“Yes, you are, Stella—trying to keep me off.”
“I—I’m sorry.”
“You needn’t be sorry; but I wish you’d tell me why you’re doing it. It
isn’t that you’ve only just discovered that I love you—you’ve always
known that.”
“I’m wasting your time, Gervase. I shouldn’t keep you dangling after
me.”
“You mean that I’ve hung about too long?”
“Oh, no....” She was obviously distressed.
“Stella, I’ve loved you for years, and you know it—you’ve always known
it. But I’ve never asked anything of you or expected anything. All I’ve
wanted has been to see you and talk to you and do anything for you that
I could. It hasn’t done me any harm. I’m only just old enough to marry,
and I have no means.... And up till a little while ago I was content.
Then you changed, and seemed to be trying to put me off—it hurt me,
Stella, because I couldn’t think why....”
“Oh, I can’t bear to hurt you.” To his surprise he saw that her tears
were falling. She covered her face.
“Stella, my little Stella.”
By leaning forward he could put his hand on her knee. It was the first
caress that he had ever given her, and the unbearable sweetness of it
made him shiver. He let his hand lie for a few moments on her warm knee,
and after a time she put her own over it.
“Gervase, I’m so sorry—I’m afraid I’ve treated you badly. I let you love
me—you were so young at first, and I saw it made you happy, and I
thought it would pass over. Then people began to talk, as they always
do, and I took no notice—it seemed impossible, me being so much older
than you—until I found that ... I mean, one day I met Peter, and he
really thought we were engaged....”
It was not her words so much as the burst of bitter weeping that
followed them which showed Gervase the real state of her heart. She
still loved Peter.
“It’s nothing to regret, dear,” he said hurriedly—“you were perfectly
right. And now I understand....”
“But it’s wrong, Gervase, it’s wrong....” By some instinct she seemed to
have discovered that he guessed her secret ... “it’s wrong; but oh, I
can’t help it! I wish I could. It seems dreadful not to be able to help
it after all these years.”
She had gripped his hand in both hers—her body was stiff and trembling.
“Stella, darling, don’t be so upset. There’s nothing wrong in loving—how
could there be? Surely you know that.”
“Yes I do. It’s not the loving that’s wrong, but letting my whole life
be hung up by it. Letting it absorb me so that I don’t notice other men,
so that I can’t bear the thought of marrying anyone else—so that I treat
you badly.”
“You haven’t treated me badly, my dear. Get that out of your head at
once.”
“I have—because I’ve spoilt our friendship. I couldn’t go on with it
when I knew....”
“It’s high time our friendship was spoilt, Stella. It was turning into a
silly form of self-indulgence on my side, and it ought to be put an end
to. Hang it all! why should I get you talked about?—apart from other
considerations. You’ve done me good by withdrawing yourself, because
you’ve killed my calf-love. For the last few weeks I’ve loved you as a
man ought—I’ve known a man’s love, though it’s been in vain....”
“Oh, Gervase....”
“Don’t think any more about me, dear; you’ve done me nothing but good.”
She had hidden her face in the arm of the chair, and he suddenly saw
that he must leave her. Since she did not love him, his own love was not
enough to make him less of an intruder. There were dozens of questions
he wanted to ask her—answers he longed to know. But he must not. He rose
and touched her shoulder.
“I’m going, my dear. It’s nearly time for Adoration. I shan’t come back
next Sunday—and later, next year, I’ll be going away ... don’t fret ...
it’ll all be quite easy.”
It wasn’t easy now. She held out one hand without lifting her head, and
for a moment they held each other’s hands in a fierce clasp of farewell.
He felt her hot, moist palm burning against his, then dropped it quickly
and went out.
So that was the end. He had finished it. But Stella herself had taught
him that one did not so easily finish love. He supposed that he would go
on loving her as she had gone on loving Peter.
It was a quarter to four as he went into church. Quietly and
methodically he lit the candles for Devotions, and watched the slight
congregation assemble in the drowsy warmth of the September afternoon.
He could not feel acutely—he could not even turn in his sorrow to the
Sacred Victim on the Altar, whose adoration brought the children’s
service to a close.
“O Sacred Victim, opening wide
The gate of heaven to men below ...”
The well-known words rose out of the shadows of the aisles behind him.
