1
Sir Philip’s death deprived his child of three things; of companionship
of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwart barrier between her
and the world, and above all of love—that faithful love that would
gladly have suffered all things for her sake, in order to spare her
suffering.
Stephen, recovering from the merciful numbness of shock and facing her
first deep sorrow, stood utterly confounded, as a child will stand who
is lost in a crowd, having somehow let go of the hand that has always
guided. Thinking of her father, she realized how greatly she had leant
on that man of deep kindness, how sure she had felt of his constant
protection, how much she had taken that protection for granted. And so
together with her constant grieving, with the ache for his presence that
never left her, came the knowledge of what real loneliness felt like.
She would marvel, remembering how often in his lifetime she had thought
herself lonely, when by stretching out a finger she could touch him,
when by speaking she could hear his voice, when by raising her eyes she
could see him before her. And now also she knew the desolation of small
things, the power to give infinite pain that lies hidden in the little
inanimate objects that persist, in a book, in a well-worn garment, in a
half-finished letter, in a favourite arm-chair.
She thought: ‘They go on—they mean nothing at all, and yet they go on,’
and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she must always touch
them. ‘How queer, this old arm-chair has outlived him, an old chair—’
And feeling the creases in its leather, the dent in its back where her
father’s head had lain, she would hate the inanimate thing for
surviving, or perhaps she would love it and find herself weeping.
Morton had become a place of remembering that closed round her and held
her in its grip of remembrance. It was pain, yet now more than ever she
adored it, every stone, every blade of grass in its meadows. She fancied
that it too grieved for her father and was turning to her for comfort.
Because of Morton the days must go on, all their trifling tasks must be
duly accomplished. At times she might wonder that this should be so,
might be filled with a fleeting sense of resentment, but then she would
think of her home as a creature dependent upon her and her mother for
its needs, and the sense of resentment would vanish.
Very gravely she listened to the lawyer from London. ‘The place goes to
your mother for her lifetime,’ he told her; ‘on her death, of course, it
becomes yours, Miss Gordon. But your father made a separate provision;
when you’re twenty-one, in about two years time, you’ll inherit quite a
considerable income.’
She said: ‘Will that leave enough money for Morton?’
‘More than enough,’ he reassured her, smiling.
In the quiet old house there was discipline and order, death had come
and gone, yet these things persisted. Like the well-worn garment and
favourite chair, discipline and order had survived the great change,
filling the emptiness of the rooms with a queer sense of unreality at
times, with a new and very bewildering doubt as to which was real, life
or death. The servants scoured and swept and dusted. From Malvern, once
a week, came a young clock-winder, and he set the clocks with much care
and precision so that when he had gone they all chimed together—rather
hurriedly they would all chime together, as though flustered by the
great importance of time. Puddle added up the books and made lists for
the cook. The tall under-footman polished the windows—the iridescent
window that looked out on the lawns and the semi-circular fanlight he
polished. In the gardens work progressed just as usual. Gardeners pruned
and hoed and diligently planted. Spring gained in strength to the joy of
the cuckoos, trees blossomed, and outside Sir Philip’s study glowed beds
of the old-fashioned single tulips he had loved above all the others.
According to custom the bulbs had been planted, and now, still according
to custom, there were tulips. At the stables the hunters were turned out
to grass, and the ceilings and walls had a fresh coat of whitewash.
Williams went into Upton to buy tape for the plaits which the grooms
were now engaged upon making; while beyond, in a paddock adjoining the
beech wood, a couple of mares gave birth to strong foals—thus were all
things accomplished in their season at Morton.
But Anna, whose word was now absolute law, had become one of those who
have done with smiling; a quiet, enduring, grief-stricken woman, in
whose eyes was a patient, waiting expression. She was gentle to Stephen,
yet terribly aloof; in their hour of great need they must still stand
divided these two, by the old, insidious barrier. Yet Stephen clung
closer and closer to Morton; she had definitely given up all idea of
Oxford. In vain did Puddle try to protest, in vain did she daily remind
her pupil that Sir Philip had set his heart on her going; no good, for
Stephen would always reply:
‘Morton needs me; Father would want me to stay, because he taught me to
love it.’
And Puddle was helpless. What could she do, bound as she was by the
tyranny of silence? She dared not explain the girl to herself, dared not
say: ‘For your own sake you must go to Oxford, you’ll need every weapon
your brain can give you; being what you are you’ll need every weapon,’
for then certainly Stephen would start to question, and her teacher’s
very position of trust would forbid her to answer those questions.
