1
On the Monday that followed Stephen’s first day out hunting she woke
with something very like a weight on her chest; in less than two minutes
she knew why this was—she was going to tea with the Antrims. Her
relations with other children were peculiar, she thought so herself and
so did the children; they could not define it and neither could Stephen,
but there it was all the same. A high-spirited child she should have
been popular, and yet she was not, a fact which she divined, and this
made her feel ill at ease with her playmates, who in their turn felt ill
at ease. She would think that the children were whispering about her,
whispering and laughing for no apparent reason; but although this had
happened on one occasion, it was not always happening as Stephen
imagined. She was painfully hyper-sensitive at times, and she suffered
accordingly.
Of all the children that Stephen most dreaded, Violet and Roger Antrim
took precedence; especially Roger, who was ten years old, and already
full to the neck of male arrogance—he had just been promoted to Etons
that winter, which added to his overbearing pride. Roger Antrim had
round, brown eyes like his mother, and a short, straight nose that might
one day be handsome; he was rather a thick-set, plump little boy, whose
buttocks looked too large in a short Eton jacket, especially when he
stuck his hands in his pockets and strutted, which he did very often.
Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly have loved to
bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her arms were so strong, he
could never wrench Stephen’s arms backwards like Violet’s; he could
never make her cry or show any emotion when he pinched her, or tugged
roughly at her new hair ribbon, and then Stephen would often beat him at
games, a fact which he deeply resented. She could bowl at cricket much
straighter than he could; she climbed trees with astonishing skill and
prowess, and even if she did tear her skirts in the process it was
obviously cheek for a girl to climb at all. Violet never climbed trees;
she stood at the bottom admiring the courage of Roger. He grew to hate
Stephen as a kind of rival, a kind of intruder into his especial
province; he was always longing to take her down a peg, but being
slow-witted he was foolish in his methods—no good daring Stephen, she
responded at once, and usually went one better. As for Stephen, she
loathed him, and her loathing was increased by a most humiliating
consciousness of envy. Yes, despite his shortcomings she envied young
Roger with his thick, clumping boots, his cropped hair and his Etons;
envied his school and his masculine companions of whom he would speak
grandly as: ‘all the other fellows!’; envied his right to climb trees
and play cricket and football—his right to be perfectly natural; above
all she envied his splendid conviction that being a boy constituted a
privilege in life; she could well understand that conviction, but this
only increased her envy.
Stephen found Violet intolerably silly, she cried quite as loudly when
she bumped her own head as when Roger applied his most strenuous
torments. But what irritated Stephen, was the fact that she suspected
that Violet almost enjoyed those torments.
‘He’s so dreadfully strong!’ she had confided in Stephen, with something
like pride in her voice.
Stephen had longed to shake her for that: ‘I can pinch quite as hard as
he can!’ she had threatened, ‘If you think he’s stronger than I am, I’ll
show you!’ At which Violet had rushed away screaming.
Violet was already full of feminine poses; she loved dolls, but not
quite so much as she pretended. People said: ‘Look at Violet, she’s like
a little mother; it’s so touching to see that instinct in a child!’ Then
Violet would become still more touching. She was always thrusting her
dolls upon Stephen, making her undress them and put them to bed. ‘Now
you’re Nanny, Stephen, and I’m Gertrude’s mother, or you can be mother
this time if you’d rather—Oh, be careful, you’ll break her! Now you’ve
pulled off a button! I do think you might play more like I do!’ And then
Violet knitted, or said that she knitted—Stephen had never seen
anything but knots. ‘Can’t _you_ knit?’ she would say, looking
scornfully at Stephen, ‘I can—Mother called me a dear little
housewife!’ Then Stephen would lose her temper and speak rudely: ‘You’re
a dear little sop, that’s what you are!’ For hours she must play stupid
doll-games with Violet, because Roger would not always play real games
in the garden. He hated to be beaten, yet how could she help it? Could
she help throwing straighter than Roger?
They had nothing whatever in common, these children, but the Antrims
were neighbours, and even Sir Philip, indulgent though he was, insisted
that Stephen should have friends of her own age to play with. He had
spoken quite sharply on several occasions when the child had pleaded to
be allowed to stay at home. Indeed he spoke sharply that very day at
luncheon:
‘Eat your pudding please, Stephen; come now, finish it quickly! If all
this fuss is about the little Antrims, then Father won’t have it, it’s
ridiculous, darling.’
So Stephen had hastily swallowed her pudding, and escaped upstairs to
the nursery.
2
The Antrims lived half a mile from Ledbury, on the other side of the
hills. It was quite a long drive to their house from Morton—Stephen was
driven over in the dog-cart. She sat beside Williams in gloomy silence,
with the collar of her coat turned up to her ears. She was filled with a
sense of bitter injustice; why should they insist on this stupid
expedition? Even her father had been cross at luncheon because she
preferred to stay at home with him. Why should she be forced to know
other children? They didn’t want her nor she them. And above all the
Antrims! That idiotic Violet—Violet who was learning to ride
side-saddle—and Roger strutting about in his Etons, and bragging,
always bragging because he was a boy—and their mother who was quite
sure to patronize Stephen, because being grown-up made her put on a
manner. Stephen could hear her infuriating voice, the voice she reserved
for children ‘Ah, here you are, Stephen! Now then, little people, run
along and have a good feed in the schoolroom. There’s plenty of cake; I
knew Stephen was 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.’