1
For three weeks they kept away from each other, neither writing nor
making any effort to meet. Angela’s prudence forbade her to write:
‘Litera scripta manet’—a good motto, and one to which it was wise to
adhere when dealing with a firebrand like Stephen. Stephen had given her
a pretty bad scare, she realized the necessity for caution; still,
thinking over that incredible scene, she found the memory rather
exciting. Deprived of her anodyne against boredom, she looked upon Ralph
with unfriendly eyes; while he, poor, inadequate, irritable devil, with
his vague suspicions and his chronic dyspepsia, did little enough to
divert his wife—his days, and a fairly large part of his nights as
well, were now spent in nagging.
He nagged about Tony who, as ill luck would have it, had decided that
the garden was rampant with moles: ‘If you can’t keep that bloody dog in
order, he goes. I won’t have him digging craters round my roses!’ Then
would come a long list of Tony’s misdeeds from the time he had left the
litter. He nagged about the large population of green-fly, deploring the
existence of their sexual organs: ‘Nature’s a fool! Fancy procreation
being extended to that sort of vermin!’ And then he would grow somewhat
coarse as he dwelt on the frequent conjugal excesses of green-fly. But
most of all he nagged about Stephen, because this as he knew, irritated
his wife: ‘How’s your freak getting on? I haven’t seen her just lately;
have you quarrelled or what? Damned good thing if you have. She’s
appalling; never saw such a girl in my life; comes swaggering round here
with her legs in breeches. Why can’t she ride like an ordinary woman?
Good Lord, it’s enough to make any man see red; that sort of thing wants
putting down at birth, I’d like to institute state lethal chambers!’
Or perhaps he would take quite another tack and complain that recently
he had been neglected. ‘Late for every damned meal—running round with
that girl—you don’t care what happens to me any more. A lot you care
about my indigestion! I’ve got to eat any old thing these days from
cow-hide to bricks. Well, you listen to me, that’s not what I pay for;
get that into your head! I pay for good meals to be served on time; _on
time_, do you hear? And I expect my wife to be in her rightful place at
my table to see that the omelette’s properly prepared. What’s the matter
with you that you can’t go along and make it yourself? When we were
first married you always made my omelettes yourself. I won’t eat yellow
froth with a few strings of parsley in it—it reminds me of the dog when
he’s sick, it’s disgusting! And I won’t go on talking about it either,
the next time it happens I’ll sack the cook. Damn it all, you were glad
enough of my help when I found you practically starving in New York—but
now you’re for ever racing off with that girl. It’s all this damned
animal’s fault that you met her!’ He would kick out sideways at the
terrified Tony, who had lately been made to stand proxy for Stephen.
But worst of all was it when Ralph started weeping, because, as he said,
his wife did not love him any more, and because, as he did not always
say, he felt ill with his painful, chronic dyspepsia. One day he must
make feeble love through his tears: ‘Angela, come here—put your arms
around me—come and sit on my knee the way you used to.’ His wet eyes
looked dejected yet rather greedy: ‘Put your arms around me, as though
you cared—’ He was always insistent when most ineffectual.
That night he appeared in his best silk pyjamas—the pink ones that made
his complexion look sallow. He climbed into bed with the sly expression
that Angela hated—it was so pornographic. ‘Well, old girl, don’t forget
that you’ve got a man about the house; you haven’t forgotten it, have
you?’ After which followed one or two flaccid embraces together with
much arrogant masculine bragging; and Angela, sighing as she lay and
endured, quite suddenly thought of Stephen.
2
Pacing restlessly up and down her bedroom, Stephen would be thinking of
Angela Crossby—haunted, tormented by Angela’s words that day in the
garden: ‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’ and then by those other pitiless
words: ‘Can I help it if you’re—what you obviously are?’
She would think with a kind of despair: ‘What am I in God’s name—some
kind of abomination?’ And this thought would fill her with very great
anguish, because, loving much, her love seemed to her sacred. She could
not endure that the slur of those words should come anywhere near her
love. So now night after night she must pace up and down, beating her
mind against a blind problem, beating her spirit against a blank
wall—the impregnable wall of non-comprehension: ‘Why am I as I am—and
what am I?’ Her mind would recoil while her spirit grew faint. A great
darkness would seem to descend on her spirit—there would be no light
wherewith to lighten that darkness.
