1
Christmas came and with it the girl’s eighteenth birthday, but the
shadows that clung round her home did not lessen; nor could Stephen,
groping about in those shadows, find a way to win through to the light.
Every one tried to be cheerful and happy, as even sad people will do at
Christmas, while the gardeners brought in huge bundles of holly with
which to festoon the portraits of Gordons—rich, red-berried holly that
came from the hills, and that year after year would be sent down to
Morton. The courageous-eyed Gordons looked out from their wreaths
unsmiling, as though they were thinking of Stephen.
In the hall stood the Christmas-tree of her childhood, for Sir Philip
loved the old German custom which would seem to insist that even the
aged be as children and play with God on His birthday. At the top of the
tree swung the little wax Christ-child in His spangled nightgown with
gold and blue ribbons; and the little wax Christ-child bent downwards
and sideways because, although small, He was rather heavy—or, as
Stephen had thought when she too had been small, because He was trying
to look for His presents.
In the morning they all went to church in the village, and the church
smelt of coldness and freshly bruised greenstuff—of the laurel and
holly and pungent pine branches, that wreathed the oak pulpit and framed
the altar; and the anxious-faced eagle who must carry the Scriptures on
his wings, he too was looking quite festive. Very redolent of England it
was, that small church, with its apple-cheeked choirboys in newly washed
garments; with its young Oxford parson who in summer played cricket to
the glory of God and the good of the county; with its trim congregation
of neighbouring gentry who had recently purchased an excellent organ, so
that now they could hear the opening bars of the hymns with a feeling of
self-satisfaction, but with something else too that came nearer to
Heaven, because of those lovely old songs of Christmas. The choir raised
their sexless, untroubled voices: ‘While shepherds watched their flocks
. . .’ sang the choir; and Anna’s soft mezzo mingled and blended with
her husband’s deep boom and Puddle’s soprano. Then Stephen sang too for
the sheer joy of singing, though her voice at best was inclined to be
husky: ‘While shepherds watched their flocks by night,’ carolled
Stephen—for some reason thinking of Raftery.
After church the habitual Christmas greetings: ‘Merry Christmas.’ ‘Merry
Christmas.’ ‘Same to you, many of them!’ Then home to Morton and the
large mid-day dinner—turkey, plum pudding with its crisp brandy butter,
and the mince-pies that invariably gave Puddle indigestion. Then dessert
with all sorts of sweet fruits out of boxes, crystallized fruits that
made your hands sticky, together with fruit from the Morton
green-houses; and from somewhere that no one could ever remember, the
elegant miniature Lady-apples that you ate skins and all in two bites if
you were greedy.
A long afternoon spent in waiting for darkness when Anna could light the
Christmas-tree candles; and no ringing of bells to disturb the servants,
not until they must all file in for their presents which were piled up
high round the base of the tree on which Anna would light the small
candles. Dusk—draw the curtains, it was dark enough now, and some one
must go and fetch Anna the taper, but she must take care of the little
wax Christ-child, Who liked many lights even though they should melt
Him.
‘Stephen, climb up, will you, and tie back the Christ-child, His toe is
almost touching that candle!’
Then Anna applying the long lighted taper from branch to branch, very
slowly and gravely, as though she accomplished some ritual, as though
she herself were a ministering priestess—Anna very slender and tall in
a dress whose soft folds swept her limbs and lay round her ankles.
