1
Sir 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?’