She would think of Martin, for now surely she loved just as he had
loved—it all seemed like madness. She would think of her father, of his
comfortable words: ‘Don’t be foolish, there’s nothing strange about
you.’ Oh, but he must have been pitifully mistaken—he had died still
very pitifully mistaken. She would think yet again of her curious
childhood, going over each detail in an effort to remember. But after a
little her thoughts must plunge forward once more, right into her
grievous present. With a shock she would realize how completely this
coming of love had blinded her vision; she had stared at the glory of it
so long that not until now had she seen its black shadow. Then would
come the most poignant suffering of all, the deepest, the final
humiliation. Protection—she could never offer protection to the
creature she loved: ‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’ She could neither
protect nor defend nor honour by loving; her hands were completely
empty. She who would gladly have given her life, must go empty-handed to
love, like a beggar. She could only debase what she longed to exalt,
defile what she longed to keep pure and untarnished.
The night would gradually change to dawn; and the dawn would shine in at
the open windows, bringing with it the intolerable singing of birds:
‘Stephen, look at us, look at us, we’re happy!’ Away in the distance
there would be a harsh crying, the wild, harsh crying of swans by the
lakes—the swan called Peter protecting, defending his mate against some
unwelcome intruder. From the chimneys of Williams’ comfortable cottage
smoke would rise—very dark—the first smoke of the morning. Home, that
meant home and two people together, respected because of their
honourable living. Two people who had had the right to love in their
youth, and whom old age had not divided. Two poor and yet infinitely
enviable people, without stain, without shame in the eyes of their
fellows. Proud people who could face the world unafraid, having no need
to fear that world’s execration.
Stephen would fling herself down on the bed, completely exhausted by the
night’s bitter vigil.
3
There was some one who went every step of the way with Stephen during
those miserable weeks, and this was the faithful and anxious Puddle, who
could have given much wise advice had Stephen only confided in her. But
Stephen hid her trouble in her heart for the sake of Angela Crossby.
With an ever-increasing presage of disaster, Puddle now stuck to the
girl like a leech, getting little enough in return for her
trouble—Stephen deeply resented this close supervision: ‘Can’t you
leave me alone? No, of course I’m not ill!’ she would say, with a quick
spurt of temper.
But Puddle, divining her illness of spirit together with its cause,
seldom left her alone. She was frightened by something in Stephen’s
eyes; an incredulous, questioning, wounded expression, as though she
were trying to understand why it was that she must be so grievously
wounded. Again and again Puddle cursed her own folly for having shown
such open resentment of Angela Crossby; the result was that now Stephen
never discussed her, never mentioned her name unless Puddle clumsily
dragged it in, and then Stephen would change the subject. And now more
than ever Puddle loathed and despised the conspiracy of silence that
forbade her to speak frankly. The conspiracy of silence that had sent
the girl forth unprotected, right into the arms of this woman. A vain,
shallow woman in search of excitement, and caring less than nothing for
Stephen.
There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and one evening she
came to a great resolution. She would go to the girl and say: ‘I _know_.
I know all about it, you can trust me, Stephen.’ And then she would
counsel and try to give courage: ‘You’re neither unnatural, nor
abominable, nor mad; you’re as much a part of what people call nature as
anyone else; only you’re unexplained as yet—you’ve not got your niche
in creation. But some day that will come, and meanwhile don’t shrink
from yourself, but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage;
do the best you can with your burden. But above all be honourable. Cling
to your honour for the sake of those others who share the same burden.
For their sakes show the world that people like you and they can be
quite as selfless and fine as the rest of mankind. Let your life go to
prove this—it would be a really great life-work, Stephen.’
But the resolution waned because of Anna, who would surely join hands
with the conspiracy of silence. She would never condone such fearless
plain-speaking. If it came to her knowledge she would turn Puddle out
bag and baggage, and that would leave Stephen alone. No, she dared not
speak plainly because of the girl for whose sake she should now, above
all, be outspoken. But supposing the day should arrive when Stephen
herself thought fit to confide in her friend, then Puddle would take the
bull by the horns: ‘Stephen, I _know_. You can trust me, Stephen.’ If
only that day were not too long in coming—
For none knew better than this little grey woman, the agony of mind that
must be endured when a sensitive, highly organized nature is first
brought face to face with its own affliction. None knew better the
terrible nerves of the invert, nerves that are always lying in wait.
Super-nerves, whose response is only equalled by the strain that calls
that response into being. Puddle was well acquainted with these
things—that was why she was deeply concerned about Stephen.
