongue-tied, heard herself
talking in her turn, quite freely, heard herself asking him endless questions
about forestry, farming and the care of vast orchards; thoughtful questions,
unromantic but apt—such as one man will ask of another.
Then Martin wished to learn about her, and they talked of her fencing,
her studies, her riding, and she told him about Raftery who was named for
the poet. And all the while she felt natural and happy because here was a
man who was taking her for granted, who appeared to find nothing
eccentric about her or her tastes, but who quite simply took her for granted.
Had you asked Martin Hallam to explain why it was that he accepted the
girl at her own valuation, he would surely have been unable to tell you—it
had happened, that was all, and there the thing ended. But whatever the
reason, he felt drawn to this friendship that had leapt so suddenly into
being.

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

CHAPTER 11

1

M artin went to Morton, he went very often, for Sir Philip liked him and
encouraged the friendship. Anna liked Martin too, and she made him
feel welcome because he was young and had lost his mother. She spoilt him
a little, as a woman will spoil who, having no son must adopt some one
else’s, so to Anna he went with all his small troubles, and she doctored him
when he caught a bad chill out hunting. He instinctively turned to her in
such things, but never, in spite of their friendship, to Stephen.
Yet now he and Stephen were always together, he was staying on and on
at the hotel in Upton; ostensibly staying because of the hunting; in reality
staying because of Stephen who was filling a niche in his life long empty,
the niche reserved for the perfect companion. A queer, sensitive fellow this
Martin Hallam, with his strange love of trees and primitive forests—not a
man to make many intimate friends, and in consequence a man to be lonely.
He knew little about books and had been a slack student, but Stephen and
he had other things in common; he rode well, and he cared for and
understood horses; he fenced well and would quite often now fence with
Stephen; nor did he appear to resent it when she beat him; indeed he
seemed to accept it as natural, and would merely laugh at his own lack of
skill. Out hunting these two would keep close to each other, and would ride
home together as far as Upton; or perhaps he would go on to Morton with
her for Anna was always glad to see Martin. Sir Philip gave him the
freedom of the stables, and even old Williams forbore to grumble:
‘ ’E be trusty, that’s what ’e be,’ declared Williams, ‘and the horses
knows it and acts accordin’.’

But sport was not all that drew Stephen to Martin, for his mind, like
hers, was responsive to beauty, and she taught him the country-side that she
loved, from Upton to Castle Morton common—the common that lies at the
foot of the hills. But far beyond Castle Morton she took him. They would
ride down the winding lane to Bromsberrow, then crossing the small stream
at Clincher’s Mill, jog home through the bare winter woods of Eastnor. And
she taught him the hills whose plentiful bosoms had made Anna think of
green-girdled mothers, mothers of sons, as she sat and watched them, great
with the child who should have been her son. They climbed the venerable
Worcestershire Beacon that stands guardian of all the seven Malverns, or
wandered across the hills of the Wells to the old British Camp above the
Wye Valley. The Valley would lie half in light, half in shadow, and beyond
would be Wales and the dim Black Mountains. Then Stephen’s heart would
tighten a little, as it always had done because of that beauty, so that one day
she said:
‘When I was a child, this used to make me want to cry, Martin.’
And he answered: ‘Some part of us always sheds tears when we see
lovely things—they make us regretful.’ But when she asked him why this
should be, he shook his head slowly, unable to tell her.
Sometimes they walked through Hollybush woods, then on up
Raggedstone, a hill grim with legend—its shadow would bring misfortune
or death to those it fell on, according to legend. Martin would pause to
examine the thorn trees, ancient thorns that had weathered many a hard
winter. He would touch them with gentle, pitying fingers:
‘Look, Stephen—the courage of these old fellows! They’re all twisted
and crippled; it hurts me to see them, yet they go on patiently doing their bit
—have you ever thought about the enormous courage of trees? I have, and
it seems to me amazing. The Lord dumps them down and they’ve just got to
stick it, no matter what happens—that must need some courage!’ And one
day he said: ‘Don’t think me quite mad, but if we survive death then the
trees will survive it; there must be some sort of a forest heaven for all the
faithful—the faithful of trees. I expect they take their birds along with them;
why not? “And in death they were not divided.” ’ Then he laughed, but she
saw that his eyes were quite grave, so she asked him:
‘Do you believe in God, Martin?’

And he answered: ‘Yes, because of His trees. Don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘Oh, my poor, blind Stephen! Look again, go on looking until you do
believe.’
They discussed many things quite simply together, for between these
two was no vestige of shyness. His youth met hers and walked hand in hand
with it, so that she knew how utterly lonely her own youth had been before
the coming of Martin.
She said: ‘You’re the only real friend I’ve ever had, except Father—our
friendship’s so wonderful, somehow—we’re like brothers, we enjoy all the
same sort of things.’
He nodded: ‘I know, a wonderful friendship.’
The hills must let Stephen tell him their secrets, the secrets of bypaths
most cunningly hidden; the secrets of small, unsuspected green hollows; the
secrets of ferns that live only by hiding. She might even reveal the secrets
of birds, and show him the playground of shy, spring cuckoos.
‘They fly quite low up here, one can see them; last year a couple flew
right past me, calling. If you were not going away so soon, Martin, we’d
come later on—I’d love you to see them.’
‘And I’d love you to see my huge forests,’ he told her, ‘why can’t you
come back to Canada with me? What rot it is, all this damned convention;
we’re such pals you and I, I’ll be desperately lonely—Lord, what a fool of a
world we live in!’
And she said quite simply: ‘I’d love to come with you.’
Then he started to tell her about his huge forests, so vast that their
greenness seemed almost eternal. Great trees he told of, erect, towering firs,
many centuries old and their girth that of giants. And then there were all the
humbler tree-folk whom he spoke of as friends that were dear and familiar;
the hemlocks that grow by the courses of rivers, in love with adventure and
clear running water; the slender white spruces that border the lakes; the red
pines, that glow like copper in the sunset. Unfortunate trees these beautiful
red pines, for their tough, manly wood is coveted by builders.

‘But I won’t have my roof-tree hacked from their sides,’ declared
Martin, ‘I’d feel like a positive assassin!’
Happy days spent between the hills and the stables, happy days for these
two who had always been lonely until now, and now this wonderful
friendship—there had never been anything like it for Stephen. Oh, but it
was good to have him beside her, so young, so strong and so understanding.
She liked his quiet voice with its careful accent, and his thoughtful blue
eyes that moved rather slowly, so that his glance when it came, came slowly
—sometimes she would meet his glance half-way, smiling. She who had
longed for the companionship of men, for their friendship, their good-will,
their toleration, she had it all now and much more in Martin, because of his
great understanding.
She said to Puddle one night in the schoolroom: ‘I’ve grown fond of
Martin—isn’t that queer after only a couple of months of friendship? But
he’s different somehow—when he’s gone I shall miss him.’
And her words had the strangest effect on Puddle who quite suddenly
beamed at Stephen and kissed her—Puddle who never betrayed her
emotions, quite suddenly beamed at Stephen and kissed her.

2

People gossiped a little because of the freedom allowed Martin and Stephen
by her parents; but on the whole they gossiped quite kindly, with a great
deal of smiling and nodding of heads. After all the girl was just like other
girls—they almost ceased to resent her. Meanwhile Martin continued to stay
on in Upton, held fast by the charm and the strangeness of Stephen—her
very strangeness it was that allured him, yet all the while he must think of
their friendship, not even admitting that strangeness. He deluded himself
with these thoughts of friendship, but Sir Philip and Anna were not deluded.
They looked at each other almost shyly at first, then Anna grew bold, and
she said to her husband:
‘Is it possible the child is falling in love with Martin? Of course he’s in
love with her. Oh, my dear, it would make me so awfully happy—’ And her
heart went out in affection to Stephen, as it had not done since the girl was a
baby.

Her hopes would go flying ahead of events; she would start making
plans for her daughter’s future. Martin must give up his orchards and forests
and buy Tenley Court that was now in the market; it had several large farms
and some excellent pasture, quite enough to keep any man happy and busy.
Then Anna would suddenly grow very thoughtful; Tenley Court was also
possessed of fine nurseries, big, bright, sunny rooms facing south, with their
bathroom, there were bars to the windows—it was all there and ready.
Sir Philip shook his head and warned Anna to go slowly, but he could
not quite keep the great joy from his eyes, nor the hope from his heart. Had
he been mistaken? Perhaps after all he had been mistaken—the hope
thudded ceaselessly now in his heart.

3

Came a day when winter must give place to spring, when the daffodils
marched across the whole country from Castle Morton Common to Ross
and beyond, pitching camps by the side of the river. When the hornbeam
made patches of green in the hedges, and the hawthorn broke out into small,
budding bundles; when the old cedar tree on the lawn at Morton grew
reddish pink tips to its elegant fingers; when the wild cherry trees on the
sides of the hills were industriously putting forth both leaves and blossoms;
when Martin looked into his heart and saw Stephen—saw her suddenly
there as a woman.
Friendship! He marvelled now at his folly, at his blindness, his coldness
of body and spirit. He had offered this girl the cold husks of his friendship,
insulting her youth, her womanhood, her beauty—for he saw her now with
the eyes of a lover. To a man such as he was, sensitive, restrained, love
came as a blinding revelation. He knew little about women, and the little he
did know was restricted to episodes that he thought best forgotten. On the
whole he had led a fairly chaste life—less from scruple than because he was
fastidious by nature. But now he was very deeply in love, and those years of
restraint took their toll of poor Martin, so that he trembled before his own
passion, amazed at its strength, not a little disconcerted. And being by habit
a quiet, reserved creature, he must quite lose his head and become the
reverse. So impatient was he that he rushed off to Morton very early one

morning to look for Stephen, tracking her down in the end at the stables,
where he found her talking to Williams and Raftery.
He said: ‘Never mind about Raftery, Stephen—let’s go into the garden,
I’ve got something to tell you.’ And she thought that he must have had bad
news from home, because of his voice and his curious pallor.
She went with him and they walked on in silence for a while, then
Martin stood still, and began to talk quickly; he was saying amazing,
incredible things: ‘Stephen, my dear—I do utterly love you.’ He was
holding out his arms, while she shrank back bewildered: ‘I love you, I’m
deeply in love with you, Stephen—look at me, don’t you understand me,
belovèd? I want you to marry me—you do love me, don’t you?’ And then,
as though she had suddenly struck him, he flinched: ‘Good God! What’s the
matter, Stephen?’
She was staring at him in a kind of dumb horror, staring at his eyes that
were clouded by desire, while gradually over her colourless face there was
spreading an expression of the deepest repulsion—terror and repulsion he
saw on her face, and something else too, a look as of outrage. He could not
believe this thing that he saw, this insult to all that he felt to be sacred; for a
moment he in his turn, must stare, then he came a step nearer, still unable to
believe. But at that she wheeled round and fled from him wildly, fled back
to the house that had always protected; without so much as a word she left
him, nor did she once pause in her flight to look back. Yet even in this
moment of headlong panic, the girl was conscious of something like
amazement, amazement at herself, and she gasped as she ran: ‘It’s Martin—
Martin—’ And again: ‘It’s Martin!’
He stood perfectly still until the trees hid her. He felt stunned, incapable
of understanding. All that he knew was that he must get away, away from
Stephen, away from Morton, away from the thoughts that would follow
after. In less than two hours he was motoring to London; in less than two
weeks he was standing on the deck of the steamer that would carry him
back to his forests that lay somewhere beyond the horizon.

CHAPTER 12

1

N o one questioned at Morton; they spoke very little. Even Anna forbore
to question her daughter, checked by something that she saw in the
girl’s pale face.
But alone with her husband she gave way to her misgivings, to her deep
disappointment: ‘It’s heart-breaking, Philip. What’s happened? They
seemed so devoted to each other. Will you ask the child? Surely one of us
ought to—’
Sir Philip said quietly: ‘I think Stephen will tell me.’ And with that Anna
had perforce to be content.
Very silently Stephen now went about Morton, and her eyes looked
bewildered and deeply unhappy. At night she would lie awake thinking of
Martin, missing him, mourning him as though he were dead. But she could
not accept this death without question, without feeling that she was in some
way blameworthy. What was she, what manner of curious creature, to have
been so repelled by a lover like Martin? Yet she had been repelled, and even
her pity for the man could not wipe out that stronger feeling. She had driven
him away because something within her was intolerant of that new aspect
of Martin.
Oh, but she mourned his good, honest friendship; he had taken that from
her, the thing she most needed—but perhaps after all it had never existed
except as a cloak for this other emotion. And then, lying there in the
thickening darkness, she would shrink from what might be waiting in the
future, for all that had just happened might happen again—there were other
men in the world beside Martin. Fool, never to have visualized this thing
before, never to have faced the possibility of it; now she understood her
resentment of men when their voices grew soft and insinuating. Yes, and
now she knew to the full the meaning of fear, and Martin it was, who had
taught her its meaning—her friend—the man she had utterly trusted had
pulled the scales from her eyes and revealed it. Fear, stark fear, and the
shame of such fear—that was the legacy left her by Martin. And yet he had
made her so happy at first, she had felt so contented, so natural with him;
but that was because they had been like two men, companions, sharing each
other’s interests. And at this thought her bitterness would all but flow over;

it was cruel, it was cowardly of him to have deceived her, when all the time
he had only been waiting for the chance to force this other thing on her.
But what was she? Her thoughts slipping back to her childhood, would
find many things in her past that perplexed her. She had never been quite
like the other small children, she had always been lonely and discontented,
she had always been trying to be some one else—that was why she had
dressed herself up as young Nelson. Remembering those days she would
think of her father, and would wonder if now, as then, he could help her.
Supposing she should ask him to explain about Martin? Her father was
wise, and had infinite patience—yet somehow she instinctively dreaded to
ask him. Alone—it was terrible to feel so much alone—to feel oneself
different from other people. At one time she had rather enjoyed this
distinction—she had rather enjoyed dressing up as young Nelson. Yet had
she enjoyed it? Or had it been done as some sort of inadequate, childish
protest? But if so against what had she been protesting when she strutted
about the house, masquerading? In those days she had wanted to be a boy—
had that been the meaning of the pitiful young Nelson? And what about
now? She had wanted Martin to treat her as a man, had expected it of
him. . . . The questions to which she could find no answers, would pile
themselves up and up in the darkness; oppressing, stifling by sheer weight
of numbers, until she would feel them getting her under; ‘I don’t know—oh,
God, I don’t know!’ she would mutter, tossing as though to fling off those
questions.
Then one night towards dawn she could bear it no longer; her dread
must give place to her need of consolation. She would ask her father to
explain her to herself; she would tell him her deep desolation over Martin.
She would say: ‘Is there anything strange about me, Father, that I should
have felt as I did about Martin?’ And then she would try to explain very
calmly what it was she had felt, the intensity of it. She would try to make
him understand her suspicion that this feeling of hers was a thing
fundamental, much more than merely not being in love; much, much more
than not wanting to marry Martin. She would tell him why she found
herself so utterly bewildered; tell him how she had loved Martin’s strong,
young body, and his honest brown face, and his slow thoughtful eyes, and
his careless walk—all these things she had loved. Then suddenly terror and
deep repugnance because of that unforeseen change in Martin, the change

that had turned the friend into the lover—in reality it had been no more than
that, the friend had turned lover and had wanted from her what she could
not give him, or indeed any man, because of that deep repugnance. Yet there
should have been nothing repugnant about Martin, nor was she a child to
have felt such terror. She had known certain facts about life for some time
and they had not repelled her in other people—not until they had been
brought home to herself had these facts both terrified and repelled her.
She got up. No good in trying to sleep, those eternal questions kept
stifling, tormenting. Dressing quickly she stole down the wide, shallow
stairs to the garden door, then out into the garden. The garden looked
unfamiliar in the sunrise, like a well-known face that is suddenly
transfigured. There was something aloof and awesome about it, as though it
were lost in ecstatic devotion. She tried to tread softly for she felt
apologetic, she and her troubles were there as intruders; their presence
disturbed this strange hush of communion, this oneness with something
beyond their knowledge, that was yet known and loved by the soul of the
garden. A mysterious and wonderful thing this oneness, pregnant with
comfort could she know its true meaning—she felt this somewhere deep
down in herself, but try as she would her mind could not grasp it; perhaps
even the garden was shutting her out of its prayers, because she had sent
away Martin. Then a thrush began to sing in the cedar, and his song was full
of wild jubilation: ‘Stephen, look at me, look at me!’ sang the thrush, ‘I’m
happy, happy, it’s all very simple!’ There was something heartless about that
singing which only served to remind her of Martin. She walked on
disconsolate, thinking deeply. He had gone, he would soon be back in his
forests—she had made no effort to keep him beside her because he had
wanted to be her lover. . . . ‘Stephen, look at us, look at us!’ sang the birds,
‘We’re happy, happy, it’s all very simple!’ Martin walking in dim, green
places—she could picture his life away in the forests, a man’s life, good
with the goodness of danger, a primitive, strong, imperative thing—a man’s
life, the life that should have been hers—And her eyes filled with heavy,
regretful tears, yet she did not quite know for what she was weeping. She
only knew that some great sense of loss, some great sense of
incompleteness possessed her, and she let the tears trickle down her face,
wiping them off one by one with her finger.

And now she was passing the old potting shed where Collins had lain in
the arms of the footman. Choking back her tears she paused by the shed,
and tried to remember the girl’s appearance. Grey eyes—no, blue, and a
round-about figure—plump hands, with soft skin always puckered from
soap-suds—a housemaid’s knee that had pained very badly: ‘See that dent?
That’s the water. . . . It fair makes me sick.’ Then a queer little girl dressed
up as young Nelson: ‘I’d like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way
that Jesus was hurt for sinners. . . .’ The potting shed smelling of earth and
dampness, sagging a little on one side, lop-sided—Collins lying in the arms
of the footman, Collins being kissed by him, wantonly, crudely—a broken
flower pot in the hand of a child—rage, deep rage—a great anguish of spirit
—blood on a face that was pale with amazement, very bright red blood that
kept trickling and trickling—flight, wild, inarticulate flight, away and away,
anyhow, anywhere—the pain of torn skin, the rip of torn stockings—
She had not remembered these things for years, she had thought that all
this had been quite forgotten; there was nothing to remind her of Collins
these days but a fat, half-blind and pampered old pony. Strange how these
memories came back this morning; she had lain in bed lately trying to
recapture the childish emotions aroused in her by Collins and had failed, yet
this morning they came back quite clearly. But the garden was full of a new
memory now; it was full of the sorrowful memory of Martin. She turned
abruptly, and leaving the shed walked towards the lakes that gleamed
faintly in the distance.
Down by the lakes there was a sense of great stillness which the songs
of the birds could in no way lessen, for this place had that curious stillness
of spirit that seems to interpenetrate sound. A swan paddled about in front
of his island, on guard, for his mate had a nest full of cygnets; from time to
time he glanced crossly at Stephen though he knew her quite well, but now
there were cygnets. He was proud in his splendid, incredible whiteness, and
paternity made him feel overbearing, so that he refused to feed from
Stephen’s hand although she found a biscuit in her pocket.
‘Coup, c-o-u-p!’ she called, but he swung his neck sideways as he swam
—it was like a disdainful negation. ‘Perhaps he thinks I’m a freak,’ she
mused grimly, feeling more lonely because of the swan.