They bruised his heart with their familiar sweetness.
“Our foes press round on every side,
Thine aid supply, thy strength bestow.”
The candles that jigged in the small draughts of the sanctuary blurred
into a cloud of rising incense, and then more thickly into a cloud of
unshed tears. He fought them back, ashamed. He was beginning to feel
again, and he would rather not feel—like this. It was intolerable, this
appeal to his bruised emotion—it was like compelling him to use a
wounded limb. He felt as if he could not bear any more of the wan,
lilting music, the faint, sweet voices of the faithful, the perfumed
cloud that rose like smoke before the altar and then hung among the
gilding and shadows of the chancel roof. And now the virile tenor of the
Priest seemed to bring a definitely sexual element into the tender
dream.... What was this he was saying about love?...
“O God, who has prepared for them that _love_ thee, such good things as
pass man’s understanding, pour into our hearts such _love_ towards thee,
that we, _loving_ thee above all things....”
§ 23
The clear pale sunlight of late October glittered on the River
Tillingham, and seemed to be all light. No warmth was in the evening
ray, and Jenny’s woollen scarf was muffled to her throat as she came to
the Mocksteeple. From far off she had seen the tall figure waiting
beside the kiln. She wondered if he would hear her footsteps in the
grass, or whether till she had called his name he would stand looking
away towards where the light was thickening at the river’s mouth.
Her feet made a sucking noise in the ground which was spongy with autumn
rains. He turned towards her and immediately held out his arms.
“My lovely....”
She was enfolded.
His warmth and strength made her think of the earth, and there was a
faint scent of earth about him as she hid her face on his breast. There
was also that smell of the clean straw of stables which she had noticed
when she first met him. She rubbed her cheek childishly and fondly
against the roughness of his coat then lifted her mouth for his slow,
hard kisses.... “My lovely—oh, my lovely.”
“How long can you stay?” he asked her a few minutes later, when they had
huddled down together under the wall of the Mocksteeple, from which came
a faint radiation of warmth, as the tar gave out the heat it had
absorbed during the day.
“Not very long, I’m afraid, Benjie. There are people coming to dinner
tonight, and I’ll have to be back in good time. But we must fix about
Monday. I’ve already told them I’m going up to town for a day’s
shopping, and I’ve written to a friend to choose me a couple of frocks
at Debenham’s and send them down—to make the lie hold water. I’m afraid
I’m getting quite a resourceful liar.”
“But you _are_ going shopping, dear.”
“Yes, but I can’t tell them it’s furniture, stupid. Oh, Ben, won’t it be
wildly exciting choosing things for Fourhouses! But we mustn’t be
extravagant, and you’ve got some lovely bits already.”
“I want you to have the whole house to please you—nothing in it that you
don’t like.”
“I like everything except the parlour, and those iron bedsteads they
have upstairs. We’ll want some chests too, to use instead of the
washstands. Then Fourhouses will be perfect inside and out.”
“You have real taste—that’s what you have,” he said admiringly.
“It’s so dear of you to give me what I want.”
“It’s my wedding-present to you, sweetheart; and Mother and the girls
are giving you sheets and table linen, so reckon we’ll be well set up in
our housekeeping.”
She drowsed against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his
knees. He put his mouth to her ear.
“My sweet,” he murmured—“my little sweet—when is it going to be?”
“I’ve told you, Ben. At the beginning of January.”
“That’s your faithful word?”
“My faithful word.”
“I’m glad—for oh, my dearest, it seems I’ve waited long enough.”
“It won’t seem so very long now—and, Ben, I’ve made up my mind about one
thing. I’m not going to tell the family till it’s all over.”
“You’re not!”
“No—because if I told them before it happened they’d try to stop it; and
though they couldn’t stop it, it would be a nuisance having them try.”
“Does your brother agree with this?”
“It was he that suggested it.”
“Well, I’ve a great respect for that brother of yours. But, sweetheart,
it seems so dreadful, us marrying on the quiet, when I’m so proud of you
and ud like to hold you before all the world.”
“You shall hold me before all the world—after our marriage. But there’s
no good having a row with the parents, especially as they’re old. It’ll
be bad enough for them anyhow, but I think they’ll take it easier if
they know it’s too late to do anything.”
