RADCLYFFE
THE
WELL
OF
LONELINESS
828
H178w
1929
cop. 2
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
By RADCLYFFE HALL
with a commentary by
HAVELOCK ELLIS
NEW YORK
COVICI FRIEDE · PUBLISHERS
1928
•
828
H178w
1929
Cop
A
008
683 743
Copyright 1928
By RADCLYFFE HALL
First Printing, November, 1928
Second Printing, December, 1928
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED States of amERICA
669 813-013
Dedicated to
OUR THREE SELVES
By the same Author
THE UNLIT LAMP
ADAM'S BREED
The WELL of
LONELINESS
1
COMMENTARY
I
HAVE read The Well of Loneliness with great interest be-
cause – apart from its fine qualities as a novel by a writer
of accomplished art - it possesses a notable psychological and
sociological significance. So far as I know, it is the first English
novel which presents, in a completely faithful and uncompro-
mising form, one particular aspect of sexual life as it exists
among us to-day. The relation of certain people - who while
different from their fellow human beings, are sometimes of the
highest character and the finest aptitudes – to the often hostile
society in which they move, presents difficult and still unsolved
problems. The poignant situations which thus arise are here set
forth so vividly, and yet with such complete absence of offence,
that we must place Radclyffe Hall's book on a high level of
distinction.
A
HAVELOCK ELLIS
AUTHOR'S NOTE
LL the characters in this book are purely imaginary, and if
the author in any instance has used names that may suggest
a reference to living persons, she has done so inadvertently.
Α'
A motor ambulance unit of British women drivers did very
fine service upon the Allied front in France during the later
months of the war, but although the unit mentioned in this
book, of which Stephen Gordon becomes a member, operates
in much the same area, it has never had any existence save
in the author's imagination.
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER 1
I
No
OT VERY far from Upton-on-Severn - between it, in fact,
and the Malvern Hills - stands the country seat of the
Gordons of Bramley; well-timbered, well-cottaged, well-fenced
and well-watered, having, in this latter respect, a stream that
forks in exactly the right position to feed two large lakes in the
grounds.
The house itself is of Georgian red brick, with charming
circular windows near the roof. It has dignity and pride with-
out ostentation, self-assurance without arrogance, repose with-
out inertia; and a gentle aloofness that, to those who know its
spirit, but adds to its value as a home. It is indeed like certain
lovely women who, now old, belong to a bygone generation –
women who in youth were passionate but seemly; difficult to
win but when won, all-fulfilling. They are passing away, but
their homesteads remain, and such an homestead is Morton.
M
To Morton Hall came the Lady Anna Gordon as a bride of
just over twenty. She was lovely as only an Irish woman can
be, having that in her bearing that betokened quiet pride, having
that in her eyes that betokened great longing, having that in
her body that betokened happy promise - the archetype of the
very perfect woman, whom creating God has found good. Sir
Philip had met her away in County Clare - Anna Molloy, the
slim virgin thing, all chastity, and his weariness had flown to
her bosom as a spent bird will fly to its nest - as indeed such
a bird had once flown to her, she told him, taking refuge from
the perils of a storm.
Sir Philip was a tall man and exceedingly well-favoured,
but his charm lay less in feature than in a certain wide expression,
a tolerant expression that might almost be called noble, and in
something sad yet gallant in his deep-set hazel eyes. His chin,
4
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
which was firm, was very slightly cleft, his forehead intellectual,
his hair tinged with auburn. His wide-nostrilled nose was in-
dicative of temper, but his lips were well-modelled and sensitive
and ardent - they revealed him as a dreamer and a lover.
Twenty-nine when they had married, he had sown no few
wild oats, yet Anna's true instinct made her trust him com-
pletely. Her guardian had disliked him, opposing the engage-
ment, but in the end she had had her own way. And as things
turned out her choice had been happy, for seldom had two
people loved more than they did; they loved with an ardour
undiminished by time; as they ripened, so their love ripened
with them.
Sir Philip never knew how much he longed for a son until,
some ten years after marriage, his wife conceived a child; then
he knew that this thing meant complete fulfilment, the fulfil-
ment for which they had both been waiting. When she told him,
he could not find words for expression, and must just turn and
weep on her shoulder. It never seemed to cross his mind for a
moment that Anna might very well give him a daughter; he
saw her only as a mother of sons, nor could her warnings disturb
him. He christened the unborn infant Stephen, because he ad-
mired the pluck of that Saint. He was not a religious man by
instinct, being perhaps too much of a student, but he read the
Bible for its fine literature, and Stephen had gripped his imag-
ination. Thus he often discussed the future of their child: 'I
think I shall put Stephen down for Harrow,' or: 'I'd rather
like Stephen to finish off abroad, it widens one's outlook on
life.'