The lakes were guarded by massive old beech trees, and the beech trees
stood ankle-deep in their foliage; a lovely and luminous carpet of leaves
they had spread on the homely brown earth of Morton. Each spring came
new little shuttles of greenness that in time added warp and woof to the
carpet, so that year by year it grew softer and deeper, and year by year it
glowed more resplendent. Stephen had loved this spot from her childhood,
and now she instinctively went to it for comfort, but its beauty only added
to her melancholy, for beauty can wound like a two-edged sword. She could
not respond to its stillness of spirit, since she could not lull her own spirit to
stillness.
She thought: ‘I shall never be one with great peace any more, I shall
always stand outside this stillness—wherever there is absolute stillness and
peace in this world, I shall always stand just outside it.’ And as though these
thoughts were in some way prophetic, she inwardly shivered a little.
Then what must the swan do but start to hiss loudly, just to show her
that he was really a father: ‘Peter,’ she reproached him, ‘I won’t hurt your
babies—can’t you trust me? I fed you the whole of last winter!’
But apparently Peter could not trust her at all, for he squawked to his
mate who came out through the bushes, and she hissed in her turn, flapping
strong angry wings, which meant in mere language: ‘Get out of this,
Stephen, you clumsy, inadequate, ludicrous creature; you destroyer of nests,
you disturber of young, you great wingless blot on a beautiful morning!’
Then they both hissed together: ‘Get out of this, Stephen!’ So Stephen left
them to the care of their cygnets.
Remembering Raftery, she walked to the stables, where all was
confusion and purposeful bustle. Old Williams was ruthlessly out on the
warpath; he was scolding: ‘Drat the boy, what be ’e a-doin’? Come on, do!
’Urry up, get them two horses bridled, and don’t go forgettin’ their knee-
caps this mornin’—and that bucket there don’t belong where it’s standin’,
nor that broom! Did Jim take the roan to the blacksmith’s? Gawd almighty,
why not? ’Er shoes is like paper! ’Ere, you Jim, don’t you go on ignorin’
my orders, if you do—Come on, boy, got them two horses ready? Right,
well then, up you go! You don’t want no saddle, like as not you’d give ’im a
gall if you ’ad one!’

The sleek, good-looking hunters were led out in clothing—for the early
spring mornings were still rather nippy—and among them came Raftery,
slender and skittish; he was wearing his hood, and his eyes peered out
bright as a falcon’s from the two neatly braided eye-holes. From a couple
more holes in the top of his head-dress, shot his small, pointed ears, which
now worked with excitement.
‘ ’Old on!’ bellowed Williams, ‘What the ’ell be you doin’? Quick,
shorten ’is bridle, yer not in a circus!’ And then seeing Stephen: ‘Beg
pardon, Miss Stephen, but it be a fair crime not to lead that horse close, and
’im all corned up until ’e’s fair dancin’!’
They stood watching Raftery skip through the gates, then old Williams
said softly: ‘ ’E do be a wonder—more nor fifty odd years ’ave I worked in
the stables, and never no beast ’ave I loved like Raftery. But ’e’s no
common horse, ’e be some sort of Christian, and a better one too than a
good few I knows on—’
And Stephen answered: ‘Perhaps he’s a poet like his namesake; I think
if he could write he’d write verses. They say all the Irish are poets at heart,
so perhaps they pass on the gift to their horses.’
Then the two of them smiled, each a little embarrassed, but their eyes
held great friendship the one for the other, a friendship of years now
cemented by Raftery whom they loved—and small wonder, for assuredly
never did more gallant or courteous horse step out of stable.
‘Oh, well,’ sighed Williams, ‘I be gettin’ that old—and Raftery, ’e do be
comin’ eleven, but ’e don’t feel it yet in ’is limbs the way I does—me
rheumatics ’as troubled me awful this winter.’
She stayed on a little while, comforting Williams, then made her way
back to the house, very slowly. ‘Poor Williams,’ she thought, ‘he is getting
old, but thank the Lord nothing’s the matter with Raftery.’
The house lay full in a great slant of sunshine; it looked as though it was
sunning its shoulders. Glancing up, she came eye to eye with the house, and
she fancied that Morton was thinking about her, for its windows seemed to
be beckoning, inviting: ‘Come home, come home, come inside quickly,
Stephen!’ And as though they had spoken, she answered: ‘I’m coming,’ and
she quickened her lagging steps to a run, in response to this most

compassionate kindness. Yes, she actually ran through the heavy white
doorway under the semi-circular fanlight, and on up the staircase that led
from the hall in which hung the funny old portraits of Gordons—men long
dead and gone but still wonderfully living, since their thoughts had
fashioned the comeliness of Morton; since their loves had made children
from father to son—from father to son until the advent of Stephen.

2

That evening she went to her father’s study, and when he looked up she
thought she was expected.
She said: ‘I want to talk to you, Father.’
And he answered: ‘I know—sit close to me, Stephen.’
He shaded his face with his long, thin hand, so that she could not see his
expression, yet it seemed to her that he knew quite well why she had come
to him in that study. Then she told him about Martin, told him all that had
happened, omitting no detail, sparing him nothing. She openly mourned the
friend who had failed her, and herself she mourned for failing the lover—
and Sir Philip listened in absolute silence.
After she had spoken for quite a long time, she at length found the
courage to ask her question: ‘Is there anything strange about me, Father,
that I should have felt as I did about Martin?’
It had come. It fell on his heart like a blow. The hand that was shading
his pale face trembled, for he felt a great trembling take hold of his spirit.
His spirit shrank back and cowered in his body, so that it dared not look out
on Stephen.
She was waiting, and now she was asking again: ‘Father, is there
anything strange about me? I remember when I was a little child—I was
never quite like all the other children—’
Her voice sounded apologetic, uncertain, and he knew that the tears
were not far from her eyes, knew that if he looked now he would see her
lips shaking, and the tears making ugly red stains on her eyelids. His loins
ached with pity for this fruit of his loins—an insufferable aching, an
intolerable pity. He was frightened, a coward because of his pity, as he had

been once long ago with her mother. Merciful God! How could a man
answer? What could he say, and that man a father? He sat there inwardly
grovelling before her: ‘Oh, Stephen, my child, my little, little Stephen.’ For
now in his pity she seemed to him little, little and utterly helpless again—he
remembered her hands as the hands of a baby, very small, very pink, with
minute perfect nails—he had played with her hands, exclaiming about
them, astonished because of their neat perfection: ‘Oh, Stephen, my little,
little Stephen.’ He wanted to cry out against God for this thing; he wanted
to cry out: ‘You have maimed my Stephen! What had I done or my father
before me, or my father’s father, or his father’s father? Unto the third and
fourth generations. . . .’ And Stephen was waiting for his answer. Then Sir
Philip set the lips of his spirit to the cup, and his spirit must drink the gall of
deception: ‘I will not tell her, You cannot ask it—there are some things that
even God should not ask.’
And now he turned round and deliberately faced her; smiling right into
her eyes he lied glibly: ‘My dear, don’t be foolish, there’s nothing strange
about you, some day you may meet a man you can love. And supposing you
don’t, well, what of it, Stephen? Marriage isn’t the only career for a woman.
I’ve been thinking about your writing just lately, and I’m going to let you
go up to Oxford; but meanwhile you mustn’t get foolish fancies, that won’t
do at all—it’s not like you, Stephen.’ She was gazing at him and he turned
away quickly: ‘Darling, I’m busy, you must leave me,’ he faltered.
‘Thank you,’ she said very quietly and simply, ‘I felt that I had to ask
you about Martin—’

3

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

CHAPTER 13

1

T here was gossip in plenty over Martin’s disappearance, and to this Mrs.
Antrim contributed her share, even more than her share, looking wise
and mysterious whenever Stephen’s name was mentioned. Every one felt
very deeply aggrieved. They had been so eager to welcome the girl as one
of themselves, and now this strange happening—it made them feel foolish
which in turn made them angry.
The spring meets were heavy with tacit disapproval—nice men like
young Hallam did not run away for nothing; and then what a scandal if
those two were not engaged; they had wandered all over the country
together. This tacit disapproval was extended to Sir Philip, and via him to
Anna for allowing too much freedom; a mother ought to look after her
daughter, but then Stephen had always been allowed too much freedom.
This, no doubt, was what came of her riding astride and fencing and all the
rest of the nonsense; when she did meet a man she took the bit between her
teeth and behaved in a most amazing manner. Of course, had there been a
proper engagement—but obviously that had never existed. They marvelled,
remembering their own toleration, they had really been extremely broad-
minded. An extraordinary girl, she had always been odd, and now for some
reason she seemed odder than ever. Not so much as a word was said in her
hearing that could possibly offend, and yet Stephen well knew that her
neighbors’ good-will had been only fleeting, a thing entirely dependent
upon Martin. He it was who had raised her status among them—he, the
stranger, not even connected with their county. They had all decided that
she meant to marry Martin, and that fact had at once made them welcoming
and friendly; and suddenly Stephen longed intensely to be welcomed, and
she wished from her heart that she could have married Martin.
The strange thing was that she understood her neighbours in a way, and
was therefore too just to condemn them; indeed had nature been less daring
with her, she might well have become very much what they were—a
breeder of children, an upholder of home, a careful and diligent steward of
pastures. There was little of the true pioneer about Stephen, in spite of her
erstwhile longing for the forests. She belonged to the soil and the
fruitfulness of Morton, to its pastures and paddocks, to its farms and its
cattle, to its quiet and gentlemanly ordered traditions, to the dignity and
pride of its old red brick house, that was yet without ostentation. To these

things she belonged and would always belong by right of those past
generations of Gordons whose thoughts had fashioned the comeliness of
Morton, whose bodies had gone to the making of Stephen. Yes, she was of
them, those bygone people; they might spurn her—the lusty breeders of
sons that they had been—they might even look down from Heaven with
raised eyebrows, and say: ‘We utterly refuse to acknowledge this curious
creature called Stephen.’ But for all that they could not drain her of blood,
and her blood was theirs also, so that do what they would they could never
completely rid themselves of her nor she of them—they were one in their
blood.
But Sir Philip, that other descendant of theirs, found little excuse for his
critical neighbours. Because he loved much he must equally suffer,
consuming himself at times with resentment. And now when he and
Stephen were out hunting he would be on his guard, very anxious and
watchful lest any small incident should occur to distress her, lest at any time
she should find herself lonely. When hounds checked and the field collected
together, he would make little jokes to amuse his daughter, he would rack
his brain for these poor little jokes, in order that people should see Stephen
laughing.
Sometimes he would whisper: ‘Let ’em have it hot, Stephen, that
youngster you’re on loves a good bit of timber—don’t mind me, I know you
won’t damage his knees, just you give ’em a lead and let’s see if they’ll
catch you!’ And because it was seldom indeed that they caught her, his sore
heart would know a fleeting contentment.
Yet people begrudged her even this triumph, pointing out that the girl
was magnificently mounted: ‘Anyone could get there on that sort of horse,’
they would murmur, when Stephen was out of hearing.
But small Colonel Antrim, who was not always kind, would retort if he
heard them: ‘Damn it, no, it’s the riding. The girl rides, that’s the point; as
for some of you others—’ And then he would let loose a flood of foul
language. ‘If some bloody fools that I know rode like Stephen, we’d have
bloody well less to pay to the farmers,’ and much more he would say to the
same effect, with rich oaths interlarding his every sentence—the foulest-
mouthed master in the whole British Isles he was said to be, this small
Colonel Antrim.

Oh, but he dearly loved a fine rider, and he cursed and he swore his
appreciation. Even in the presence of a sporting bishop one day, he had
failed to control his language; indeed, he had sworn in the face of the
bishop with enthusiasm, as he pointed to Stephen. An ineffectual and hen-
pecked little fellow—in his home he was hardly allowed to say ‘damn.’ He
was never permitted to smoke a cigar outside of his dark, inhospitable
study. He must not breed Norwich canaries, which he loved, because they
brought mice, declared Mrs. Antrim; he must not keep a pet dog in the
house, and the ‘Pink ’Un’ was anathema because of Violet. His taste in art
was heavily censored, even on the walls of his own water-closet, where
nothing might hang but a family group taken sixteen odd years ago with the
children.
On Sundays he sat in an uncomfortable pew while his wife chanted
psalms in the voice of a peacock. ‘Oh come, let us sing unto the Lord,’ she
would chant, as she heartily rejoiced in the strength of her salvation. All this
and a great deal more he endured, indeed most of his life was passed in
endurance—had it not been for those red-letter days out hunting, he might
well have become melancholic from boredom. But those days, when he
actually found himself master, went far to restore his anæmic manhood, and
on them he would speak the good English language as some deep-seated
complex knew it ought to be spoken—ruddily, roundly, explosively spoken,
with elation, at times with total abandon—especially if he should chance to
remember Mrs. Antrim would he speak it with total abandon.
But his oaths could not save Stephen now from her neighbours, nothing
could do that since the going of Martin—for quite unknown to themselves
they feared her; it was fear that aroused their antagonism. In her they
instinctively sensed an outlaw, and theirs was the task of policing nature.

2

In her vast drawing-room so beautifully proportioned, Anna would sit with
her pride sorely wounded, dreading the thinly veiled questions of her
neighbours, dreading the ominous silence of her husband. And the old
aversion she had felt for her child would return upon her like the unclean
spirit who gathered to himself seven others more wicked, so that her last

state was worse than her first, and at times she must turn away her eyes
from Stephen.
Thus tormented, she grew less tactful with her husband, and now she
was always plying him with questions: ‘But why can’t you tell me what
Stephen said to you, Philip, that evening when she went to your study?’
And he, with a mighty effort to be patient, would answer: ‘She said that
she couldn’t love Martin—there was no crime in that. Leave the child alone,
Anna, she’s unhappy enough; why not let her alone?’ And then he would
hastily change the subject.
But Anna could not let Stephen alone, could never keep off the topic of
Martin. She would talk at the girl until she grew crimson; and seeing this,
Sir Philip would frown darkly, and when he and his wife were alone in their
bedroom he would often reproach her with violence.
‘Cruel—it’s abominably cruel of you, Anna. Why in God’s name must
you go on nagging Stephen?’
Anna’s taut nerves would tighten to breaking, so that she, when she
answered, must also speak with violence.
One night he said abruptly: ‘Stephen won’t marry—I don’t want her to
marry; it would only mean disaster.’
And at this Anna broke out in angry protest. Why shouldn’t Stephen
marry? She wished her to marry. Was he mad? And what did he mean by
disaster? No woman was ever complete without marriage—what on earth
did he mean by disaster? He frowned and refused to answer her question.
Stephen, he said, must go up to Oxford. He had set his heart on a good
education for the child, who might some day become a fine writer. Marriage
wasn’t the only career for a woman. Look at Puddle, for instance; she’d
been at Oxford—a most admirable, well-balanced, sensible creature. Next
year he was going to send Stephen to Oxford. Anna scoffed: Yes, indeed, he
might well look at Puddle! She was what came of this higher education—a
lonely, unfulfilled, middle-aged spinster. Anna didn’t want that kind of life
for her daughter.
And then: ‘It’s a pity you can’t be frank, Philip, about what was said
that night in your study. I feel that there’s something you’re keeping back
from me—it’s so unlike Martin to behave as he has done; there must have

been something that you haven’t told me, to have made him go off without
even a letter—’
He flared up at once because he felt guilty. ‘I don’t care a damn about
Martin!’ he said hotly. ‘All I care about is Stephen, and she’s going to
Oxford next year; she’s my child as well as yours, Anna!’
Then quite suddenly Anna’s self-control left her, and she let him see
into her tormented spirit; all that had lain unspoken between them she now
put into crude, ugly words for his hearing: ‘You care nothing for me any
more—you and Stephen are enleagued against me—you have been for
years.’ Aghast at herself, she must yet go on speaking: ‘You and Stephen—
oh, I’ve seen it for years—you and Stephen.’ He looked at her, and there
was warning in his eyes, but she babbled on wildly: ‘I’ve seen it for years—
the cruelty of it; she’s taken you from me, my own child—the unspeakable
cruelty of it!’
‘Cruelty, yes, but not Stephen’s, Anna—it’s yours; for in all the child’s
life you’ve never loved her.’
Ugly, degrading, rather terrible half-truths; and he knew the whole truth,
yet he dared not speak it. It is bad for the soul to know itself a coward, it is
apt to take refuge in mere wordy violence.
‘Yes, you, her mother, you persecute Stephen, you torment her; I
sometimes think you hate her!’
‘Philip—good God!’
‘Yes, I think you hate her; but be careful, Anna, for hatred breeds hatred,
and remember I stand for the rights of my child—if you hate her you’ve got
to hate me; she’s my child. I won’t let her face your hatred alone.’
Ugly, degrading, rather terrible half-truths. Their hearts ached while
their lips formed recriminations. Their hearts burst into tears while their
eyes remained dry and accusing, staring in hostility and anger. Far into the
night they accused each other, they who before had never seriously
quarrelled; and something very like the hatred he spoke of leapt out like a
flame that seared them at moments.
‘Stephen, my own child—she’s come between us.’
‘It’s you who have thrust her between us, Anna.’

Mad, it was madness! They were such faithful lovers, and their love it
was that had fashioned their child. They knew it was madness and yet they
persisted, while their anger dug out for itself a deep channel, so that future
angers might more easily follow. They could not forgive and they could not
sleep, for neither could sleep without the other’s forgiveness, and the hatred
that leapt out at moments between them would be drowned in the tears that
their hearts were shedding.

3

Like some vile and prolific thing, this first quarrel bred others, and the
peace of Morton was shattered. The house seemed to mourn, and withdraw
into itself, so that Stephen went searching for its spirit in vain. ‘Morton,’ she
whispered, ‘where are you, Morton? I must find you, I need you so badly.’
For now Stephen knew the cause of their quarrels, and she recognized
the form of the shadow that had seemed to creep in between them at
Christmas, and knowing, she stretched out her arms to Morton for comfort:
‘My Morton, where are you? I need you.’
Grim and exceedingly angry grew Puddle, that little, grey box of a
woman in her schoolroom; angry with Anna for her treatment of Stephen,
but even more deeply angry with Sir Philip, who knew the whole truth, or
so she suspected, and who yet kept that truth back from Anna.
Stephen would sit with her head in her hands. ‘Oh, Puddle, it’s my fault;
I’ve come in between them, and they’re all I’ve got—they’re my one
perfect thing—I can’t bear it—why have I come in between them?’
And Puddle would flush with reminiscent anger as her mind slipped
back and back over the years to old sorrows, old miseries, long decently
buried but now disinterred by this pitiful Stephen. She would live through
those years again, while her spirit would cry out, unregenerate, against their
injustice.
Frowning at her pupil, she would speak to her sharply: ‘Don’t be a fool,
Stephen. Where’s your brain, where’s your backbone? Stop holding your
head and get on with your Latin. My God, child, you’ll have worse things
than this to face later—life’s not all beer and skittles, I do assure you. Now
come along, do, and get on with that Latin. Remember you’ll soon be going

up to Oxford.’ But after a while she might pat the girl’s shoulder and say
rather gruffly: ‘I’m not angry, Stephen—I do understand, my dear, I do
really—only somehow I’ve just got to make you have backbone. You’re too
sensitive, child, and the sensitive suffer—well, I don’t want to see you
suffer, that’s all. Let’s go out for a walk—we’ve done enough Latin for to-
day—let’s walk over the meadows to Upton.’
Stephen clung to this little, grey box of a woman as a drowning man
will cling to a spar. Puddle’s very hardness was somehow consoling—it
seemed concrete, a thing you could trust, could rely on, and their friendship
that had flourished as a green bay-tree grew into something more stalwart
and much more enduring. And surely the two of them had need of their
friendship, for now there was little happiness at Morton; Sir Philip and
Anna were deeply unhappy—degraded they would feel by their ceaseless
quarrels.
Sir Philip would think: ‘I must tell her the truth—I must tell her what I
believe to be the truth about Stephen.’ He would go in search of his wife,
but having found her would stand there tongue-tied, with his eyes full of
pity.
And one day Anna suddenly burst out weeping, for no reason except
that she felt his great pity. Not knowing and not caring why he pitied, she
wept, so that all he could do was to console her.
They clung together like penitent children. ‘Anna, forgive me.’
‘Forgive me, Philip—’ For in between quarrels they were sometimes
like children, naïvely asking each other’s forgiveness.
Sir Philip’s resolution weakened and waned as he kissed the tears from
her poor, reddened eyelids. He thought: ‘To-morrow—to-morrow I’ll tell
her—I can’t bear to make her more unhappy to-day.’
So the weeks drifted by and still he had not spoken; summer came and
went, giving place to the autumn. Yet one more Christmas visited Morton,
and still Sir Philip had not spoken.