He acquiesced, as he usually did, for he respected her judgment, and his
natural dignity taught him to ignore this contempt of Alard for Godfrey.
The rest of their short time together must not be spoiled by discussion.
Once more he drew her close, and his kisses moved slowly from her
forehead to her eyes, from her eyes to her cheeks, then at last to her
mouth. His love-making gave her the thrill of a new experience, for she
knew what a discovery and a wonder it was to him. It was not stale with
repetition, distressed with comparison, as it was to so many men—as it
was to herself. She felt a stab of remorse, a regret that she too was
not making this adventure for the first time. She was younger than he,
and yet beside him she felt shabby, soiled.... She strained him to her
heart in an agony of tender possession. Oh, she would make his adventure
worth while—he should not be disappointed in experience. They would
explore the inmost heart of love together.
§ 24
Jenny was glad that the numbers in the drawing-room made it unnecessary
for her to sit down to cards. She and Rose Alard had both cut out, and
as Rose liked to sit and watch the play, Jenny felt she had an excuse to
mutter something about “having one or two things to see to,” and escape
from the room. She wanted to be alone if only for half an hour, just to
savour again in memory the comfort of her lover’s arms, his tender
breathing, the warmth of his kisses and the darkness of his embrace. She
shut her eyes and heard him say “My lovely ... oh, my lovely!”
A full moon was spilling her light over the garden, and instinctively
Jenny turned out of doors. She had put on her fur coat, and the still,
moon-dazzled night was many degrees from frost. In the garden she would
be sure of solitude, and at the same time would not be without the
response of nature, so necessary to her mood. “One deep calleth
another,” and her heart in its new depth of rapture called to the moon
and trees and grass, and received from them an answer which those
self-absorbed human beings, crowded over cards, could never give.
She walked to and fro on the wide path beside the tennis lawn then
turned into the darkness of the shrubbery, threading her way through
moon-spattered arbutus and laurel till she came to a little garden-house
which had been built in the reign of Queen Anne. It had the
characteristics of its age—solid brick walls, high deepset windows, and
a white pediment which now gleamed like silver in the light of the moon.
It had been built by the non-juring Gervase Alard, and here he had
studied after his deprivation of the Vicarage of Leasan, and written
queer crabbed books on a revised liturgy and on reunion with the Eastern
Church. No one ever worked in it now, and it contained nothing but a
bench and a few dilapidated garden chairs—it would hold only just enough
warmth for her to sit down and rest.
To her surprise she found it was not empty; a movement startled her as
she crossed the threshold, and the next moment she discovered Gervase,
leaning back in one of the chairs. He was just a blot of shadow in the
deeper darkness, except where his face, hands and shirt front caught the
moonshine in ghostly patches of white.
“Hullo, Gervase—I’d no notion you’d come here.”
He had left the drawing-room before coffee was brought in.
“I’ve been strolling about and got rather cold.”
“Same here. Is there a whole chair beside you?”
At first she had been sorry to find him and had meant to go away, but
now she realised that he was the only person whose company would not be
loss.
“If not, there’s one under me, and you shall have that.... Ah, here’s
something luxurious with rockers. Probably you and I are mad, my dear,
to be sitting here. But I felt I simply must run away from the party.”
“So did I.”
She sat down beside him. In spite of the ghastly moonlight that poured
over his face, he looked well—far less haggard than he had seemed in the
kinder light a month ago. It struck her that he had looked better ever
since his holiday, and his parting from Stella Mount, which he had told
her of a few days after it happened. He had had a bad time, she knew,
but he seemed to have come through it, and to have found a new kind of
settlement. As she looked at him more closely in the revealing light,
she saw that his mouth was perhaps a little too set, and that there were
lines between nose and chin which she had not noticed before. He looked
happy, but he also looked older.
“And how goes it, my dear?” he asked.
“Well, Gervase—extremely well.”
She was too shy of intimate things to enquire how it went with him.
“I saw Ben this afternoon,” she continued, “and I told him what you and
I thought about not telling the parents till afterwards.”
“And did he agree?”
“Yes, he agreed. I really think he’s been wonderful about it all—when
you consider how he must feel....”
“He’s got some sense of proportion—he’s not going to let his love be
spoilt by family pride. Jenny, if I’ve learnt anything in these first
years of my grown-up life, it is that love must come before everything
else.”
