1
Stephen’s troubles had begun to be aggravated by Violet, who was always
driving over to Morton, ostensibly to talk about Alec, in reality to
collect information as to what might be happening at The Grange. She
would stay for hours, very skilfully pumping while she dropped unwelcome
hints anent Roger.
‘Father’s going to cut down his allowance,’ she declared, ‘if he doesn’t
stop hanging about that woman. Oh, I’m sorry! I always forget she’s your
friend—’ Then looking at Stephen with inquisitive eyes: ‘But I can’t
understand that friendship of yours; for one thing, how _can_ you put up
with Crossby?’ And Stephen knew that yet once again, county gossip was
rife about her.
Violet was going to be married in September, they would then live in
London, for Alec was a barrister. Their house, it seemed, was already
bespoken: ‘A perfect duck of a house in Belgravia,’ where Violet
intended to entertain largely on the strength of a bountiful parent
Peacock. She was in the highest possible fettle these days, invested
with an enormous importance in her own eyes, as also in those of her
neighbours. Oh, yes, the whole world smiled broadly on Violet and her
Alec: ‘Such a charming young couple,’ said the world, and at once
proceeded to shower them with presents. Apostle teaspoons arrived in
their dozens, so did coffee-pots, cream-jugs and large fish slices; to
say nothing of a heavy silver bowl from the Hunt, and a massive salver
from the grateful Scottish tenants.
On the wedding day not a few eyes would be wet at the sight of so
youthful a man and maiden ‘joined together in an honourable estate,
instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency.’ For such ancient
traditions—in spite of the fact that man’s innocency could not even
survive one bite of an apple shared with a woman—are none the less apt
to be deeply moving. There they would kneel, the young newly wed, ardent
yet sanctified by a blessing, so that all, or at least nearly all, they
would do, must be considered both natural and pleasing to a God in the
image of man created. And the fact that this God, in a thoughtless
moment, had created in His turn those pitiful thousands who must stand
for ever outside His blessing, would in no way disturb the large
congregation or their white surpliced pastor, or the couple who knelt on
the gold-braided, red velvet cushions. And afterwards there would be
plentiful champagne to warm the cooling blood of the elders, and much
shaking of hands and congratulating, and many kind smiles for the bride
and her bridegroom. Some might even murmur a fleeting prayer in their
hearts, as the two departed: ‘God bless them!’
So now Stephen must actually learn at first hand how straight can run
the path of true love, in direct contradiction to the time-honoured
proverb. Must realize more clearly than ever, that love is only
permissible to those who are cut in every respect to life’s pattern;
must feel like some ill-conditioned pariah, hiding her sores under lies
and pretences. And after those visits of Violet Antrim’s, her spirits
would be at a very low ebb, for she had not yet gained that steel-bright
courage which can only be forged in the furnace of affliction, and which
takes many weary years in the forging.
2
The splendid new motor arrived from London, to the great delight and
excitement of Burton. The new suits were completed and worn by their
owner, and Angela’s costly gold bag was received with apparent delight,
which seemed rather surprising considering her erstwhile ban upon
presents. Yet could Stephen have known it, this was not so surprising
after all, for the bag infuriated Ralph, thereby distracting his facile
attention for the moment, from something that was far more dangerous.
Filled with an ever-increasing need to believe, Stephen listened to
Angela Crossby: ‘You know there’s nothing between me and Roger—if you
don’t, then you above all people ought to,’ and her blue, child-like
eyes would look up at Stephen, who could never resist the appeal of
their blueness.
And as though to bear out the truth of her words, Roger now came to The
Grange much less often; and when he did come he was quietly friendly,
not at all lover-like if Stephen was present, so that gradually her need
to believe had begun to allay her worst fears. Yet she knew with the
true instinct of the lover, that Angela was secretly unhappy. She might
try to appear light-hearted and flippant, but her smiles and her jests
could not deceive Stephen.
‘You’re miserable. What is it?’
And Angela would answer: ‘Ralph’s been vile to me again—’ But she would
not add that Ralph was daily becoming more suspicious and more
intolerant of Roger Antrim, so that now her deadly fear of her husband
was always at war with her passion.