CHAPTER 14

1

F ebruary came bringing snowstorms with it, the heaviest known for
many a year. The hills lay folded in swathes of whiteness, and so did
the valleys at the foot of the hills, and so did the spacious gardens of
Morton—it was all one vast panorama of whiteness. The lakes froze, and
the beech trees had crystalline branches, while their luminous carpet of
leaves grew brittle so that it crackled now underfoot, the only sound in the
frozen stillness of that place that was always infinitely still. Peter, the
arrogant swan, turned friendly, and he and his family now welcomed
Stephen who fed them every morning and evening, and they glad enough to
partake of her bounty. On the lawn Anna set out a tray for the birds, with
chopped suet, seed, and small mounds of breadcrumbs; and down at the
stables old Williams spread straw in wide rings for exercising the horses
who could not be taken beyond the yard, so bad were the roads around
Morton.
The gardens lay placidly under the snow, in no way perturbed or
disconcerted. Only one inmate of theirs felt anxious, and that was the
ancient and wide-boughed cedar, for the weight of the snow made an ache
in its branches—its branches were brittle like an old man’s bones; that was
why the cedar felt anxious. But it could not cry out or shake off its torment;
no, it could only endure with patience, hoping that Anna would take note of
its trouble, since she sat in its shade summer after summer—since once long
ago she had sat in its shade dreaming of the son she would bear her
husband. And one morning Anna did notice its plight, and she called Sir
Philip, who hurried from his study.
She said: ‘Look, Philip! I’m afraid for my cedar—it’s all weighted
down—I feel worried about it.’
Then Sir Philip sent in to Upton for chain, and for stout pads of felt to
support the branches; and he himself must direct the gardeners while they
climbed into the tree and pushed off the snow; and he himself must see to
the placing of the stout felt pads, lest the branches be galled. Because he
loved Anna who loved the cedar, he must stand underneath it directing the
gardeners.
A sudden and horrible sound of rending. ‘Sir, look out! Sir Philip, look
out, sir, it’s giving!’

A crash, and then silence—a horrible silence, far worse than that
horrible sound of rending.
‘Sir Philip—oh, Gawd, it’s over ’is chest! It’s crushed in ’is chest—it’s
the big branch wot’s given! Some one go for the doctor—go quick for
Doctor Evans. Oh, Gawd, ’is mouth’s bleedin’—it’s crushed in ’is chest—
Won’t nobody go for the doctor?’
The grave, rather pompous voice of Mr. Hopkins: ‘Steady, Thomas, it’s
no good losin’ your head. Robert, you’d best slip over to the stables and tell
Burton to go in the car for the doctor. You, Thomas, give me a hand with
this bough—steady on—ease it off a bit to the right, now lift! Steady on,
keep more to the right—now then, gently, gently, man—lift!’
Sir Philip lay very still on the snow, and the blood oozed slowly from
between his lips. He looked monstrously tall as he lay on that whiteness,
very straight, with his long legs stretched out to their fullest, so that Thomas
said foolishly: ‘Don’t ’e be big—I don’t know as I ever noticed before—’
And now some one came scuttling over the snow, panting, stumbling,
hopping grotesquely—old Williams, hatless and in his shirt sleeves—and as
he came on he kept calling out something: ‘Master, oh, Master!’ And he
hopped grotesquely as he came on over the slippery snow. ‘Master, Master
—oh, Master!’
They found a hurdle, and with dreadful care they placed the master of
Morton upon it, and with dreadful slowness they carried the hurdle over the
lawn, and in through the door that Sir Philip himself had left standing ajar.
Slowly they carried him into the hall, and even more slowly his tired
eyes opened, and he whispered: ‘Where’s Stephen? I want—the child.’
And old Williams muttered thickly: ‘She’s comin’, Master—she be
comin’ down the stairs; she’s here, Sir Philip.’
Then Sir Philip tried to move, and he spoke quite loudly: ‘Stephen!
Where are you? I want you, child—’
She went to him, saying never a word, but she thought: ‘He’s dying—
my Father.’
And she took his large hand in hers and stroked it, but still without
speaking, because when one loves there is nothing left in the world to say,

when the best belovèd lies dying. He looked at her with the pleading eyes of
a dog who is dumb, but who yet asks forgiveness. And she knew that his
eyes were asking forgiveness for something beyond her poor
comprehension; so she nodded, and just went on stroking his hand.
Mr. Hopkins asked quietly: ‘Where shall we take him?’
And as quietly Stephen answered: ‘To the study.’
Then she herself led the way to the study, walking steadily, just as
though nothing had happened, just as though when she got there she would
find her father lolling back in his arm-chair, reading. But she thought all the
while: ‘He’s dying—my Father—’ Only the thought seemed unreal,
preposterous. It seemed like the thinking of somebody else, a thing so
unreal as to be preposterous. Yet when they had set him down in the study,
her own voice it was that she heard giving orders.
‘Tell Miss Puddleton to go at once to my Mother and break the news
gently—I’ll stay with Sir Philip. One of you please send a housemaid to me
with a sponge and some towels and a basin of cold water. Burton’s gone for
Doctor Evans, you say? That’s quite right. Now I’d like you to go up and
fetch down a mattress, the one from the blue room will do—get it quickly.
Bring some blankets as well and a couple of pillows—and I may need a
little brandy.’
They ran to obey, and before very long she had helped to lift him on to
the mattress. He groaned a little, then he actually smiled as he felt her
strong arms around him. She kept wiping the blood away from his mouth,
and her fingers were stained; she looked at her fingers, but without
comprehension—they could not be hers—like her thoughts, they must
surely be somebody else’s. But now his eyes were growing more restless—
he was looking for some one, he was looking for her mother.
‘Have you told Miss Puddleton, Williams?’ she whispered.
The man nodded.
Then she said: ‘Mother’s coming, darling; you lie still,’ and her voice
was softly persuasive as though she were speaking to a small, suffering
child. ‘Mother’s coming; you lie quite still, darling.’

And she came—incredulous, yet wide-eyed with horror. ‘Philip, oh,
Philip!’ She sank down beside him and laid her white face against his on the
pillow. ‘My dear, my dear—it’s most terribly hurt you—try to tell me where
it hurts; try to tell me, belovèd. The branch gave—it was the snow—it fell
on you, Philip—but try to tell me where it hurts most, belovèd.’
Stephen motioned to the servants and they went away slowly with
bowed heads, for Sir Philip had been a good friend; they loved him, each in
his or her way, each according to his or her capacity for loving.
And always that terrible voice went on speaking, terrible because it was
quite unlike Anna’s—it was toneless, and it asked and re-asked the same
question: ‘Try to tell me where it hurts most, belovèd.’
But Sir Philip was fighting the battle of pain; of intense, irresistible,
unmanning pain. He lay silent, not answering Anna.
Then she coaxed him in words soft with memories of her country. ‘And
you the loveliest man,’ she whispered, ‘and you with the light of God in
your eyes.’ But he lay there unable to answer.
And now she seemed to forget Stephen’s presence, for she spoke as one
lover will speak with another—foolishly, fondly, inventing small names, as
one lover will do for another. And watching them Stephen beheld a great
marvel, for he opened his eyes and his eyes met her mother’s, and a light
seemed to shine over both their poor faces, transfiguring them with
something triumphant, with love—thus those two rekindled the beacon for
their child in the shadow of the valley of death.

2

It was late afternoon before the doctor arrived; he had been out all day and
the roads were heavy. He had come the moment he received the news, come
as fast as a car clogged with snow could bring him. He did what he could,
which was very little, for Sir Philip was conscious and wished to remain so;
he would not permit them to ease his pain by administering drugs. He could
speak very slowly.
‘No—not that—something urgent—I want—to say. No drugs—I know
I’m—dying—Evans.’

The doctor adjusted the slipping pillows, then turning he whispered
carefully to Stephen. ‘Look after your mother. He’s going, I think—it can’t
be long now. I’ll wait in the next room. If you need me you’ve only got to
call me.’
‘Thank you,’ she answered, ‘if I need you I’ll call you.’
Then Sir Philip paid even to the uttermost farthing, paid with
stupendous physical courage for the sin of his anxious and pitiful heart; and
he drove and he goaded his ebbing strength to the making of one great and
terrible effort: ‘Anna—it’s Stephen—listen.’ They were holding his hands.
‘It’s—Stephen—our child—she’s, she’s—it’s Stephen—not like—’
His head fell back rather sharply, and then lay very still upon Anna’s
bosom.
Stephen released the hand she was holding, for Anna had stooped and
was kissing his lips, desperately, passionately kissing his lips, as though to
breathe back the life into his body. And none might be there to witness that
thing, save God—the God of death and affliction, Who is also the God of
love. Turning away she stole out of their presence, leaving them alone in the
darkening study, leaving them alone with their deathless devotion—hand in
hand, the quick and the dead.

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER 15

1

S ir 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 arm-chair.
She thought: ‘They go on—they mean nothing at all, and yet they go
on,’ and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she must always touch
them. ‘How queer, this old arm-chair has 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 semi-circular 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 dumb-bells, seeking the relief of bodily movement, seeking to wear
out her muscular body because her mind was worn out by sorrow.
August came and Williams got the hunters in from grass. Stephen would
sometimes get up very early and help with the exercising of the horses, but
in spite of this the old man’s heart misgave him, she seemed strangely
averse to discussing the hunting.
He would think: ‘Maybe it’s ’er father’s death, but the instinct be pretty
strong in ’er blood, she’ll be all right after ’er’s ’ad ’er first gallop.’ And

perhaps he might craftily point to Raftery. ‘Look, Miss Stephen, did ever
you see such quarters? ’E’s a mighty fine doer, keeps ’imself fit on grass! I
do believe as ’e does it on purpose; I believe ’e’s afraid ’e’ll miss a day’s
huntin’.’
But the autumn slipped by and the winter was passing. Hounds met at
the very gates of Morton, yet Stephen forbore to send those orders to the
stables for which Williams was anxiously waiting. Then one morning in
March he could bear it no longer, and he suddenly started reproaching
Stephen: ‘Yer lettin’ my ’orses go stale in their boxes. It’s a scandal, Miss
Stephen, and you such a rider, and our stables the finest bar none in the
county, and yer father so almighty proud of yer ridin’!’ And then: ‘Miss
Stephen—yer’ll not give it up? Won’t yer’ hunt Raftery day after to-
morrow? The ’ounds is meetin’ quite near by Upton—Miss Stephen, say yer
won’t give it all up!’
There were actually tears in his worried old eyes, and so to console him
she answered briefly: ‘Very well then, I’ll hunt the day after to-morrow.’
But for some strange reason that she did not understand, this prospect had
quite ceased to give her pleasure.

2

On a morning of high scudding clouds and sunshine, Stephen rode Raftery
into Upton, then over the bridge that spans the river Severn, and on to the
Meet at a neighbouring village. Behind her came jogging her second
horseman on one of Sir Philip’s favourite youngsters, a raw-boned,
upstanding, impetuous chestnut, now all eyes and ears for what might be
coming; but beside her rode only memory and heart-ache. Yet from time to
time she turned her head quickly as though some one must surely be there
at her side.
Her mind was a prey to the strangest fancies. She pictured her father
very grave and anxious, not gay and light-hearted as had been his wont
when they rode to a Meet in the old days. And because this day was so
vibrant with living it was difficult for Stephen to tolerate the idea of death,
even for a little red fox, and she caught herself thinking: ‘If we find, this

morning, there’ll be two of us who are utterly alone, with every man’s hand
against us.’
At the Meet she was a prey to her self-conscious shyness, so that she
fancied people were whispering. There was no one now with bowed, patient
shoulders to stand between her and those unfriendly people.
Colonel Antrim came up. ‘Glad to see you out, Stephen.’ But his voice
sounded stiff because he was embarrassed—every one 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 grass-lands,
to the swift elation of reckless movement, so that Stephen, feeling Raftery
between her strong knees, was suddenly filled with regret. Yes, in this her

moment of spiritual insight she was infinitely sad, and she said to Raftery:
‘We’ll never hunt any more, we two, Raftery—we’ll never go out hunting
together any more.’
And because in his own way he had understood her, she felt his sides
swell with a vast, resigned sigh; heard the creaking of damp girth leather as
he sighed because he had understood her. For the love of the chase was still
hot in Raftery, the love of splendid, unforeseen danger, the love of crisp
mornings and 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.

CHAPTER 16

1

W ith the breaking up of the stables at Morton came the breaking up of
their faithful servant. Old age took its toll of Williams at last, and it
got him under completely. Sore at heart and gone in both wind and limb, he
retired with a pension to his comfortable cottage; there to cough and
grumble throughout the winter, or to smoke disconsolate pipes through the
summer, seated on a chair in his trim little garden with a rug wrapped
around his knees.
‘It do be a scandal,’ he was now for ever saying, ‘and ’er such a
splendid woman to ’ounds!’

And then he would start remembering past glories, while his mind
would begin to grieve for Sir Philip. He would cry just a little because he
still loved him, so his wife must bring Williams a strong cup of tea.
‘There, there, Arth-thur, you’ll soon be meetin’ the master; we be old
me and you—it can’t be long now.’
At which Williams would glare: ‘I’m not thinkin’ of ’eaven—like as not
there won’t be no ’orses in ’eaven—I wants the master down ’ere at me
stables. Gawd knows they be needin’ a master!’
For now besides Anna’s carriage horses, there were only four inmates of
those once fine stables; Raftery and Sir Philip’s young upstanding chestnut,
a cob known as James, and the aged Collins who had taken to vice in senile
decay, and persisted in eating his bedding.
Anna had accepted this radical change quite calmly, as she now
accepted most things. She hardly ever opposed her daughter these days in
matters concerning Morton. But the burden of arranging the sale had been
Stephen’s; one by one she had said good-bye to the hunters, one by one she
had watched them led out of the yard, with a lump in her throat that had
almost choked her, and when they were gone she had turned back to Raftery
for comfort.
‘Oh, Raftery, I’m so unregenerate—I minded so terribly seeing them
go! Don’t let’s look at their empty boxes—’

2

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

and was thankful for it, when she suddenly knew herself to be alive and was
glad, in despite of death.
On one such morning early that June, Stephen drove her car into Upton.
She was meaning to cash a cheque at the bank, she was meaning to call at
the local saddler’s, she was meaning to buy a new pair of gloves—in the
end, however, she did none of these things.
It was outside the butcher’s that the dog fight started. The butcher
owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had taken up his post in
the doorway of the shop, as had long been his custom. Down the street, on
trim but belligerent tiptoes, came a very small, snow-white West Highland
terrier; perhaps he was looking for trouble, and if so he certainly got it in
less than two minutes. His yells were so loud that Stephen stopped the car
and turned round in her seat to see what was happening. The butcher ran out
to swell the confusion by shouting commands that no one obeyed; he was
trying to grasp his dog by the tail which was short and not at all handy for
grasping. And then, as it seemed from nowhere at all, there suddenly
appeared a very desperate young woman; she was carrying her parasol as
though it were a lance with which she intended to enter the battle. Her wails
of despair rose above the dog’s yells:
‘Tony! My Tony! Won’t anyone stop them? My dog’s being killed,
won’t any of you stop them?’ And she actually tried to stop them herself,
though the parasol broke at the first encounter.
But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, moreover, the
Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out of the car—it
seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbed the old rip by the
scruff of 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 mediæval 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 every one felt a natural resentment
that The Grange should have had to be sacrificed for money—quite a small
Tudor house it was yet very perfect. But Captain Ramsay, its erstwhile
owner, had died recently, leaving large debts behind him, so his heir, a
young cousin who lived in London, had promptly sold to the first wealthy
bidder—hence the advent of Mr. Crossby.
Stephen, looking at Angela, remembered these things, but they suddenly
seemed devoid of importance, for now those child-like eyes were upon her,
and Angela was saying: ‘I don’t know how to thank you for saving my
Tony, it was wonderful of you! If you hadn’t been there they’d have let him
get killed, and I’m just devoted to Tony.’
Her voice had the soft, thick drawl of the South, an indolent voice, very
lazy and restful. It was quite new to Stephen, that soft, Southern drawl, and
she found it unexpectedly pleasant. Then it dawned on the girl that this
woman was lovely—she was like some queer flower that had grown up in
darkness, like some rare, pale flower without blemish or stain, and Stephen
said flushing:

‘I was glad to help you—I’ll drive you back to The Grange, if you’ll let
me?’
‘Why, of course we’ll let you,’ came the prompt answer. ‘Tony says
he’ll be most grateful, don’t you, Tony?’ Tony wagged his tail rather faintly.
Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the car, where he
lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the seat beside herself, helping
her carefully as she did so.
Presently Angela said: ‘Thanks to Tony I’ve met you at last; I’ve been
longing to meet you!’ And she stared rather disconcertingly at Stephen, then
smiled as though something she saw had amused her.
Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet her. Feeling
suddenly shy she became suspicious: ‘Who told you about me?’ she asked
abruptly.
‘Mrs. Antrim, I think—yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said you were such
a wonderful rider but that now, for some reason, you’d given up hunting.
Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a man. Do you fence like a man?’
‘I don’t know,’ muttered Stephen.
‘Well, I’ll tell you whether you do when I’ve seen you; my father was
quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a lot about fencing in the
States—perhaps some day, Miss Gordon, you’ll let me see you?’
By now Stephen’s face was the colour of a beetroot, and she gripped the
wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was longing to turn round and
look at her companion, the desire to look at her was almost overwhelming,
but even her eyes seemed too stiff to move, so she gazed at the long dusty
road in silence.
‘Don’t punish the poor, wooden thing that way,’ murmured Angela, ‘it
can’t help being just wood!’ Then she went on talking as though to herself:
‘What should I have done if that brute had killed Tony? He’s a real
companion to me on my walks—I don’t know what I’d do if it weren’t for
Tony, he’s such a devoted, cute little fellow, and these days I’m kind of
thrown back on my dog—it’s a melancholy business walking alone, yet I’ve
always been fond of walking—’

Stephen wanted to say: ‘But I like walking too; let me come with you
sometimes as well as Tony.’ Then suddenly mustering up her courage, she
jerked round in the seat and looked at this woman. As their eyes met and
held each other for a moment, something vaguely disturbing stirred in
Stephen, so that the car made a dangerous swerve. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said
quickly, ‘that was rotten bad driving.’
But Angela did not answer.

3

Ralph Crossby was standing at the open doorway as the car swung up and
came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was immaculately dressed in a grey
tweed suit that by rights should have been shabby. But everything about
him looked aggressively new, his very hair had a quality of newness—it
was thin brown hair that shone as though polished.
‘I wonder if he puts it out with his boots,’ thought Stephen, surveying
him with interest.
He was one of those rather indefinite men, who are neither short nor
tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, good-looking nor actually ugly. As his wife
would have said, had anybody asked her, he was just ‘plain man,’ which
exactly described him, for his only distinctive features were his newness
and the peevish expression about his mouth—his mouth was intensely
peevish.
When he spoke his high-pitched voice sounded fretful. ‘What on earth
have you been doing? It’s past two o’clock. I’ve been waiting since one, the
lunch must be ruined; I do wish you’d try and be punctual, Angela!’ He
appeared not to notice Stephen’s existence, for he went on nagging as
though no one were present. ‘Oh, I see, that damn dog of yours has been
fighting again, I’ve a good mind to give him a thrashing; and what in God’s
name’s the matter with your hand—you don’t mean to say that you’ve got
yourself bitten? Really, Angela, this is a bit too bad!’ His whole manner
suggested a personal grievance.
‘Well,’ drawled Angela, extending the bandaged hand for inspection,
‘I’ve not been getting manicured, Ralph.’ And her voice was distinctly if
gently provoking, so that he winced with quick irritation. Then she seemed

quite suddenly to remember Stephen: ‘Miss Gordon, let me introduce my
husband.’
He bowed, and pulling himself together: ‘Thank you for driving my
wife home, Miss Gordon, it was most kind, I’m sure.’ But he did not seem
friendly, he kept glaring at Angela’s dog-bitten hand, and his tone, Stephen
thought, was distinctly ungracious.
Getting out of the car she started her engine.
‘Good-bye,’ smiled Angela, holding out her hand, the left one, which
Stephen grasped much too firmly. ‘Good-bye—perhaps one day you’ll
come to tea. We’re on the telephone, Upton 25; ring up and suggest yourself
some day quite soon.’
‘Thanks awfully, I will,’ said Stephen.

4

‘Had a breakdown or something?’ inquired Puddle brightly, as at three
o’clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom.
‘No—but Mrs. Crossby’s dog had a fight. She got bitten, so I drove her
back to The Grange.’
Puddle pricked up her ears: ‘What’s she like? I’ve heard rumours—’
‘Well, she’s not at all like them,’ snapped Stephen.
There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, but consideration
does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddle made a really bad
break: ‘She’s pretty impossible, isn’t she, Stephen? They say he unearthed
her somewhere in New York; Mrs. Antrim says she was a music-hall
actress. I suppose you were obliged to give her a lift, but be careful, I
believe she’s fearfully pushing.’
Stephen flared up like an emotional schoolgirl: ‘I’m not going to discuss
her if that’s your opinion; Mrs. Crossby is quite as much a lady as you are,
or any of the others round here, for that matter. I’m sick unto death of your
beastly gossip.’ And turning abruptly she strode from the room.
‘Oh, Lord!’ murmured Puddle, frowning.