But all she could do, at least for the present, was to be very gentle
and very patient: ‘Drink this cocoa, Stephen, I made it myself—’ And
then with a smile, ‘I put four lumps of sugar!’
Then Stephen was pretty sure to turn contrite: ‘Puddle—I’m a
brute—you’re so good to me always.’
‘Rubbish! I know you like cocoa made sweet, that’s why I put in those
four lumps of sugar. Let’s go for a really long walk, shall we, dear?
I’ve been wanting a really long walk now for weeks.’
Liar—most kind and self-sacrificing liar! Puddle hated long walks,
especially with Stephen who strode as though wearing seven league boots,
and whose only idea of a country walk was to take her own line across
ditches and hedges—yes, indeed, a most kind and self-sacrificing liar!
For Puddle was not quite so young as she had been; at times her feet
would trouble her a little, and at times she would get a sharp twinge in
her knee, which she shrewdly suspected to be rheumatism. Nevertheless
she must keep close to Stephen because of the fear that tightened her
heart—the fear of that questioning, wounded expression which now never
left the girl’s eyes for a moment. So Puddle got out her most practical
shoes—her heaviest shoes which were said to be damp-proof—and limped
along bravely by the side of her charge, who as often as not ignored her
existence.
There was one thing in all this that Puddle found amazing, and that was
Anna’s apparent blindness. Anna appeared to notice no change in Stephen,
to feel no anxiety about her. As always, these two were gravely polite
to each other, and as always they never intruded. Still, it did seem to
Puddle an incredible thing that the girl’s own mother should have
noticed nothing. And yet so it was, for Anna had gradually been growing
more silent and more abstracted. She was letting the tide of life carry
her gently towards that haven on which her thoughts rested. And this
blindness of hers troubled Puddle sorely, so that anger must often give
way to pity.
She would think: ‘God help her, the sorrowful woman; she knows
nothing—why didn’t he tell her? It was cruel!’ And then she would
think: ‘Yes, but God help Stephen if the day ever comes when her mother
does know—what will happen on that day to Stephen?’
Kind and loyal Puddle; she felt torn to shreds between those two, both
so worthy of pity. And now in addition she must be tormented by memories
dug out of their graves by Stephen—Stephen, whose pain had called up a
dead sorrow that for long had lain quietly and decently buried. Her
youth would come back and stare into her eyes reproachfully, so that her
finest virtues would seem little better than dust and ashes. She would
sigh, remembering the bitter sweetness, the valiant hopelessness of her
youth—and then she would look at Stephen.
But one morning Stephen announced abruptly: ‘I’m going out. Don’t wait
lunch for me, will you.’ And her voice permitted of no argument or
question.
Puddle nodded in silence. She had no need to question, she knew only too
well where Stephen was going.
4
With head bowed by her mortification of spirit, Stephen rode once more
to The Grange. And from time to time as she rode she flushed deeply
because of the shame of what she was doing. But from time to time her
eyes filled with tears because of the pain of her longing.
She left the cob with a man at the stables, then made her way round to
the old herb-garden; and there she found Angela sitting alone in the
shade with a book which she was not reading.
Stephen said: ‘I’ve come back.’ And then without waiting: ‘I’ll do
anything you want, if you’ll let me come back.’ And even as she spoke
those words her eyes fell.
But Angela answered: ‘You had to come back—because I’ve been wanting
you, Stephen.’
Then Stephen went and knelt down beside her, and she hid her face
against Angela’s knee, and the tears that had never so much as once
fallen during all the hard weeks of their separation, gushed out of her
eyes. She cried like a child, with her face against Angela’s knee.
Angela let her cry on for a while, then she lifted the tear-stained face
and kissed it: ‘Oh, Stephen, Stephen, get used to the world—it’s a
horrible place full of horrible people, but it’s all there is, and we
live in it, don’t we? So we’ve just got to do as the world does, my
Stephen.’ And because it seemed strange and rather pathetic that this
creature should weep, Angela was stirred to something very like love for
a moment: ‘Don’t cry any more—don’t cry, honey,’ she whispered, ‘we’re
together; nothing else really matters.’
And so it began all over again.
5
Stephen stayed on to lunch, for Ralph was in Worcester. He came home a
good two hours before teatime to find them together among his roses;
they had followed the shade when it left the herb-garden.
