Had Stephen been better acquainted with men and women, she would have
been more satisfied with herself for being the first at the tryst. The
conventional idea, in the minds of most women and of all men, is that a
woman should never be the first. But real women, those in whom the heart
beats strong, and whose blood can leap, know better. These are the
commanders of men. In them sex calls to sex, all unconsciously at first;
and men answer to their call, as they to men's.
Two opposite feelings strove for dominance as Stephen found herself on
the hilltop, alone. One a feeling natural enough to any one, and
especially to a girl, of relief that a dreaded hour had been postponed;
the other of chagrin that she was the first.
After a few moments, however, one of the two militant thoughts became
dominant: the feeling of chagrin. With a pang she thought if she had
been a man and summoned for such a purpose, how she would have hurried to
the trysting-place; how the flying of her feet would have vied with the
quick rapturous beating of her heart! With a little sigh and a blush,
she remembered that Leonard did not know the purpose of the meeting; that
he was a friend almost brought up with her since boy and girl times; that
he had often been summoned in similar terms and for the most trivial of
social purposes.
For nearly half an hour Stephen sat on the rustic seat under the shadow
of the great oak, looking, half unconscious of its beauty and yet
influenced by it, over the wide landscape stretched at her feet.
In spite of her disregard of conventions, she was no fool; the instinct
of wisdom was strong within her, so strong that in many ways it ruled her
conscious efforts. Had any one told her that her preparations for this
interview were made deliberately with some of the astuteness that
dominated the Devil when he took Jesus to the top of a high mountain and
showed him all the kingdoms of the earth at His feet, she would have, and
with truth, denied it with indignation. Nevertheless it was a fact that
she had, in all unconsciousness, chosen for the meeting a spot which
would evidence to a man, consciously or unconsciously, the desirability
for his own sake of acquiescence in her views and wishes. For all this
spreading landscape was her possession, which her husband would share. As
far as the eye could reach was within the estate which she had inherited
from her father and her uncle.
The half-hour passed in waiting had in one way its advantages to the
girl: though she was still as high strung as ever, she acquired a larger
measure of control over herself. The nervous tension, however, was so
complete physically that all her faculties were acutely awake; very early
she became conscious of a distant footstep.
To Stephen's straining ears the footsteps seemed wondrous slow, and more
wondrous regular; she felt instinctively that she would have liked to
have listened to a more hurried succession of less evenly-marked sounds.
But notwithstanding these thoughts, and the qualms which came in their
turn, the sound of the coming feet brought great joy. For, after all,
they were coming; and coming just in time to prevent the sense of
disappointment at their delay gaining firm foothold. It was only when
the coming was assured that she felt how strong had been the undercurrent
of her apprehension lest they should not come at all.
Very sweet and tender and beautiful Stephen looked at this moment. The
strong lines of her face were softened by the dark fire in her eyes and
the feeling which glowed in the deep blushes which mantled her cheeks.
The proudness of her bearing was no less marked than ever, but in the
willowy sway of her body there was a yielding of mere sorry pride. In
all the many moods which the gods allow to good women there is none so
dear or so alluring, consciously as well as instinctively, to true men as
this self-surrender. As Leonard drew near, Stephen sank softly into a
seat, doing so with a guilty feeling of acting a part. When he actually
came into the grove he found her seemingly lost in a reverie as she gazed
out over the wide expanse in front of her. He was hot after his walk,
and with something very like petulance threw himself into a cane
armchair, exclaiming as he did so with the easy insolence of old
familiarity:
'What a girl you are, Stephen! dragging a fellow all the way up here.
Couldn't you have fixed it down below somewhere if you wanted to see me?'
Strangely enough, as it seemed to her, Stephen did not dislike his tone
of mastery. There was something in it which satisfied her. The
unconscious recognition of his manhood, as opposed to her womanhood,
soothed her in a peaceful way. It was easy to yield to a dominant man.
She was never more womanly than when she answered him softly:
'It was rather unfair; but I thought you would not mind coming so far. It
is so cool and delightful here; and we can talk without being disturbed.'
Leonard was lying back in his chair fanning himself with his wide-brimmed
straw hat, with outstretched legs wide apart and resting on the back of
his heels. He replied with grudging condescension:
'Yes, it's cool enough after the hot tramp over the fields and through
the wood. It's not so good as the house, though, in one way: a man can't
get a drink here. I say, Stephen, it wouldn't be half bad if there were
a shanty put up here like those at the Grands Mulets or on the
Matterhorn. There could be a tap laid on where a fellow could quench his
thirst on a day like this!'