5

That evening Stephen rang up The Grange. ‘Is that Upton 25? It’s Miss
Gordon speaking—no, no, Miss Gordon, speaking from Morton. How is
Mrs. Crossby and how is the dog? I hope Mrs. Crossby’s hand isn’t very
painful? Yes, of course I’ll hold on while you go and inquire.’ She felt shy,
yet unusually daring.
Presently the butler came back and said gravely that Mrs. Crossby had
just seen the doctor and had now gone to bed, as her hand was aching, but
that Tony felt better and sent his love. He added: ‘Madam says would you
come to tea on Sunday? She’d be very glad indeed if you would.’
And Stephen answered: ‘Will you thank Mrs. Crossby and tell her that
I’ll certainly come on Sunday.’ Then she gave the message all over again,
very slowly, with pauses. ‘Will—you thank—Mrs. Crossby—and tell her—
I’ll certainly come—on Sunday. Do you quite understand. Have I made it
quite clear? Say I’m coming to tea on Sunday.’

CHAPTER 17

1

I t 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 some one seemed to be always near Stephen, some one for
whom these things were accomplished—the purchase of the three new suits,
the brown shoes, the six carefully chosen, expensive neckties. Her long
walks on the hills were a part of this person, as were also the hearts of the
wild dog-roses, the delicate network of veins on the leaves and the queer
June break in the cuckoo’s rhythm. The night with its large summer stars
and its silence, was pregnant with a new and mysterious purpose, so that
lying at the mercy of that age-old purpose, Stephen would feel little shivers
of pleasure creeping out of the night and into her body. She would get up
and stand by the open window, thinking always of Angela Crossby.

2

Sunday came and with it church in the morning; then two interminable
hours after lunch, during which Stephen changed her necktie three times,
and brushed back her thick chestnut hair with water, and examined her
shoes for imaginary dust, and finally gave a hard rub to her nails with a nail
pad snatched brusquely away from Puddle.
When the moment for departure arrived at last, she said rather
tentatively to Anna: ‘Aren’t you going to call on the Crossbys, Mother?’
Anna shook her head: ‘No, I can’t do that, Stephen—I go nowhere these
days; you know that, my dear.’
But her voice was quite gentle, so Stephen said quickly: ‘Well then, may
I invite Mrs. Crossby to Morton?’
Anna hesitated a moment, then she nodded: ‘I suppose so—that is if you
really wish to.’
The drive only took about twenty minutes, for now Stephen was so
nervous that she positively flew. She who had been puffed up with elation
and self-satisfaction was crumbling completely—in spite of her careful new
necktie she was crumbling at the mere thought of Angela Crossby. Arrived
at The Grange she felt over life-size; her hands seemed enormous, all out of
proportion, and she thought that the butler stared at her hands.
‘Miss Gordon?’ he inquired.

‘Yes,’ she mumbled, ‘Miss Gordon.’ Then he coughed as he did on the
telephone, and quite suddenly Stephen felt foolish.
She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long, open
casements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple wood burnt on the
hearth, in spite of the 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 anti-climax.
Then Angela decided the matter by laughing: ‘I’m so sorry, Miss
Gordon, he’s feeling peevish. It’s quite natural, poor lamb, he had a bad
night, he just hates being all sewn up like a bolster.’
Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony now licked,
so that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela had torn her dress, and
this seemed to distress her—she kept fingering the tear.
‘Can I help?’ inquired Stephen, hoping she’d say no—which she did,
quite firmly, after one look at Stephen.
At last Angela settled down again on the lounge. ‘Come and sit over
here,’ she suggested, smiling. Then Stephen sat down on the edge of a chair
as though she were sitting in the Prickly Cradle.
She forgot to inquire about Angela’s dog-bite, though the bandaged
hand was placed on a cushion; and she also forgot to adjust her new necktie,
which in her emotion had slipped slightly crooked. A thousand times in the
last few days had she carefully rehearsed this scene of their meeting,
making up long and elaborate speeches; assuming, in her mind, many
dignified poses; and yet there she sat on the edge of a chair as though it
were the Prickly Cradle.

And now Angela was speaking in her soft, Southern drawl: ‘So you’ve
found your way here at last,’ she was saying. And then, after a pause: ‘I’m
so glad, Miss Gordon, do you know that your coming has given me real
pleasure?’
Stephen said: ‘Yes—oh, yes—’ Then fell silent again, apparently intent
on the carpet.
‘Have I dropped my cigarette ash or something?’ inquired her hostess,
whose mouth twitched a little.
‘I don’t think so,’ murmured Stephen, pretending to look, then glancing
up sideways at the impudent bullfinch.
The bullfinch was now being sentimental; he piped very low and with
great expression. ‘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 stand-offish and
British? I will if you say so, but I don’t feel British.’ And her voice,
although quite steady and grave, was somehow distinctly suggestive of
laughter.
Stephen lifted troubled eyes to her face: ‘I want very much to be your
friend if you’ll have me,’ she said; and then she flushed deeply.
Angela held out her undamaged hand which Stephen took, but in great
trepidation. Barely had it lain in her own for a moment, when she clumsily
gave it back to its owner. Then Angela looked at her hand.
Stephen thought: ‘Have I done something rude or awkward?’ And her
heart thumped thickly against her side. She wanted to retrieve the lost hand
and stroke it, but unfortunately it was now stroking Tony. She sighed, and
Angela, hearing that sigh, glanced up, as though in inquiry.
The butler arrived bringing in the tea.
‘Sugar?’ asked Angela.

‘No, thanks,’ said Stephen; then she suddenly changed her mind, ‘three
lumps, please,’ she had always detested tea without sugar.
The tea was too hot; it burnt her mouth badly. She grew scarlet and her
eyes began to water. To cover her confusion she swallowed more tea, while
Angela looked tactfully out of the window. But when she considered it safe
to turn round, her expression, although still faintly amused, had something
about it that was tender.
And now she exerted all her subtlety and skill to make this queer guest
of hers talk more freely, and Angela’s subtlety was no mean thing, neither
was her skill if she chose to exert it. Very gradually the girl became more at
her ease; it was up-hill 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.’

3

Stephen drove home slowly, for now that it was over she felt like a machine
that had suddenly run down. Her nerves were relaxed, she was thoroughly
tired, yet she rather enjoyed this unusual sensation. The hot June evening
was heavy with thunder. From somewhere in the distance came the bleating
of sheep, and the melancholy sound seemed to blend and mingle with her
mood, which was now very gently depressed. A gentle but persistent sense
of depression enveloped her whole being like a soft, grey cloak; and she did
not wish to shake off this cloak, but rather to fold it more closely around
her.
At Morton she stopped the car by the lakes and sat staring through the
trees at the glint of water. For a long while she sat there without knowing
why, unless it was that she wished to remember. But she found that she
could not even be certain of the kind of dress that Angela had worn—it had
been of some soft stuff, that much she remembered, so soft that it had easily
torn, for the rest her memories of it were vague—though she very much
wanted to remember that dress.
A faint rumble of thunder came out of the west, where the clouds were
banking up ominously purple. Some uncertain and rather hysterical
swallows flew high and then low at the sound of the thunder. Her sense of
depression was now much less gentle, it increased every moment, turning to
sadness. She was sad in spirit and mind and body—her body felt dejected,
she was sad all over. And now some one 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 king-cups. One of the men from
the home farm was going his rounds, securing all gates before sunset.
Something dropped on the bonnet of the car with a ping. Looking up she
met the eyes of a squirrel; he was leaning well forward on his tiny front
paws, peering crossly; he had dropped his nut on the bonnet. She got out of
the car and retrieved his supper, throwing it under his tree while he waited.
Like a flash he was down and then back on his tree, devouring the nut with
his legs well straddled.
All around were the homely activities of evening, the watering of
horses, the care of cattle—pleasant, peaceable things that preceded the
peace and repose of the coming nightfall. And suddenly Stephen longed to
share them, an immense need to share them leapt up within her, so that she
ached with this urgent longing that was somehow a part of her bodily
dejection.
She drove on and left the car at the stables, then walked round to the
house, and when she got there she opened the door of the study and went in,
feeling terribly lonely without her father. Sitting down in the old arm-chair
that had survived him, she let her head rest where his head had rested; and
her hands she laid on the arms of the chair where his hands, as she knew,
had lain times without number. Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize his
face, his kind face that had sometimes looked anxious; but the picture came
slowly and faded at once, for the dead must often give place to the living. It
was Angela Crossby’s face that persisted as Stephen sat in her father’s old
chair.

4

In the small panelled room that gave on to the herb-garden, Angela yawned
as she stared through the window; then she suddenly laughed out loud at her
thoughts; then she suddenly frowned and spoke crossly to Tony.
She could not get Stephen out of her mind, and this irritated while it
amused her. Stephen was so large to be tongue-tied and frightened—a
curious creature, not devoid of attraction. In a way—her own way—she was
almost handsome; no, quite handsome; she had fine eyes and beautiful hair.

And her body was supple like that of an athlete, narrow-hipped and wide
shouldered, she should fence very well. Angela was anxious to see her
fence; she must certainly try to arrange it somehow.
Mrs. Antrim had conveyed a number of things, while actually saying
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 over-burdened with virtue, she must let her
thoughts dwell unduly on this girl, while her curiosity kept pace with her
thoughts.
Tony stretched and whimpered, so Angela kissed him, then she sat down
and wrote quite a short little letter: ‘Do come over to lunch the day after to-
morrow and advise me about the garden,’ ran the letter. And it ended—after
one or two casual remarks about gardens—with: ‘Tony says please come,
Stephen!’

CHAPTER 18

1

O n 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 to-morrow, was fused at that moment into one mighty
impulse, one imperative need, and that need was Stephen. Stephen’s need
was now hers, by sheer force of its blind and uncomprehending will to
appeasement.
Then Stephen took Angela into her arms, and she kissed her full on the
lips, as a lover.

CHAPTER 19

1

T hrough 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 earth-bound.
She loved deeply, far more deeply than many a one who could fearlessly
proclaim himself a lover. Since this is a hard and sad truth for the telling;
those whom nature has sacrificed to her ends—her mysterious ends that
often lie hidden—are sometimes endowed with a vast will to loving, with
an endless capacity for suffering also, which must go hand in hand with
their love.
But at first Stephen’s eyes were drawn to the stars, and she saw only
gleam upon gleam of glory. Her physical passion for Angela Crossby had
aroused a strange response in her spirit, so that side by side with every hot
impulse that led her at times beyond her own understanding, there would
come an impulse not of the body; a fine, selfless thing of great beauty and
courage—she would gladly have given her body over to torment, have laid
down her life if need be, for the sake of this woman whom she loved. And
so blinded was she by those gleams of glory which the stars fling into the
eyes of young lovers, that she saw perfection where none existed; saw a
patient endurance that was purely fictitious, and conceived of a loyalty far
beyond the limits of Angela’s nature.
All that Angela gave seemed the gift of love; all that Angela withheld
seemed withheld out of honour: ‘If only I were free,’ she was always
saying, ‘but I can’t deceive Ralph, you know I can’t, Stephen—he’s ill.’
Then Stephen would feel abashed and ashamed before so much pity and
honour.
She would humble herself to the very dust, as one who was altogether
unworthy: ‘I’m a beast, forgive me; I’m all, all wrong—I’m mad sometimes
these days—yes, of course, there’s Ralph.’
But the thought of Ralph would be past all bearing, so that she must
reach out for Angela’s hand. Then, as likely as not, they would draw

together and start kissing, and Stephen would be utterly undone by those
painful and terribly sterile kisses.
‘God!’ she would mutter, ‘I want to get away!’
At which Angela might weep: ‘Don’t leave me, Stephen! I’m so lonely
—why can’t you understand that I’m only trying to be decent to Ralph?’ So
Stephen would stay on for an hour, for two hours, and the next day would
find her once more at The Grange, because Angela was feeling so lonely.
For Angela could never quite let the girl go. She herself would be rather
bewildered at moments—she did not love Stephen, she was quite sure of
that, and yet the very strangeness of it all was an attraction. Stephen was
becoming a kind of strong drug, a kind of anodyne against boredom. And
then Angela knew her own power to subdue; she could play with fire yet
remain unscathed by it. She had only to cry long and bitterly enough for
Stephen to grow pitiful and consequently gentle.
‘Stephen, don’t hurt me—I’m awfully frightened when you’re like this
—you simply terrify me, Stephen! Is it my fault that I married Ralph before
I met you? Be good to me, Stephen!’ And then would come tears, so that
Stephen must hold her as though she were a child, very tenderly, rocking
her backwards and forwards.
They took to driving as far as the hills, taking Tony with them; he liked
hunting the rabbits—and while he leapt wildly about in the air to land on
nothing more vital than herbage, they would sit very close to each other and
watch him. Stephen knew many places where lovers might sit like this,
unashamed, among those charitable hills. There were times when a
numbness descended upon her as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her
cheek lightly, she would not respond, would not even look round, but would
just go on staring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt queerly uplifted, and
turning to the woman who leant against her shoulder, she said suddenly one
day:
‘Nothing matters up here. You and I are so small, we’re smaller than
Tony—our love’s nothing but a drop in some vast sea of love—it’s rather
consoling—don’t you think so, belovèd?’
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.

2

Two days later as they sat alone in the garden at Morton, Stephen turned to
Angela abruptly: ‘I can’t go on like this, it’s vile 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—to-
morrow.’
Then Angela forced herself to think quickly, and she said just five
words: ‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’
She did not look at the girl as she said it—that she could not do, perhaps
out of something that, for her, was the nearest she would ever come to pity.
There ensued a long, almost breathless silence, while Angela waited with
her eyes turned away. A leaf dropped, and she heard its minute, soft falling,
heard the creak of the branch that had let fall its leaf as a breeze passed over
the garden.
Then the silence was broken by a quiet, dull voice, that sounded to her
like the voice of a stranger: ‘No—’ it said very slowly, ‘no—I couldn’t
marry you, Angela.’ And when Angela at last gained the courage to look up,
she found that she was sitting there alone.

CHAPTER 20

1

F or 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 green-fly, deploring the
existence of their sexual organs: ‘Nature’s a fool! Fancy procreation being
extended to that sort of vermin!’ And then he would grow somewhat coarse
as he dwelt on the frequent conjugal excesses of green-fly. But most of all
he nagged about Stephen, because this as he knew, irritated his wife:
‘How’s your freak getting on? I haven’t seen her just lately; have you
quarrelled or what? 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 cow-
hide to bricks. Well, you listen to me, that’s not what I pay for; get that into
your head! I pay for good meals to be served on time; on time, do you hear?
And I expect my wife to be in her rightful place at my table to see that the
omelette’s properly prepared. What’s the matter with you that you can’t go
along and make it yourself? When we were first married you always made
my omelettes yourself. I won’t eat yellow froth with a few strings of parsley
in it—it reminds me of the dog when he’s sick, it’s disgusting! And I won’t
go on talking about it either, the next time it happens I’ll sack the cook.
Damn it all, you were glad enough of my help when I found you practically
starving in New York—but now you’re for ever racing off with that girl. It’s
all this damned animal’s fault that you met her!’ He would kick out
sideways at the terrified Tony, who had lately been made to stand proxy for
Stephen.
But worst of all was it when Ralph started weeping, because, as he said,
his wife did not love him any more, and because, as he did not always say,

he felt ill with his painful, chronic dyspepsia. One day he must make feeble
love through his tears: ‘Angela, come here—put your arms around me—
come and sit on my knee the way you used to.’ His wet eyes looked
dejected yet rather greedy: ‘Put your arms around me, as though you cared
—’ He was always insistent when most ineffectual.
That night he appeared in his best silk pyjamas—the pink ones that
made his complexion look sallow. He climbed into bed with the sly
expression that Angela hated—it was so pornographic. ‘Well, old girl, don’t
forget that you’ve got a man about the house; you haven’t forgotten it, have
you?’ After which followed one or two flaccid embraces together with
much arrogant masculine bragging; and Angela, sighing as she lay and
endured, quite suddenly thought of Stephen.

2

Pacing restlessly up and down her bedroom, Stephen would be thinking of
Angela Crossby—haunted, tormented by Angela’s words that day in the
garden: ‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’ and then by those other pitiless
words: ‘Can I help it if you’re—what you obviously are?’
She would think with a kind of despair: ‘What am I in God’s name—
some kind of abomination?’ And this thought would fill her with 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.

3

There was some one who went every step of the way with Stephen during
those miserable weeks, and this was the faithful and anxious Puddle, who
could have given much wise advice had Stephen only confided in her. But
Stephen hid her trouble in her heart for the sake of Angela Crossby.
With an ever-increasing presage of disaster, Puddle now stuck to the girl
like a leech, getting little enough in return for her trouble—Stephen deeply
resented this close supervision: ‘Can’t you leave me alone? No, of course
I’m not ill!’ she would say, with a quick spurt of temper.

But Puddle, divining her illness of spirit together with its cause, seldom
left her alone. She was frightened by something in Stephen’s eyes; an
incredulous, questioning, wounded expression, as though she were trying to
understand why it was that she must be so grievously wounded. Again and
again Puddle cursed her own folly for having shown such open resentment
of Angela Crossby; the result was that now Stephen never discussed her,
never mentioned her name unless Puddle clumsily dragged it in, and then
Stephen would change the subject. And now more than ever Puddle loathed
and despised the conspiracy of silence that forbade her to speak frankly.
The conspiracy of silence that had sent the girl forth unprotected, right into
the arms of this woman. A vain, shallow woman in search of excitement,
and caring less than nothing for Stephen.
There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and one evening
she came to a great resolution. She would go to the girl and say: ‘I know. I
know all about it, you can trust me, Stephen.’ And then she would counsel
and try to give courage: ‘You’re neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor
mad; you’re as much a part of what people call nature as anyone else; only
you’re unexplained as yet—you’ve not got your niche in creation. But some
day that will come, and meanwhile don’t shrink from yourself, but just face
yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do the best you can with your
burden. But above all be honourable. Cling to your honour for the sake of
those others who share the same burden. For their sakes show the world that
people like you and they can be quite as selfless and fine as the rest of
mankind. Let your life go to prove this—it would be a really great life-
work, Stephen.’
But the resolution waned because of Anna, who would surely join hands
with the conspiracy of silence. She would never condone such fearless
plain-speaking. If it came to her knowledge she would turn Puddle out bag
and baggage, and that would leave Stephen alone. No, she dared not speak
plainly because of the girl for whose sake she should now, above all, be
outspoken. But supposing the day should arrive when Stephen herself
thought fit to confide in her friend, then Puddle would take the bull by the
horns: ‘Stephen, I know. You can trust me, Stephen.’ If only that day were
not too long in coming—
For none knew better than this little grey woman, the agony of mind
that must be endured when a sensitive, highly organized nature is first

brought face to face with its own affliction. None knew better the terrible
nerves of the invert, nerves that are always lying in wait. Super-nerves,
whose response is only equalled by the strain that calls that response into
being. Puddle was well acquainted with these things—that was why she
was deeply concerned about Stephen.
But all she could do, at least for the present, was to be very gentle and
very patient: ‘Drink this cocoa, Stephen, I made it myself—’ And then with
a smile, ‘I put four lumps of sugar!’
Then Stephen was pretty sure to turn contrite: ‘Puddle—I’m a brute—
you’re so good to me always.’
‘Rubbish! I know you like cocoa made sweet, that’s why I put in those
four lumps of sugar. Let’s go for a really long walk, shall we, dear? I’ve
been wanting a really long walk now for weeks.’
Liar—most kind and self-sacrificing liar! Puddle hated long walks,
especially with Stephen who strode as though wearing seven league boots,
and whose only idea of a country walk was to take her own line across
ditches and hedges—yes, indeed, a most kind and self-sacrificing liar! For
Puddle was not quite so young as she had been; at times her feet would
trouble her a little, and at times she would get a sharp twinge in her knee,
which she shrewdly suspected to be rheumatism. Nevertheless she must
keep close to Stephen because of the fear that tightened her heart—the fear
of that questioning, wounded expression which now never left the girl’s
eyes for a moment. So Puddle got out her most practical shoes—her
heaviest shoes which were said to be damp-proof—and limped along
bravely by the side of her charge, who as often as not ignored her existence.
There was one thing in all this that Puddle found amazing, and that was
Anna’s apparent blindness. Anna appeared to notice no change in Stephen,
to feel no anxiety about her. As always, these two were gravely polite to
each other, and as always they never intruded. Still, it did seem to Puddle an
incredible thing that the girl’s own mother should have noticed nothing.
And yet so it was, for Anna had gradually been growing more silent and
more abstracted. She was letting the tide of life carry her gently towards
that haven on which her thoughts rested. And this blindness of hers troubled
Puddle sorely, so that anger must often give way to pity.