6
And listening to him, Anna also grew convinced; his cer-
tainty wore down her vague misgivings, and she saw herself
playing with this little Stephen, in the nursery, in the garden,
in the sweet-smelling meadows. And himself the lovely young
man,' she would say, thinking of the soft Irish speech of her
peasants: And himself with the light of the stars in his eyes,
and the courage of a lion in his heart!'
When the child stirred within her she would think it stirred
J
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
5
strongly because of the gallant male creature she was hiding;
then her spirit grew large with a mighty new courage, because
a man-child would be born. She would sit with her needle-
work dropped on her knees, while her eyes turned away to the
long line of hills that stretched beyond the Severn valley. From
her favourite seat underneath an old cedar, she would see these
Malvern Hills in their beauty, and their swelling slopes seemed
to hold a new meaning. They were like pregnant women, full-
bosomed, courageous, great green-girdled mothers of splendid
sons! Thus through all those summer months, she sat and
watched the hills, and Sir Philip would sit with her - they
would sit hand in hand. And because she felt grateful she gave
much to the poor, and Sir Philip went to church, which was
seldom his custom, and the Vicar came to dinner, and just
towards the end many matrons called to give good advice to
Anna.
But: 'Man proposes - God disposes,' and so it happened
that on Christmas Eve, Anna Gordon was delivered of a daugh-
ter; a narrow-hipped, wide-shouldered little tadpole of a baby,
that yelled and yelled for three hours without ceasing, as though
outraged to find itself ejected into life.
2
ANNA GORDON held her child to her breast, but she grieved
while it drank, because of her man who had longed so much
for a son. And seeing her grief, Sir Philip hid his chagrin, and
he fondled the baby and examined its fingers.
'What a hand!' he would say. 'Why it's actually got nails
on all its ten fingers: little, perfect, pink nails!'
Then Anna would dry her eyes and caress it, kissing the
tiny hand.
He insisted on calling the infant Stephen, nay more, he
would have it baptized by that name. ' We've called her Stephen
so long,' he told Anna, that I really can't see why we shouldn't
go on-
P
6
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Anna felt doubtful, but Sir Philip was stubborn, as he could
be at times over whims.
The Vicar said that it was rather unusual, so to mollify him
they must add female names. The child was baptized in the
village church as Stephen Mary Olivia Gertrude - and she
throve, seeming strong, and when her hair grew it was seen
to be auburn like Sir Philip's. There was also a tiny cleft in her
chin, so small just at first that it looked like a shadow; and after
a while when her eyes lost the blueness that is proper to puppies
and other young things, Anna saw that her eyes were going to
be hazel - and thought that their expression was her father's.
On the whole she was quite a well-behaved baby, owing, no
doubt, to a fine constitution. Beyond that first energetic protest
at birth she had done very little howling.
It was happy to have a baby at Morton, and the old house
seemed to become more mellow as the child, growing fast now
and learning to walk, staggered or stumbled or sprawled on
the floors that had long known the ways of children. Sir Philip
would come home all muddy from hunting and would rush into
the nursery before pulling off his boots, then down he would
go
on his hands and knees while Stephen clambered on to his back.
Sir Philip would pretend to be well corned up, bucking and
jumping and kicking wildly, so that Stephen must cling to his
hair or his collar, and thump him with hard little arrogant fists.
Anna, attracted by the outlandish hubbub, would find them, and
would point to the mud on the carpet.
6
She would say: Now, Philip, now, Stephen, that's enough!
It's time for your tea,' as though both of them were children.
Then Sir Philip would reach up and disentangle Stephen, after
which he would kiss Stephen's mother.
3
THE SON that they waited for seemed long a-coming; he had
not arrived when Stephen was seven. Nor had Anna produced
other female offspring. Thus Stephen remained cock of the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
7
roost. It is doubtful if any only child is to be envied, for the
only child is bound to become introspective; having no one
of its own ilk in whom to confide, it is apt to confide in itself.
It cannot be said that at seven years old the mind is beset by
serious problems, but nevertheless it is already groping, may
already be subject to small fits of dejection, may already be
struggling to get a grip on life - on the limited life of its sur-
roundings. At seven there are miniature loves and hatreds, which,
however, loom large and are extremely disconcerting. There
may even be present a dim sense of frustration, and Stephen was
often conscious of this sense, though she could not have put it
into words. To cope with it, however, she would give way at
times to sudden fits of hot temper, working herself up over
everyday trifles that usually left her cold. It relieved her to stamp
and then burst into tears at the first sign of opposition. After
such outbreaks she would feel much more cheerful, would find
it almost easy to be docile and obedient. In some vague, childish
way she had hit back at life, and this fact had restored her self-
respect.
Anna would send for her turbulent offspring and would say:
'Stephen darling, Mother's not really cross - tell Mother what
makes you give way to these tempers; she'll promise to try to
understand if you'll tell her -'
But her eyes would look cold, though her voice might be
gentle, and her hand when it fondled would be tentative, un-
willing. The hand would be making an effort to fondle, and
Stephen would be conscious of that effort. Then looking up
at the calm, lovely face, Stephen would be filled with a sudden
contrition, with a sudden deep sense of her own shortcomings;
she would long to blurt all this out to her mother, yet would
stand there tongue-tied, saying nothing at all. For these two
were strangely shy with each other - it was almost grotesque,
this shyness of theirs, as existing between mother and child.