Before Stephen's eyes floated a momentary vision of a romantic chalet
with wide verandah and big windows looking over the landscape; a great
wide stone hearth; quaint furniture made from the gnarled branches of
trees; skins on the floor; and the walls adorned with antlers, great
horns, and various trophies of the chase. And amongst them Leonard, in a
picturesque suit, lolling back just as at present and smiling with a
loving look in his eyes as she handed him a great blue-and-white Munich
beer mug topped with cool foam. There was a soft mystery in her voice as
she answered:
'Perhaps, Leonard, there will some day be such a place here!' He seemed
to grumble as he replied:
'I wish it was here now. Some day seems a long way off!'
This seemed a good opening for Stephen; for the fear of the situation was
again beginning to assail her, and she felt that if she did not enter on
her task at once, its difficulty might overwhelm her. She felt angry
with herself that there was a change in her voice as she said:
'Some day may mean--can mean everything. Things needn't be a longer way
off than we choose ourselves, sometimes!'
'I say, that's a good one! Do you mean to say that because I am some day
to own Brindehow I can do as I like with it at once, whilst the
governor's all there, and a better life than I am any day? Unless you
want me to shoot the old man by accident when we go out on the First.' He
laughed a short, unmeaning masculine laugh which jarred somewhat on her.
She did not, however, mean to be diverted from her main purpose, so she
went on quickly:
'You know quite well, Leonard, that I don't mean anything of the kind.
But there was something I wanted to say to you, and I wished that we
should be alone. Can you not guess what it is?'
'No, I'll be hanged if I can!' was his response, lazily given.
Despite her resolution she turned her head; she could not meet his eyes.
It cut her with a sharp pain to notice when she turned again that he was
not looking at her. He continued fanning himself with his hat as he
gazed out at the view. She felt that the critical moment of her life had
come, that it was now or never as to her fulfilling her settled
intention. So with a rush she went on her way:
'Leonard, you and I have been friends a long time. You know my views on
some points, and that I think a woman should be as free to act as a man!'
She paused; words and ideas did not seem to flow with the readiness she
expected. Leonard's arrogant assurance completed the dragging her back
to earth which her own self-consciousness began:
'Drive on, old girl! I know you're a crank from Crankville on some
subjects. Let us have it for all you're worth. I'm on the grass and
listening.'
Stephen paused. 'A crank from Crankville!'--this after her nights of
sleepless anxiety; after the making of the resolution which had cost her
so much, and which was now actually in process of realisation. Was it
all worth so much? why not abandon it now? . . . Abandon it! Abandon a
resolution! All the obstinacy of her nature--she classed it herself as
firmness--rose in revolt. She shook her head angrily, pulled herself
together, and went on:
'That may be! though it's not what I call myself, or what I am usually
called, so far as I know. At any rate my convictions are honest, and I
am sure you will respect them as such, even if you do not share them.'
She did not see the ready response in his face which she expected, and so
hurried on:
'It has always seemed to me that a--when a woman has to speak to a man
she should do so as frankly as she would like him to speak to her, and as
freely. Leonard, I--I,' as she halted, a sudden idea, winged with
possibilities of rescuing procrastination came to her. She went on more
easily:
'I know you are in trouble about money matters. Why not let me help
you?' He sat up and looked at her and said genially:
'Well, Stephen, you are a good old sort! No mistake about it. Do you
mean to say you would help me to pay my debts, when the governor has
refused to do so any more?'
'It would be a great pleasure to me, Leonard, to do anything for your
good or your pleasure.'
There was a long pause; they both sat looking down at the ground. The
woman's heart beat loud; she feared that the man must hear it. She was
consumed with anxiety, and with a desolating wish to be relieved from the
strain of saying more. Surely, surely Leonard could not be so blind as
not to see the state of things! . . . He would surely seize the occasion;
throw aside his diffidence and relieve her! . . . His words made a
momentary music in her ears as he spoke:
'And is this what you asked me to come here for?'