She would think: ‘God help her, the sorrowful woman; she knows
nothing—why didn’t he tell her? It was cruel!’ And then she would think:
‘Yes, but God help Stephen if the day ever comes when her mother does
know—what will happen on that day to Stephen?’
Kind and loyal Puddle; she felt torn to shreds between those two, both
so worthy of pity. And now in addition she must be tormented by memories
dug out of their graves by Stephen—Stephen, whose pain had called up a
dead sorrow that for long had lain quietly and decently buried. Her youth
would come back and stare into her eyes reproachfully, so that her finest
virtues would seem little better than dust and ashes. She would sigh,
remembering the bitter sweetness, the valiant hopelessness of her youth—
and then she would look at Stephen.
But one morning Stephen announced abruptly: ‘I’m going out. Don’t
wait lunch for me, will you.’ And her voice permitted of no argument or
question.
Puddle nodded in silence. She had no need to question, she knew only
too well where Stephen was going.

4

With head bowed by her mortification of spirit, Stephen rode once more to
The Grange. And from time to time as she rode she flushed deeply because
of the shame of what she was doing. But from time to time her eyes filled
with tears because of the pain of her longing.
She left the cob with a man at the stables, then made her way round to
the old herb-garden; and there she found Angela sitting alone in the shade
with a book which she was not reading.
Stephen said: ‘I’ve come back.’ And then without waiting: ‘I’ll do
anything you want, if you’ll let me come back.’ And even as she spoke
those words her eyes fell.
But Angela answered: ‘You had to come back—because I’ve been
wanting you, Stephen.’
Then Stephen went and knelt down beside her, and she hid her face
against Angela’s knee, and the tears that had never so much as once fallen

during all the hard weeks of their separation, gushed out of her eyes. She
cried like a child, with her face against Angela’s knee.
Angela let her cry on for a while, then she lifted the tear-stained face
and kissed it: ‘Oh, Stephen, Stephen, get used to the world—it’s a horrible
place full of horrible people, but it’s all there is, and we live in it, don’t 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.

5

Stephen stayed on to lunch, for Ralph was in Worcester. He came home a
good two hours before teatime to find them together among his roses; they
had followed the shade when it left the herb-garden.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ he exclaimed as his eye lit on Stephen; and his voice was
so naïvely 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 to-morrow and see them?’
‘Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?’ he inquired.

‘I think so.’
‘Mine don’t. I can’t make it out. This year, of course, they’ve been
damaged by green-fly. Just come here and look at these standards, will you?
They’re being devoured alive by the brutes!’ And then as though he were
talking to a friend who would understand him: ‘Roses seem good to me—
you know what I mean, there’s virtue about them—the scent and the feel
and the way they grow. I always had some on the desk in my office, they
seemed to brighten up the whole place, no end.’
He started to ink in the names on the labels with a gold fountain pen
which he took from his pocket. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, as he bent his face over
the labels, ‘yes, I always had three or four on my desk. But Birmingham’s a
foul sort of place for roses.’
And hearing him, Stephen found herself thinking that all men had
something simple about them; something that took pleasure in the things
that were blameless, that longed, as it were, to contact with Nature. Martin
had loved huge, primitive trees; and even this mean little man loved his
roses.
Angela came strolling across the lawn: ‘Come, you two,’ she called
gaily, ‘tea’s waiting in the hall!’
Stephen flinched: ‘Come, you two—’ the words jarred on and she knew
that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph was out of earshot for a
moment she whispered:
‘You were clever about his roses!’
At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regret his
erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which made Angela nervous
—she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, which were usually accompanied
by attacks of bad temper.
Long after they had all finished tea he lingered, until Angela said: ‘Oh,
Ralph, that lawn mower. Pratt asked me to tell you that it won’t work at all;
he thinks it had better go back to the makers. Will you write about it now
before the post goes?’
‘I suppose so—’ he muttered; but he left the room slowly.

Then they looked at each other and drew close together, guiltily, starting
at every sound: ‘Stephen—be careful for God’s sake—Ralph—’
So Stephen’s hands dropped from Angela’s shoulders, and she set her
lips hard, for no protest must pass them any more; they had no right to
protest.

CHAPTER 21

1

T hat 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.

2

During those long, anxious weeks in Cornwall, it was borne in on Stephen
as never before how wide was the gulf between her and her mother, how
completely they two must always stand divided. Yet looking at Anna’s quiet
ageing face, the girl would be struck afresh by its beauty, a beauty that
seemed to have mollified the years, to have risen triumphant over time and
grief. And now as in the days of her childhood, that beauty would fill her
with a kind of wonder; so calm it was, so assured, so complete—then her
mother’s deep eyes, blue like distant mountains, and now with that far-away
look in their blueness, as though they were gazing into the distance.
Stephen’s heart would suddenly tighten a little; a sense of great loss would
descend upon her, together with the sense of not fully understanding just
what she had lost or why she had lost it—she would stare at Anna as a
thirsty traveller in the desert will stare at a mirage of water.
And one evening there came a preposterous impulse—the impulse to
confide in this woman within whose most gracious and perfect body her
own anxious body had lain and quickened. She wanted to speak to that
motherhood, to implore, nay, compel its understanding. To say: ‘Mother, I

need you. I’ve lost my way—give me your hand to hold in the darkness.’
But good God, the folly, the madness of it! The base betrayal of such a
confession! Angela delivered over, betrayed—the unthinkable folly, the
madness of it.
Yet sometimes as Anna and she sat together looking out at the misty
Cornish coast-line, hearing the dull, heavy throb of the sea and the calling
of sea-gulls the one to the other—as they sat there together it would seem to
Stephen that her heart was so full of Angela Crossby, all the bitterness, all
the sweetness of her, that the mother-heart beating close by her own must
surely, in its turn, be stirred to beat faster, for had she not once sheltered
under that heart? And so extreme was her need becoming, that now she
must often find Anna’s cool hand and hold it a moment or two in her own,
trying to draw from it some consolation.
But the touch of that cool, pure hand would distress her, causing her
spirit to ache with longing for the simple and upright and honourable things
that had served many simple and honourable people. Then all that to some
might appear uninspiring, would seem to her very fulfilling and perfect. A
pair of lovers walking by arm in arm—just a quiet, engaged couple, neither
comely nor clever nor burdened with riches; just a quiet, engaged couple—
would in her envious eyes be invested with a glory and pride passing all
understanding. For were Angela and she those fortunate lovers, they could
stand before Anna happy and triumphant. Anna, the mother, would smile
and speak gently, tolerant because of her own days of loving. Wherever
they went older folk would remember, and remembering would smile on
their love and speak gently. To know that the whole world was glad of your
gladness, must surely bring heaven very near to the world.
One night Anna looked across at her daughter: ‘Are you tired, my dear?
You seem a bit fagged.’
The question was unexpected, for Stephen was supposed not to know
what it meant to feel fagged, her physical health and strength were
proverbial. Was it possible then that her mother had divined at long last her
utter weariness of spirit? Quite suddenly Stephen felt shamelessly childish,
and she spoke as a child who wants comforting.
‘Yes, I’m dreadfully tired.’ Her voice shook a little; ‘I’m tired out—I’m
dreadfully tired,’ she repeated. With amazement she heard herself making

this weak bid for pity, and yet she could not resist it. Had Anna held out her
arms at that moment, she might soon have learnt about Angela Crossby.
But instead she yawned: ‘It’s this air, it’s too woolly. I’ll be very glad
when we get back to Morton. What’s the time? I’m almost asleep already—
let’s go up to our beds, don’t you think so, Stephen?’
It was like a cold douche; and a good thing too for the girl’s self-respect.
She pulled herself together: ‘Yes, come on, it’s past ten. I detest this soft
air.’ And she flushed, remembering that weak bid for pity.

3

Stephen left Cornwall without a regret; everything about it had seemed to
her depressing. Its rather grim beauty which at any other time would have
deeply appealed to her virile nature, had but added to the gloom of those
interminable weeks spent apart from Angela Crossby. For her perturbation
had been growing apace, she was constantly oppressed by doubts and vague
fears; bewildered, uncertain of her own power to hold; uncertain too, of
Angela’s will to be held by this dangerous yet bloodless loving. Her
defrauded body had been troubling her sorely, so that she had tramped over
beach and headland, cursing the strength of the youth that was in her, trying
to trample down her hot youth and only succeeding in augmenting its
vigour.
But now that the ordeal had come to an end at last, she began to feel less
despondent. In a week’s time Angela would get back from Scotland; then at
least the hunger of the eyes could be appeased—a terrible thing that hunger
of the eyes for the sight of the well-loved being. And then Angela’s birthday
was drawing near, which would surely provide an excuse for a present. She
had sternly forbidden the giving of presents, even humble keepsakes, on
account of Ralph—still, a birthday was different, and in any case Stephen
was quite determined to risk it. For the impulse to give that is common to
all lovers, was in her attaining enormous proportions, so that she visualized
Angela decked in diadems worthy of Cleopatra; so that she sat and stared at
her bank book with eyes that grew angry when they lit on her balance. What
was the good of plenty of money if it could not be spent on the person one

loved? Well, this time it should be so spent, and spent largely; no limit was
going to be set to this present!
An unworthy and tiresome thing money, at best, but it can at least ease
the heart of the lover. When he lightens his purse he lightens his heart,
though this can hardly be accounted a virtue, for such giving is perhaps the
most insidious form of self-indulgence that is known to mankind.

4

Stephen had said quite casually to Anna: ‘Suppose we stay three or four
days in London on our way back to Morton? You could do some shopping.’
Anna had agreed, thinking of her house linen which wanted renewing; but
Stephen had been thinking of the jewellers’ shops in Bond Street.
And now here they actually were in London, established at a quiet and
expensive hotel; but the problem of Angela’s birthday present had, it
seemed, only just begun for Stephen. She had not the least idea what she
wanted, or what Angela wanted, which was far more important; and she did
not know how to get rid of her mother, who appeared to dislike going out
unaccompanied. For three days of the four Stephen fretted and fumed;
never had Anna seemed so dependent. At Morton they now led quite
separate lives, yet here in London they were always together. Scheme as she
might she could find no excuse for a solitary visit to Bond Street. However,
on the morning of the fourth and last day, Anna succumbed to a devastating
headache.
Stephen said: ‘I think I’ll go and get some air, if you really don’t need
me—I’m feeling energetic!’
‘Yes, do—I don’t want you to stay in,’ groaned Anna, who was longing
for peace and an aspirin tablet.
Once out on the pavement Stephen hailed the first taxi she met; she was
quite absurdly elated. ‘Drive to the Piccadilly end of Bond Street,’ she
ordered, as she jumped in and slammed the door. Then she put her head
quickly out of the window: ‘And when you get to the corner, please stop. I
don’t want you to drive along Bond Street, I’ll walk. I want you to stop at
the Piccadilly corner.’

But when she was actually standing on the corner—the left-hand corner
—she began to feel doubtful as to which side of Bond Street she ought to
tackle first. Should she try the right side or keep to the left? She decided to
try the right side. Crossing over, she started to walk along slowly. At every
jeweller’s shop she stood still and gazed at the wares displayed in the
window. Now she was worried by quite a new problem, the problem of
stones, there were so many kinds. Emeralds or rubies or perhaps just plain
diamonds? Well, certainly neither emeralds nor rubies—Angela’s colouring
demanded whiteness. Whiteness—she had it! Pearls—no, one pearl, one
flawless pearl and set as a ring. Angela had once described such a ring with
envy, but alas, it had been born in Paris.
People stared at the masculine-looking girl who seemed so intent upon
feminine adornments. And some one, 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 half-way up its unostentatious window. Then
she stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl that looked like a
round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slender circlet of platinum—
some sort of celestial marble! It was just such a ring as Angela had seen in
Paris, and had since never ceased to envy.
The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, and wore
glasses with tortoiseshell rims: ‘Yes, madam, it’s a very fine specimen
indeed. The setting’s French, just a thin band of platinum, there’s nothing to
detract from the beauty of the pearl.’
He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen let it rest on
her palm. It shone whiter than white against her skin, which by contrast
looked sunburnt and weather-beaten.
Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancing
curiously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite unperturbed, so
he said: ‘Will you try the effect of the ring on your finger?’
At this, however, his customer flushed: ‘It wouldn’t go anywhere near
my finger!’
‘I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.’
‘Thanks, but it’s not for me—it’s for a friend.’
‘Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves? Is her
hand large or small do you think?’
Stephen answered promptly: ‘It’s a very small hand,’ then immediately
looked and felt rather self-conscious.

And now the old gentleman was openly staring: ‘Excuse me,’ he
murmured, ‘an extraordinary likeness. . . .’ Then more boldly: ‘Do you
happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died—it
must be about two years ago—from some accident? I believe a tree fell—’
‘Oh, yes, I’m his daughter,’ said Stephen.
He nodded and smiled: ‘Of course, of course, you couldn’t be anything
but his daughter.’
‘You knew my father?’ she inquired, in surprise.
‘Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In those days Sir
Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearl studs while he was
at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins—a bit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at
Oxford. But what may interest you is the fact that I 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.’

CHAPTER 22

1

W hen 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 curry-combs and brushes out of sight. Williams needed no glasses
when it came to disorder.
‘Be this place ’ere a stable or be it a pigsty, I wonder?’ was now his
habitual greeting.
His wife came bustling in from the kitchen: ‘Sit down, Miss Stephen,’
and she dusted a chair.
Stephen sat down and glanced at the Bible where it lay, still open, on
the table.
‘Yes,’ said Williams dourly, as though she had spoken, ‘I’m reduced to
readin’ about ’eavenly ’orses. A nice endin’ that for a man like me, what’s

been in the service of Sir Philip Gordon, what’s ’ad ’is legs across the best
’unters as ever was seen in this county or any! And I don’t believe in them
lion-headed beasts breathin’ fire and brimstone, it’s all agin nature.
Whoever it was wrote them Revelations, can’t never have been inside of a
stable. I don’t believe in no ’eavenly ’orses neither—there won’t be no
’orses in ’eaven; and a good thing too, judgin’ by the description.’
‘I’m surprised at you, Arth-thur, bein’ so disrespectful to The Book!’ his
wife reproached him gravely.
‘Well, it ain’t no encyclopaedee to the stable, and that’s a sure thing,’
grinned Williams.
Stephen looked from one to the other. They were old, very old, fast
approaching completion. Quite soon their circle would be complete, and
then Williams would be able to tackle Saint John on the points of those
heavenly horses.
Mrs. Williams glanced apologetically at her: ‘Excuse ’im, Miss
Stephen, ’e’s gettin’ rather childish. ’E won’t read no pretty parts of The
Book; all ’e’ll read is them parts about chariots and such like. All what’s to
do with ’orses ’e reads; and then ’e’s so unbelievin’—it’s aw-ful!’ But she
looked at her mate with the eyes of a mother, very gentle and tolerant eyes.
And Stephen, seeing those two together, could picture them as they
must once have been, in the halcyon days of their youthful vigour. For she
thought that she glimpsed through the dust of the years, a faint flicker of the
girl who had lingered in the lanes when the young man Williams and she
had been courting. And looking at Williams as he stood before her twitching
and bowed, she thought that she glimpsed a faint flicker of the youth, very
stalwart and comely, who had bent his head downwards and sideways as he
walked and whispered and kissed in the lanes. And because they were old
yet undivided, her heart ached; not for them but rather for Stephen. Her
youth seemed as dross when compared to their honourable age; because
they were undivided.
She said: ‘Make him sit down, I don’t want him to stand.’ And she got
up and pushed her own chair towards him.
But old Mrs. Williams shook her white head slowly: ‘No, Miss Stephen,
’e wouldn’t sit down in your presence. Beggin’ your pardon, it would ’urt

Arth-thur’s feelin’s to be made to sit down; it would make ’im feel as ’is
days of service was really over.’
‘I don’t need to sit down,’ declared Williams.
So Stephen wished them both a good night, promising to come again
very soon; and Williams hobbled out to the path which was now quite
golden from border to border, for the door of the cottage was standing wide
open and the glow from the lamp streamed over the path. Once more she
found herself walking on lamplight, while Williams, bareheaded, stood and
watched her departure. Then her feet were caught up and entangled in
shadows again, as she made her way under the trees.
But presently came a familiar fragrance—logs burning on the wide,
friendly hearths of Morton. Logs burning—quite soon the lakes would be
frozen—‘and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I
come and stand here in the winter . . . and as we walk back we can smell the
log fires long before we can see them, and we love that good smell because
it means home, and our home is Morton . . . because it means home and our
home is Morton. . . .’
Oh, intolerable fragrance of log fires burning!

CHAPTER 23

1

A ngela 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.

2

The next morning came Angela’s frigid answer: ‘Coming home Monday
fortnight not one day sooner please no more wires Ralph very much upset.’
Stephen tore the thing into a hundred fragments and then hurled it away.
She was suddenly shaking all over with uncontrollable anger.

3

Right up to the moment of Angela’s return that hot anger supported
Stephen. It was like a flame that leapt through her veins, a flame that
consumed and yet stimulated, so that she purposely fanned the fire from a
sense of self preservation.
Then came the actual day of arrival. Angela must be in London by now,
she would certainly have travelled by the night express. She would catch
the 12.47 to Malvern and then motor to Upton—it was nearly twelve. It was
afternoon. At 3.17 Angela’s train would arrive at Great Malvern—it had
arrived now—in about twenty minutes she would drive past the very gates
of Morton. Half-past four. Angela must have got home; she was probably
having tea in the parlour—in the little oak parlour with its piping bullfinch
whose cage always stood near the casement window. A long time ago, a
lifetime ago, Stephen had blundered into that parlour, and Tony had barked,
and the bullfinch had piped a sentimental old German tune—but that was
surely a lifetime ago. Five o’clock. Violet Antrim had obviously lied; she
had lied on purpose to torment Stephen—Angela and Roger—it couldn’t
be; Violet had lied because she liked to torment. A quarter past five. What
Was Angela doing now? She was near, just a few miles away—perhaps she
was ill, as she had not written; yes, that must be it, of course Angela was ill.

The persistent, aching hunger of the eyes. Anger, what was it? A folly, a
delusion, a weakness that crumbled before that hunger. And Angela was
only a few miles away.
She went up to her room and unlocked a drawer from which she took
the little white case. Then she slipped the case into her jacket pocket.

4

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, belovèd. 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 wrong-
doing—she was thoroughly unstrung, almost ill with self-pity—so that
lacking the courage to confess the present, she let her thoughts dwell on the
past. Stephen had always forborne to question, and therefore that past had
never been discussed, but now Angela felt a great need to discuss it. She did
not analyse her feelings; she only knew that she longed intensely to humble
herself, to plead for compassion, to wring from the queer, strong, sensitive
being who loved her, some hope of ultimate forgiveness. At that moment, as
she lay there in Stephen’s arms, the girl assumed an enormous importance.
It was strange, but the very fact of betrayal appeared to have strengthened
her will to hold her, and Angela stirred, so that Stephen said softly:
‘Lie still—I thought you were fast asleep.’
And Angela answered: ‘No, I’m not asleep, dearest, I’ve been thinking.
There 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 fire-flies lit lamps on those trees, shifting lamps that moved
swiftly among the branches. And the hot summer darkness was splashed
with lightning, and the hot summer air was heavy with sweetness.