Anna would feel it, and through her Stephen, young as she
was, would become conscious of it; so that they held a little
aloof when they should have been drawing together.
8
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Stephen, acutely responsive to beauty, would be dimly long-
ing to find expression for a feeling almost amounting to worship,
that her mother's face had awakened. But Anna, looking gravely
at her daughter, noting the plentiful auburn hair, the brave
hazel eyes that were so like her father's, as indeed were the child's
whole expression and bearing, would be filled with a sudden
antagonism that came very near to anger.
She would awake at night and ponder this thing, scourging
herself in an access of contrition; accusing herself of hardness of
spirit, of being an unnatural mother. Sometimes she would shed
slow, miserable tears, remembering the inarticulate Stephen.
She would think: I ought to be proud of the likeness, proud
and happy and glad when I see it!' Then back would come
flooding that queer antagonism that amounted almost to anger.
It would seem to Anna that she must be going mad, for this
likeness to her husband would strike her as an outrage - as
though the poor, innocent seven-year-old Stephen were in some
way a caricature of Sir Philip; a blemished, unworthy, maimed
reproduction - yet she knew that the child was handsome.
But now there were times when the child's soft flesh would be
almost distasteful to her; when she hated the way Stephen moved
or stood still, hated a certain largeness about her, a certain crude
lack of grace in her movements, a certain unconscious defiance.
Then the mother's mind would slip back to the days when this
creature had clung to her breast, forcing her to love it by its own.
utter weakness; and at this thought her eyes must fill again, for
she came of a race of devoted mothers. The thing had crept on
her like a foe in the dark - it had been slow, insidious, deadly;
it had waxed strong as Stephen herself had waxed strong, being
part, in some way, of Stephen.
Restlessly tossing from side to side, Anna Gordon would
pray for enlightenment and guidance; would pray that her hus-
band might never suspect her feelings towards his child. All that
she was and had been he knew; in all the world she had no other
secret save this one most unnatural and monstrous injustice that
was stronger than her will to destroy it. And Sir Philip loved
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
9
Stephen, he idolized her; it was almost as though he divined by
instinct that his daughter was being secretly defrauded, was
bearing some unmerited burden. He never spoke to his wife of
these things, yet watching them together, she grew daily more
certain that his love for the child held an element in it that was
closely akin to pity.
CHAPTER 2
I
A
T ABOUT this time Stephen first became conscious of an
urgent necessity to love. She adored her father, but that
was quite different; he was part of herself, he had always been
there, she could not envisage the world without him - it was
other with Collins, the housemaid. Collins was what was called
'second of three'; she might one day hope for promotion.
Meanwhile she was florid, full-lipped and full-bosomed, rather
ample indeed for a young girl of twenty, but her eyes were un-
usually blue and arresting, very pretty inquisitive eyes. Stephen
had seen Collins sweeping the stairs for two years, and had passed
her by quite unnoticed; but one morning, when Stephen was
just over seven, Collins looked up and suddenly smiled, then all
in a moment Stephen knew that she loved her - a staggering
revelation!
Collins said politely: 'Good morning, Miss Stephen.'
She had always said: 'Good morning, Miss Stephen,' but on
this occasion it sounded alluring - so alluring that Stephen
wanted to touch her, and extending a rather uncertain hand she
started to stroke her sleeve.
Collins picked up the hand and stared at it. 'Oh, my!' she
exclaimed, what very dirty nails!' Whereupon their owner
flushed painfully crimson and dashed upstairs to repair them.
'Put them scissors down this minute, Miss Stephen!' came
the nurse's peremptory voice, while her charge was still busily
engaged on her toilet.
But Stephen said firmly: 'I'm cleaning my nails 'cause
Collins doesn't like them - she says they're dirty!'
'What impudence!' snapped the nurse, thoroughly an-
noyed. 'I'll thank her to mind her own business!'
Having finally secured the large cutting-out scissors, Mrs.
II
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Bingham went forth in search of the offender; she was not one
to tolerate any interference with the dignity of her status. She
found Collins still on the top flight of stairs, and forthwith she
started to upbraid her: 'putting her back in her place,' the
nurse called it; and she did it so thoroughly that in less than
five minutes the second-of-three' had been told of every fault
that was likely to preclude promotion.
Stephen stood still in the nursery doorway. She could feel
her heart thumping against her side, thumping with anger and
pity for Collins who was answering never a word. There she
knelt mute, with her brush suspended, with her mouth slightly
open and her eyes rather scared; and when at long last she did
manage to speak, her voice sounded humble and frightened. She
was timid by nature, and the nurse's sharp tongue was a byword
throughout the household.