The words filled her with a great shame. She felt herself a dilemma. It
had been no part of her purpose to allude his debts. Viewed in the light
of what was to follow, it would seem to him that she was trying to
foreclose his affection. That could not be allowed to pass; the error
must be rectified. And yet! . . . And yet this very error must be
cleared up before she could make her full wish apparent. She seemed to
find herself compelled by inexorable circumstances into an unlooked-for
bluntness. In any case she must face the situation. Her pluck did not
fail her; it was with a very noble and graceful simplicity that she
turned to her companion and said:
'Leonard, I did not quite mean that. It would be a pleasure to me to be
of that or any other service to you, if I might be so happy! But I never
meant to allude to your debts. Oh! Leonard, can't you understand! If
you were my husband--or--or going to be, all such little troubles would
fall away from you. But I would not for the world have you think . . . '
Her very voice failed her. She could not speak what was in her mind; she
turned away, hiding in her hands her face which fairly seemed to burn.
This, she thought, was the time for a true lover's opportunity! Oh, if
she had been a man, and a woman had so appealed, how he would have sprung
to her side and taken her in his arms, and in a wild rapture of declared
affection have swept away all the pain of her shame!
But she remained alone. There was no springing to her side; no rapture
of declared affection; no obliteration of her shame. She had to bear it
all alone. There, in the open; under the eyes that she would fain have
seen any other phase of her distress. Her heart beat loud and fast; she
waited to gain her self-control.
Leonard Everard had his faults, plenty of them, and he was in truth
composed of an amalgam of far baser metals than Stephen thought; but he
had been born of gentle blood and reared amongst gentlefolk. He did not
quite understand the cause or the amount of his companion's concern; but
he could not but recognise her distress. He realised that it had
followed hard upon her most generous intention towards himself. He could
not, therefore, do less than try to comfort her, and he began his task in
a conventional way, but with a blundering awkwardness which was all
manlike. He took her hand and held it in his; this much at any rate he
had learned in sitting on stairs or in conservatories after extra dances.
He said as tenderly as he could, but with an impatient gesture unseen by
her:
'Forgive me, Stephen! I suppose I have said or done something which I
shouldn't. But I don't know what it is; upon my honour I don't. Anyhow,
I am truly sorry for it. Cheer up, old girl! I'm not your husband, you
know; so you needn't be distressed.'
Stephen took her courage _a deux mains_. If Leonard would not speak she
must. It was manifestly impossible that the matter could be left in its
present state.
'Leonard,' she said softly and solemnly, 'might not that some day be?'
Leonard, in addition to being an egotist and the very incarnation of
selfishness, was a prig of the first water. He had been reared
altogether in convention. Home life and Eton and Christchurch had taught
him many things, wise as well as foolish; but had tended to fix his
conviction that affairs of the heart should proceed on adamantine lines
of conventional decorum. It never even occurred to him that a lady could
so far step from the confines of convention as to take the initiative in
a matter of affection. In his blind ignorance he blundered brutally. He
struck better than he knew, as, meaning only to pass safely by an awkward
conversational corner, he replied:
'No jolly fear of that! You're too much of a boss for me!' The words
and the levity with which they were spoken struck the girl as with a
whip. She turned for an instant as pale as ashes; then the red blood
rushed from her heart, and face and neck were dyed crimson. It was not a
blush, it was a suffusion. In his ignorance Leonard thought it was the
former, and went on with what he considered his teasing.
'Oh yes! You know you always want to engineer a chap your own way and
make him do just as you wish. The man who has the happiness of marrying
you, Stephen, will have a hard row to hoe!' His 'chaff' with its utter
want of refinement seemed to her, in her high-strung earnest condition,
nothing short of brutal, and for a few seconds produced a feeling of
repellence. But it is in the nature of things that opposition of any
kind arouses the fighting instinct of a naturally dominant nature. She
lost sight of her femininity in the pursuit of her purpose; and as this
was to win the man to her way of thinking, she took the logical course of
answering his argument. If Leonard Everard had purposely set himself to
stimulate her efforts in this direction he could hardly have chosen a
better way. It came somewhat as a surprise to Stephen, when she heard
her own words:
'I would make a good wife, Leonard! A husband whom I loved and honoured
would, I think, not be unhappy!' The sound of her own voice speaking
these words, though the tone was low and tender and more self-suppressing
by far than was her wont, seemed to peal like thunder in her own ears.
Her last bolt seemed to have sped. The blood rushed to her head, and she
had to hold on to the arms of the rustic chair or she would have fallen
forward.
