1
There comes a time in all passionate attachments when life, real life,
must be faced once again with its varied and endless obligations, when
the lover knows in his innermost heart that the halcyon days are over.
He may well regret this prosaic intrusion, yet to him it will usually
seem quite natural, so that while loving not one whit the less, he will
bend his neck to the yoke of existence. But the woman, for whom love is
an end in itself, finds it harder to submit thus calmly. To every
devoted and ardent woman there comes this moment of poignant regretting;
and struggle she must to hold it at bay. ‘Not yet, not yet—just a
little longer’; until Nature, abhorring her idleness, forces on her the
labour of procreation.
But in such relationships as Mary’s and Stephen’s, Nature must pay for
experimenting; she may even have to pay very dearly—it largely depends
on the sexual mixture. A drop too little of the male in the lover, and
mighty indeed will be the wastage. And yet there are cases—and
Stephen’s was one—in which the male will emerge triumphant; in which
passion combined with a real devotion will become a spur rather than a
deterrent; in which love and endeavour will fight side by side in a
desperate struggle to find some solution.
Thus it was that when Stephen returned from Morton, Mary divined, as it
were by instinct, that the time of dreaming was over and past; and she
clung very close, kissing many times—
‘Do you love me as much as before you went? Do you love me?’ The woman’s
eternal question.
And Stephen, who, if possible, loved her more, answered almost
brusquely: ‘Of course I love you.’ For her thoughts were still heavy
with the bitterness that had come of that visit of hers to Morton, and
which at all costs must be hidden from Mary.
There had been no marked change in her mother’s manner. Anna had been
very quiet and courteous. Together they had interviewed bailiff and
agent, scheming as always for the welfare of Morton; but one topic there
had been which Anna had ignored, had refused to discuss, and that topic
was Mary. With a suddenness born of exasperation, Stephen had spoken of
her one evening. ‘I want Mary Llewellyn to know my real home; some day I
must bring her to Morton with me.’ She had stopped, seeing Anna’s
warning face—expressionless, closed; while as for her answer, it had
been more eloquent far than words—a disconcerting, unequivocal silence.
And Stephen, had she ever entertained any doubt, must have known at that
moment past all hope of doubting, that her mother’s omission to invite
the girl had indeed been meant as a slight upon Mary. Getting up, she
had gone to her father’s study.
Puddle, who had held her peace at the time, had spoken just before
Stephen’s departure. ‘My dear, I know it’s all terribly hard about
Morton—about . . .’ She had hesitated.
And Stephen had thought with renewed bitterness: ‘Even she jibs, it
seems, at mentioning Mary.’ She had answered: ‘If you’re speaking of
Mary Llewellyn, I shall certainly never bring her to Morton, that is as
long as my mother lives—I don’t allow her to be insulted.’
Then Puddle had looked at Stephen gravely. ‘You’re not working, and yet
work’s your only weapon. Make the world respect you, as you can do
through your work; it’s the surest harbour of refuge for your friend,
the only harbour—remember that—and it’s up to you to provide it,
Stephen.’
Stephen had been too sore at heart to reply; but throughout the long
journey from Morton to Paris, Puddle’s words had kept hammering in her
brain: ‘You’re not working, and yet work’s your only weapon.’
So while Mary lay sleeping in Stephen’s arms on that first blessèd night
of their reunion, her lover lay wide-eyed with sleeplessness, planning
the work she must do on the morrow, cursing her own indolence and folly,
her illusion of safety where none existed.
2
They soon settled down to their more prosaic days very much as quite
ordinary people will do. Each of them now had her separate
tasks—Stephen her writing, and Mary the household, the paying of bills,
the filing of receipts, the answering of unimportant letters. But for
her there were long hours of idleness, since Pauline and Pierre were
almost too perfect—they would smile and manage the house their own way,
which it must be admitted was better than Mary’s. As for the letters,
there were not very many; and as for the bills, there was plenty of
money—being spared the struggle to make two ends meet, she was also
deprived of the innocent pleasure of scheming to provide little happy
surprises, little extra comforts for the person she loved, which in
youth can add a real zest to existence. Then Stephen had found her
typing too slow, so was sending the work to a woman in Passy; obsessed
by a longing to finish her book, she would tolerate neither let nor
hindrance. And because of their curious isolation, there were times when
Mary would feel very lonely. For whom did she know? She had no friends
in Paris except the kind Mademoiselle Duphot and Julie. Once a week, it
is true, she could go and see Buisson, for Stephen continued to keep up
her fencing; and occasionally Brockett would come strolling in, but his
interest was centred entirely in Stephen; if she should be working, as
was often the case, he would not waste very much time over Mary.