‘Oh, it’s you!’ he exclaimed as his eye lit on Stephen; and his voice
was so naïvely disappointed, so full of dismay at her reappearance, that
just for a second she felt sorry for him.
‘Yes, it’s me—’ she replied, not quite knowing what to say.
He grunted, and went off for his pruning knife, with which he was soon
amputating roses. But in spite of his mood he remained a good surgeon,
cutting dexterously, always above the leaf-bud, for the man was fond of
his roses. And knowing this Stephen must play on that fondness, since
now it was her business to cajole him into friendship. A degrading
business, but it had to be done for Angela’s sake, lest she suffer
through loving. Unthinkable that—‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’
‘Ralph, look here;’ she called, ‘Mrs. John Laing’s got broken! We may be
in time if we bind her with bass.’
‘Oh, dear, has she?’ He came hurrying up as he spoke, ‘Do go down to the
shed and get me some, will you?’
She got him the bass and together they bound her, the pink-cheeked,
full-bosomed Mrs. John Laing.
‘There,’ he said, as he snipped off the ends of her bandage, ‘that ought
to set your leg for you, madam!’
Near by grew a handsome Frau Karl Druschki, and Stephen praised her
luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure at the praise. He was
like a father of beautiful children, always eager to hear them admired
by a stranger, and she made a note of this in her mind: ‘He likes one to
praise his roses.’
He wanted to talk about Frau Karl Druschki: ‘She’s a beauty! There’s
something so wonderfully cool—as you say, it’s the whiteness—’ Then
before he could stop himself: ‘She reminds me of Angela, somehow.’ The
moment the words were out he was frowning, and Stephen stared hard at
Frau Karl Druschki.
But as they passed from border to border, his brow cleared: ‘I’ve spent
over three hundred,’ he said proudly, ‘never saw such a mess as this
garden was in when I bought the place—had to dig in fresh soil for the
roses just here, these are all new plants; I motored half across England
to get them. See that hedge of York and Lancasters there? They didn’t
cost much because they’re out of fashion. But I like them, they’re small
but rather distinguished I think—there’s something so armorial about
them.’
She agreed: ‘Yes, I’m awfully fond of them too;’ and she listened quite
gravely while he explained that they dated as far back as the Wars of
the Roses.
‘Historical, that’s what I mean,’ he explained. ‘I like everything old,
you know, except women.’
She thought with an inward smile of his newness.
Presently he said in a tone of surprise: ‘I never imagined that you’d
care about roses.’
‘Yes, why not? We’ve got quite a number at Morton. Why don’t you come
over to-morrow and see them?’
‘Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?’ he inquired.
‘I think so.’
‘Mine don’t. I can’t make it out. This year, of course, they’ve been
damaged by green-fly. Just come here and look at these standards, will
you? They’re being devoured alive by the brutes!’ And then as though he
were talking to a friend who would understand him: ‘Roses seem good to
me—you know what I mean, there’s virtue about them—the scent and the
feel and the way they grow. I always had some on the desk in my office,
they seemed to brighten up the whole place, no end.’
He started to ink in the names on the labels with a gold fountain pen
which he took from his pocket. ‘Yes,’ he murmured, as he bent his face
over the labels, ‘yes, I always had three or four on my desk. But
Birmingham’s a foul sort of place for roses.’
And hearing him, Stephen found herself thinking that all men had
something simple about them; something that took pleasure in the things
that were blameless, that longed, as it were, to contact with Nature.
Martin had loved huge, primitive trees; and even this mean little man
loved his roses.
Angela came strolling across the lawn: ‘Come, you two,’ she called
gaily, ‘tea’s waiting in the hall!’
Stephen flinched: ‘Come, you two—’ the words jarred on and she knew
that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph was out of earshot for
a moment she whispered:
‘You were clever about his roses!’
At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regret his
erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which made Angela
nervous—she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, which were usually
accompanied by attacks of bad temper.
Long after they had all finished tea he lingered, until Angela said:
‘Oh, Ralph, that lawn mower. Pratt asked me to tell you that it won’t
work at all; he thinks it had better go back to the makers. Will you
write about it now before the post goes?’
‘I suppose so—’ he muttered; but he left the room slowly.
Then they looked at each other and drew close together, guiltily,
starting at every sound: ‘Stephen—be careful for God’s sake—Ralph—’
So Stephen’s hands dropped from Angela’s shoulders, and she set her lips
hard, for no protest must pass them any more; they had no right to
protest.