When Stephen announced her intention of going with her father to the
Petty Sessions Court, there was consternation amongst the female
population of Normanstand and Norwood. Such a thing had not been heard
of in the experiences of any of them. Courts of Justice were places for
men; and the lower courts dealt with a class of cases . . . It was quite
impossible to imagine where any young lady could get such an idea . . .
Miss Laetitia Rowly recognised that she had a difficult task before her,
for she was by now accustomed to Stephen's quiet method of having her own
way.
She made a careful toilet before driving over to Normanstand. Her
wearing her best bonnet was a circumstance not unattended with dread for
some one. Behold her then, sailing into the great drawing-room at
Normanstand with her mind so firmly fixed on the task before her as to be
oblivious of minor considerations. She was so fond of Stephen, and
admired so truly her many beauties and fine qualities, that she was
secure and without flaw in her purpose. Stephen was in danger, and
though she doubted if she would be able to effect any change, she was
determined that at least she should not go into danger with her eyes
unopened.
Stephen entered hastily and ran to her. She loved her great-aunt; really
and truly loved her. And indeed it would have been strange if she had
not, for from the earliest hour which she could recollect she had
received from her nothing but the truest, fondest affection. Moreover
she deeply respected the old lady, her truth, her resolution, her
kindliness, her genuine common-sense ability. Stephen always felt safe
with her aunt. In the presence of others she might now and again have a
qualm or a doubt; but not with her. There was an abiding calm in her
love, answering love realised and respected. Her long and intimate
knowledge of Laetitia made her aware of her moods. She could read the
signs of them. She knew well the meaning of the bonnet which actually
seemed to quiver as though it had a sentience of its own. She knew well
the cause of her aunt's perturbation; the pain which must be caused to
her was perhaps the point of most resistance in herself--she having made
up her mind to her new experience. All she could do would be to try to
reconcile her by the assurance of good intention; by reason, and by
sweetness of manner. When she had kissed her and sat beside her, holding
her hand after her pretty way, she, seeing the elder woman somewhat at a
loss, opened the subject herself:
'You look troubled, auntie! I hope it is nothing serious?'
'It is, my dear! Very serious! Everything is serious to me which
touches you.'
'Me, Auntie!' Hypocrisy is a fine art.
'Yes! yes, Stephen. Oh! my dear child, what is this I hear about your
going to Petty Sessions with your father?'
'Oh, that! Why, Auntie dear, you must not let that trouble you. It is
all right. That is necessary!'
'Necessary!' the old lady's figure grew rigid and her voice was loud and
high. 'Necessary for a young lady to go to a court house. To hear low
people speaking of low crimes. To listen to cases of the most shocking
kind; cases of low immorality; cases of a kind, of a nature of a--a--class
that you are not supposed to know anything about. Really, Stephen! . . .
' She was drawing away her hand in indignation. But Stephen held it
tight, as she said very sweetly:
'That is just it, Auntie. I am so ignorant that I feel I should know
more of the lives of those very people!' Miss Laetitia interrupted:
'Ignorant! Of course you are ignorant. That is what you ought to be.
Isn't it what we have all been devoting ourselves to effect ever since
you were born? Read your third chapter of Genesis and remember what came
of eating of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge.'
'I think the Tree of Knowledge must have been an orange tree.' The old
lady looked up, her interest aroused:
'Why?'
'Because ever since Eden other brides have worn its blossom!' Her tone
was demure. Miss Rowly looked sharply at her, but her sharpness softened
off into a smile.
'H'm!' she said, and was silent. Stephen seized the opportunity to put
her own case:
'Auntie dear, you must forgive me! You really must, for my heart is set
on this. I assure you I am not doing it merely to please myself. I have
thought over the whole matter. Father has always wished me to be in a
position--a position of knowledge and experience--to manage Normanstand
if I should ever succeed him. From the earliest time I can remember he
has always kept this before me, and though of course I did not at first
understand what it meant, I have seemed in the last few years to know
better. Accordingly I learned all sorts of things under his care, and
sometimes even without his help. I have studied the estate map, and I
have been over the estate books and read some of the leases and all such
matters which they deal with in the estate office. This only told me the
bones of the thing. I wanted to know more of our people; and so I made a
point of going now and again to each house that we own. Of seeing the
people and talking with them familiarly; as familiarly as they would let
me, and indeed so far as was possible considering my position. For,
Auntie dear, I soon began to learn--to learn in a way there was no
mistaking--what my position is. And so I want to get to know more of
their ordinary lives; the darker as well as the lighter side. I would
like to do them good. I can see how my dear daddy has always been a sort
of power to help them, and I would like to carry on his work; to carry it
further if I may. But I must know.'