Stephen often called her into the study, comforted by the girl’s loving
presence. ‘Come and sit with me, sweetheart, I like you in here.’ But
quite soon she would seem to forget all about her. ‘What . . . what?’
she would mutter, frowning a little. ‘Don’t speak to me just for a
minute, Mary. Go and have your luncheon, there’s a good child; I’ll come
when I’ve finished this bit—you go on!’ But Mary’s meal might be eaten
alone; for meals had become an annoyance to Stephen.
Of course there was David, the grateful, the devoted. Mary could always
talk to David, but since he could never answer her back the conversation
was very one-sided. Then too, he was making it obvious that he, in his
turn, was missing Stephen; he would hang around looking discontented
when she failed to go out after frequent suggestions. For although his
heart was faithful to Mary, the gentle dispenser of all salvation, yet
the instinct that has dwelt in the soul of the male, perhaps ever since
Adam left the Garden of Eden, the instinct that displays itself in club
windows and in other such places of male segregation, would make him
long for the companionable walks that had sometimes been taken apart
from Mary. Above all would it make him long intensely for Stephen’s
strong hands and purposeful ways; for that queer, intangible something
about her that appealed to the canine manhood in him. She always allowed
him to look after himself, without fussing; in a word, she seemed
restful to David.
Mary, slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper: ‘We’ll go to
the Tuileries Gardens.’
But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of course a dog
must not dive after goldfish—David understood this; there were goldfish
at home—he must not start splashing about in ponds that had tiresome
stone rims and ridiculous fountains. He and Mary would wander along
gravel paths, among people who stared at and made fun of David: ‘Quel
drôle de chien, mais regardez sa queue!’ They were like that, these
French; they had laughed at his mother. She had told him never so much
as to say: ‘Wouf!’ For what did they matter? Still, it was
disconcerting. And although he had lived in France all his life—having
indeed known no other country—as he walked in the stately Tuileries
Gardens, the Celt in his blood would conjure up visions: great beetling
mountains with winding courses down which the torrents went roaring in
winter; the earth smell, the dew smell, the smell of wild things which a
dog might hunt and yet remain lawful—for of all this and more had his
old mother told him. These visions it was that had led him astray, that
had treacherously led him half starving to Paris; and that, sometimes,
even in these placid days, would come back as he walked in the Tuileries
Gardens. But now his heart must thrust them aside—a captive he was now,
through love of Mary.
But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a garden at
Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled with the
restless rhythm of singing.
3
The autumn passed, giving place to the winter, with its short, dreary
days of mist and rain. There was now little beauty left in Paris. A grey
sky hung above the old streets of the Quarter, a sky which no longer
looked bright by contrast, as though seen at the end of a tunnel.
Stephen was working like some one possessed, entirely re-writing her
pre-war novel. Good it had been, but not good enough, for she now saw
life from a much wider angle; and moreover, she was writing this book
for Mary. Remembering Mary, remembering Morton, her pen covered sheet
after sheet of paper; she wrote with the speed of true inspiration, and
at times her work brushed the hem of greatness. She did not entirely
neglect the girl for whose sake she was making this mighty effort—that
she could not have done even had she wished to, since love was the
actual source of her effort. But quite soon there were days when she
would not go out, or if she did go, when she seemed abstracted, so that
Mary must ask her the same question twice—then as likely as not get a
nebulous answer. And soon there were days when all that she did apart
from her writing was done with an effort, with an obvious effort to be
considerate.
‘Would you like to go to a play one night, Mary?’
If Mary said yes, and procured the tickets, they were usually late,
because of Stephen who had worked right up to the very last minute.
Sometimes there were poignant if small disappointments when Stephen had
failed to keep a promise. ‘Listen, Mary darling—will you ever forgive
me if I don’t come with you about those furs? I’ve a bit of work here I
simply must finish. You do understand?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ But Mary, left to choose her new furs alone, had
quite suddenly felt that she did not want them.
And this sort of thing happened fairly often.
If only Stephen had confided in her, had said: ‘I’m trying to build you
a refuge; remember what I told you in Orotava!’ But no, she shrank from
reminding the girl of the gloom that surrounded their small patch of
sunshine. If only she had shown a little more patience with Mary’s
careful if rather slow typing, and so given her a real occupation—but
no, she must send the work off to Passy, because the sooner this book
was finished the better it would be for Mary’s future. And thus, blinded
by love and her desire to protect the woman she loved, she erred towards
Mary.
When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequently read it
aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that the writing was fine,
yet her thoughts would stray from the book to Stephen. The deep, husky
voice would read on and on, having in it something urgent, appealing, so
that Mary must suddenly kiss Stephen’s hand, or the scar on her cheek,
because of that voice far more than because of what it was reading.
