1
With Martin’s return Stephen realized how very deeply she had missed
him; how much she still needed the thing he now offered, how long indeed
she had starved for just this—the friendship of a normal and
sympathetic man whose mentality being very much her own, was not only
welcome but reassuring. Yes, strange though it was, with this normal man
she was far more at ease than with Jonathan Brockett, far more at one
with all his ideas, and at times far less conscious of her own
inversion; though it seemed that Martin had not only read, but had
thought a great deal about the subject. He spoke very little of his
studies, however, just accepting her now for the thing that she was,
without question, and accepting most of her friends with a courtesy as
innocent of patronage as of any suspicion of morbid interest. And thus
it was that in these first days they appeared to have achieved a
complete reunion. Only sometimes, when Mary would talk to him freely as
she did very often of such people as Wanda, of the night life of the
cafés and bars of Paris—most of which it transpired he himself had been
to—of the tragedy of Barbara and Jamie that was never very far from her
thoughts, even although a most perfect spring was hurrying forward
towards the summer—when Mary would talk to him of these things, Martin
would look rather gravely at Stephen.
But now they seldom went to the bars, for Martin provided recreations
that were really much more to Mary’s liking. Martin the kindly, the
thoroughly normal, seemed never at a loss as to what they should do or
where they should go when in search of pleasure. By now he knew Paris
extremely well, and the Paris he showed them during that spring came as
a complete revelation to Mary. He would often take them to dine in the
Bois. At the neighbouring tables would be men and women; neat, well
tailored men; pretty, smartly dressed women who laughed and talked very
conscious of sex and its vast importance—in a word, normal women. Or
perhaps they would go to Claridge’s for tea or to Giro’s for dinner, and
then on to supper at an equally fashionable restaurant, of which Mary
discovered there were many in Paris. And although people still stared a
little at Stephen, Mary fancied that they did so much less, because of
the protective presence of Martin.
At such places of course, it was out of the question for a couple of
women to dance together, and yet every one danced, so that in the end
Mary must get up and dance with Martin.
He had said: ‘You don’t mind, do you, Stephen?’
She had shaken her head: ‘No, of course I don’t mind.’ And indeed she
had been very glad to know that Mary had a good partner to dance with.
But now when she sat alone at their table, lighting one cigarette from
another, uncomfortably conscious of the interest she aroused by reason
of her clothes and her isolation—when she glimpsed the girl in Martin’s
arms, and heard her laugh for a moment in passing, Stephen would know a
queer tightening of her heart, as though a mailed fist had closed down
upon it. What was it? Good God, surely not resentment? Horrified she
would feel at this possible betrayal of friendship, of her fine, honest
friendship for Martin. And when they came back, Mary smiling and
flushed, Stephen would force herself to smile also.
She would say: ‘I’ve been thinking how well you two dance—’
And when Mary once asked rather timidly: ‘Are you sure you’re not bored,
sitting there by yourself?’
Stephen answered: ‘Don’t be so silly, darling; of course I’m not
bored—go on dancing with Martin.’
But that night she took Mary in her arms—the relentless, compelling
arms of a lover.
On warm days they would all drive into the country, as Mary and she had
so frequently done during their first spring months in Paris. Very often
now it would be Barbizon, for Martin loved to walk in the forest. And
there he must start to talk about trees, his face glowing with its
curious inner light, while Mary listened half fascinated.
One evening she said: ‘But these trees are so small—you make me long to
see real forests, Martin.’
David loved these excursions—he also loved Martin, not being exactly
disloyal to Stephen, but discerning in the man a more perfect thing, a
more entirely fulfilling companion. And this little betrayal, though
slight in itself, had the power to wound out of all proportion, so that
Stephen would feel very much as she had done when ignored years ago by
the swan called Peter. She had thought then: ‘Perhaps he thinks I’m a
freak,’ and now she must sometimes think the same thing as she watched
Martin hurling huge sticks for David—it was strange what a number of
ridiculous trifles had lately acquired the power to hurt her. And yet
she clung desperately to Martin’s friendship, feeling herself to be all
unworthy if she harboured so much as a moment’s doubt; indeed they both
loyally clung to their friendship.
He would beg her to accept his aunt’s invitations, to accompany Mary
when she went to Passy:
‘Don’t you like the old thing? Mary likes her all right—why won’t you
come? It’s so mean of you, Stephen. It’s not half as much fun when
you’re not there.’ He would honestly think that he was speaking the
truth, that the party or the luncheon or whatever it might be, was not
half as much fun for him without Stephen.
But Stephen always made her work an excuse: ‘My dear, I’m trying to
finish a novel. I seem to have been at it for years and years; it’s
growing hoary like Rip Van Winkle.’
2
There were times when their friendship seemed well-nigh perfect, the
perfect thing that they would have it to be, and on such a day of
complete understanding, Stephen suddenly spoke to Martin about Morton.
They two were alone together in her study, and she said: ‘There’s
something I want to tell you—you must often have wondered why I left my
home.’
He nodded: ‘I’ve never quite liked to ask, because I know how you loved
the place, how you love it still . . .’
‘Yes, I love it,’ she answered.