Her aunt had been listening with growing interest, and with growing
respect too, for she realised the intense earnestness which lay behind
the girl's words and her immediate purpose. Her voice and manner were
both softened:
'But, my dear, surely it is not necessary to go into the Court to know
these things. The results of each case become known.'
'That is just it, Auntie,' she answered quickly. 'The magistrates have
to hear the two sides of the case before even they can make up their
minds. I want to hear both sides, too! If people are guilty, I want to
know the cause of their guilt. If they are innocent, I want to know what
the circumstances can be which make innocence look like guilt. In my own
daily life I may be in the way of just such judgments; and surely it is
only right that judgment should be just!'
Again she paused; there rose before her mind that conversation in the
churchyard when Harold had said that it was difficult for women to be
just.
Miss Rowly reflected too. She was becoming convinced that in principle
the girl was right. But the details were repugnant as ever to her;
concentrating her mind on the point where she felt the ground firm under
her, she made her objection:
'But, Stephen dear, there are so many cases that are sordid and painful!'
'The more need to know of sordid things; if sordidness plays so important
a part in the tragedy of their lives!'
'But there are cases which are not within a woman's province. Cases that
touch sin . . . '
'What kind of sin do you mean? Surely all wrong-doing is sin!' The old
lady was embarrassed. Not by the fact, for she had been for too many
years the mistress of a great household not to know something of the
subject on which she spoke, but that she had to speak of such a matter to
the young girl whom she so loved.
'The sin, my dear, of . . . of woman's wrong-doing . . . as woman . . .
of motherhood, without marriage!' All Stephen's nature seemed to rise in
revolt.
'Why, Auntie,' she spoke out at once, 'you yourself show the want of the
very experience I look for!'
'How? what?' asked the old lady amazed and bristling. Stephen took her
hand and held it affectionately as she spoke:
'You speak of a woman's wrong-doing, when surely it is a man's as well.
There does not seem to be blame for him who is the more guilty. Only for
poor women! . . . And, Auntie dear, it is such poor women that I should
like to help . . . Not when it is too late, but before! But how can I
help unless I know? Good girls cannot tell me, and good women won't! You
yourself, Auntie, didn't want to speak on the subject; even to me!'
'But, my dear child, these are not things for unmarried women. I never
speak of them myself except with matrons.' Stephen's answer flashed out
like a sword; and cut like one:
'And yet you are unmarried! Oh, Auntie dear, I did not and I do not mean
to be offensive, or to hurt you in any way. I know, dear, your goodness
and your kindness to all. But you limit yourself to one side!' The
elder lady interrupted:
'How do you mean? one side! which side?'
'The punishment side. I want to know the cause of that which brings the
punishment. There surely is some cross road in a girl's life where the
ways part. I want to stand there if I can, with warning in one hand and
help in the other. Oh! Auntie, Auntie, can't you see that my heart is in
this . . . These are our people; Daddy says they are to be my people; and
I want to know their lives right through; to understand their wants, and
their temptations, and their weakness. Bad and good, whatever it be, I
must know it all; or I shall be working in the dark, and may injure or
crush where I had looked to help and raise.'
As she spoke she looked glorified. The afternoon autumn sun shone full
through the great window and lighted her up till she looked like a
spirit. Lighted her white diaphanous dress till it seemed to take shape
as an ethereal robe; lighted her red hair till it looked like a celestial
crown; lighted her great dark eyes till their black beauty became swept
in the tide of glory.
