The next few days saw Stephen abnormally restless. She had fairly well
made up her mind to test her theory of equality of the sexes by asking
Leonard Everard to marry her; but her difficulty was as to the doing it.
She knew well that it would not do to depend on a chance meeting for an
opportunity. After all, the matter was too serious to allow of the
possibility of levity. There were times when she thought she would write
to him and make her proffer of affection in this way; but on every
occasion when such thought recurred it was forthwith instantly abandoned.
During the last few days, however, she became more reconciled to even
this method of procedure. The fever of growth was unabated. At last
came an evening which she had all to herself. Miss Laetitia was going
over to Norwood to look after matters there, and would remain the night.
Stephen saw in her absence an opportunity for thought and action, and
said that, having a headache, she would remain at home. Her aunt offered
to postpone her visit. But she would not hear of it; and so she had the
evening to herself.
After dinner in her boudoir she set herself to the composition of a
letter to Leonard which would convey at least something of her feelings
and wishes towards him. In the depths of her heart, which now and again
beat furiously, she had a secret hope that when once the idea was
broached Leonard would do the rest. And as she thought of that 'rest' a
languorous dreaminess came upon her. She thought how he would come to
her full of love, of yearning passion; how she would try to keep towards
him, at first, an independent front which would preserve her secret
anxiety until the time should come when she might yield herself to his
arms and tell him all. For hours she wrote letter after letter,
destroying them as quickly as she wrote, as she found that she had but
swayed pendulum fashion between overtness and coldness. Some of the
letters were so chilly in tone that she felt they would defeat their own
object. Others were so frankly warm in the expression of--regard she
called it, that with burning blushes she destroyed them at once at the
candle before her.
At last she made up her mind. Just as she had done when a baby she
realised that the opposing forces were too strong for her; she gave in
gracefully. It would not do to deal directly in a letter with the matter
in hand. She would write to Leonard merely asking him to see her. Then,
when they were together without fear of interruption, she would tell him
her views.
She got as far as 'Dear Mr. Leonard,' when she stood up, saying to
herself:
'I shall not be in a hurry. I must sleep on it before I write!' She
took up the novel she had been reading in the afternoon, and read on at
it steadily till her bedtime.
That night she did not sleep. It was not that she was agitated. Indeed,
she was more at ease than she had been for days; she had after much
anxious thought made up her mind to a definite course of action.
Therefore her sleeplessness was not painful. It was rather that she did
not want to sleep, than that she could not. She lay still, thinking,
thinking; dreaming such dreams as are the occasions of sanctified privacy
to her age and sex.
In the morning she was no worse for her vigil. When at luncheon-time
Aunt Laetitia had returned she went into all the little matters of which
she had to report. It was after tea-time when she found herself alone,
and with leisure to attend to what was, she felt, directly her own
affair. During the night she had made up her mind exactly what to say to
Leonard; and as her specific resolution bore the test of daylight she was
satisfied. The opening words had in their inception caused her some
concern; but after hours of thought she had come to the conclusion that
to address, under the circumstance, the recipient of the letter as 'Dear
Mr. Everard' would hardly do. The only possible justification of her
unconventional act was that there existed already a friendship, an
intimacy of years, since childhood; that there were already between them
knowledge and understanding of each other; that what she was doing, and
about to do, was but a further step in a series of events long ago
undertaken.
She thought it better to send by post rather than messenger, as the
latter did away with all privacy with regard to the act.
The letter was as follows:
'DEAR LEONARD,--Would it be convenient for you to meet me to-morrow,
Tuesday, at half-past twelve o'clock on the top of Caester Hill? I
want to speak about a matter that may have some interest to you, and
it will be more private there than in the house. Also it will be
cooler in the shade on the hilltop.--
Yours sincerely, STEPHEN NORMAN.'
Having posted the letter she went about the usual routine of her life at
Normanstand, and no occasion of suspicion or remark regarding her came to
her aunt.
In her room that night when she had sent away her maid, she sat down to
think, and all the misgivings of the day came back. One by one they were
conquered by one protective argument:
'I am free to do as I like. I am my own mistress; and I am doing nothing
that is wrong. Even if it is unconventional, what of that? God knows
there are enough conventions in the world that are wrong, hopelessly,
unalterably wrong. After all, who are the people who are most bound by
convention? Those who call themselves "smart!" If Convention is the god
of the smart set, then it is about time that honest people chose
another!'