Collins was saying: 'Interfere with your child? Oh, no,
Mrs. Bingham, never! I hope I knows my place better than that
- Miss Stephen herself showed me them dirty nails; she said:
"Collins, just look, aren't my nails awful dirty!" And I said:
"You must ask Nanny about that, Miss Stephen." Is it likely
that I'd interfere with your work? I'm not that sort, Mrs.
Bingham.'
Oh, Collins, Collins, with those pretty blue eyes and that
funny alluring smile! Stephen's own eyes grew wide with amaze-
ment, then they clouded with sudden and disillusioned tears, for
far worse than Collins' poorness of spirit was the dreadful in-
justice of those lies - yet this very injustice seemed to draw her
to Collins, since despising, she could still love her.
For the rest of that day Stephen brooded darkly over Collins'
unworthiness; and yet all through that day she still wanted
Collins, and whenever she saw her she caught herself smiling,
quite unable, in her turn, to muster the courage to frown her
innate disapproval. And Collins smiled too, if the nurse was
not looking, and she held up her plump red fingers, pointing to
her nails and making a grimace at the nurse's retreating figure.
Watching her, Stephen felt unhappy and embarrassed, not so
12
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
much for herself as for Collins; and this feeling increased, so
that thinking about her made Stephen go hot down her spine.
In the evening, when Collins was laying the tea, Stephen
managed to get her alone. 'Collins,' she whispered, 'you told
an untruth - I never showed you my dirty nails!'
Course not!' murmured Collins, but I had to say some-
thing - you didn't mind, Miss Stephen, did you?' And as
Stephen looked doubtfully up into her face, Collins suddenly
stooped and kissed her.
Stephen stood speechless from a sheer sense of joy, all her
doubts swept completely away. At that moment she knew noth-
ing but beauty and Collins, and the two were as one, and the
one was Stephen - and yet not Stephen either, but something
more vast, that the mind of seven years found no name for.
The nurse came in grumbling: 'Now then, hurry up, Miss
Stephen! Don't stand there as though you were daft! Go and
wash your face and hands before tea - how many times must
I tell you the same thing?'
'I don't know -' muttered Stephen. And indeed she did
not; she knew nothing of such trifles at that moment.
:
2
FROM now on Stephen entered a completely new world, that
turned on an axis of Collins. A world full of constant exciting
adventures; of elation, of joy, of incredible sadness, but withal
a fine place to be dashing about in like a moth who is courting
a candle. Up and down went the days; they resembled a swing
that soared high above the tree-tops, then dropped to the depths,
but seldom if ever hung midway. And with them went Stephen,
clinging to the swing, waking up in the mornings with a thrill
of vague excitement - the sort of excitement that belonged by
rights to birthdays, and Christmas, and a visit to the pantomime
at Malvern. She would open her eyes and jump out of bed
quickly, still too sleepy to remember why she felt so elated; but
then would come memory - she would know that this day
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
13
she was actually going to see Collins. The thought would set
her splashing in her sitz-bath, and tearing the buttons off her
clothes in her haste, and cleaning her nails with such ruthlessness
and vigour that she made them quite sore in the process.
She began to be very inattentive at her lessons, sucking her
pencil, staring out of the window, or what was far worse, not
listening at all, except for Collins' footsteps. The nurse slapped
her hands, and stood her in the corner, and deprived her of jam,
but all to no purpose; for Stephen would smile, hugging closer
her secret - it was worth being punished for Collins.
She grew restless and could not be induced to sit still even
when her nurse read aloud. At one time she had very much liked
being read to, especially from books that were all about heroes;
but now such stories so stirred her ambition, that she longed
intensely to live them. She, Stephen, now longed to be William
Tell, or Nelson, or the whole Charge of Balaclava; and this led
to much foraging in the nursery rag-bag, much hunting up of
garments once used for charades, much swagger and noise, much
strutting and posing, and much staring into the mirror. There
ensued a period of general confusion when the nursery looked
as though smitten by an earthquake; when the chairs and the
floor would be littered with oddments that Stephen had dug out
but discarded. Once dressed, however, she would walk away
grandly, waving the nurse peremptorily aside, going, as always,
in search of Collins, who might have to be stalked to the basement.
Sometimes Collins would play up, especially to Nelson.
'My, but you do look fine!' she would exclaim. And then to
the cook: 'Do come here, Mrs. Wilson! Doesn't Miss Stephen
look exactly like a boy? I believe she must be a boy with them
shoulders, and them funny gawky legs she's got on her!'
And Stephen would say gravely: 'Yes, of course I'm a boy.
I'm young Nelson, and I'm saying: "What is fear?" you know,
Collins - I must be a boy, 'cause I feel exactly like one, I feel
like young Nelson in the picture upstairs.'
Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after
Stephen had gone they would get talking, and Collins might
14
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
say: 'She is a queer kid, always dressing herself up
acting - it's funny.'
and play-
But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: 'I don't hold
with such nonsense, not for a young lady. Miss Stephen's quite
different from other young ladies - she's got none of their
pretty little ways — it's a pity!'
There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky,
when Stephen could dress up as Nelson in vain. 'Now, don't
bother me, Miss, I've got my work to see to!' or: 'You go and
show Nurse - yes, I know you're a boy, but I've got my work
to get on with. Run away.'
And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated,
strangely unhappy and exceedingly humble, and must tear off
the clothes she so dearly loved donning, to replace them by the
garments she hated. How she hated soft dresses and sashes, and
ribbons, and small coral beads, and openwork stockings! Her
legs felt so free and comfortable in breeches; she adored pockets
too, and these were forbidden - at least really adequate pockets.
She would gloom about the nursery because Collins had snubbed
her, because she was conscious of feeling all wrong, because she
so longed to be some one quite real, instead of just Stephen pre-
tending to be Nelson. In a quick fit of anger she would go to
the cupboard, and getting out her dolls would begin to torment
them. She had always despised the idiotic creatures which, how-
ever, arrived with each Christmas and birthday.
'I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!' she would mutter,
thumping their innocuous faces.
But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, she
seemed to be filled with a sudden contrition. 'It's me house-
maid's knee,' she confided to Stephen, 'It's not you, it's me
housemaid's knee, dearie.'
'Is that dangerous?' demanded the child, looking fright-
ened.
Then Collins, true to her class, said: 'It may be - it may
mean an 'orrible operation, and I don't want no operation.'
'What's that?' inquired Stephen.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
15
Why, they'd cut me,' moaned Collins; they'd 'ave to cut
me to let out the water.'
ܕ
<
'Oh, Collins! What water?
<
The water in me kneecap - you can see if you press it,
Miss Stephen.'
They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery,
where Collins was limply making the bed. It was one of those
rare and delicious occasions when Stephen could converse with
her goddess undisturbed, for the nurse had gone out to post a
letter. Collins rolled down a coarse woollen stocking and dis-
played the afflicted member; it was blotchy and swollen and far
from attractive, but Stephen's eyes filled with quick, anxious
tears as she touched the knee with her finger.
'There now!' exclaimed Collins, 'See that dent? That's
the water!' And she added: 'It's so painful it fair makes me
sick. It all comes from polishing them floors, Miss Stephen;
I didn't ought to polish them floors.'
Stephen said gravely: 'I do wish I'd got it - I wish I'd
got your housemaid's knee, Collins, 'cause that way I could bear
it instead of you. I'd like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the
way that Jesus was hurt for sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don't
you think I might catch it? Or supposing I rub my knee against.
yours?'
'Lord bless you!' laughed Collins, 'it's not like the measles;
no, Miss Stephen, it's caught from them floors."
That evening Stephen became rather pensive, and she turned
to the Child's Book of Scripture Stories and she studied the pic-
ture of the Lord on His Cross, and she felt that she understood
Him. She had often been rather puzzled about Him, since she
herself was fearful of pain - when she barked her shins on
the gravel in the garden, it was not always easy to keep back
her tears - and yet Jesus had chosen to bear pain for sinners,
when He might have called up all those angels! Oh, yes, she had
wondered a great deal about Him, but now she no longer
wondered.
At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say her
prayers
16
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
as custom demanded - Stephen's prayers lacked conviction.
But when Anna had kissed her and had turned out the light,
then it was that Stephen prayed in good earnest with such
fervour, indeed, that she dripped perspiration in a veritable orgy
of prayer.
G
Please, Jesus, give me a housemaid's knee instead of Col-
lins - do, do, Lord Jesus. Please, Jesus, I would like to bear
all Collins' pain the way You did, and I don't want any angels!
I would like to wash Collins in my blood, Lord Jesus - I would
like very much to be a Saviour to Collins - I love her, and I want
to be hurt like You were; please, dear Lord Jesus, do let me.
Please give me a knee that's all full of water, so that I can have
Collins' operation. I want to have it instead of her, 'cause she's
frightened - I'm not a bit frightened!'
This petition she repeated until she fell asleep, to dream that
in some queer way she was Jesus, and that Collins was kneeling
and kissing her hand, because she, Stephen, had managed to cure
her by cutting off her knee with a bone paper-knife and grafting
it on to her own. The dream was a mixture of rapture and discom-
fort, and it stayed quite a long time with Stephen.
-
The next morning she awoke with the feeling of elation that
comes only in moments of perfect faith. But a close examination
of her knees in the bath, revealed them to be flawless except for
old scars and a crisp, brown scab from a recent tumble – this,
of course, was very disappointing. She picked off the scab, and
that hurt her a little, but not, she felt sure, like a real house-
maid's knee. However, she decided to continue in prayer, and not
to be too easily downhearted.