She described her mother who had died when Angela was twelve—a
pathetic, inadequate creature; the descendant of women who had owned
many slaves to minister to their most trivial requirements: ‘She could hardly
put on her own stockings and shoes,’ smiled Angela, as she pictured that
mother.
She described her father, George Benjamin Maxwell—a charming, but
quite incorrigible spendthrift. She said: ‘He lived in past glories, Stephen.
Because he was a Maxwell—a Maxwell of Virginia—he wouldn’t admit
that the Civil War had deprived us all of the right to spend money. God
knows, there was little enough of it left—the War practically ruined the old
Southern gentry! My grandma could remember those days quite well; she
scraped lint from her sheets for our wounded soldiers. If Grandma had
lived, my life might have been different—but she died a couple of months
after Mother.’
She described the eventual cataclysm, when the home had been sold up
with everything in it, and she and her father had set out for New York—she
just seventeen and he broken and ailing—to rebuild his dissipated fortune.
And because she was now painting a picture of real life, untinged by
imagination, her words lived, and her voice grew intensely bitter.
‘Hell—it was hell! We went under so quickly. There were days when I
hadn’t enough to eat. Oh, Stephen, the filth, the unspeakable squalor—the
heat and the cold and the hunger and the squalor. God, how I hate that great
hideous city! It’s a monster, it crushes you down, it devours—even now I
couldn’t go back to New York without feeling a kind of unreasoning terror.
Stephen, that damnable city broke my nerve. Father got calmly out of it all
by dying one day—and that was so like him! He’d had about enough, so he
just lay down and died; but I couldn’t do that because I was young—and I
didn’t want to die, either. I hadn’t the least idea what I could do, but I knew
that I was supposed to be pretty and that good-looking girls had a chance on
the stage, so I started out to look for a job. My God! Shall I ever forget it!’
And now she described the long, angular streets, miles and miles of
streets; miles and miles of faces all strange and unfriendly—faces like
masks. Then the intimate faces of would-be employers, too intimate when
they peered into her own—faces that had suddenly thrown off their masks.

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

CHAPTER 24

1

R alph said very little about the ring. What could he say? A present given
to his wife by the daughter of a neighbour—an unusually costly
present of course—still, after all, what could he say? He took refuge in
sulky silence. But Stephen would see him staring at the pearl, which Angela

wore on her right-hand third finger, and his weak little eyes would look
redder than usual, perhaps with anger—one could never quite tell from his
eyes whether he was tearful or angry.
And because of those eyes with their constant menace, Stephen must
play her conciliatory role; and this she must do in spite of his rudeness, for
now he was openly rude and hostile. And he bullied. It was almost as
though he took pleasure in bullying his wife when Stephen was present; her
presence seemed to arouse in the man everything that was ill-bred, petty
and cruel. He would make thinly-veiled allusions to the past, glancing
sideways at Stephen the while he did so; and one day when she flushed to
the roots of her hair with rage to see Angela humble and fearful, he laughed
loudly: ‘I’m just a plain tradesman, you know; if you don’t like my ways,
then you’d better not come here.’ Catching Angela’s eye, Stephen tried to
laugh too.
A soul-sickening business. She would feel degraded; she would feel
herself gradually losing all sense of pride, of common decency, even, so
that when she returned in the evening to Morton she would not want to look
the old house in the eyes. She would not want to face those pictures of
Gordons that hung in its hall, and must turn away, lest they by their very
silence rebuke this descendant of theirs who was so unworthy. Yet
sometimes it seemed to her that she loved more intensely because she had
lost so much—there was nothing left now but Angela Crossby.

2

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

since God probably listens to the heart rather than to the lips, He forgave
her.

3

Stupid with misery and growing more inept every day, Stephen found
herself no match for Roger. He was calm, self-assured, insolent and
triumphant, and his love of tormenting had not waned with his manhood.
Roger was no fool; he put two and two together and his masculine instinct
deeply resented this creature who might challenge his right of possession.
Moreover, that masculine instinct was outraged. He would stare at Stephen
as though she were a horse whom he strongly suspected of congenital
unsoundness, and then he would let his eyes rest on Angela’s face. They
would be the eyes of a lover, possessive, demanding, insistent eyes—if
Ralph did not happen to be present. And into Angela’s eyes there would
come an expression that Stephen had seen many times. A mist would slowly
cloud over their blueness; they would dim, as though they were hiding
something. Then Stephen would be seized with a violent trembling, so that
she could not stand any more but must sit with her hands clasped tightly
together, lest those trembling hands betray her to Roger. But Roger would
have seen already, and would smile his slow, understanding, masterful
smile.
Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly, and their
youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable thing; the instinctive
repulsion of two human bodies, the one for the other, which neither could
help—not now that those bodies were stirred by a woman. Then into this
vortex of secret emotion would come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen
to Roger and then at his wife, and his eyes would be red—one never knew
whether from tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque triangle for
a moment, those three who must share a common desire. But after a little
the two male creatures who hated each other, would be shamefully united in
the bond of their deeper hatred of Stephen; and divining this, she in her turn
would hate.

4

It could not go on without some sort of convulsion, and that Christmas was
a time of recriminations. Angela’s infatuation was growing, and she did not
always hide this from Stephen. Letters would arrive in Roger’s handwriting,
and Stephen, half crazy with jealousy by now, would demand to see them.
She would be refused, and a scene would ensue.
‘That man’s your lover! Have I gone starving only for this—that you
should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that letter!’
‘How dare you suggest that Roger’s my lover! But if he were it’s no
business of yours.’
‘Will you show me that letter?’
‘I will not.’
‘It’s from Roger.’
‘You’re intolerable. You can think what you please.’
‘What am I to think?’ Then because of her longing, ‘Angela, for God’s
sake don’t treat me like this—I can’t bear it. When you loved me it was
easier to bear—I endured it for your sake, but now—listen, listen. . . .’ Stark
naked confessions dragged from lips that grew white the while they
confessed: ‘Angela, listen. . . .’
And now the terrible nerves of the invert, those nerves that are always
lying in wait, gripped Stephen. They ran like live wires through her body,
causing a constant and ruthless torment, so that the sudden closing of a door
or the barking of Tony would fall like a blow on her shrinking flesh. At
night in her bed she must cover her ears from the ticking of the clock,
which would sound like thunder in the darkness.
Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext or another—
she must see her dentist; she must fit a new dress.
‘Well then, let me come with you.’
‘Good heavens, why? I’m only going to the dentist!’
‘All right, I’ll come too.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the kind.’ Then Stephen would know why Angela
was going.
All that day she would be haunted by insufferable pictures. Whatever
she did, wherever she went, she would see them together, Angela and
Roger. . . . She would think: ‘I’m going mad! I can see them as clearly as
though they were here before me in the room.’ And then she would cover
her eyes with her hands, but this would only strengthen the pictures.
Like some earth-bound spirit she would haunt The Grange on the
pretext of taking Tony for a walk. And there, as likely as not, would be
Ralph wandering about in his bare rose garden. He would glance up and see
her perhaps, and then—most profound shame of all—they would both look
guilty, for each would know the loneliness of the other, and that loneliness
would draw them together for the moment; they would be almost friends in
their hearts.
‘Angela’s gone up to London, Stephen.’
‘Yes, I know. She’s gone up to fit her new dress.’
Their eyes would drop. Then Ralph might say sharply: ‘If you’re after
the dog, he’s in the kitchen,’ and turning his back, he might make a pretence
of examining his standard rose-trees.
Calling Tony, Stephen would walk into Upton, then along the mist-
swept bank of the river. She would stand very still staring down at the
water, but the impulse would pass, and whistling the dog, she would turn
and go hurrying back to Upton.
Then one afternoon Roger came with his car to take Angela for a drive
through the hills. The New Year was slipping into the spring, and the air
smelt of sap and much diligent growing. A warm February had succeeded
the winter. Many birds would be astir on those hills where lovers might sit
unashamed—where Stephen had sat holding Angela clasped in her arms,
while she eagerly took and gave kisses. And remembering these things
Stephen turned and left them; unable just then to endure any longer. Going
home, she made her way to the lakes, and there she quite suddenly started
weeping. Her whole body seemed to dissolve itself in weeping; and she
flung herself down on the kind earth of Morton, shedding tears as of blood.
There was no one to witness those tears except the white swan called Peter.

5

Terrible, heart-breaking months. She grew gaunt with her unappeased love
for Angela Crossby. And now she would sometimes turn in despair to the
thought of her useless and unspent money. Thoughts would come that were
altogether unworthy, but nevertheless those thoughts would persist. Roger
was not rich; she was rich already and some day she would be even richer.
She went up to London and chose new clothes at a West End tailor’s;
the man in Malvern who had made for her father was getting old, she would
have her suits made in London in future. She ordered herself a rakish red
car; a long-bodied, sixty 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.

6

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

stroking her shoulders, letting her hands slip along her straight thighs—Oh,
poor and most desolate body!
Then she, for whom Puddle was actually praying at that moment, must
now pray also, but blindly; finding few words that seemed worthy of prayer,
few words that seemed to encompass her meaning—for she did not know
the meaning of herself. But she loved, and loving groped for the God who
had fashioned her, even unto this bitter loving.

CHAPTER 25

1

S tephen’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 coffee-pots,
cream-jugs and large fish slices; to say nothing of a heavy silver bowl from
the Hunt, and a massive salver from the grateful Scottish tenants.

On the wedding day not a few eyes would be wet at the sight of so
youthful a man and maiden ‘joined together in an honourable estate,
instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency.’ For such ancient
traditions—in spite of the fact that man’s innocency could not even survive
one bite of an apple shared with a woman—are none the less apt to be
deeply moving. There they would kneel, the young newly wed, ardent yet
sanctified by a blessing, so that all, or at least nearly all, they would do,
must be considered both natural and pleasing to a God in the image of man
created. And the fact that this God, in a thoughtless moment, had created in
His turn those pitiful thousands who must stand for ever outside His
blessing, would in no way disturb the large congregation or their white
surpliced pastor, or the couple who knelt on the gold-braided, red velvet
cushions. And afterwards there would be plentiful champagne to warm the
cooling blood of the elders, and much shaking of hands and congratulating,
and many kind smiles for the bride and her bridegroom. Some might even
murmur a fleeting prayer in their hearts, as the two departed: ‘God bless
them!’
So now Stephen must actually learn at first hand how straight can run
the path of true love, in direct contradiction to the time-honoured proverb.
Must realize more clearly than ever, that love is only permissible to those
who are cut in every respect to life’s pattern; must feel like some ill-
conditioned pariah, hiding her sores under lies and pretences. And after
those visits of Violet Antrim’s, her spirits would be at a very low ebb, for
she had not yet gained that steel-bright courage which can only be forged in
the furnace of affliction, and which takes many weary years in the forging.

2

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

Filled with an ever-increasing need to believe, Stephen listened to
Angela Crossby: ‘You know there’s nothing between me and Roger—if you
don’t, then you above all people ought to,’ and her blue, child-like eyes
would look up at Stephen, who could never resist the appeal of their
blueness.
And as though to bear out the truth of her words, Roger now came to
The Grange much less often; and when he did come he was quietly friendly,
not at all lover-like if Stephen was present, so that gradually her need to
believe had begun to allay her worst fears. Yet she knew with the true
instinct of the lover, that Angela was secretly unhappy. She might try to
appear light-hearted and flippant, but her smiles and her jests could not
deceive Stephen.
‘You’re miserable. What is it?’
And Angela would answer: ‘Ralph’s been vile to me again—’ But she
would not add that Ralph was daily becoming more suspicious and more
intolerant of Roger Antrim, so that now her deadly fear of her husband was
always at war with her passion.
Sometimes it seemed to the girl that Angela used her as a whip
wherewith to lash Ralph. She would lead Stephen on to show signs of
affection which would never have been permitted in the past. Ralph’s little
red eyes would look deeply resentful, and getting up he would slouch from
the room. They would hear the front door being closed, and would know
that he had gone for a walk with Tony. Yet when they were alone and in
comparative safety, there would be something crude, almost cruel in their
kisses; a restless, dissatisfied, hungry thing—their lips would seem bent on
scourging their bodies. Neither 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.

CHAPTER 26

1

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

The relief of his unexpectedly long absence went to Stephen’s head; she
grew much more exacting, suggesting all sorts of intimate plans. Supposing
they went for a few days to London? Supposing they motored to Symond’s
Yat and stayed at the little hotel by the river? They might even push on to
Abergavenny and from there motor up and explore the Black Mountains—
why not? It was glorious weather.
‘Angela, please come away with me, darling—just for a few days—
we’ve never done it, and I’ve longed to so often. You can’t refuse, there’s
nothing on earth to prevent your coming.’
But Angela would not make up her mind, she seemed suddenly anxious
about her husband: ‘Poor devil, he was awfully fond of his mother. I
oughtn’t to go, it would look so heartless with the old woman dead and
Ralph so unhappy—’
Stephen said bitterly; ‘What about me? Do you think I’m never
unhappy?’
So the time slipped by in heartaches and quarrels, for Stephen’s taut
nerves were like spurs to her temper, and she stormed or reproached in her
dire disappointment:
‘You pretend that you love me and yet you won’t come—and I’ve
waited so long—oh, my God, how I’ve waited! But you’re utterly cruel.
And I ask for so little, just to have you with me for a few days and nights—
just to sleep with you in my arms; just to feel you beside me when I wake
up in the morning—I want to open my eyes and see your face, as though we
belonged to each other. Angela, I swear I wouldn’t torment you—we’d be
just as we are now, if that’s what you’re afraid of. You must know, after all
these months, that you can trust me—’
But Angela set her lips and refused: ‘No, Stephen, I’m sorry, but I’d
rather not come.’
Then Stephen would feel that life was past bearing, and sometimes she
must ride rather wildly for miles—now on Raftery, now on Sir Philip’s
young chestnut. All alone she would ride in the early mornings, getting up
from a sleepless night unrefreshed, yet terribly alive because of those
nerves that tortured her luckless body. She would get back to Morton still

unable to rest, and a little later would order the motor and drive herself
across to The Grange, where Angela would usually be dreading her coming.
Her reception would be cold: ‘I’m fairly busy, Stephen—I must pay off
all these bills before Ralph gets home;’ or: ‘I’ve got a foul headache, so
don’t scold me this morning; I think if you did that I just couldn’t bear it!’
Stephen would flinch as though struck in the face; she might even turn
round and go back to Morton.
Came the last precious day before Ralph’s return, and that day they did
spend quite peaceably together, for Angela seemed bent upon soothing. She
went out of her way to be gentle to Stephen, and Stephen, quick as always
to respond, was very gentle in her turn. But after they had dined in the little
herb garden—taking advantage of the hot, still weather—Angela developed
one of her headaches.
‘Oh, my Stephen—oh, darling, my head’s too awful. It must be the
thunder—it’s been coming on all day. What a perfectly damnable thing to
happen, on our last evening too—but I know this kind well; I’ll just have to
give in and go to my bed. I’ll take a cachet and then try to sleep, so don’t
ring me up when you get back to Morton. Come to-morrow—come early.
I’m so miserable, darling, when I think that this is our last peaceful evening
—’
‘I know. But are you all right to be left?’
‘Yes, of course. All I need is to get some sleep. You won’t worry, will
you? Promise, my Stephen!’
Stephen hesitated. Quite suddenly Angela was looking very ill, and her
hands were like ice. ‘Swear you’ll telephone to me if you can’t get to sleep,
then I’ll come back at once.’
‘Yes, but don’t do that, will you, unless I ring up—I should hear you, of
course, and that would wake me and start my head throbbing.’ Then as
though impelled, in spite of herself, by the girl’s strange attraction, she
lifted her face: ‘Kiss me . . . oh, God . . . Stephen!’
‘I love you so much—so much—’ whispered Stephen.

2

It was past ten o’clock when she got back to Morton: ‘Has Angela Crossby
rung up?’ she inquired of Puddle, who appeared to have been waiting in the
hall.
‘No, she hasn’t!’ snapped Puddle, who was getting to the stage when
she hated the mere name of Angela Crossby. Then she added: ‘You look like
nothing on earth; in your place I’d go to bed at once, Stephen.’
‘You go to bed, Puddle, if you’re tired—where’s Mother?’
‘In her bath. For heaven’s sake do come to bed! I can’t bear to see you
looking as you do these days.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘No, you’re not, you’re all wrong. Go and look at your face.’
‘I don’t very much want to, it doesn’t attract me,’ smiled Stephen.
So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to sit with a
book in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angela should ring. And
there, like the faithful creature she was, she must sit on all through the
night, patiently waiting. But when the first tinges of dawn greyed the
window and the panes of the semi-circular fanlight, she left her chair stiffly,
to pace up and down, filled with a longing to be near this woman, if only to
stand and keep watch in her garden—Snatching up a coat she went out to
her car.

3

She left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up the drive,
taking 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.’

4

That night the weight against Stephen’s heart, with its icy coldness, melted;
and it flowed out in such a torrent of grief that she could not stand up
against that torrent, so that drowning though she was she found pen and
paper, and she wrote to Angela Crossby.
What a letter! All the pent-up passion of months, all the terrible,
rending, destructive frustrations must burst from her heart: ‘Love me, only
love me the way I love you. Angela, for God’s sake, try to love me a little—
don’t throw me away, because if you do I’m utterly finished. You know how
I love you, with my soul and my body; if it’s wrong, grotesque, unholy—
have pity. I’ll be humble. Oh, my darling, I am humble now; I’m just a
poor, heart-broken freak of a creature who loves you and needs you much
more than its life, because life’s worse than death, ten times worse without
you. I’m some awful mistake—God’s mistake—I don’t know if there are
any more like me, I pray not for their sakes, because it’s pure hell. But oh,
my dear, whatever I am, I just love you and love you. I thought it was dead,
but it wasn’t. It’s alive—so terribly alive to-night in my bedroom. . . .’ And
so it went on for page after page.
But never a word about Roger Antrim and what she had seen that
morning in the garden. Some fine instinct of utterly selfless protection
towards this woman had managed to survive all the anguish and all the
madness of that day. The letter was a terrible indictment against Stephen, a
complete vindication of Angela Crossby.

5

Angela went to her husband’s study, and she stood before him utterly
shaken, utterly appalled at what she would do, yet utterly and ruthlessly
determined to do it from a primitive instinct of self-preservation. In her ears
she could still hear that terrible laughter—that uncanny, hysterical, agonized
laughter. Stephen was mad, and God only knew what she might do or say in

a moment of madness, and then—but she dared not look into the future.
Cringing in spirit and trembling in body, she forgot the girl’s faithful and
loyal devotion, her will to forgive, her desire to protect, so clearly set forth
in that pitiful letter.
She said: ‘Ralph, I want to ask your advice. I’m in an awful mess—it’s
Stephen Gordon. You think I’ve been carrying on with Roger—good Lord,
if you only knew what I’ve endured these 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
non-existence of the stake, and racked his brains for indecent tortures. And
finally: ‘I’ll answer this letter, yes, by God I will! You leave her to me, I
know how I’m going to answer this letter!’
Angela asked him, and now her voice shook: ‘Ralph, what will you do
to her—to Stephen?’

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

CHAPTER 27

1

T wo 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.
I remain, Yours very truly,
Ralph Crossby.

Stephen stood as though turned to stone for a moment, not so much as a
muscle twitched; then she handed the letter back to her mother without
speaking, and in silence Anna received it. ‘Stephen—when you know what
I’ve done, forgive me.’ The childish scrawl seemed suddenly on fire, it
seemed to scorch Stephen’s fingers as she touched it in her pocket—so this
was what Angela had done. In a blinding flash the girl saw it all; the
miserable weakness, the fear of betrayal, the terror of Ralph and of what he
would do should he learn of that guilty night with Roger. Oh, but Angela
might have spared her this, this last wound to her loyal and faithful
devotion; this last insult to all that was best and most sacred in her love—
Angela had feared betrayal at the hands of the creature who loved her!
But now her mother was speaking again: ‘And this—read this and tell
me if you wrote it, or if that man’s lying.’ And Stephen must read her own
misery jibing at her from those pages in Ralph Crossby’s stiff and clerical
handwriting.
She looked up: ‘Yes, Mother, I wrote it.’
Then Anna began to speak very slowly as though nothing of what she
would say must be lost; and that slow, quiet voice was more dreadful than
anger: ‘All your life I’ve felt very strangely towards you;’ she was saying,
‘I’ve felt a kind of physical repulsion, a desire not to touch or to be touched
by you—a terrible thing for a mother to feel—it has often made me deeply

unhappy. I’ve often felt that I was being unjust, unnatural—but now I know
that my instinct was right; it is you who are unnatural, not I. . . .’
‘Mother—stop!’
‘It is you who are unnatural, not I. And this thing that you are is a sin
against creation. Above all is this thing a sin against the father who bred
you, the father whom you dare to resemble. You dare to look like your
father, and your face is a living insult to his memory, Stephen. I shall never
be able to look at you now without thinking of the deadly insult of your face
and your body to the memory of the father who bred you. I can only thank
God that your father died before he was asked to endure this great shame.
As for you, I would rather see you dead at my feet than standing before me
with this thing upon you—this unspeakable outrage that you call love in
that letter which you don’t deny having written. In that letter you say things
that may only be said between man and woman, and coming from you they
are vile and filthy words of corruption—against nature, against God who
created nature. My gorge rises; you have made me feel physically sick—’
‘Mother—you don’t know what you’re saying—you’re my mother—’
‘Yes, I am your mother, but for all that, you seem to me like a scourge. I
ask myself what I have ever done to be dragged down into the depths by my
daughter. And your father—what had he ever done? And you have
presumed to use the word love in connection with this—with these lusts of
your body; these unnatural cravings of your unbalanced mind and
undisciplined body—you have used that word. I have loved—do you 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.