Outrageous, Puddle would feel it to be, that wilfully selfish tyranny of
silence evolved by a crafty old ostrich of a world for its own
well-being and comfort. The world hid its head in the sands of
convention, so that seeing nothing it might avoid Truth. It said to
itself: ‘If seeing’s believing, then I don’t want to see—if silence is
golden, it is also, in this case, very expedient.’ There were moments
when Puddle would feel sorely tempted to shout out loud at the world.
Sometimes she thought of giving up her post, so weary was she of
fretting over Stephen. She would think: ‘What’s the good of my worrying
myself sick? I can’t help the girl, but I can help myself—seems to me
it’s a matter of pure self-preservation.’ Then all that was loyal and
faithful in her would protest: ‘Better stick it, she’ll probably need
you one day and you ought to be here to help her.’ So Puddle decided to
stick it.
They did very little work, for Stephen had grown idle with grief and no
longer cared for her studies. Nor could she find consolation in her
writing, for sorrow will often do one of two things—it will either
release the springs of inspiration, or else it will dry up those springs
completely, and in Stephen’s case it had done the latter. She longed for
the comforting outlet of words, but now the words would always evade
her.
‘I can’t write any more, it’s gone from me, Puddle—he’s taken it with
him.’ And then would come tears, and the tears would go splashing down
on to the paper, blotting the poor inadequate lines that meant little or
nothing as their author well knew, to her own added desolation.
There she would sit like a woebegone child, and Puddle would think how
childish she seemed in this her first encounter with grief, and would
marvel because of the physical strength of the creature, that went so
ill with those tears. And because her own tears were vexing her eyes she
must often speak rather sharply to Stephen. Then Stephen would go off
and swing her large dumb-bells, seeking the relief of bodily movement,
seeking to wear out her muscular body because her mind was worn out by
sorrow.
August came and Williams got the hunters in from grass. Stephen would
sometimes get up very early and help with the exercising of the horses,
but in spite of this the old man’s heart misgave him, she seemed
strangely averse to discussing the hunting.
He would think: ‘Maybe it’s ’er father’s death, but the instinct be
pretty strong in ’er blood, she’ll be all right after ’er’s ’ad ’er
first gallop.’ And perhaps he might craftily point to Raftery. ‘Look,
Miss Stephen, did ever you see such quarters? ’E’s a mighty fine doer,
keeps ’imself fit on grass! I do believe as ’e does it on purpose; I
believe ’e’s afraid ’e’ll miss a day’s huntin’.’
But the autumn slipped by and the winter was passing. Hounds met at the
very gates of Morton, yet Stephen forbore to send those orders to the
stables for which Williams was anxiously waiting. Then one morning in
March he could bear it no longer, and he suddenly started reproaching
Stephen: ‘Yer lettin’ my ’orses go stale in their boxes. It’s a scandal,
Miss Stephen, and you such a rider, and our stables the finest bar none
in the county, and yer father so almighty proud of yer ridin’!’ And then:
‘Miss Stephen—yer’ll not give it up? Won’t yer’ hunt Raftery day after
to-morrow? The ’ounds is meetin’ quite near by Upton—Miss Stephen, say
yer won’t give it all up!’
There were actually tears in his worried old eyes, and so to console him
she answered briefly: ‘Very well then, I’ll hunt the day after
to-morrow.’ But for some strange reason that she did not understand,
this prospect had quite ceased to give her pleasure.
2
On a morning of high scudding clouds and sunshine, Stephen rode Raftery
into Upton, then over the bridge that spans the river Severn, and on to
the Meet at a neighbouring village. Behind her came jogging her second
horseman on one of Sir Philip’s favourite youngsters, a raw-boned,
upstanding, impetuous chestnut, now all eyes and ears for what might be
coming; but beside her rode only memory and heart-ache. Yet from time to
time she turned her head quickly as though some one must surely be there
at her side.
Her mind was a prey to the strangest fancies. She pictured her father
very grave and anxious, not gay and light-hearted as had been his wont
when they rode to a Meet in the old days. And because this day was so
vibrant with living it was difficult for Stephen to tolerate the idea of
death, even for a little red fox, and she caught herself thinking: ‘If
we find, this morning, there’ll be two of us who are utterly alone, with
every man’s hand against us.’
At the Meet she was a prey to her self-conscious shyness, so that she
fancied people were whispering. There was no one now with bowed, patient
shoulders to stand between her and those unfriendly people.
Colonel Antrim came up. ‘Glad to see you out, Stephen.’ But his voice
sounded stiff because he was embarrassed—every one felt just a little
embarrassed, as people will do in the face of bereavement.
And then there was something so awkward about her, so aloof that it
checked every impulse of kindness. They, in their turn, felt shy,
remembering Sir Philip, remembering what his death must have meant to
his daughter, so that more than one greeting remained unspoken.