For more than three weeks she sweated and prayed, and
pestered poor Collins with endless daily questions: 'Is your knee
better yet?' 'Don't
think my
knee's swollen?' 'Have you
faith? 'Cause I have - ''Does it hurt you less, Collins?
you
But Collins would always reply in the same way: 'It's no
better, thank you, Miss Stephen.'
At the end of the fourth week Stephen suddenly stopped
praying, and she said to Our Lord: 'You don't love Collins,
¡
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
17
Jesus, but I do, and I'm going to get housemaid's knee. You see
if I don't!' Then she felt rather frightened, and added more
humbly: 'I mean, I do want to - You don't mind, do You,
Lord Jesus?'
The nursery floor was covered with carpet, which was obvi-
ously rather unfortunate for Stephen; had it only been parquet
like the drawing-room and study, she felt it would better have
served her purpose. All the same it was hard if she knelt long
enough - it was so hard, indeed, that she had to grit her teeth
if she stayed on her knees for more than twenty minutes. This
was much worse than barking one's shins in the garden; it was
much worse even than picking off a scab! Nelson helped her a
little. She would think: 'Now I'm Nelson. I'm in the middle
of the Battle of Trafalgar - I've got shots in my knees!' But
then she would remember that Nelson had been spared such
torment. However, it was really rather fine to be suffering - it
certainly seemed to bring Collins much nearer; it seemed to
make Stephen feel that she owned her by right of this diligent
pain.
There were endless spots on the old nursery carpet, and
these spots Stephen could pretend to be cleaning; always careful
to copy Collins' movements, rubbing backwards and forwards
while groaning a little. When she got up at last, she must hold
her left leg and limp, still groaning a little. Enormous new holes
appeared in her stockings, through which she could examine
her aching knees, and this led to rebuke: 'Stop your nonsense,
Miss Stephen! It's scandalous the way you're tearing your stock-
ings!' But Stephen smiled grimly and went on with the non-
sense, spurred by love to an open defiance. On the eighth day,
however, it dawned upon Stephen that Collins should be shown
the proof of her devotion. Her knees were particularly scarified
that morning, so she limped off in search of the unsuspecting
housemaid.
Collins stared: 'Good gracious, whatever's the matter?
Whatever have you been doing, Miss Stephen?'
Then Stephen said, not without pardonable pride: 'I've
18
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
been getting a housemaid's knee, like you, Collins!' And as
Collins looked stupid and rather bewildered – “You see, I wanted
to share your suffering. I've prayed quite a lot, but Jesus won't
listen, so I've got to get housemaid's knee my own way - I can't
wait any longer for Jesus!'
'Oh, hush!' murmured Collins, thoroughly shocked. 'You
mustn't say such things: it's wicked, Miss Stephen.' But she
smiled a little in spite of herself, then she suddenly hugged the
child warmly.
All the same, Collins plucked up her courage that evening
and spoke to the nurse about Stephen. 'Her knees was all red
and swollen, Mrs. Bingham. Did ever you know such a queer
fish as she is? Praying about my knee too. She's a caution!
And now if she isn't trying to get one! Well, if that's not real
loving then I don't know nothing.' And Collins began to laugh
weakly.
After this Mrs. Bingham rose in her might, and the self-
imposed torture was forcibly stopped. Collins, on her part, was
ordered to lie, if Stephen continued to question. So Collins lied
nobly: 'It's better, Miss Stephen, it must be your praying – you
see Jesus heard you. I expect He was sorry to see your poor knees
- I know as I was when I saw them!'
S
Are you telling me the truth?' Stephen asked her, still
doubting, still mindful of that first day of Love's young dream.
'Why, of course I'm telling you the truth, Miss Stephen.'
And with this Stephen had to be content.
3
COLLINS became more affectionate after the incident of the house-
maid's knee; she could not but feel a new interest in the child
whom she and the cook had now labelled as 'queer,' and
Stephen basked in much surreptitious petting, and her love for
Collins grew daily.
It was spring, the season of gentle emotions, and Stephen,
for the first time, became aware of spring. In a dumb, childish
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
19
way she was conscious of its fragrance, and the house irked her
sorely, and she longed for the meadows, and the hills that were
white with thorn-trees. Her active young body was for ever on
the fidget, but her mind was bathed in a kind of soft haze, and
this she could never quite put into words, though she tried to
tell Collins about it. It was all part of Collins, yet somehow quite
different – it had nothing to do with Collins' wide smile, nor
her hands which were red, nor even her eyes which were blue,
and very arresting. Yet all that was Collins, Stephen's Collins,
was also a part of these long, warm days, a part of the twilights
that came in and lingered for hours after Stephen had been put
to bed; a part too, could Stephen have only known it, of her own
quickening childish perceptions. This spring, for the first time,
she thrilled to the cuckoo, standing quite still to listen, with her
head on one side; and the lure of that far-away call was destined
to remain with her all her life.