And now there were times when, serving two masters, her passion for this
girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be torn by conflicting
desires, by opposing mental and physical emotions. She would want to
save herself for her work; she would want to give herself wholly to
Mary.
Yet quite often she would work far into the night. ‘I’m going to be
late—you go to bed, sweetheart.’
And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she would steal like a
thief past Mary’s bedroom, although Mary would nearly always hear her.
‘Is that you, Stephen?’
‘Yes. Why aren’t you asleep? Do you realize that it’s three in the
morning?’
‘Is it? You’re not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking of you alone
in the study. Come here and say you’re not angry with me, even if it is
three o’clock in the morning!’
Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would fling herself
down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do more than take the girl
in her arms, and let her lie there with her head on her shoulder.
But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she found so deeply
appealing in Stephen—the scar on her cheek, the expression in her eyes,
the strength and the queer, shy gentleness of her—the strength which at
moments could not be gentle. And as they lay there Stephen might sleep,
worn out by the strain of those long hours of writing. But Mary would
not sleep, or if she slept it would be when the dawn was paling the
windows.
4
One morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. ‘Come here. You’re not
well! What’s the matter? Tell me.’ For she thought that the girl was
unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped a little at the
corners; and a sudden fear contracted her heart. ‘Tell me at once what’s
the matter with you!’ Her voice was rough with anxiety, and she laid an
imperative hand over Mary’s.
Mary protested. ‘Don’t be absurd; there’s nothing the matter, I’m
perfectly well—you’re imagining things.’ For what could be the matter?
Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyes filled with tears,
and she turned away quickly to hide them, ashamed of her own unreason.
Stephen stuck to her point. ‘You don’t look a bit well. We shouldn’t
have stayed in Paris last summer.’ Then because her own nerves were on
edge that day, she frowned. ‘It’s this business of your not eating
whenever I can’t get in to a meal. I know you don’t eat—Pierre’s told
me about it. You mustn’t behave like a baby, Mary! I shan’t be able to
write a line if I feel you’re ill because you’re not eating.’ Her fear
was making her lose her temper. ‘I shall send for a doctor,’ she
finished brusquely.
Mary refused point-blank to see a doctor. What was she to tell him? She
hadn’t any symptoms. Pierre exaggerated. She ate quite enough—she had
never been a very large eater. Stephen had better get on with her work
and stop upsetting herself over nothing.
But try as she might, Stephen could not get on—all the rest of the day
her work went badly.
After this she would often leave her desk and go wandering off in search
of Mary. ‘Darling, where are you?’
‘Upstairs in my bedroom!’
‘Well, come down; I want you here in the study.’ And when Mary had
settled herself by the fire: ‘Now tell me exactly how you feel—all
right?’
And Mary would answer, smiling: ‘Yes, I’m quite all right; I swear I am,
Stephen!’
It was not an ideal atmosphere for work, but the book was by now so well
advanced that nothing short of a disaster could have stopped it—it was
one of those books that intend to get born, and that go on maturing in
spite of their authors. Nor was there anything really alarming about the
condition of Mary’s health. She did not look very well, that was all;
and at times she seemed a little downhearted, so that Stephen must
snatch a few hours from her work in order that they might go out
together. Perhaps they would lunch at a restaurant; or drive into the
country, to the rapture of David; or just wander about the streets arm
in arm as they had done when first they had returned to Paris. And Mary,
because she would be feeling happy, would revive for these few hours as
though by magic. Yet when she must once more find herself lonely, with
nowhere to go and no one to talk to, because Stephen was back again at
her desk, why then she would wilt, which was not unnatural considering
her youth and her situation.
5
On Christmas Eve Brockett arrived, bringing flowers. Mary had gone for a
walk with David, so Stephen must leave her desk with a sigh. ‘Come in,
Brockett. I say! What wonderful lilac!’
He sat down, lighting a cigarette. ‘Yes, isn’t it fine? I brought it for
Mary. How is she?’
Stephen hesitated a moment. ‘Not awfully well . . . I’ve been worried
about her.’
Brockett frowned, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. There was
something that he wanted to say to Stephen, a warning that he was
longing to give, but he did not feel certain how she would take it—no
wonder that wretched girl was not fit, forced to lead such a deadly dull
existence! If Stephen would let him he wanted to advise, to admonish, to
be brutally frank if need be. He had once been brutally frank about her
work, but that had been a less delicate matter.
He began to fidget with his soft, white hands, drumming on the arms of
the chair with his fingers. ‘Stephen, I’ve been meaning to speak about
Mary. She struck me as looking thoroughly depressed the last time I saw
her—when was it? Monday. Yes, she struck me as looking thoroughly
depressed.’
