1
At about this time Stephen first became conscious of an urgent necessity
to love. She adored her father, but that was quite different; he was
part of herself, he had always been there, she could not envisage the
world without him—it was other with Collins, the housemaid. Collins was
what was called ‘second of three’; she might one day hope for promotion.
Meanwhile she was florid, full-lipped and full-bosomed, rather ample
indeed for a young girl of twenty, but her eyes were unusually blue and
arresting, very pretty inquisitive eyes. Stephen had seen Collins
sweeping the stairs for two years, and had passed her by quite
unnoticed; but one morning, when Stephen was just over seven, Collins
looked up and suddenly smiled, then all in a moment Stephen knew that
she loved her—a staggering revelation!
Collins said politely: ‘Good morning, Miss Stephen.’
She had always said: ‘Good morning, Miss Stephen,’ but on this occasion
it sounded alluring—so alluring that Stephen wanted to touch her, and
extending a rather uncertain hand she started to stroke her sleeve.
Collins picked up the hand and stared at it. ‘Oh, my!’ she exclaimed,
‘what very dirty nails!’ Whereupon their owner flushed painfully crimson
and dashed upstairs to repair them.
‘Put them scissors down this minute, Miss Stephen!’ came the nurse’s
peremptory voice, while her charge was still busily engaged on her
toilet.
But Stephen said firmly: ‘I’m cleaning my nails ’cause Collins doesn’t
like them—she says they’re dirty!’
‘What impudence!’ snapped the nurse, thoroughly annoyed. ‘I’ll thank her
to mind her own business!’
Having finally secured the large cutting-out scissors, Mrs. Bingham went
forth in search of the offender; she was not one to tolerate any
interference with the dignity of her status. She found Collins still on
the top flight of stairs, and forthwith she started to upbraid her:
‘putting her back in her place,’ the nurse called it; and she did it so
thoroughly that in less than five minutes the ‘second-of-three’ had been
told of every fault that was likely to preclude promotion.
Stephen stood still in the nursery doorway. She could feel her heart
thumping against her side, thumping with anger and pity for Collins who
was answering never a word. There she knelt mute, with her brush
suspended, with her mouth slightly open and her eyes rather scared; and
when at long last she did manage to speak, her voice sounded humble and
frightened. She was timid by nature, and the nurse’s sharp tongue was a
byword throughout the household.
Collins was saying: ‘Interfere with your child? Oh, no, Mrs. Bingham,
never! I hope I knows my place better than that—Miss Stephen herself
showed me them dirty nails; she said: “Collins, just look, aren’t my
nails awful dirty!” And I said: “You must ask Nanny about that, Miss
Stephen.” Is it likely that I’d interfere with your work? I’m not that
sort, Mrs. Bingham.’
Oh, Collins, Collins, with those pretty blue eyes and that funny
alluring smile! Stephen’s own eyes grew wide with amazement, then they
clouded with sudden and disillusioned tears, for far worse than Collins’
poorness of spirit was the dreadful injustice of those lies—yet this
very injustice seemed to draw her to Collins, since despising, she could
still love her.
For the rest of that day Stephen brooded darkly over Collins’
unworthiness; and yet all through that day she still wanted Collins, and
whenever she saw her she caught herself smiling, quite unable, in her
turn, to muster the courage to frown her innate disapproval. And Collins
smiled too, if the nurse was not looking, and she held up her plump red
fingers, pointing to her nails and making a grimace at the nurse’s
retreating figure. Watching her, Stephen felt unhappy and embarrassed,
not so much for herself as for Collins; and this feeling increased, so
that thinking about her made Stephen go hot down her spine.
In the evening, when Collins was laying the tea, Stephen managed to get
her alone. ‘Collins,’ she whispered, ‘you told an untruth—I never
showed you my dirty nails!’
‘’Course not!’ murmured Collins, ‘but I had to say something—you didn’t
mind, Miss Stephen, did you?’ And as Stephen looked doubtfully up into
her face, Collins suddenly stooped and kissed her.
Stephen stood speechless from a sheer sense of joy, all her doubts swept
completely away. At that moment she knew nothing but beauty and Collins,
and the two were as one, and the one was Stephen—and yet not Stephen
either, but something more vast, that the mind of seven years found no
name for.
The nurse came in grumbling: ‘Now then, hurry up, Miss Stephen! Don’t
stand there as though you were daft! Go and wash your face and hands
before tea—how many times must I tell you the same thing?’
‘I don’t know—’ muttered Stephen. And indeed she did not; she knew
nothing of such trifles at that moment.
2
From now on Stephen entered a completely new world, that turned on an
axis of Collins. A world full of constant exciting adventures; of
elation, of joy, of incredible sadness, but withal a fine place to be
dashing about in like a moth who is courting a candle. Up and down went
the days; they resembled a swing that soared high above the tree-tops,
then dropped to the depths, but seldom if ever hung midway. And with
them went Stephen, clinging to the swing, waking up in the mornings with
a thrill of vague excitement—the sort of excitement that belonged by
rights to birthdays, and Christmas, and a visit to the pantomime at
Malvern. She would open her eyes and jump out of bed quickly, still too
sleepy to remember why she felt so elated; but then would come
memory—she would know that this day she was actually going to 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.’