The time seemed long before Leonard spoke again; every second seemed an
age. She seemed to have grown tired of waiting for the sound of his
voice; it was with a kind of surprise that she heard him say:
'You limit yourself wisely, Stephen!'
'How do you mean?' she asked, making a great effort to speak.
'You would promise to love and honour; but there isn't anything about
obeying.'
As he spoke Leonard stretched himself again luxuriously, and laughed with
the intellectual arrogance of a man who is satisfied with a joke, however
inferior, of his own manufacture. Stephen looked at him with a long look
which began in anger--that anger which comes from an unwonted sense of
impotence, and ends in tolerance, the intermediate step being admiration.
It is the primeval curse that a woman's choice is to her husband; and it
is an important part of the teaching of a British gentlewoman, knit in
the very fibres of her being by the remorseless etiquette of a thousand
years, that she be true to him. The man who has in his person the
necessary powers or graces to evoke admiration in his wife, even for a
passing moment, has a stronghold unconquerable as a rule by all the
deadliest arts of mankind.
Leonard Everard was certainly good to look upon as he lolled at his ease
on that summer morning. Tall, straight, supple; a typical British
gentleman of the educated class, with all parts of the body properly
developed and held in some kind of suitable poise.
As Stephen looked, the anxiety and chagrin which tormented her seemed to
pass. She realised that here was a nature different from her own, and
which should be dealt with in a way unsuitable to herself; and the
conviction seemed to make the action which it necessitated more easy as
well as more natural to her. Perhaps for the first time in her life
Stephen understood that it may be necessary to apply to individuals a
standard of criticism unsuitable to self-judgment. Her recognition might
have been summed up in the thought which ran through her mind:
'One must be a little lenient with a man one loves!'
Stephen, when once she had allowed the spirit of toleration to work
within her, felt immediately its calming influence. It was with brighter
thoughts and better humour that she went on with her task. A task only,
it seemed now; a means to an end which she desired.
'Leonard, tell me seriously, why do you think I gave you the trouble of
coming out here?'
'Upon my soul, Stephen, I don't know.'
'You don't seem to care either, lolling like that when I am serious!' The
words were acid, but the tone was soft and friendly, familiar and
genuine, putting quite a meaning of its own on them. Leonard looked at
her indolently:
'I like to loll.'
'But can't you even guess, or try to guess, what I ask you?'
'I can't guess. The day's too hot, and that shanty with the drinks is
not built yet.'
'Or may never be!' Again he looked at her sleepily.
'Never be! Why not?'
'Because, Leonard, it may depend on you.'
'All right then. Drive on! Hurry up the architect and the
jerry-builder!'
A quick blush leaped to Stephen's cheeks. The words were full of
meaning, though the tone lacked something; but the news was too good. She
could not accept it at once; she decided to herself to wait a short time.
Ere many seconds had passed she rejoiced that she had done so as he went
on:
'I hope you'll give me a say before that husband of yours comes along. He
might be a blue-ribbonite; and it wouldn't do to start such a shanty for
rot-gut!'
Again a cold wave swept over her. The absolute difference of feeling
between the man and herself; his levity against her earnestness, his
callous blindness to her purpose, even the commonness of his words
chilled her. For a few seconds she wavered again in her intention; but
once again his comeliness and her own obstinacy joined hands and took her
back to her path. With chagrin she felt that her words almost stuck in
her throat, as summoning up all her resolution she went on:
'It would be for you I would have it built, Leonard!' The man sat up
quickly.
'For me?' he asked in a sort of wonderment.
'Yes, Leonard, for you and me!' She turned away; her blushes so overcame
her that she could not look at him. When she faced round again he was
standing up, his back towards her.
She stood up also. He was silent for a while; so long that the silence
became intolerable, and she spoke:
'Leonard, I am waiting!' He turned round and said slowly, the absence of
all emotion from his face chilling her till her face blanched:
'I don't think I would worry about it!'
Stephen Norman was plucky, and when she was face to face with any
difficulty she was all herself. Leonard did not look pleasant; his face
was hard and there was just a suspicion of anger. Strangely enough, this
last made the next step easier to the girl; she said slowly:
'All right! I think I understand!'