She was surprised at this from him.
“You would put it before religion?”
“Religion is the fulfilment of love.”
She repelled the awkward feelings which invariably oppressed her at the
mention of such things. She wanted to know more of this young brother of
hers, of the conflicts in which he triumphed mysteriously.
“Gervase, I wish I understood you better. I can’t make out how it is
that you, who’re so modern and even revolutionary in everything else,
should be so reactionary in your religion. Why do you follow tradition
there, when you despise it in other things.”
“Because it’s a tradition which stands fast when all the others are
tumbling down. It’s not tradition that I’m out against, but all the
feeble shams and conventions that can’t stand when they’re shaken.”
“But does religion stand? I thought it was coming down like everything
else.”
“Some kinds are. Because they’re built on passing ideas instead of on
unchanging instincts. But Catholic Christianity stands fast because it
belongs to an order of things which doesn’t change. It’s made of the
same stuff as our hearts. It’s the supernatural satisfaction of all our
natural instincts. It doesn’t deal with abstractions, but with everyday
life. The sacraments are all common things—food, drink, marriage, birth
and death. Its highest act of worship is a meal—its most sacred figures
are a dying man, and a mother nursing her child. It’s traditional in the
sense that nature and life are traditional....”
It was many months since she had heard him talk like this. It reminded
her of the old days when they were both at school, and he had brought
her all his ideas on men and things, all his latest enthusiasms and
discoveries.
“Jenny,” he continued, “I believe that we’ve come to the end of false
traditions—to the ‘removing of those things which are shaken, that those
things which cannot be shaken may remain.’”
“Is there anything besides religion which can’t be shaken?”
“Yes—my dear, the earth. The land will still be there though the Squires
go, just as the faith will still be there though the Parsons go. The
Parson and the Squire will go, and their places will be taken by the
Yeoman and the Priest who were there before them.”
“Go back to the Middle Ages?”
“Lord, no! Too much has happened since then. We’ve got industry and
machinery and science—we can’t go back to sack and maypoles. What I mean
is that, instead of the country being divided among a few big landlords
who don’t and can’t farm their own land, it will be divided into a lot
of small farms of manageable size. Instead of each country parish being
in the charge of a small country gentleman who has to keep up state on
an income of two hundred a year, and is cut off from his parishioners by
his social position and the iron gates of his parsonage, there’ll be a
humble servant living among them as one of themselves, set above them
only by his vocation. It’ll be a democracy which will have the best of
aristocracy kept alive in it. The Parson and the Squire don’t belong to
any true aristocracy—they’re Hanoverian relics—and they’re going, and
I’m glad.”
“Yes, I think they’re going all right, but I can’t feel so glad as you,
because I’m not so sure as to who will take their place. The yeoman
isn’t the only alternative to the squire—there’s also the small-holder
and the garden-city prospector. As for the parson—I don’t know much
about church affairs, but I should think he’s just as likely to lose the
spiritual side of himself as the material, and we’ll have men that
aren’t much better than relieving officers or heads of recreation
clubs.”
“Don’t try and burst my dream, Jenny. It’s a very good sort of dream,
and I like to think it will come true. And I know it will come true in a
sense, though possibly in a sense which will be nonsense to most people.
That’s a way some of the best dreams have.”
He was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Perhaps he was thinking of
another Gervase Alard, who had long ago sat where he sat, and dreamed a
dream which had not come true.
“But don’t let’s have any more of me and my dreams,” he said after a
while. “Talk to me about Ben. We started talking about him, you know,
and then drifted off into Utopia. I should think that was a good sign.”
“I’m meeting him in London on Monday to do some shopping.”
“What are you going to buy?”
“Furniture. I want to pick up one or two really nice old pieces for
Fourhouses. They’re to be his wedding-present to me. First of all we’ll
go to Duke Street, and then to Puttick and Simpson’s in the afternoon.”
“Are you going to refurnish the house?”
“No, only get rid of one or two abominations. I had thought of doing up
the Best Parlour, but now I’ve decided to let that stand. If I’m to be a
farmer’s wife I must get used to the Family Bible and aspidistras and
wool mats.”
“I think you’re wise. It’s just as well not to try to alter more of his
life than you can help.”