* * * * *
Leonard received the letter at breakfast-time. He did not give it any
special attention, as he had other letters at the same time, some of
which were, if less pleasant, of more immediate importance. He had of
late been bombarded with dunning letters from tradesmen; for during his
University life, and ever since, he had run into debt. The moderate
allowance his father made him he had treated as cash for incidental
expenses, but everything else had been on credit. Indeed he was
beginning to get seriously alarmed about the future, for his father, who
had paid his debts once, and at a time when they were by comparison
inconsiderable, had said that he would not under any circumstances pay
others. He was not sorry, therefore, for an opportunity of getting away
for a few hours from home; from himself--from anxieties, possibilities.
The morning was a sweltering one, and he grumbled to himself as he set
out on his journey through the woods.
* * * * *
Stephen rose fresh and in good spirits, despite her sleepless night. When
youth and strength are to the fore, a night's sleep is not of much
account, for the system once braced up is not allowed to slacken. It was
a notable sign of her strong nature that she was not even impatient, but
waited with calm fixity the hour at which she had asked Leonard Everard
to meet her. It is true that as the time grew closer her nerve was less
marked. And just before it she was a girl--and nothing more; with all
girl's diffidence, a girl's self-distrust, a girl's abnegation, a girl's
plasticity.
In the more purely personal aspect of her enterprise Stephen's effort was
more conscious. It is hardly possible for a pretty woman to seek in her
study of perfection the aid of her mirror and to be unconscious of her
aims. There must certainly be at least one dominant purpose: the
achievement of success. Stephen did not attempt to deny her own beauty;
on the contrary she gave it the fullest scope. There was a certain
triumph in her glance as she took her last look in her mirror; a
gratification of her wish to show herself in the best way possible. It
was a very charming picture which the mirror reflected.
It may be that there is a companionship in a mirror, especially to a
woman; that the reflection of oneself is an emboldening presence, a
personality which is better than the actuality of an unvalued stranger.
Certainly, when Stephen closed the door and stood in the wainscoted
passage, which was only dimly lit by the high window at either end, her
courage seemed at once to ooze away.
Probably for the first time in her life, as she left the shade of the
long passage and came out on the staircase flooded with the light of the
noonday sun, Stephen felt that she was a girl--'girl' standing as some
sort of synonym for weakness, pretended or actual. Fear, in whatever
form or degree it may come, is a vital quality and must move. It cannot
stand at a fixed point; if it be not sent backward it must progress.
Stephen felt this, and, though her whole nature was repugnant to the
task, forced herself to the effort of repression. It would, she felt,
have been to her a delicious pleasure to have abandoned all effort; to
have sunk in the lassitude of self-surrender.
The woman in her was working; her sex had found her out!
She turned and looked around her, as though conscious of being watched.
Then, seeing that she was alone, she went her way with settled purpose;
with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks--and a beating heart. A heart all
woman's since it throbbed the most with apprehension when the enemy, Man,
was the objective of her most resolute attack. She knew that she must
keep moving; that she must not stop or pause; or her whole resolution
must collapse. And so she hurried on, fearful lest a chance meeting with
any one might imperil her purpose.
On she went through the faint moss-green paths; through meadows rich with
flowering grasses and the many reds of the summer wild-flowers. And so
up through the path cut in the natural dipping of the rock that rose over
Caester Hill and formed a strong base for the clump of great trees that
made a landmark for many a mile around. During the first part of her
journey between the house and the hilltop, she tried to hold her purpose
at arm's length; it would be sufficient to face its terrors when the time
had come. In the meantime the matter was of such overwhelming importance
that nothing else could take its place; all she could do was to suspend
the active part of the thinking faculties and leave the mind only
receptive.
But when she had passed through the thin belt of stunted oak and beech
which hedged in the last of the lush meadows, and caught sight of the
clump of trees on the hilltop, she unconsciously braced herself as a
young regiment loses its tremors when the sight of the enemy breaks upon
it. No longer her eyes fell earthward; they were raised, and raised
proudly. Stephen Norman was fixed in her intention. Like the woman of
old, her feet were on the ploughshares and she would not hesitate.
As she drew near the appointed place her pace grew slower and slower; the
woman in her was unconsciously manifesting itself. She would not be
first in her tryst with a man. Unconsciousness, however, is not a
working quality which can be relied upon for staying power; the approach
to the trysting-place brought once more home to her the strange nature of
her enterprise. She had made up her mind to it; there was no use in
deceiving herself. What she had undertaken to do was much more
unconventional than being first at a meeting. It was foolish and weak to
delay. The last thought braced her up; and it was with a hurried gait,
which alone would have betrayed her to an intelligent observer, that she
entered the grove.