‘Oh, but surely you were wrong . . .’ interrupted Stephen.
‘No, I’m perfectly sure I was right,’ he insisted. Then he said: ‘I’m
going to take a big risk—I’m going to take the risk of losing your
friendship.’
His voice was so genuinely regretful, that Stephen must ask him:
‘Well—what is it, Brockett?’
‘You, my dear. You’re not playing fair with that girl; the life she’s
leading would depress a mother abbess. It’s enough to give anybody the
hump, and it’s going to give Mary neurasthenia!’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Don’t get ratty and I’ll tell you. Look here, I’m not going to pretend
any more. Of course we all know that you two are lovers. You’re
gradually becoming a kind of legend—all’s well lost for love, and that
sort of thing. . . . But Mary’s too young to become a legend; and so are
you, my dear, for that matter. But you’ve got your work, whereas Mary’s
got nothing—not a soul does that miserable kid know in Paris. Don’t
_please_ interrupt, I’ve not nearly finished; I positively must and will
have my say out! You and she have decided to make a ménage—as far as I
can see it’s as bad as marriage! But if you were a man it would be
rather different; you’d have dozens of friends as a matter of course.
Mary might even be going to have an infant. Oh, for God’s sake, Stephen,
do stop looking shocked. Mary’s a perfectly normal young woman; she
can’t live by love alone, that’s all rot—especially as I shrewdly
suspect that when you’re working the diet’s pretty meagre. For heaven’s
sake let her go about a bit! Why on earth don’t you take her to Valérie
Seymour’s? At Valérie’s place she’d meet lots of people; and I ask you,
what harm could it possibly do? You shun your own ilk as though they
were the devil! Mary needs friends awfully badly, and she needs a
certain amount of amusement. But be a bit careful of the so-called
normal.’ And now Brockett’s voice grew aggressive and bitter. ‘I
wouldn’t go trying to force them to be friends—I’m not thinking so much
of you now as of Mary; she’s young and the young are easily
bruised. . . .’
He was perfectly sincere. He was trying to be helpful, spurred on by his
curious affection for Stephen. At the moment he felt very friendly and
anxious; there was nothing of the cynic left in him—at the moment. He
was honestly advising according to his lights—perhaps the only lights
that the world had left him.
And Stephen could find very little to say. She was sick of denials and
subterfuges, sick of tacit lies which outraged her own instincts and
which seemed like insults thrust upon Mary; so she left Brockett’s
bolder statements unchallenged. As for the rest, she hedged a little,
still vaguely mistrustful of Valérie Seymour. Yet she knew quite well
that Brockett had been right—life these days must often be lonely for
Mary. Why had she never thought of this before? She cursed herself for
her lack of perception.
Then Brockett tactfully changed the subject; he was far too wise not to
know when to stop. So now he told her about his new play, which for him
was a very unusual proceeding. And as he talked on there came over
Stephen a queer sense of relief at the thought that he knew. . . . Yes,
she actually felt a sense of relief because this man knew of her
relations with Mary; because there was no longer any need to behave as
if those relations were shameful—at all events in the presence of
Brockett. The world had at last found a chink in her armour.
6
‘We must go and see Valérie Seymour one day,’ Stephen remarked quite
casually that evening. ‘She’s a very well-known woman in Paris. I
believe she gives rather jolly parties. I think it’s about time you had
a few friends.’
‘Oh, what fun! Yes, do let’s—I’d love it!’ exclaimed Mary.
Stephen thought that her voice sounded pleased and excited, and in spite
of herself she sighed a little. But after all nothing really mattered
except that Mary should keep well and happy. She would certainly take
her to Valérie Seymour’s—why not? She had probably been very foolish.
Selfish too, sacrificing the girl to her cranks—
‘Darling, of course we’ll go,’ she said quickly. ‘I expect we’ll find it
awfully amusing.’
7
Three days later, Valérie, having seen Brockett, wrote a short but
cordial invitation: ‘Do come in on Wednesday if you possibly can—I mean
both of you, of course. Brockett’s promised to come, and one or two
other interesting people. I’m so looking forward to renewing our
acquaintance after all this long time, and to meeting Miss Llewellyn.
But why have you never been to see me? I don’t think that was very
friendly of you! However, you can make up for past neglect by coming to
my little party on Wednesday. . . .’
Stephen tossed the letter across to Mary. ‘There you are!’
‘How ripping—but will you go?’
‘Do you want to?’
‘Yes, of course. Only what about your work?’
‘It will keep all right for one afternoon.’
‘Are you sure?’
Stephen smiled. ‘Yes, I’m quite sure, darling.’