“I don’t want to alter his life. I’m quite persuaded that his life is
better than mine. And as for him not having our taste, or rather a
different kind of bad taste from what we’ve got—it doesn’t matter. I’ve
made up my mind I must take Ben as he comes and as a whole, and not try
to ignore or alter bits of him. I’m going to do the thing properly—make
his friends my friends, pour out tea for the old ladies of Icklesham,
ask the farmers who call round on business to stay to dinner or supper,
go to see them at their farms and make friends with their wives. I know
I can do it if only I do it thoroughly and don’t make any reservations.
Of course I’ll go on being friends with our set if they’ll let me, but
if they won’t, it’s they who’ll have to go and not the others. Gervase,
I’m sick of Jenny Alard, and I’m thankful that she’s going to die early
next year, and a new creature called Jenny Godfrey take her place.”
“My dear, you’re going to be very happy.”
“I know I am. I’m going to be the only happy Alard.”
“The only one?”
“Yes—look at the others. There’s Doris, a dreary middle-aged spinster,
trodden on by both the parents, and always regretting the lovers she
turned down because they weren’t good enough for the family. There’s
Mary, living alone in private hotels and spending all her money on
clothes; there’s Peter, who’s married a rich girl who’s too clever for
him, and who—worst of all—thinks he’s happy and has become conventional.
No—I can’t help it—I pity them all.”
“And what about me, Jenny? You’ve left me out. Do you pity me?”
She had ignored him deliberately—perhaps because she did not quite know
where to place him.
“O Gervase, I hope you’ll be happy—I’m sure you will, because you’re
different from the rest.”
“Yes, I’m sure too. I’m going to be happy—as happy as you. I don’t quite
know how”—and he gave her a wry smile—“but I know that I shall be.”
_PART IV_
STARVECROW
§ 1
“Father,” said Stella Mount—“I’m afraid I must go away again.”
“Go away, child? Why?”
“I—I can’t fall out of love with Peter.”
“But I thought you’d fallen out of love with him long ago.”
“Yes—I thought so too. But I can’t have done it really, or if I did I
must have fallen in again. I’m frightfully sorry about it ... leaving
you a second time, just because I’m not strong-minded enough to.... But
it’s no use.... I can’t help....”
“Don’t worry, dear. If you’re unhappy you shall certainly go away. But
tell me what’s happened. How long have you been feeling like this?”
“Ever since I knew Peter still cared.”
“Peter!—he hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”
“Oh, no—not a word. But I could see—I could see he was jealous of
Gervase.”
“How could he possibly be jealous of Gervase?”
“He was. I met him one day in Icklesham street, and he congratulated
me ... he said someone had told him Gervase and I were engaged....”
“The idea!—a boy six years younger than yourself!”
“Yes, I know. I never took him seriously—that was my mistake. Peter was
ever so worked up about it, and when I told him it wasn’t true he seemed
tremendously relieved. And every time I’ve met him since his manner’s
been different. I can’t describe it, but he’s been sort of shy and
hungry—or else restless and a bit irritable; and for a long time I could
see he was still jealous—and it worried me; I felt I couldn’t bear doing
anything Peter didn’t like, and I was wild at people talking, and
upsetting him, so I pushed off poor Gervase and became cold and
unfriendly.”
“Is that why he’s given up coming here on Sundays?”
“No—not exactly. We had rather a scene when he last came, just before
his holiday, and he said he wouldn’t come back. You see he cares,
Father—he cares dreadfully. I’m ever so sick with myself for not having
realised it. I was so wrapped up in Peter.... I thought it was only a
rave, like what the Fawcett boy had—but now I’m sure he really cares,
and it must be terrible for him. That’s why I want to go away, for I’ll
never be able to care for anyone else while I feel for Peter as I do.”
“But, my dear, it’s just as well you shouldn’t fall in love with
Gervase. He’s a nice boy, but he’s much too young.”