2

As though drawn there by some strong natal instinct, Stephen went straight
to her father’s study; and she sat in the old arm-chair that had survived him;
then she buried her face in her hands.
All the loneliness that had gone before was as nothing to this new
loneliness of spirit. An immense desolation swept down upon her, an
immense need to cry out and claim understanding for herself, an immense
need to find an answer to the riddle of her unwanted being. All around her
were grey and crumbling ruins, and under those ruins her love lay bleeding;
shamefully wounded by Angela Crossby, shamefully soiled and defiled by
her mother—a piteous, suffering, defenceless thing, it lay bleeding under
the ruins.
She felt blind when she tried to look into the future, stupefied when she
tried to look back on the past. She must go—she was going away from
Morton: ‘From Morton—I’m going away from Morton,’ the words thudded
drearily in her brain: ‘I’m going away from Morton.’
The grave, comely house would not know her any more, nor the garden
where she had heard the cuckoo with the dawning understanding of a child,
nor the lakes where she had kissed Angela Crossby for the first time—full

on the lips as a lover. The good, sweet-smelling meadows with their placid
cattle, she was going to leave them; and the hills that protected poor,
unhappy lovers—the merciful hills; and the lanes with their sleepy dog-
roses at evening; and the little, old township of Upton-on-Severn with its
battle-scarred church and its yellowish river; that was where she had first
seen Angela Crossby. . . .
The spring would come sweeping across Castle Morton, bringing
strong, clean winds to the open common. The spring would come sweeping
across the whole valley, from the Cotswold Hills right up to the Malverns;
bringing daffodils by their hundreds and thousands, bringing bluebells to
the beech wood down by the lakes, bringing cygnets for Peter the swan to
protect; bringing sunshine to warm the old bricks of the house—but she
would not be there any more in the spring. In summer the roses would not
be her roses, nor the luminous carpet of leaves in the autumn, nor the
beautiful winter forms of the beech trees: ‘And on evenings in winter these
lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset,
when you and I come and stand here in the winter. . . .’ No, no, not that
memory, it was too much—‘when you and I come and stand here in the
winter. . . .’
Getting up, she wandered about the room, touching its kind and familiar
objects; stroking the desk, examining a pen, grown rusty from long disuse
as it lay there; then she opened a little drawer in the desk and took out the
key of her father’s locked 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.’

BOOK THREE

CHAPTER 28

1

A pale glint of sunshine devoid of all warmth lay over the wide expanse
of the river, touching the funnel of a passing tug that tore at the water
like a clumsy harrow; but a field of water is not for the sowing and the river
closed back in the wake of the tug, deftly obliterating all traces of its noisy
and foolish passing. The trees along the Chelsea Embankment bent and
creaked in a sharp March wind. The wind was urging the sap in their
branches to flow with a more determined purpose, but the skin of their
bodies was blackened and soot clogged so that when touched it left soot on
the fingers, and knowing this they were always disheartened and therefore a
little slow to respond to the urge of the wind—they were city trees which
are always somewhat disheartened. Away to the right against a toneless sky

stood the tall factory chimneys beloved of young artists—especially those
whose skill is not great, for few can go wrong over factory chimneys—
while across the stream Battersea Park still looked misty as though barely
convalescent from fog.
In her large, long, rather low-ceilinged study whose casement windows
looked over the river, sat Stephen with her feet stretched out to the fire and
her hands thrust into her jacket pockets. Her eyelids drooped, she was all
but asleep although it was early afternoon. She had worked through the
night, a deplorable habit and one of which Puddle quite rightly disapproved,
but when the spirit of work was on her it was useless to argue with Stephen.
Puddle looked up from her embroidery frame and pushed her spectacles
on to her forehead the better to see the drowsy Stephen, for Puddle’s eyes
had grown very long-sighted so that the room looked blurred through her
glasses.
She thought: ‘Yes, she’s changed a good deal in these two years—’ then
she sighed half in sadness and half in contentment, ‘All the same she is
making good,’ thought Puddle, remembering with a quick thrill of pride that
the long-limbed creature who lounged by the fire had suddenly sprung into
something like fame thanks to a fine first novel.
Stephen yawned, and readjusting her spectacles Puddle resumed her
wool-work.
It was true that the two long years of exile had left their traces on
Stephen’s face; it had grown much thinner and more determined, some
might have said that the face had hardened, for the mouth was less ardent
and much less gentle, and the lips now drooped at the corners. The strong
rather massive line of the jaw looked aggressive these days by reason of its
thinness. Faint furrows had come between the thick brows and faint
shadows showed at times under the eyes; the eyes themselves were the eyes
of a writer, always a little tired in expression. Her complexion was paler
than it had been in the past, it had lost the look of wind and sunshine—the
open-air look—and the fingers of the hand that slowly emerged from her
jacket pocket were heavily stained with nicotine—she was now a voracious
smoker. Her hair was quite short. In a mood of defiance she had suddenly
walked off to the barber’s one morning and had made him crop it close like
a man’s. And mightily did this fashion become her, for now the fine shape

of her head was unmarred by the stiff clumpy plait in the nape of her neck.
Released from the torment imposed upon it the thick auburn hair could
breathe and wave freely, and Stephen had grown fond and proud of her hair
—a hundred strokes must it have with the brush every night until it looked
burnished. Sir Philip also had been proud of his hair in the days of his
youthful manhood.
Stephen’s life in London had been one long endeavour, for work to her
had become a narcotic. Puddle it was who had found the flat with the
casement windows that looked on the river, and Puddle it was who now
kept the accounts, paid the rent, settled bills and managed the servants; all
these details Stephen calmly ignored and the faithful Puddle allowed her to
do so. Like an ageing and anxious Vestal Virgin she tended the holy fire of
inspiration, feeding the flame with suitable food—good grilled meat, light
puddings and much fresh fruit, varied by little painstaking surprises from
Jackson’s or Fortnum and Mason. For Stephen’s appetite was not what it
had been in the vigorous days of Morton; now there were times when she
could not eat, or if she must eat she did so protesting, fidgeting to go back
to her desk. At such times Puddle would steal into the study with a tin of
Brand’s Essence—she had even been known to feed the recalcitrant author
piecemeal, until Stephen must laugh and gobble up the jelly for the sake of
getting on with her writing.
Only one duty apart from her work had Stephen never for a moment
neglected, and that was the care and the welfare of Raftery. The cob had
been sold, and her father’s chestnut she had given away to Colonel Antrim,
who had sworn not to let the horse out of his hands for the sake of his life-
long friend, Sir Philip—but Raftery she had brought up to London. She
herself had found and rented his stable with comfortable rooms above for
Jim, the groom she had taken from Morton. Every morning she rode very
early in the Park, which seemed a futile and dreary business, but now only
thus could the horse and his owner contrive to be together for a little.
Sometimes she fancied that Raftery sighed as she cantered him round and
round the Row, and then she would stoop down and speak to him softly:
‘My Raftery, I know, it’s not Castle Morton or the hills or the big, green
Severn Valley—but I love you.’

And because he had understood her he would throw up his head and
begin to prance sideways, pretending that he still felt very youthful,
pretending that he was wild with delight at the prospect of cantering round
the Row. But after a while these two sorry exiles would droop and move
forward without much spirit. Each in a separate way would divine the ache
in the other, the ache that was Morton, so that Stephen would cease to urge
the beast forward, and Raftery would cease to pretend to Stephen. But when
twice a year at her mother’s request, Stephen must go back to visit her
home, then Raftery went too, and his joy was immense when he felt the
good springy turf beneath him, when he sighted the red brick stables of
Morton, when he rolled in the straw of his large, airy loosebox. The years
would seem to slip from his shoulders, he grew sleeker, he would look like
a five-year-old—yet to Stephen these visits of theirs were anguish because
of her love for Morton. She would feel like a stranger within the gates, an
unwanted stranger there only on sufferance. It would seem to her that the
old house withdrew itself from her love very gravely and sadly, that its
windows no longer beckoned, invited: ‘Come home, come home, come
inside quickly, Stephen!’ And she would not dare to proffer her love, which
would burden her heart to breaking.
She must now pay many calls with her mother, must attend all the
formal social functions—this for the sake of appearances, lest the
neighbours should guess the breach between them. She must keep up the
fiction that she found in a city the stimulus necessary to her work, she who
was filled with a hungry longing for the green of the hills, for the air of
wide spaces, for the mornings and the noontides and the evenings of
Morton. All these things she must do for the sake of her father, aye, and for
the sake of Morton.
On her first visit home Anna had said very quietly one day: ‘There’s
something, Stephen, that I think I ought to tell you perhaps, though it’s
painful to me to reopen the subject. There has been no scandal—that man
held his tongue—you’ll be glad to know this because of your father. And
Stephen—the Crossbys have sold The Grange and gone to America, I
believe—’ she had stopped abruptly, not looking at Stephen, who had
nodded, unable to answer.
So now there were quite different folk at The Grange, folk very much
more to the taste of the county—Admiral Carson and his apple-cheeked

wife who, childless herself, adored Mothers’ Meetings. Stephen must
sometimes go to The Grange with Anna, who liked the Carsons. Very grave
and aloof had Stephen become; too reserved, too self-assured, thought her
neighbours. They supposed that success had gone to her head, for no one
was now allowed to divine the terrible shyness that made social intercourse
such a miserable torment. Life had already taught Stephen one thing, and
that was that never must human beings be allowed to suspect that a creature
fears them. The fear of the one is a spur to the many, for the primitive
hunting instinct dies hard—it is better to face a hostile world than to turn
one’s back for a moment.
But at least she was spared meeting Roger Antrim, and for this she was
most profoundly thankful. Roger had gone with his regiment to Malta, so
that they two did not see each other. Violet was married and living in
London in the: ‘perfect duck of a house in Belgravia.’ From time to time
she would blow in on Stephen, but not often, because she was very much
married with one baby already and another on the way. She was somewhat
subdued and much less maternal that she had been when first she met Alec.
If Anna was proud of her daughter’s achievement she said nothing
beyond the very few words that must of necessity be spoken: ‘I’m so glad
your book has succeeded, Stephen.’
‘Thank you, mother—’
Then as always these two fell silent. Those long and eloquent silences
of theirs were now of almost daily occurrence when they found themselves
together. Nor could they look each other in the eyes any more, their eyes
were for ever shifting, and sometimes Anna’s pale cheeks would flush very
slightly when she was alone with Stephen—perhaps at her thoughts.
And Stephen would think: ‘It’s because she can’t help remembering.’
For the most part, however, they shunned all contact by common
consent, except when in public. And this studied avoidance tore at their
nerves; they were now well-nigh obsessed by each other, for ever secretly
laying their plans in order to avoid a meeting. Thus it was that these
obligatory visits to Morton were a pretty bad strain on Stephen. She would
get back to London unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to write, and with
such a despairing and sickening heart-ache for the grave old house the

moment she had left it, that Puddle would have to be very severe in order to
pull her together.
‘I’m ashamed of you, Stephen; what’s happened to your courage? You
don’t deserve your phenomenal success; if you go on like this, God help the
new book. I suppose you’re going to be a one-book author!’
Scowling darkly, Stephen would go to her desk—she had no wish to be
a one-book author.

2

Yet as everything comes as grist to the mill of those who are destined from
birth to be writers—poverty or riches, good or evil, gladness or sorrow, all
grist to the mill—so the pain of Morton burning down to the spirit in
Stephen had kindled a bright, hot flame, and all that she had written she had
written by its light, seeing exceedingly clearly. As though in a kind of self-
preservation, her mind had turned to quite simple people, humble people
sprung from the soil, from the same kind soil that had nurtured Morton.
None of her own strange emotions had touched them, and yet they were
part of her own emotions; a part of her longing for simplicity and peace, a
part of her curious craving for the normal. And although at this time
Stephen did not know it, their happiness had sprung from her moments of
joy; their sorrows from the sorrow she had known and still knew; their
frustrations from her own bitter emptiness; their fulfilments from her
longing to be fulfilled. These people had drawn life and strength from their
creator. Like infants they had sucked at her breasts of inspiration, and
drawn from them blood, waxing wonderfully strong; demanding,
compelling thereby recognition. For surely thus only are fine books written,
they must somehow partake of the miracle of blood—the strange and
terrible miracle of blood, the giver of life, the purifier, the great final
expiation.

3

But one thing there was that Puddle still feared, and this was the girl’s
desire for isolation. To her it appeared like a weakness in Stephen; she

divined the bruised humility of spirit that now underlay this desire for
isolation, and she did her best to frustrate it. It was Puddle who had forced
the embarrassed Stephen to let in the Press photographers, and Puddle it
was who had given the details for the captions that were to appear with the
pictures: ‘If you choose to behave like a hermit crab I shall use my own
judgment about what I say!’
‘I don’t care a tinker’s darn what you say! Now leave me in peace do,
Puddle.’
It was Puddle who answered the telephone calls: ‘I’m afraid Miss
Gordon will be busy working—what name did you say? Oh, The Literary
Monthly! I see—well suppose you come on Wednesday.’ And on
Wednesday morning there was old Puddle waiting to waylay the anxious
young man who had been commanded to dig up some copy about the new
novelist, Stephen Gordon. Then Puddle had smiled at the anxious young
man and had shepherded him into her own little sanctum, and had given
him a comfortable chair, and had stirred the fire the better to warm him.
And the young man had noticed her charming smile and had thought how
kind was this ageing woman, and how damned hard it was to go tramping
the streets in quest of erratic, unsociable authors.
Puddle had said, still smiling kindly: ‘I’d hate you to go back without
your copy, but Miss Gordon’s been working overtime lately, I dare not
disturb her, you don’t mind, do you? Now if you could possibly make shift
with me—I really do know a great deal about her; as a matter of fact I’m
her ex-governess, so I really do know quite a lot about her.’
Out had come notebook and copying pencil; it was easy to talk to this
sympathetic woman: ‘Well, if you could give me some interesting details—
say, her taste in books and her recreations, I’d be awfully grateful. She
hunts, I believe?’
‘Oh, not now!’
‘I see—well then, she did hunt. And wasn’t her father Sir Philip Gordon
who had a place down in Worcestershire and was killed by a falling tree or
something? What kind of pupil did you find Miss Gordon? I’ll send her my
notes when I’ve worked them up, but I really would like to see her, you
know.’ Then being a fairly sagacious young man: ‘I’ve just read The
Furrow, it’s a wonderful book!’

Puddle talked glibly while the young man scribbled, and when at last he
was just about going she let him out on to the balcony from which he could
look into Stephen’s study.
‘There she is at her desk! What more could you ask?’ she said
triumphantly, pointing to Stephen whose hair was literally standing on end,
as is sometimes the way with youthful authors. She even managed
occasionally, to make Stephen see the journalists herself.

4

Stephen got up, stretched, and went to the window. The sun had retreated
behind the clouds; a kind of brown twilight hung over the Embankment, for
the wind had now dropped and a fog was threatening. The discouragement
common to all fine writers was upon her, she was hating what she had
written. Last night’s work seemed inadequate and unworthy; she decided to
put a blue pencil through it and to rewrite the chapter from start to finish.
She began to give way to a species of panic; her new book would be a
ludicrous failure, she felt it, she would never again write a novel possessing
the quality of The Furrow. The Furrow had been the result of shock to
which she had, strangely enough, reacted by a kind of unnatural mental
vigour. But now she could not react any more, her brain felt like over-
stretched elastic, it would not spring back, it was limp, unresponsive. And
then there was something else that distracted, something she was longing to
put into words yet that shamed her so that it held her tongue-tied. She lit a
cigarette and when it was finished found another and kindled it at the
stump.
‘Stop embroidering that curtain, for God’s sake, Puddle. I simply can’t
stand the sound of your needle; it makes a booming noise like a drum every
time you prod that tightly stretched linen.’
Puddle looked up: ‘You’re smoking too much.’
‘I dare say I am. I can’t write any more.’
‘Since when?’
‘Ever since I began this new book.’
‘Don’t be such a fool!’

‘But it’s God’s truth, I tell you—I feel flat, it’s a kind of spiritual
dryness. This new book is going to be a failure, sometimes I think I’d better
destroy it.’ She began to pace up and down the room, dull-eyed yet tense as
a tightly drawn bow string.
‘This comes of working all night,’ Puddle murmured.
‘I must work when the spirit moves me,’ snapped Stephen.
Puddle put aside her wool work embroidery. She was not much moved
by this sudden depression, she had grown quite accustomed to these literary
moods, yet she looked a little more closely at Stephen and something that
she saw in her face disturbed her.
‘You look tired to death; why not lie down and rest?’
‘Rot! I want to work.’
‘You’re not fit to work. You look all on edge, somehow. What’s the
matter with you?’ And then very gently: ‘Stephen, come here and sit down
by me, please, I must know what’s the matter.’
Stephen obeyed as though once again they two were back in the old
Morton schoolroom, then she suddenly buried her face in her hands: ‘I
don’t want to tell you—why must I, Puddle?’
‘Because,’ said Puddle, ‘I’ve a right to know; your career’s very dear to
me, Stephen.’
Then suddenly Stephen could not resist the blessèd relief of confiding in
Puddle once more, of taking this great new trouble to the faithful and wise
little grey-haired woman whose hand had been stretched out to save in the
past. Perhaps yet again that hand might find the strength that was needful to
save her.
Not looking at Puddle, she began to talk quickly: ‘There’s something
I’ve been wanting to tell you, Puddle—it’s about my work, there’s
something wrong with it. I mean that my work could be much more vital; I
feel it, I know it, I’m holding it back in some way, there’s something I’m
always missing. Even in The Furrow I feel I missed something—I know it
was fine, but it wasn’t complete because I’m not complete and I never shall
be—can’t you understand? I’m not complete. . . .’ She paused unable to find
the words she wanted, then blundered on again blindly: ‘There’s a great

chunk of life that I’ve never known, and I want to know it, I ought to know
it if I’m to become a really fine writer. There’s the greatest thing perhaps in
the world, and I’ve missed it—that’s what’s so awful, Puddle, to know that
it exists everywhere, all round me, to be constantly near it yet always held
back—to feel that the poorest people in the streets, the most ignorant
people, know more than I do. And I dare to take up my pen and write,
knowing less than these poor men and women in the street! Why haven’t I
got a right to it, Puddle? Can’t you understand that I’m strong and young, so
that sometimes this thing that I’m missing torments me, so that I can’t
concentrate on my work any more? Puddle, help me—you were young
yourself once.’
‘Yes, Stephen—a long time ago I was young. . . .’
‘But can’t you remember back for my sake?’ And now her voice
sounded almost angry in her distress: ‘It’s unfair, it’s unjust. Why should I
live in this great isolation of spirit and body—why should I, why? Why
have I been afflicted with a body that must never be indulged, that must
always be repressed until it grows stronger much than my spirit because of
this unnatural repression? What have I done to be so cursed? And now it’s
attacking my holy of holies, my work—I shall never be a great writer
because of my maimed and insufferable body—’ She fell silent, suddenly
shy and ashamed, too much ashamed to go on speaking.
And there sat Puddle as pale as death and as speechless, having no
comfort to offer—no comfort, that is, that she dared to offer—while all her
fine theories about making good for the sake of those others; being noble,
courageous, patient, honourable, physically pure, enduring because it was
right to endure, the terrible birthright of the invert—all Puddle’s fine
theories lay strewn around her like the ruins of some false and flimsy
temple, and she saw at that moment but one thing clearly—true genius in
chains, in the chains of the flesh, a fine spirit subject to physical bondage.
And as once before she had argued with God on behalf of this sorely
afflicted creature, so now she inwardly cried yet again to the Maker whose
will had created Stephen: ‘Thine hands have made me and fashioned me
together round about; yet Thou dost destroy me.’ Then into her heart crept a
bitterness very hard to endure: ‘Yet Thou dost destroy me—’

Stephen looked up and saw her face: ‘Never mind,’ she said sharply,
‘it’s all right, Puddle—forget it!’
But Puddle’s eyes filled with tears, and seeing this, Stephen went to her
desk. Sitting down she groped for her manuscript: ‘I’m going to turn you
out now, I must work. Don’t wait for me if I’m late for dinner.’
Very humbly Puddle crept out of the study.

