1
Mrs. Bingham departed unmourned and unmourning, and in her stead reigned
Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful French governess with a long, pleasant
face that reminded Stephen of a horse. This equine resemblance was
fortunate in one way—Stephen took to Mademoiselle Duphot at once—but
it did not make for respectful obedience. On the contrary, Stephen felt
very familiar, kindly familiar and quite at her ease; she petted
Mademoiselle Duphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely and homesick, and it
must be admitted that she liked being petted. Stephen would rush off to
get her a cushion, or a footstool or her glass of milk at eleven.
‘Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite 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.