And again she thought grimly: ‘Two of us will be alone, with every man’s
hand against us.’
They found their fox in the very first cover and went away over the
wide, bare meadows. As Raftery leapt forward her curious fancies gained
strength, and now they began to obsess her. She fancied that she was
being pursued, that the hounds were behind her instead of ahead, that
the flushed, bright-eyed people were hunting her down, ruthless,
implacable untiring people—they were many and she was one solitary
creature with every man’s hand against her. To escape them she suddenly
took her own line, putting Raftery over some perilous places; but he,
nothing loath, stretched his muscles to their utmost, landing
safely—yet always she imagined pursuit, and now it was the world that
had turned against her. The whole world was hunting her down with
hatred, with a fierce, remorseless will to destruction—the world
against one insignificant creature who had nowhere to turn for pity or
protection. Her heart tightened with fear, she was terribly afraid of
those flushed, bright-eyed people who were hard on her track. She, who
had never lacked physical courage in her life, was now actually sweating
with terror, and Raftery divining her terror sped on, faster and always
faster.
Then Stephen saw something just ahead, and it moved. Checking Raftery
sharply she stared at the thing. A crawling, bedraggled streak of red
fur, with tongue lolling, with agonized lungs filled to bursting, with
the desperate eyes of the hopelessly pursued, bright with terror and
glancing now this way now that as though looking for something; and the
thought came to Stephen: ‘It’s looking for God Who made it.’
At that moment she felt an imperative need to believe that the stricken
beast had a Maker, and her own eyes grew bright, but with blinding tears
because of her mighty need to believe, a need that was sharper than
physical pain, being born of the pain of the spirit. The thing was
dragging its brush in the dust, it was limping, and Stephen sprang to
the ground. She held out her hands to the unhappy creature, filled with
the will to succour and protect it, but the fox mistrusted her merciful
hands, and it crept away into a little coppice. And now in a deathly and
awful silence the hounds swept past her, their muzzles to ground. After
them galloped Colonel Antrim, crouching low in his saddle, avoiding the
branches, and after him came a couple of huntsmen with the few bold
riders who had stayed that stiff run. Then a savage clamour broke out in
the coppice as the hounds gave tongue in their wild jubilation, and
Stephen well knew that that sound meant death—very slowly she remounted
Raftery.
Riding home, she felt utterly spent and bewildered. Her thoughts were
full of her father again—he seemed very near, incredibly near her. For
a moment she thought that she heard his voice, but when she bent
sideways trying to listen, all was silence, except for the tired rhythm
of Raftery’s hooves on the road. As her brain grew calmer, it seemed to
Stephen that her father had taught her all that she knew. He had taught
her courage and truth and honour in his life, and in death he had taught
her mercy—the mercy that he had lacked he had taught her through the
mighty adventure of death. With a sudden illumination of vision, she
perceived that all life is only one life, that all joy and all sorrow
are indeed only one, that all death is only one dying. And she knew that
because she had seen a man die in great suffering, yet with courage and
love that are deathless, she could never again inflict wanton
destruction or pain upon any poor, hapless creature. And so it was that
by dying to Stephen, Sir Philip would live on in the attribute of mercy
that had come that day to his child.
But the body is still very far from the spirit, and it clings to the
primitive joys of the earth—to the sun and the wind and the good
rolling grass-lands, to the swift elation of reckless movement, so that
Stephen, feeling Raftery between her strong knees, was suddenly filled
with regret. Yes, in this her moment of spiritual insight she was
infinitely sad, and she said to Raftery: ‘We’ll never hunt any more, we
two, Raftery—we’ll never go out hunting together any more.’
And because in his own way he had understood her, she felt his sides
swell with a vast, resigned sigh; heard the creaking of damp girth
leather as he sighed because he had understood her. For the love of the
chase was still hot in Raftery, the love of splendid, unforeseen danger,
the love of crisp mornings and frostbound evenings, and of long, dusky
roads that always led home. He was wise with the age-old wisdom of the
beasts, it is true, but that wisdom was not guiltless of slaying, and
deep in his gentle and faithful mind lurked a memory bequeathed him by
some wild forbear. A memory of vast and unpeopled spaces, of fierce open
nostrils and teeth bared in battle, of hooves that struck death with
every sure blow, of a great untamed mane that streamed out like a
banner, of the shrill and incredibly savage war-cry that accompanied
that gallant banner. So now he too felt infinitely sad, and he sighed
until his strong girths started creaking, after which he stood still and
shook himself largely, in an effort to shake off depression.
Stephen bent forward and patted his neck. ‘I’m sorry, sorry, Raftery,’
she said gravely.