‘Ring three times, will you, Philip? I think they’re all lighted—no,
wait—all right now, I’d missed that top candle. Stephen, begin to sort
out the presents, please, dear, your father’s just rung for the
servants. Oh, and Puddle, you might push over the table, I may need
it—no, not that one, the table by the window—’
A subdued sound of voices, a stifled giggle. The servants filing in
through the green baize door, and only the butler and footmen familiar
in appearance, the others all strangers, in mufti. Mrs. Wilson, the
cook, in black silk with jet trimming, the scullery maid in electric
blue cashmere, one housemaid in mauve, another in green, and the upper
of three in dark terracotta, while Anna’s own maid wore an old dress of
Anna’s. Then the men from outside, from the gardens and stables—men
bareheaded who were usually seen in their caps—old Williams displaying
a widening bald patch, and wearing tight trousers instead of his
breeches; old Williams walking stiffly because his new suit felt like
cardboard, and because his white collar was too high, and because his
hard, made-up black bow would slip crooked. The grooms and the boys, all
exceedingly shiny from their neatly oiled heads to their well polished
noses—the boys very awkward, short-sleeved and rough-handed, shuffling
a little because trying not to. And the gardeners led in by the grave
Mr. Hopkins, who wore black of a Sunday and carried a Church Service,
and whose knowledge of the ills that all grape-flesh is heir to, had
given his face a patient, pained expression. Men smelling of soil these,
in spite of much scrubbing; men whose necks and whose hands were crossed
and re-crossed by a network of tiny and earth-clogged furrows—men whose
backs would bend early from tending the earth. There they stood in the
wake of the grave Mr. Hopkins, with their eyes on the big, lighted
Christmas-tree, while they never so much as glanced at the flowers that
had sprung from many long hours of their labour. No, instead they must
just stand and gape at the tree, as though with its candles and
Christ-child and all, it were some strange exotic plant in Kew Gardens.
Then Anna called her people by name, and to each one she gave the gifts
of that Christmas; and they thanked her, thanked Stephen and thanked Sir
Philip; and Sir Philip thanked them for their faithful service, as had
always been the good custom at Morton for more years than Sir Philip
himself could remember. Thus the day had passed by in accordance with
tradition, every one from the highest to the lowest remembered; nor had
Anna forgotten her gifts for the village—warm shawls, sacks of coal,
cough mixture and sweets. Sir Philip had sent a cheque to the vicar,
which would keep him for a long time in cricketing flannels; and Stephen
had carried a carrot to Raftery and two lumps of sugar to the fat, aged
Collins, who because he was all but blind of one eye, had bitten her
hand in place of his sugar. And Puddle had written at great length to a
sister who lived down in Cornwall and whom she neglected, except on such
memory-jogging occasions as Christmas, when somehow we always remember.
And the servants had gorged themselves to repletion, and the hunters had
rested in their hay-scented stables; while out in the fields, sea-gulls,
come far inland, had feasted in their turn on humbler creatures—grubs
and slugs, and other unhappy small fry, much relished by birds and hated
by farmers.
Night closed down on the house, and out of the darkness came the anxious
young voices of village schoolchildren: ‘Noël, Noël—’ piped the anxious
young voices, lubricated by sweets from the lady of Morton. Sir Philip
stirred the logs in the hall to a blaze, while Anna sank into a deep
chair and watched them. Her hands that were wearied by much
ministration, lay over the arms of the chair in the firelight, and the
firelight sought out the rings on her hands, and it played with the
whiter flames in her diamonds. Then Sir Philip stood up, and he gazed at
his wife, while she stared at the logs not appearing to notice him; but
Stephen, watching in silence from her corner, seemed to see a dark
shadow that stole in between them—beyond this her vision was mercifully
dim, otherwise she must surely have recognized that shadow.
2
On New Year’s Eve Mrs. Antrim gave a dance in order, or so she said, to
please Violet, who was still rather young to attend the hunt balls, but
who dearly loved gaiety, especially dancing. Violet was plump, pert and
adolescent, and had lately insisted on putting her hair up. She liked
men, who in consequence always liked her, for like begets like when it
comes to the sexes, and Violet was full of what people call: ‘allure,’
or in simpler language, of sexual attraction. Roger was home for
Christmas from Sandiest, so that he would be there to assist his mother.
He was now nearly twenty, a good-looking youth with a tiny moustache
which he tentatively fingered. He assumed the grand air of the man of
the world who has actually weathered about nineteen summers. He was
hoping to join his regiment quite soon, which greatly augmented his
self-importance.
Could Mrs. Antrim have ignored Stephen Gordon’s existence, she would
almost certainly have done so. She disliked the girl; she had always
disliked her; what she called Stephen’s ‘queerness’ aroused her
suspicion—she was never quite clear as to what she suspected, but felt
sure that it must be something outlandish: ‘A young woman of her age to
ride like a man, I call it preposterous!’ declared Mrs. Antrim.
