The next important move in the household was Harold's going to Cambridge.
His father had always intended this, and Squire Norman had borne his
wishes in mind. Harold joined Trinity, the college which had been his
father's, and took up his residence in due course.
Stephen was now nearly twelve. Her range of friendships, naturally
limited by her circumstances in life, was enlarged to the full; and if
she had not many close friends there were at least of them all that was
numerically possible. She still kept up to certain degree the little
gatherings which in her childhood were got together for her amusement,
and in the various games then instituted she still took a part. She
never lost sight of the fact that her father took a certain pleasure in
her bodily vigour. And though with her growing years and the conscious
acceptance of her womanhood, she lost sight of the old childish fancy of
being a boy instead of a girl, she could not lose sight of the fact that
strength and alertness are sources of feminine as well as of masculine
power.
Amongst the young friends who came from time to time during his holidays
was Leonard Everard, now a tall, handsome boy. He was one of those boys
who develop young, and who seem never to have any of that gawky stage so
noticeable in the youth of men made in a large pattern. He was always
well-poised, trim-set, alert; fleet of foot, and springy all over. In
games he was _facile princeps_, seeming to make his effort always in the
right way and without exertion, as if by an instinct of physical
masterdom. His universal success in such matters helped to give him an
easy debonair manner which was in itself winning. So physically complete
a youth has always a charm. In its very presence there is a sort of
sympathetic expression, such as comes with the sunshine.
Stephen always in Leonard's presence showed something of the common
attitude. His youth and beauty and sex all had their influence on her.
The influence of sex, as it is understood with regard to a later period
of life, did not in her case exist; Cupid's darts are barbed and winged
for more adult victims. But in her case Leonard's masculine superiority,
emphasised by the few years between their age, his sublime self-belief,
and, above all, his absolute disregard for herself or her wishes or her
feelings, put him on a level at which she had to look up to him. The
first step in the ladder of pre-eminence had been achieved when she
realised that he was not on her level; the second when she experienced
rather than thought that he had more influence on her than she had on
him. Here again was a little morsel of hero worship, which, though based
on a misconception of fact, was still of influence. In that episode of
the crypt she had always believed that it was Leonard who had carried her
out and laid her on the church floor in light and safety. He had been
strong enough and resolute enough to do this, whilst she had fainted!
Harold's generous forbearance had really worked to a false end.
It was not strange, therefore, that she found occasional companionship
with the handsome, wilful, domineering boy somewhat of luxury. She did
not see him often enough to get tired of him; to find out the weakness of
his character; to realise his deep-seated, remorseless selfishness. But
after all he was only an episode in a young life which was full of
interests. Term after term came and went; the holidays had their
seasonable pleasures, occasionally shared in common. That was all.
Harold's attitude was the same as ever. He was of a constant nature; and
now that manhood was within hail the love of his boyhood was ripening to
a man's love. That was all. He was with regard to Stephen the same
devoted, worshipping protector, without thought of self; without hope of
reward. Whatever Stephen wished Harold did; and Stephen, knowing their
old wishes and their old pleasures, was content with their renewal. Each
holiday between the terms became mainly a repetition of the days of the
old life. They lived in the past.
Amongst the things that did not change was Stephen's riding dress. The
scarlet habit had never been a thing for everyday wear, but had from the
first been kept for special occasions. Stephen herself knew that it was
not a conventional costume; but she rather preferred it, if on that
account alone. In a certain way she felt justified in using it; for a
red habit was a sort of tradition in the family.
It was on one of these occasions that she had gone with Harold into the
churchyard where they had heard the discussion regarding God and the
Angels.