The heart of the old woman who loved her best heaved, and her bosom
swelled with pride. Instinctively she spoke:
'Oh, you noble, beautiful creature! Of course you are right, and your
way is God's way!' With tears that rained down her furrowed cheeks, she
put her arms round the girl and kissed her fondly. Still holding her in
her arms she gave her the gentle counsel which was the aftermath of her
moment of inspiration.
'But Stephen dear, do be careful! Knowledge is a two-edged sword, and it
is apt to side with pride. Remember what was the last temptation of the
serpent to Eve: "Your eyes shall be opened, and ye shall be as gods,
knowing good and evil."'
'I shall be very careful,' she said gravely; and then added as if by an
afterthought, 'of course you understand that my motive is the acquisition
of knowledge?'
'Yes?' the answer was given interrogatively.
'Don't you think, dear, that Eve's object was not so much the acquisition
of knowledge as the gratification of curiosity.'
'That may be,' said the elder lady in a doubtful tone; 'but my dear, who
is to enlighten us as to which is which? We are apt in such matters to
deceive ourselves. The more we know, the better are we able to deceive
others; and the better we are able to deceive others the better we are
able to deceive ourselves. As I tell you, dear, knowledge is two-edged
and needs extra carefulness in its use!'
'True!' said Stephen reflectively. Long after her aunt had gone she sat
thinking.
* * * * *
Once again did Miss Rowly try to restrain Stephen from a project. This
was when a little later she wished to go for a few days to the University
Mission House in the East end of London. Ever since her visit to Oxford
she had kept up a correspondence with her mother's old friend. It was
this lady's habit to spend a part of vacation in the Mission; and Stephen
had had much correspondence with her regarding the work. At last she
wrote that if she might, she would like to come and see for herself. The
answer was a cordial invitation, armed with which she asked her father to
allow her to go. He at once assented. He had been watching keenly the
development of her character, and had seen with pride and satisfaction
that as time went on she seemed to acquire greater resolution, larger
self-dependence. She was becoming more and more of his ideal. Without
losing any of her womanhood, she was beginning to look at things more
from a man's point of view than is usually done by, or possible to,
women.
When she returned at the end of a week she was full of new gravity. After
a while this so far changed that her old lighter moods began to have
their place, but it seemed that she never lost, and that she never would
lose, the effect of that week of bitter experience amongst the 'submerged
tenth.'
The effect of the mental working was shown by a remark made by Harold
when home on his next college vacation. He had been entering with her on
a discussion of an episode on the estate:
'Stephen, you are learning to be just!'
At the moment she was chagrined by the remark, though she accepted it in
silence; but later, when she had thought the matter over, she took from
it infinite pleasure. This was indeed to share man's ideas and to think
with the workings of man's mind. It encouraged her to further and larger
ideas, and to a greater toleration than she had hitherto dreamed of.
Of all those who loved her, none seemed to understand so fully as
Laetitia Rowly the change in her mental attitude, or rather the
development of it. Now and again she tried to deflect or modify certain
coming forces, so that the educational process in which she had always
had a part would continue in the right direction. But she generally
found that the girl had been over the ground so thoroughly that she was
able to defend her position. Once, when she had ventured to remonstrate
with her regarding her attitude of woman's equality with man, she felt as
if Stephen's barque was indeed entering on dangerous seas. The occasion
had arisen thus: Stephen had been what her aunt had stigmatised as
'laying down the law' with regard to the position a married woman, and
Miss Rowly, seeing a good argumentative opening, remarked:
'But what if a woman does not get the opportunity of being married?'
Stephen looked at her a moment before saying with conviction:
'It is a woman's fault if she does not get the opportunity!' The old
lady smiled as she answered:
'Her fault? My dear, what if no man asks her?' This seemed to her own
mind a poser.
'Still her own fault! Why doesn't she ask him?' Her aunt's lorgnon was
dropped in horrified amazement.
Stephen went on impassively.
'Certainly! Why shouldn't she? Marriage is a union. As it is in the
eye of the law a civil contract, either party to it should be at liberty
to originate the matter. If a woman is not free to think of a man in all
ways, how is she to judge of the suitability of their union? And if she
is free in theory, why not free to undertake if necessary the initiative
in a matter so momentous to herself?' The old lady actually groaned and
wrung her hands; she was horrified at such sentiments. They were daring
enough to think; but to put them in words! . . .