It can safely be said that Stephen at eighteen had in no way outgrown
her dread of the Antrims; there was only one member of that family who
liked her, she knew, and that was the small, hen-pecked Colonel. He
liked her because, a fine horseman himself, he admired her skill and her
courage out hunting.
‘It’s a pity she’s so tall, of course—’ he would grumble, ‘but she does
know a horse and how to stick on one. Now my children might have been
brought up at Margate, they’re just about fitted to ride the beach
donkeys!’
But Colonel Antrim would not count at the dance; indeed in his own house
he very seldom counted. Stephen would have to endure Mrs. Antrim and
Violet—and then Roger was home from Sandiest. Their antagonism had
never quite died, perhaps because it was too fundamental. Now they
covered it up with a cloak of good manners, but these two were still
enemies at heart, and they knew it. No, Stephen did not want to go to
that dance, though she went in order to please her mother. Nervous,
awkward and apprehensive, Stephen arrived at the Antrims that night,
little thinking that Fate, the most expert of tricksters, was waiting to
catch her just round the corner. Yet so it was, for during that evening
Stephen met Martin and Martin met Stephen, and their meeting was great
with portent for them both, though neither of them could know it.
It all happened quite simply as such things will happen. It was Roger
who introduced Martin Hallam; it was Stephen who explained that she
danced very badly; it was Martin who suggested that they sit out their
dances. Then—how quickly it occurs if the thing is pre-destined—they
suddenly knew that they liked each other, that some chord had been
struck to a pleasant vibration; and this being so they sat out many
dances, and they talked for quite a long while that evening.
Martin lived in British Columbia, it seemed, where he owned several
farms and a number of orchards. He had gone out there after the death of
his mother, for six months, but had stayed on for love of the country.
And now he was having a holiday in England—that was how he had got to
know young Roger Antrim, they had met up in London and Roger had asked
him to come down for a week, and so here he was—but it felt almost
strange to be back again in England. Then he talked of the vastness of
that new country that was yet so old; of its snow-capped mountains, of
its canyons and gorges, of its deep, princely rivers, of its lakes,
above all of its mighty forests. And when Martin spoke of those mighty
forests, his voice changed, it became almost reverential; for this young
man loved trees with a primitive instinct, with a strange and
inexplicable devotion. Because he liked Stephen he could talk of his
trees, and because she liked him she could listen while he talked,
feeling that she too would love his great forests. His face was very
young, clean-shaven and bony; he had bony, brown hands with spatulate
fingers; for the rest, he was tall with a loosely knit figure, and he
slouched a little when he walked, from much riding. But his face had a
charming quality about it, especially when he talked of his trees; it
glowed, it seemed to be inwardly kindled, and it asked for a real and
heart-felt understanding of the patience and the beauty and the goodness
of trees—it was eager for your understanding. Yet in spite of this
touch of romance in his make-up, which he could not keep out of his
voice at moments, he spoke simply, as one man will speak to another,
very simply, not trying to create an impression. He talked about trees
as some men talk of ships, because they love them and the element they
stand for. And Stephen, the awkward, the bashful, the tongue-tied, heard
herself talking in her turn, quite freely, heard herself asking him
endless questions about forestry, farming and the care of vast orchards;
thoughtful questions, unromantic but apt—such as one man will ask of
another.
Then Martin wished to learn about her, and they talked of her fencing,
her studies, her riding, and she told him about Raftery who was named
for the poet. And all the while she felt natural and happy because here
was a man who was taking her for granted, who appeared to find nothing
eccentric about her or her tastes, but who quite simply took her for
granted. Had you asked Martin Hallam to explain why it was that he
accepted the girl at her own valuation, he would surely have been unable
to tell you—it had happened, that was all, and there the thing ended.
But whatever the reason, he felt drawn to this friendship that had leapt
so suddenly into being.
Before Anna left the dance with her daughter, she invited the young man
to drive over and see them; and Stephen felt glad of that invitation,
because now she could share her new friend with Morton. She said to
Morton that night in her bedroom: ‘I know you’re going to like Martin
Hallam.’