* * * * *
When Stephen was about sixteen she went for a short visit to Oxford. She
stayed at Somerville with Mrs. Egerton, an old friend of her mother's,
who was a professor at the college. She sent back her maid who had
travelled with her, as she knew that the college girls did not have
servants of their own. The visit was prolonged by mutual consent into a
duration of some weeks. Stephen fell in love with the place and the
life, and had serious thoughts of joining the college herself. Indeed
she had made up her mind to ask her father to allow her, knowing well
that he would consent to that or to any other wholesome wish of hers. But
then came the thought that he would be all alone at home; and following
that came another thought, and one of more poignant feeling. He was
alone now! Already, for many days, she had left him, for the first time
in her life! Stephen was quick to act; well she knew that at home there
would be no fault found with her for a speedy return. Within a few hours
she had brought her visit to an end, and was by herself, despite Mrs.
Egerton's protest, in the train on the way back to Norcester.
In the train she began to review, for the first time, her visit to the
university. All had been so strange and new and delightful to her that
she had never stopped for retrospect. Life in the new and enchanting
place had been in the moving present. The mind had been receptive only,
gathering data for later thought. During her visit she had had no one to
direct her thought, and so it had been all personal, with the freedom of
individuality at large. Of course her mother's friend, skilled in the
mind-workings of average girls, and able to pick her way through
intellectual and moral quagmires, had taken good care to point out to her
certain intellectual movements and certain moral lessons; just as she had
in their various walks and drives pointed out matters of
interest--architectural beauties and spots of historic import. And she
had taken in, loyally accepted, and thoroughly assimilated all that she
had been told. But there were other lessons which were for her young
eyes; facts which the older eyes had ceased to notice, if they had ever
noticed them at all. The self-content, the sex-content in the endless
tide of young men that thronged the streets and quads and parks; the all-
sufficing nature of sport or study, to whichever their inclinations
tended. The small part which womankind seemed to have in their lives.
Stephen had had, as we know, a peculiar training; whatever her instincts
were, her habits were largely boy habits. Here she was amongst boys, a
glorious tide of them; it made now and again her heart beat to look at
them. And yet amongst them all she was only an outsider. She could not
do anything better than any of them. Of course, each time she went out,
she became conscious of admiring glances; she could not be woman without
such consciousness. But it was as a girl that men looked at her, not as
an equal. As well as personal experience and the lessons of eyes and
ears and intelligence, there were other things to classify and adjust;
things which were entirely from the outside of her own life. The
fragments of common-room gossip, which it had been her fortune to hear
accidentally now and again. The half confidences of scandals, borne on
whispered breaths. The whole confidences of dormitory and study which
she had been privileged to share. All were parts of the new and strange
world, the great world which had swum into her ken.
As she sat now in the train, with some formulation of memory already
accomplished in the two hours of solitude, her first comment, spoken half
audibly, would have surprised her teachers as much as it would have
surprised herself, if she had been conscious of it; for as yet her
thinking was not self-conscious:
'Surely, I am not like that!'
It was of the women she had been thinking, not of the men. The glimpse
which she had had of her own sex had been an awakening to her; and the
awakening had not been to a pleasant world. All at once she seemed to
realise that her sex had defects--littlenesses, meannesses, cowardices,
falsenesses. That their occupations were apt to be trivial or narrow or
selfish; that their desires were earthly, and their tastes coarse; that
what she held to be goodness was apt to be realised only as fear. That
innocence was but ignorance, or at least baffled curiosity. That . . .
A flood of shame swept over her, and instinctively she put her hands
before her burning face. As usual, she was running all at once into
extremes.
And above all these was borne upon her, and for the first time in her
life, that she was herself a woman!
For a long time she sat quite still. The train thrilled and roared on
its way. Crowded stations took and gave their quantum of living freight;
but the young girl sat abstracted, unmoved, seemingly unconscious. All
the dominance and energy of her nature were at work.
If, indeed, she was a woman, and had to abide by the exigencies of her
own sex, she would at least not be ruled and limited by woman's weakness.
She would plan and act and manage things for herself, in her own way.
Whatever her thoughts might be, she could at least control her acts. And
those acts should be based not on woman's weakness, but on man's
strength!