There were times when she wanted to get away from Collins,
yet at others she longed intensely to be near her, longed to force
the response that her loving craved for, but quite wisely, was
very seldom granted.
She would say: 'I do love you awfully, Collins. I love you
so much that it makes me want to cry.'
And Collins would answer: 'Don't be silly, Miss Stephen,'
which was not satisfactory – not at all satisfactory.
Then Stephen might suddenly push her, in anger: 'You're
a beast! How I hate you, Collins!"
And now Stephen had taken to keeping awake every night,
in order to build up pictures: pictures of herself companioned by
Collins in all sorts of happy situations. Perhaps they would be
walking in the garden, hand in hand, or pausing on a hill-side
to listen to the cuckoo; or perhaps they would be skimming
over miles of blue ocean in a queer little ship with a leg-of-mutton
sail, like the one in the fairy story. Sometimes Stephen pictured
them living alone in a low thatched cottage by the side of a
mill stream - she had seen such a cottage not very far from
Upton - and the water flowed quickly and made talking noises;
20
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
6
there were sometimes dead leaves on the water. This last was a
very intimate picture, full of detail, even to the red china dogs
that stood one at each end of the high mantelpiece, and the grand-
father clock that ticked loudly. Collins would sit by the fire with
her shoes off. Me feet's that swollen and painful,' she would
say. Then Stephen would go and cut rich bread and butter-
the drawing-room kind, little bread and much butter – and
would put on the kettle and brew tea for Collins, who liked
it very strong and practically boiling, so that she could sip it
from her saucer. In this picture it was Collins who talked about
loving, and Stephen who gently but firmly rebuked her: ‘There,
there, Collins, don't be silly, you are a queer fish!' And yet
all the while she would be longing to tell her how wonderful
it was, like honeysuckle blossom - something very sweet like
that - or like fields smelling strongly of new-mown hay, in the
sunshine. And perhaps she would tell her, just at the
just before this last picture faded.
very end-
–
-
4
IN THESE days Stephen clung more closely to her father, and this
in a way was because of Collins. She could not have told you
why it should be so, she only felt that it was. Sir Philip and his
daughter would walk on the hill-sides, in and out of the black-
thorn and young green bracken; they would walk hand in hand
with a deep sense of friendship, with a deep sense of mutual
understanding.
Sir Philip knew all about wild flowers and berries, and the
ways of young foxes and rabbits and such people. There were
many rare birds, too, on the hills near Malvern, and these he
would point out to Stephen. He taught her the simpler laws
of nature, which, though simple, had always filled him with
wonder: the law of the sap as it flowed through the branches,
the law of the wind that came stirring the sap, the law of bird
life and the building of nests, the law of the cuckoo's varying
call, which in June changed to 'Cuckoo-kook!' He taught out
21
of love for both subject and pupil, and while he thus taught
he watched Stephen.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Sometimes, when the child's heart would feel full past bear-
ing, she must tell him her problems in small, stumbling phrases.
Tell him how much she longed to be different, longed to be
some one like Nelson.
G
She would say: 'Do you think that I could be a man, sup-
posing I thought very hard - or prayed, Father?'
Then Sir Philip would smile and tease her a little, and would
tell her that one day she would want pretty frocks, and
his teasing was always excessively gentle, so that it hurt not
at all.
But at times he would study his daughter gravely, with his
strong, cleft chin tightly cupped in his hand. He would watch
her at play with the dogs in the garden, watch the curious sug-
gestion of strength in her movements, the long line of her limbs
she was tall for her age- and the poise of her head on her
over-broad shoulders. Then perhaps he would frown and become
lost in thought, or perhaps he might suddenly call her:
Stephen, come here!'
She would go to him gladly, waiting expectant for what he
should say; but as likely as not he would just hold her to him
for a moment, and then let go of her abruptly. Getting up he
would turn to the house and his study, to spend all the rest of
that day with his books.
A queer mixture, Sir Philip, part sportsman, part student.
He had one of the finest libraries in England, and just lately he
had taken to reading half the night, which had not hitherto
been his custom. Alone in that grave-looking, quiet study, he
would unlock a drawer in his ample desk, and would get out a
slim volume recently acquired, and would read and re-read it in
the silence. The author was a German, Karl Heinrich Ulrichs,
and reading, Sir Philip's eyes would grow puzzled; then grop-
ing for a pencil he would make little notes all along the immacu-
late margins. Sometimes he would jump up and pace the room
quickly, pausing now and again to stare at a picture - the
L
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
portrait of Stephen painted with her mother, by Millais, the
previous year. He would notice the gracious beauty of Anna,
so perfect a thing, so completely reassuring; and then that inde-
finable quality in Stephen that made her look wrong in the
clothes she was wearing, as though she and they had no right
to each other, but above all no right to Anna. After a while
he would steal up to bed, being painfully careful to tread very
softly, fearful of waking his wife who might question: Philip
darling, it's so late - what have you been reading?' He would
not want to answer, he would not want to tell her; that was
why he must tread very softly.