He turned from her and stood looking out on the distant prospect. Then
she felt that the blow which she had all along secretly feared had fallen
on her. But her pride as well as her obstinacy now rebelled. She would
not accept a silent answer. There must be no doubt left to torture her
afterwards. She would take care that there was no mistake. Schooling
herself to her task, and pressing one hand for a moment to her side as
though to repress the beating of her heart, she came behind him and
touched him tenderly on the arm.
'Leonard,' she said softly, 'are you sure there is no mistake? Do you
not see that I am asking you,' she intended to say 'to be my husband,'
but she could not utter the words, they seemed to stick in her mouth, so
she finished the sentence: 'that I be your wife?'
The moment the words were spoken--the bare, hard, naked, shameless
words--the revulsion came. As a lightning flash shows up the blackness
of the night the appalling truth of what she had done was forced upon
her. The blood rushed to her head till cheeks and shoulders and neck
seemed to burn. Covering her face with her hands she sank back on the
seat crying silently bitter tears that seemed to scald her eyes and her
cheeks as they ran.
Leonard was angry. When it began to dawn upon him what was the purpose
of Stephen's speech, he had been shocked. Young men are so easily
shocked by breaches of convention made by women they respect! And his
pride was hurt. Why should he have been placed in such a ridiculous
position! He did not love Stephen in that way; and she should have known
it. He liked her and all that sort of thing; but what right had she to
assume that he loved her? All the weakness of his moral nature came out
in his petulance. It was boyish that his eyes filled with tears. He
knew it, and that made him more angry than ever. Stephen might well have
been at a loss to understand his anger, as, with manifest intention to
wound, he answered her:
'What a girl you are, Stephen. You are always doing something or other
to put a chap in the wrong and make him ridiculous. I thought you were
joking--not a good joke either! Upon my soul, I don't know what I've
done that you should fix on me! I wish to goodness--'
If Stephen had suffered the red terror before, she suffered the white
terror now. It was not injured pride, it was not humiliation, it was not
fear; it was something vague and terrible that lay far deeper than any of
these. Under ordinary circumstances she would have liked to have spoken
out her mind and given back as good as she got; and even as the thoughts
whirled through her brain they came in a torrent of vague vituperative
eloquence. But now her tongue was tied. Instinctively she knew that she
had put it out of her power to revenge, or even to defend herself. She
was tied to the stake, and must suffer without effort and in silence.
Most humiliating of all was the thought that she must propitiate the man
who had so wounded her. All love for him had in the instant passed from
her; or rather she realised fully the blank, bare truth that she had
never really loved him at all. Had she really loved him, even a blow at
his hands would have been acceptable; but now . . .
She shook the feelings and thoughts from her as a bird does the water
from its wings; and, with the courage and strength and adaptability of
her nature, addressed herself to the hard task which faced her in the
immediate present. With eloquent, womanly gesture she arrested the
torrent of Leonard's indignation; and, as he paused in surprised
obedience, she said:
'That will do, Leonard! It is not necessary to say any more; and I am
sure you will see, later on, that at least there was no cause for your
indignation! I have done an unconventional thing, I know; and I dare say
I shall have to pay for it in humiliating bitterness of thought later on!
But please remember we are all alone! This is a secret between us; no
one else need ever know or suspect it!'
She rose as she concluded. The quiet dignity of her speech and bearing
brought back Leonard in some way to his sense of duty as a gentleman. He
began, in a sheepish way, to make an apology:
'I'm sure I beg your pardon, Stephen.' But again she held the warning
hand:
'There is no need for pardon; the fault, if there were any, was mine
alone. It was I, remember, who asked you to come here and who introduced
and conducted this melancholy business. I have asked you several things,
Leonard, and one more I will add--'tis only one: that you will forget!'
As she moved away, her dismissal of the subject was that of an empress to
a serf. Leonard would have liked to answer her; to have given vent to
his indignation that, even when he had refused her offer, she should have
the power to treat him if he was the one refused, and to make him feel
small and ridiculous in his own eyes. But somehow he felt constrained to
silence; her simple dignity outclassed him.
There was another factor too, in his forming his conclusion of silence.
He had never seen Stephen look so well, or so attractive. He had never
respected her so much as when her playfulness had turned to majestic
gravity. All the boy and girl strife of the years that had gone seemed
to have passed away. The girl whom he had played with, and bullied, and
treated as frankly as though she had been a boy, had in an instant become
a woman--and such a woman as demanded respect and admiration even from
such a man.