Then she let every barrier go down before him, blissfully conscious of
what she was doing. Not since Puddle had left her had she been able to
talk without restraint of her exile. And once launched she had not the
least wish to stop, but must tell him all, omitting no detail save one
that honour forbade her to give—she withheld the name of Angela
Crossby.
‘It’s so terribly hard on Mary,’ she finished; ‘think of it, Mary’s
never seen Morton; she’s not even met Puddle in all these years! Of
course Puddle can’t very well come here to stay—how can she and then go
back to Morton? And yet I want her to live with my mother . . . But the
whole thing seems so outrageous for Mary.’ She went on to talk to him of
her father: ‘If my father had lived, I know he’d have helped me. He
loved me so much, and he understood—I found out that my father knew all
about me, only—’ She hesitated, and then: ‘Perhaps he loved me too much
to tell me.’
Martin said nothing for quite a long time, and when he did speak it was
very gravely: ‘Mary—how much does she know of all this?’
‘As little as I could possibly tell her. She knows that I can’t get on
with my mother, and that my mother won’t ask her to Morton; but she
doesn’t know that I had to leave home because of a woman, that I was
turned out—I’ve wanted to spare her all I could.’
‘Do you think you were right?’
‘Yes, a thousand times.’
‘Well, only you can judge of that, Stephen.’ He looked down at the
carpet, then he asked abruptly: ‘Does she know about you and me, about
. . .’
Stephen shook her head: ‘No, she’s no idea. She thinks you were just my
very good friend as you are to-day. I don’t want her to know.’
‘For my sake?’ he demanded.
And she answered slowly: ‘Well, yes, I suppose so . . . for your sake,
Martin.’
Then an unexpected, and to her very moving thing happened; his eyes
filled with pitiful tears: ‘Lord,’ he muttered, ‘why need this have come
upon you—this incomprehensible dispensation? It’s enough to make one
deny God’s existence!’
She felt a great need to reassure him. At that moment he seemed so much
younger than she was as he stood there with his eyes full of pitiful
tears, doubting God, because of his human compassion: ‘There are still
the trees. Don’t forget the trees, Martin—because of them you used to
believe.’
‘Have you come to believe in a God then?’ he muttered.
‘Yes,’ she told him, ‘it’s strange, but I know now I must—lots of us
feel that way in the end. I’m not really religious like some of the
others, but I’ve got to acknowledge God’s existence, though at times I
still think: “Can He really exist?” One can’t help it, when one’s seen
what I have here in Paris. But unless there’s a God, where do some of us
find even the little courage we possess?’
Martin stared out of the window in silence.
3
Mary was growing gentle again; infinitely gentle she now was at times,
for happiness makes for gentleness, and in these days Mary was strangely
happy. Reassured by the presence of Martin Hallam, re-established in
pride and self-respect, she was able to contemplate the world without
her erstwhile sense of isolation, was able for the moment to sheathe her
sword, and this respite brought her a sense of well-being. She
discovered that at heart she was neither so courageous nor so defiant as
she had imagined, that like many another woman before her, she was well
content to feel herself protected; and gradually as the weeks went by,
she began to forget her bitter resentment.
One thing only distressed her, and this was Stephen’s refusal to
accompany her when she went to Passy; she could not understand it, so
must put it down to the influence of Valérie Seymour who had met and
disliked Martin’s aunt at one time, indeed the dislike, it seemed, had
been mutual. Thus the vague resentment that Valérie had inspired in the
girl, began to grow much less vague, until Stephen realized with a shock
of surprise that Mary was jealous of Valérie Seymour. But this seemed so
absurd and preposterous a thing, that Stephen decided it could only be
passing, nor did it loom very large in these days that were so fully
taken up by Martin. For now that his eyesight was quite restored he was
talking of going home in the autumn, and every free moment that he could
steal from his aunt, he wanted to spend with Stephen and Mary. When he
spoke of his departure, Stephen sometimes fancied that a shade of
sadness crept into Mary’s face, and her heart misgave her, though she
told herself that naturally both of them would miss Martin. Then too,
never had Mary been more loyal and devoted, more obviously anxious to
prove her love by a thousand little acts of devotion. There would even
be times when by contrast her manner would appear abrupt and unfriendly
to Martin, when she argued with him over every trifle, backing up her
opinion by quoting Stephen—yes, in spite of her newly restored
gentleness, there were times when she would not be gentle with Martin.
And these sudden and unforeseen changes of mood would leave Stephen
feeling uneasy and bewildered, so that one night she spoke rather
anxiously:
‘Why were you so beastly to Martin this evening?’
But Mary pretended not to understand her: ‘How was I beastly? I was just
as usual.’ And when Stephen persisted, Mary kissed her scar: ‘Darling,
don’t start working now, it’s so late, and besides . . .’
Stephen put away her work, then she suddenly caught the girl to her
roughly: ‘How much do you love me? Tell me quickly, quickly!’ Her voice
shook with something very like fear.
‘Stephen, you’re hurting me—don’t, you’re hurting! You know how I love
you—more than life.’
‘You are my life . . . all my life,’ muttered Stephen.