Sometimes it seemed to the girl that Angela used her as a whip wherewith
to lash Ralph. She would lead Stephen on to show signs of affection
which would never have been permitted in the past. Ralph’s little red
eyes would look deeply resentful, and getting up he would slouch from
the room. They would hear the front door being closed, and would know
that he had gone for a walk with Tony. Yet when they were alone and in
comparative safety, there would be something crude, almost cruel in
their kisses; a restless, dissatisfied, hungry thing—their lips would
seem bent on scourging their bodies. Neither would find deliverance nor
ease from the ache that was in them, for each would be kissing with a
well-nigh intolerable sense of loss, with a passionate knowledge of
separation. After a little they would sit with bent heads, not speaking
because of what might not be spoken; not daring to look each other in
the eyes nor to touch each other, lest they should cry out against this
preposterous lovemaking.
Completely confounded, Stephen racked her brains for anything that might
give them both a respite. She suggested that Angela should see her fence
with a celebrated London fencing master whom she had bribed to come down
to Morton. She tried to arouse an interest in the car, the splendid new
car that had cost so much money. She tried to find out if Angela had an
ungratified wish that money could fulfil.
‘Only tell me what I can do,’ she pleaded, but apparently there was
nothing.
Angela came several times to Morton and dutifully attended the fencing
lessons. But they did not go well, for Stephen would glimpse her staring
abstractedly out of the window; then the sly, agile foil with its blunt
tipped nose, would slip in under Stephen’s guard and shame her.
They would sometimes go far afield in the car, and one night they
stopped at an inn and had dinner—Angela ringing up her husband with the
old and now threadbare excuse of a breakdown. They dined in a quiet
little room by themselves; the scents of the garden came in through the
window—warm, significant scents, for now it was May and many flowers
multiplied in that garden. Never before had they done such a thing as
this, they had never dined all alone at a wayside inn miles away from
their homes, just they two, and Stephen stretched out her hand and
covered Angela’s where it rested very white and still on the table. And
Stephen’s eyes held an urgent question, for now it was May and the blood
of youth leaps and strains with the sap in early summer. The air seemed
breathless, since neither would speak, afraid of disturbing the thick,
sweet silence—but Angela shook her head very slowly. Then they could
not eat, for each was filled with the same and yet with a separate
longing; so after a while they must get up and go, both conscious of a
sense of painful frustration.
They drove back on a road that was paved with moonlight, and presently
Angela fell fast asleep like an unhappy child—she had taken her hat off
and her head lay limply against Stephen’s shoulder. Seeing her thus, so
helpless in sleep, Stephen felt strangely moved, and she drove very
slowly, fearful of waking the woman who slept like a child with her fair
head against her shoulder. The car climbed the steep hill from Ledbury
town, and presently there lay the wide Wye valley whose beauty had
saddened a queer little girl long before she had learnt the pain of all
beauty. And now the valley was bathed in whiteness, while here and there
gleamed a roof or a window, but whitely, as though all the good valley
folk had extinguished their lamps and retired to their couches. Far
away, like dark clouds coming up out of Wales, rose range upon range of
the old Black Mountains, with the tip of Gadrfawr peering over the
others, and the ridge of Pen-cerrigcalch sharp against the skyline. A
little wind ruffled the bracken on the hillsides, and Angela’s hair blew
across her closed eyes so that she stirred and sighed in her sleep.
Stephen bent down and began to soothe her.
Then from out of that still and unearthly night, there crept upon
Stephen an unearthly longing. A longing that was not any more of the
body but rather of the weary and homesick spirit that endured the chains
of that body. And when she must drive past the gates of Morton, the
longing within her seemed beyond all bearing, for she wanted to lift the
sleeping woman in her arms and carry her in through those gates; and
carry her in through the heavy white door; and carry her up the wide,
shallow staircase, and lay her down on her own bed, still sleeping, but
safe in the good care of Morton.
Angela suddenly opened her eyes: ‘Where am I?’ she muttered, stupid with
sleep. Then after a moment her eyes filled with tears, and there she sat
all huddled up, crying.
Stephen said gently: ‘It’s all right, don’t cry.’
But Angela went on crying.