“Yes, I know—it isn’t that. It’s being sure that however much he was the
right age I couldn’t have cared—not because of anything lacking in
him—but because of what’s lacking in me ... because of all that I’ve
given to Peter, and that Peter can’t take.... Oh, Father, I’ve made some
discoveries since Gervase went. I believe I refused Tom Barlow because
of Peter. The reason I’m single now is because for years I’ve been in
love with a man I can’t have. And that’s wrong—I know it’s wrong. It
sounds ‘romantic’ and ‘faithful’ and all that—but it isn’t really—it’s
wrong. Not because Peter’s a married man, but because I’m an unmarried
woman. He’s keeping me unmarried, and I ought to get married—I don’t
like Spinsters—and I know I was meant to be married.”
“So do I; and I’m sure that one day you will be.”
“But I can’t fall in love with anyone while I love Peter ... that’s why
I must go away. I ought to go somewhere really far, out of the country
perhaps. I feel dreadful leaving you, daddy, but I know I must go. It’s
even more necessary than it was the first time. And there’s no good
saying I could help Peter if I stayed—I don’t help him—I can see that I
only make him unhappy; I’m not cold enough to be able to help him. A
calm strong dignified woman might be able to help him, but I’m not that
sort. I want his love, his kisses, his arms round me.... I want to
give.... O Father, Father....”
She sobbed breathlessly, her face hidden in the back of her chair. Dr.
Mount stood beside her in silence; then he touched her gently and said—
“Don’t cry like that my dear—don’t—I can’t bear it. You shall go
away—we’ll both go away. I’ve been in this place twenty years, and it’s
time I moved on.”
“But you don’t want to go, and you mustn’t. You’re happy here, and I’d
never forgive myself if you left because of me.”
“I’d like to see a bit more of the world before I retire. This isn’t the
first time I’ve thought of a move, and if you want to go away, that
settles it. I might get a colonial practice....”
Stella thought of some far away country with flat roofs and dust and a
devouring sun, she thought of hundreds of miles of forest and desert and
ocean lying between her and Peter, and her tears were suddenly dried up
as with the hot breath of that far land. Dry sobs tore her throat, as
she clutched the back of the chair. She pushed her father away—
“Go, dear—don’t stay—when I’m like this.”
He understood her well enough to go.
For a few seconds she sobbed on, then checked herself, and perfunctorily
wiped her eyes. The four o’clock sun of early November was pouring into
the room, showing all its dear faded homeliness, giving life to the
memories that filled it. Long ago Peter had sat in that chair—she had
sat on the arm ... she seemed to feel his warm hand on her cheek as he
held her head down to his shoulder. O Peter, Peter—why had he left her
when he loved her so?... Oh, yes, she knew he had treated her badly, and
had only himself to blame. But that didn’t make her love him less. She
felt now that she had been in love with him the whole time—all along—all
through and since their parting. All the time that she thought she was
indifferent, and was happy in her busy life—driving the car, seeing her
friends, talking and writing to Gervase, cooking and sewing and going to
church, wearing pretty frocks at the winter dances and summer
garden-parties—all that time her love for Peter was still alive, growing
and feeding itself with her life. It had not died and been buried as she
had thought but had entered a second time into its mother’s womb to be
born. She had carried it secretly, as a mother carries her child in her
womb, nourishing it with her life, and now it was born—born again—with
all the strength of the twice-born.
§ 2
It would be difficult to say how the rumour got abroad in Vinehall and
Leasan that the Mounts were going away. It may have been servants’
gossip, or the talk of some doctor come down to view the practice. But,
whatever the source, the story was in both villages at the end of the
month, and in the first week of December Rose Alard brought it to
Starvecrow.
She had come to have tea with Vera, and Peter was there too. Vera was
within three months of the heir, and displayed her condition with all
the opulence of her race. Not even her purple velvet tea-gown could hide
lines reminiscent of Sarah’s and Hannah’s exulting motherhood. Her very
features seemed to have a more definitely Jewish cast—she was now no
longer just a dark beauty, but a Hebrew beauty, heir of Rebecca and
Rachel and Miriam and Jael. As Jenny had once said, one expected her to
burst into a song about horses and chariots. She had for the time lost
those intellectual and artistic interests which distinguished her from
the other Alards. She no longer seemed to care about her book, for which
she had so far been unable to find a publisher, but let it lie forgotten
in a drawer, while she worked at baby clothes. Nevertheless she was
inclined to be irritable and snap at Peter, and Peter himself seemed
sullen and without patience. Rose watched him narrowly—“He’s afraid it’s
going to be a girl.”