CHAPTER 29

1

S oon after the New Year, nine months later, Stephen’s second novel was
published. It failed to create the sensation that the first had created,
there was something disappointing about it. One critic described this as: ‘A
lack of grip,’ and his criticism, on the whole, was a fair one. However, the
Press was disposed to be kind, remembering the merits of The Furrow.
But the heart of the Author knoweth its own sorrows and is seldom
responsive to false consolation, so that when Puddle said: ‘Never mind,
Stephen, you can’t expect every book to be The Furrow—and this one is
full of literary merit,’ Stephen replied as she turned away: ‘I was writing a
novel, my dear, not an essay.’
After this they did not discuss it any more, for what was the use of
fruitless discussion? Stephen knew well and Puddle knew also that this
book fell far short of its author’s powers. Then suddenly, that spring,
Raftery went very lame, and everything else was forgotten.
Raftery was aged, he was now eighteen, so that lameness in him was not
easy of healing. His life in a city had tried him sorely, he had missed the
light, airy stables of Morton, and the cruel-hard bed that lay under the tan of
the Row had jarred his legs badly.
The vet shook his head and looked very grave: ‘He’s an aged horse, you
know, and of course in his youth you hunted him pretty freely—it all
counts. Every one comes to the end of their tether, Miss Gordon. Yes, at

times I’m afraid it is painful.’ Then seeing Stephen’s face: ‘I’m awfully
sorry not to give a more cheerful diagnosis.’
Other experts arrived. Every good vet in London was consulted,
including Professor Hobday. No cure, no cure, it was always the same, and
at times, they told Stephen, the old horse suffered; but this she well knew—
she had seen the sweat break out darkly on Raftery’s shoulders.
So one morning she went into Raftery’s loosebox, and she sent the
groom Jim out of the stable, and she laid her cheek against the beast’s neck,
while he turned his head and began to nuzzle. Then they looked at each
other very quietly and gravely, and in Raftery’s eyes was a strange, new
expression—a kind of half-anxious, protesting wonder at this thing men call
pain: ‘What is it, Stephen?’
She answered, forcing back her hot tears: ‘Perhaps, for you, the
beginning, Raftery. . . .’
After a while she went to his manger and let the fodder slip through her
fingers; but he would not eat, not even to please her, so she called the
groom back and ordered some gruel. Very gently she readjusted the clothing
that had slipped to one side, first the under-blanket then the smart blue rug
that was braided in red—red and blue, the old stable colours of Morton.
The groom Jim, now a thick-set stalwart young man, stared at her with
sorrowful understanding, but he did not speak; he was almost as dumb as
the beasts whom his life had been passed in tending—even dumber,
perhaps, for his language consisted of words, having no small sounds and
small movements such as Raftery used when he spoke with Stephen, and
which meant so much more than words.
She said: ‘I’m going now to the station to order a horse-box for to-
morrow, I’ll let you know the time we start, later. And wrap him up well;
put on plenty of clothing for the journey, please, he mustn’t feel cold.’
The man nodded. She had not told him their destination, but he knew it
already; it was Morton. Then the great clumsy fellow must pretend to be
busy with a truss of fresh straw for the horse’s bedding, because his face
had turned a deep crimson, because his coarse lips were actually trembling
—and this was not really so very strange, for those who served Raftery
loved him.

2

Raftery stepped quietly into his horse-box and Jim with great deftness
secured the halter, then he touched his cap and hurried away to his third-
class compartment, for Stephen herself would travel with Raftery on this
last journey back to the fields of Morton. Sitting down on the seat reserved
for a groom she opened the little wooden window into the box, whereupon
Raftery’s muzzle came up and his face looked out of the window. She
fondled the soft, grey plush of his muzzle. Presently she took a carrot from
her pocket, but the carrot was rather hard now for his teeth, so she bit off
small pieces and these she gave him in the palm of her hand; then she
watched him eat them uncomfortably, slowly, because he was old, and this
seemed so strange, for old age and Raftery went very ill together.
Her mind slipped back and back over the years until it recaptured the
coming of Raftery—grey-coated and slender, and his eyes as soft as an Irish
morning, and his courage as bright as an Irish sunrise, and his heart as
young as the wild, eternally young heart of Ireland. She remembered what
they had said to each other. Raftery had said: ‘I will carry you bravely, I
will, serve you all the days of my life.’ She had answered: ‘I will care for
you night and day, Raftery—all the days of your life.’ She remembered their
first run with hounds together—she a youngster of twelve, he a youngster of
five. Great deeds they had done on that day together, at least they had
seemed like great deeds to them—she had had a kind of fire in her heart as
she galloped astride of Raftery. She remembered her father, his protective
back, so broad, so kind, so patiently protective; and towards the end it had
stooped a little as though out of kindness it carried a burden. Now she knew
whose burden that back had been bearing so that it stooped a little. He had
been very proud of the fine Irish horse, very proud of his small and
courageous rider: ‘Steady, Stephen!’ but his eyes had been bright like
Raftery’s. ‘Steady on, Stephen, we’re coming to a stiff one!’ but once they
were over he had turned round and smiled, as he had done in the days when
the impudent Collins had stretched his inadequate legs to their utmost to
keep up with the pace of the hunters.
Long ago, it all seemed a long time ago. A long road it seemed, leading
where? She wondered. Her father had gone away into its shadows, and now
after him, limping a little, went Raftery; Raftery with hollows above his

eyes and down his grey neck that had once been so firm; Raftery whose
splendid white teeth were now yellowed and too feeble to bite up his carrot.
The train jogged and swayed so that once the horse stumbled. Springing
up, she stretched out her hand to soothe him. He seemed glad of her hand:
‘Don’t be frightened, Raftery. Did that hurt you?’ Raftery acquainted with
pain on the road that led into the shadows.
Presently the hills showed over on the left, but a long way off, and when
they came nearer they were suddenly very near on the right, so near that she
saw the white houses on them. They looked dark; a kind of still, thoughtful
darkness brooded over the hills and their low white houses. It was always
so in the late afternoons, for the sun moved across to the wide Wye Valley
—it would set on the western side of the hills, over the wide Wye Valley.
The smoke from the chimney-stacks bent downwards after rising a little and
formed a blue haze, for the air was heavy with spring and dampness.
Leaning from the window she could smell the spring, the time of mating,
the time of fruition. When the train stopped a minute outside the station she
fancied that she heard the singing of birds; very softly it came but the sound
was persistent—yes, surely, that was the singing of birds. . . .

3

They took Raftery in an ambulance from Great Malvern in order to spare
him the jar of the roads. That night he slept in his own spacious loosebox,
and the faithful Jim would not leave him that night; he sat up and watched
while Raftery slept in so deep a bed of yellow-gold straw that it all but
reached to his knees when standing. A last inarticulate tribute this to the
most gallant horse, the most courteous horse that ever stepped out of stable.
But when the sun came up over Bredon, flooding the breadth of the
Severn Valley, touching the slopes of the Malvern Hills that stand opposite
Bredon across the valley, gilding the old red bricks of Morton and the
weather-vane on its quiet stables, Stephen went into her father’s study and
she loaded his heavy revolver.
Then they led Raftery out and into the morning; they led him with care
to the big north paddock and stood him beside the mighty hedge that had set

the seal on his youthful valour. Very still he stood with the sun on his
flanks, the groom, Jim, holding the bridle.
Stephen said: ‘I’m going to send you away, a long way away, and I’ve
never left you except for a little while since you came when I was a child
and you were quite young—but I’m going to send you a long way away
because of your pain. Raftery, this is death; and beyond, they say, there’s no
more suffering.’ She paused, then spoke in a voice so low that the groom
could not hear her: ‘Forgive me, Raftery.’
And Raftery stood there looking at Stephen, and his eyes were as soft as
an Irish morning, yet as brave as the eyes that looked into his. Then it
seemed to Stephen that he had spoken, that Raftery had said: ‘Since to me
you are God, what have I to forgive you, Stephen?’
She took a step forward and pressed the revolver high up against
Raftery’s smooth, grey forehead. She fired, and he dropped to the ground
like a stone, lying perfectly still by the mighty hedge that had set the seal on
his youthful valour.
But now there broke out a great crying and wailing: ‘Oh, me! Oh, me!
They’ve been murderin’ Raftery! Shame, shame, I says, on the ’and what
done it, and ’im no common horse but a Christian. . . .’ Then loud sobbing
as though some very young child had fallen down and hurt itself badly. And
there in a small, creaky, wicker bath-chair sat Williams, being bumped
along over the paddock by a youthful niece, who had come to Morton to
take care of the old and now feeble couple; for Williams had had his first
stroke that Christmas, in addition to which he was almost childish. God
only knew who had told him this thing; the secret had been very carefully
guarded by Stephen, who, knowing his love for the horse, had taken every
precaution to spare him. Yet now here he was with his face all twisted by
the stroke and the sobs that kept on rising. He was trying to lift his half-
paralysed hand which kept dropping back on to the arm of the bath-chair;
he was trying to get out of the bath-chair and run to where Raftery lay
stretched out in the sunshine; he was trying to speak again, but his voice
had grown thick so that no one could understand him. Stephen thought that
his mind had begun to wander, for now he was surely not screaming
‘Raftery’ any more, but something that sounded like: ‘Master!’ and again,
‘Oh, Master, Master!’

She said: ‘Take him home,’ for he did not know her; ‘take him home.
You’d no business to bring him here at all—it’s against my orders. Who
told him about it?’
And the young girl answered: ‘It seemed ’e just knowed—it was like as
though Raftery told ’im. . . .’
Williams looked up with his blurred, anxious eyes. ‘Who be you?’ he
inquired. Then he suddenly smiled through his tears. ‘It be good to be seein’
you, Master—seems like a long while. . . .’ His voice was now clear but
exceedingly small, a small, far away thing. If a doll had spoken, its voice
might have sounded very much as the old man’s did at that moment.
Stephen bent over him. ‘Williams, I’m Stephen—don’t you know me?
It’s Miss Stephen. You must go straight home and get back to bed—it’s still
rather cold on these early spring mornings—to please me, Williams, you
must go straight home. Why, your hands are frozen!’
But Williams shook his head and began to remember. ‘Raftery,’ he
mumbled, ‘something’s ’appened to Raftery.’ And his sobs and his tears
broke out with fresh vigour, so that his niece, frightened, tried to stop him.
‘Now uncle be qui-et I do be-seech ’e! It’s so bad for ’e carryin’ on in
this wise. What will auntie say when she sees ’e all mucked up with
weepin’, and yer poor nose all red and dir-ty? I’ll be takin’ ’e ’ome as Miss
Stephen ’ere says. Now, uncle dear, do be qui-et!’
She lugged the bath-chair round with a jolt and trundled it, lurching,
towards the cottage. All the way back down the big north paddock Williams
wept and wailed and tried to get out, but his niece put one hefty young hand
on his shoulder; with the other she guided the lurching bath-chair.
Stephen watched them go, then she turned to the groom. ‘Bury him
here,’ she said briefly.

4

Before she left Morton that same afternoon, she went once more into the
large, bare stables. The stables were now completely empty, for Anna had
moved her carriage horses to new quarters nearer the coachman’s cottage.

Over one loosebox was a warped oak board bearing Collins’ stud-book
title, ‘Marcus,’ in red and blue letters; but the paint was dulled to a ghostly
grey by encroaching mildew, while a spider had spun a large, purposeful
web across one side of Collins’ manger. A cracked, sticky wine bottle lay on
the floor; no doubt used at some time for drenching Collins, who had died
in a fit of violent colic a few months after Stephen herself had left Morton.
On the window-sill of the farthest loosebox stood a curry comb and a
couple of brushes; the comb was being eaten by rust, the brushes had lost
several clumps of bristles. A jam pot of hoof-polish, now hard as stone,
clung tenaciously to a short stick of firewood which time had petrified into
the polish. But Raftery’s loosebox smelt fresh and pleasant with the curious
dry, clean smell of new straw. A deep depression towards the middle
showed where his body had lain in sleep, and seeing this Stephen stooped
down and touched it for a moment. Then she whispered: ‘Sleep peacefully,
Raftery.’
She could not weep, for a great desolation too deep for tears lay over
her spirit—the great desolation of things that pass, of things that pass away
in our lifetime. And then of what good, after all, are our tears, since they
cannot hold back this passing away—no, not for so much as a moment? She
looked round her now at the empty stables, the unwanted, uncared for
stables of Morton. So proud they had been that were now so humbled, even
unto cobwebs and dust were they humbled; and they had the feeling of all
disused places that have once teemed with life, they felt pitifully lonely. She
closed her eyes so as not to see them. Then the thought came to Stephen
that this was the end, the end of her courage and patient endurance—that
this was somehow the end of Morton. She must not see the place any more;
she must, she would, go a long way away. Raftery had gone a long way
away—she had sent him beyond all hope of recall—but she could not
follow him over that merciful frontier, for her God was more stern than
Raftery’s; and yet she must fly from her love for Morton. Turning, she
hurriedly left the stables.

5

Anna was standing at the foot of the stairs. ‘Are you leaving now,
Stephen?’

‘Yes—I’m going, Mother.’
‘A short visit!’
‘Yes, I must get back to work.’
‘I see. . . .’ Then after a long, awkward pause: ‘Where would you like
him buried?’
‘In the large north paddock where he died—I’ve told Jim.’
‘Very well, I’ll see that they carry out your orders.’ She hesitated, as
though suddenly shy of Stephen again, as she had been in the past; but after
a moment she went on quickly: ‘I thought—I wondered, would you like a
small stone with his name and some sort of inscription on it, just to mark
the place?’
‘If you’d care to put one—I shan’t need any stone to remember.’
The carriage was waiting to drive her to Malvern. ‘Good-bye, Mother.’
‘Good-bye—I shall put up that stone.’
‘Thanks, it’s a very kind thought of yours.’
Anna said: ‘I’m so sorry about this, Stephen.’
But Stephen had hurried into the brougham—the door closed, and she
did not hear her mother.

CHAPTER 30

1

A t an old-fashioned, Kensington luncheon party, not very long after
Raftery’s death, Stephen met and renewed her acquaintance with
Jonathan Brockett, the playwright. Her mother had wished her to go to this
luncheon, for the Carringtons were old family friends, and Anna insisted
that from time to time her daughter should accept their invitations. At their
house it was that Stephen had first seen this young man, rather over a year
ago. Brockett was a connection of the Carringtons; had he not been Stephen

might never have met him, for such gatherings bored him exceedingly, and
therefore it was not his habit to attend them. But on that occasion he had not
been bored, for his sharp, grey eyes had lit upon Stephen; and as soon as he
well could, the meal being over, he had made his way to her side and had
remained there. She had found him exceedingly easy to talk to, as indeed he
had wished her to find him.
This first meeting had led to one or two rides in the Row together, since
they both rode early. Brockett had joined her quite casually one morning;
after which he had called, and had talked to Puddle as if he had come on
purpose to see her and her only—he had charming and thoughtful manners
towards all elderly people. Puddle had accepted him while disliking his
clothes, which were always just a trifle too careful; moreover she had
disapproved of his cuff-links—platinum links set with tiny emeralds. All the
same, she had made him feel very welcome, for to her it had been any port
in a storm just then—she would gladly have welcomed the devil himself,
had she thought that he might rouse Stephen.
But Stephen was never able to decide whether Jonathan Brockett
attracted or repelled her. Brilliant he could be at certain times, yet curiously
foolish and puerile at others; and his hands were as white and soft as a
woman’s—she would feel a queer little sense of outrage creeping over her
when she looked at his hands. For those hands of his went so ill with him
somehow; he was tall, broad-shouldered, and of an extreme thinness. His
clean-shaven face was slightly sardonic and almost disconcertingly clever;
an inquisitive face too—one felt that it pried into everyone’s secrets without
shame or mercy. It may have been genuine liking on his part or mere
curiosity that had made him persist in thrusting his friendship on Stephen.
But whatever it had been it had taken the form of ringing her up almost
daily at one time; of worrying her to lunch or dine with him, of inviting
himself to her flat in Chelsea, or what was still worse, of dropping in on her
whenever the spirit moved him. His work never seemed to worry him at all,
and Stephen often wondered when his fine plays got written, for Brockett
very seldom if ever discussed them and apparently very seldom wrote them;
yet they always appeared at the critical moment when their author had run
short of money.
Once, for the sake of peace, she had dined with him in a species of
glorified cellar. He had just then discovered the queer little place down in

Seven Dials, and was very proud of it; indeed, he was making it rather the
fashion among certain literary people. He had taken a great deal of trouble
that evening to make Stephen feel that she belonged to these people by right
of her talent, and had introduced her as ‘Stephen Gordon, the author of The
Furrow.’ But all the while he had secretly watched her with his sharp and
inquisitive grey eyes. She had felt very much at ease with Brockett as they
sat at their little dimly lit table, perhaps because her instinct divined that
this man would never require of her more than she could give—that the
most he would ask for at any time would be friendship.
Then one day he had casually disappeared, and she heard that he had
gone to Paris for some months, as was often his custom when the climate of
London had begun to get on his nerves. He had drifted away like
thistledown, without so much as a word of warning. He had not said good-
bye nor had he written, so that Stephen felt that she had never known him,
so completely did he go out of her life during his sojourn in Paris. Later on
she was to learn, when she knew him better, that these disconcerting lapses
of interest, amounting as they did to a breach of good manners, were highly
characteristic of the man, and must of necessity be accepted by all who
accepted Jonathan Brockett.
And now here he was back again in England, sitting next to Stephen at
the Carringtons’ luncheon. And as though they had met but a few hours ago,
he took her up calmly just where he had left her. ‘May I come in to-
morrow?’
‘Well—I’m awfully busy.’
‘But I want to come, please; I can talk to Puddle.’
‘I’m afraid she’ll be out.’
‘Then I’ll just sit and wait until she comes in; I’ll be quiet as a mouse.’
‘Oh, no, Brockett, please don’t; I should know you were there and that
would disturb me.’
‘I see. A new book?’
‘Well, no—I’m trying to write some short stories; I’ve got a commission
from The Good Housewife.’

‘Sounds thrifty. I hope you’re getting well paid.’ Then after a rather long
pause: ‘How’s Raftery?’
For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quick intuition,
regretted his question. ‘Not . . . not. . . .’ he stammered.
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘Raftery’s dead—he went lame. I shot him.’
He was silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, still without
speaking, pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by the look in his eyes,
so sorrowful it was, and so understanding. He had liked the old horse, for he
liked all dumb creatures. But Raftery’s death could mean nothing to him;
yet his sharp, grey eyes had now softened with pity because she had had to
shoot Raftery.
She thought: ‘What a curious fellow he is. At this moment I suppose he
actually feels something almost like grief—it’s my grief he’s getting—and
to-morrow, of course, he’ll forget all about it.’
Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot of emotion
into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze a kind of emotional
beef-tea from all those with whom life brought him in contact—a strong
brew, and one that served to sustain and revivify his inspiration.

2

For ten days Stephen heard nothing more of Brockett; then he rang up to
announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat that very same evening.
‘You’ll get awfully little to eat,’ warned Stephen, who was tired to death
and who did not want him.
‘Oh, all right, I’ll bring some dinner along,’ he said blithely, and with
that he hung up the receiver.
At a quarter-past eight he arrived, late for dinner and loaded like a pack-
mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he had spoilt his new
reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had oozed through a box containing
the lobster salad.
He thrust the box into Stephen’s hands. ‘Here, you take it—it’s
dripping. Can I have a wash rag?’ But after a moment he forgot the new