'Oh, my dear, my dear!' she moaned, 'be careful what you say. Some one
might hear you who would not understand, as I do, that you are talking
theory.' Stephen's habit of thought stood to her here. She saw that her
aunt was distressed, and as she did not wish to pain her unduly, was
willing to divert the immediate channel of her fear. She took the hand
which lay in her lap and held it firmly whilst she smiled in the loving
old eyes.
'Of course, Auntie dear, it is theory. But still it is a theory which I
hold very strongly!' . . . Here a thought struck her and she said
suddenly:
'Did you ever . . . How many proposals did you have, Auntie?' The old
lady smiled; her thoughts were already diverted.
'Several, my dear! It is so long ago that I don't remember!'
'Oh yes, you do, Auntie! No woman ever forgets that, no matter what else
she may or may not remember! Tell me, won't you?' The old lady blushed
slightly as she answered:
'There is no need to specify, my dear. Let it be at this, that there
were more than you could count on your right hand!'
'And why did you refuse them?' The tone was wheedling, and the elder
woman loved to hear it. Wheedling is the courtship, by the young of the
old.
'Because, my dear, I didn't love them.'
'But tell me, Auntie, was there never any one that you did love?'
'Ah! my dear, that is a different matter. That is the real tragedy of a
woman's life.' In flooding reminiscent thought she forgot her
remonstrating; her voice became full of natural pathos:
'To love; and be helpless! To wait, and wait, and wait; with your heart
all aflame! To hope, and hope; till time seems to have passed away, and
all the world to stand still on your hopeless misery! To know that a
word might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute! To keep back
the glances that could enlighten; to modulate the tones that might
betray! To see all you hoped for passing away . . . to another! . . . '
Stephen bent over and kissed her, then standing up said:
'I understand! Isn't it wrong, Auntie, that there should be such
tragedies? Should not that glance be given? Why should that tone be
checked? Why should one be mute when a single word might, would, avert
the tragedy? Is it not possible, Auntie, that there is something wrong
in our social system when such things can happen; and can happen so
often?'
She looked remorseless as well as irresistible in the pride of her
youthful strength as with eyes that blazed, not flashing as in passion
but with a steady light that seemed to burn, she continued:
'Some day women must learn their own strength, as well as they have
learned their own weakness. They are taught this latter from their
cradles up; but no one ever seems to teach them wherein their power lies.
They have to learn this for themselves; and the process and the result of
the self-teaching are not good. In the University Settlement I learned
much that made my heart ache; but out of it there seemed some lesson for
good.' She paused; and her aunt, wishing to keep the subject towards
higher things, asked:
'And that lesson, Stephen dear?' The blazing eyes turned to her so that
she was stirred by them as the answer came:
'It is bad women who seem to know men best, and to be able to influence
them most. They can make men come and go at will. They can turn and
twist and mould them as they choose. And _they_ never hesitate to speak
their own wishes; to ask for what they want. There are no tragedies, of
the negative kind, in _their_ lives. Their tragedies have come and gone
already; and their power remains. Why should good women leave power to
such as they? Why should good women's lives be wrecked for a convention?
Why in the blind following of some society fetish should life lose its
charm, its possibilities? Why should love eat its heart out, in vain?
The time will come when women will not be afraid to speak to men, as they
should speak, as free and equal. Surely if a woman is to be the equal
and lifelong companion of a man, the closest to him--nay, the only one
really close to him: the mother of his children--she should be free at
the very outset to show her inclination to him just as he would to her.
Don't be frightened, Auntie dear; your eyes are paining me! . . . There!
perhaps I said too much. But after all it is only theory. Take for your
comfort, Auntie dear, that I am free an heart-whole. You need not fear
for me; I can see what your dear eyes tell me. Yes! I am very young;
perhaps too young to think such things. But I have thought of them.
Thought them all over in every way and phase I can imagine.'
She stopped suddenly; bending over, she took the old lady in her arms and
kissed her fondly several times, holding her tight. Then, as suddenly
releasing her, she ran away before she could say a word.