22
The next morning, he would be very tender to Anna - but
even more tender to Stephen.
5
AS THE spring waxed more lusty and strode into summer,
Stephen grew conscious that Collins was changing. The change
was almost intangible at first, but the instinct of children is not
mocked. Came a day when Collins turned on her quite sharply,
nor did she explain it by a reference to her knee.
'Don't be always under my feet now, Miss Stephen.
Don't follow me about and don't be always staring. I
'ates being watched - you run up to the nursery, the base-
ment's no place for young ladies.' After which such rebuffs
were of frequent occurrence, if Stephen went anywhere near
her.
Miserable enigma! Stephen's mind groped about it like a little
blind mole that is always in darkness. She was utterly con-
founded, while her love grew the stronger for so much hard
pruning, and she tried to woo Collins by offerings of bull's-eyes
and chocolate drops, which the maid took because she liked
them. Nor was Collins so blameworthy as she appeared, for she,
in her turn, was the puppet of emotion. The new footman was
tall and exceedingly handsome. He had looked upon Collins
with eyes of approval. He had said: Stop that damned kid
C
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
23
hanging around you; if you don't she'll go blabbing about
us.'
And now Stephen knew very deep desolation because there
was no one in whom to confide. She shrank from telling even
her father - he might not understand, he might smile, he might
tease her – if he teased her, however gently, she knew that she
could not keep back her tears. Even Nelson had suddenly be-
come quite remote. What was the good of trying to be Nelson?
What was the good of dressing up any more - what was the
good of pretending? She turned from her food, growing pasty
and languid; until, thoroughly alarmed, Anna sent for the
doctor. He arrived, and prescribed a dose of Gregory powder,
finding nothing much wrong with the patient. Stephen tossed
off the foul brew without a murmur - it was almost as though
she liked it!
The end came abruptly as is often the way, and it came when
the child was alone in the garden, still miserably puzzling over
Collins, who had been avoiding her for days. Stephen had wan-
dered to an old potting-shed, and there, whom should she see
but Collins and the footman; they appeared to be talking very
earnestly together, so earnestly that they failed to hear her. Then
a really catastrophic thing happened, for Henry caught Collins
roughly by the wrists, and he dragged her towards him, still
handling her roughly, and he kissed her full on the lips. Stephen's
head felt suddenly hot and dizzy, she was filled with a blind,
uncomprehending rage; she wanted to cry out, but her voice
failed completely, so that all she could do was to splutter. But
the very next moment she had seized a broken flower-pot and
had hurled it hard and straight at the footman. It struck him in
the face, cutting open his cheek, down which the blood trickled
slowly. He stood as though stunned, gently mopping the cut,
while Collins stared dumbly at Stephen. Neither of them spoke,
they were feeling too guilty - they were also too much as-
tonished.
Then Stephen turned and fled from them wildly. Away and
away, anyhow, anywhere, so long as she need not see them!
24
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
She sobbed as she ran and covered her eyes, tearing her clothes
on the shrubs in passing, tearing her stockings and the skin of
her legs as she lunged against intercepting branches. But sud-
denly the child was caught in strong arms, and her face was
pressing against her father, and Sir Philip was carrying her back
to the house, and along the wide passage to his study. He held
her on his knee, forbearing to question, and at first she crouched
there like a little dumb creature that had somehow got itself
wounded. But her heart was too young to contain this new
trouble - too heavy it felt, too much over-burdened, so the trouble
came bubbling up from her heart and was told on Sir Philip's
shoulder.
He listened very gravely, just stroking her hair. ' Yes – yes -
he said softly; and then, go on, Stephen.' And when she had
finished he was silent for some moments, while he went on
stroking her hair. Then he said: 'I think I understand, Stephen --
this thing seems more dreadful than anything else that has ever
happened, more utterly dreadful - but you'll find that it will
pass and be completely forgotten - you must try to believe me,
Stephen. And now I'm going to treat you like a boy, and a boy
must always be brave, remember. I'm not going to pretend as
though you were a coward; why should I, when I know that
you're brave? I'm going to send Collins away to-morrow; do
you understand, Stephen? I shall send her away. I shan't be
unkind, but she'll go away to-morrow, and meanwhile I don't
want you to see her again. You'll miss her at first, that will only
be natural, but in time you'll find that you'll forget all about
her; this trouble will just seem like nothing at all. I am telling
you the truth, dear, I swear it. If you need me, remember that
I'm always near you - you can come to my study whenever you
like. You can talk to me about it whenever you're unhappy, and
you want a companion to talk to.' He paused, then finished rather
abruptly: 'Don't worry your mother, just come to me, Stephen.'
And Stephen, still catching her breath, looked straight at
him. She nodded, and Sir Philip saw his own mournful eyes
gazing back from his daughter's tear-stained face. But her lips
1
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
25
set more firmly, and the cleft in her chin grew more marked
with a new, childish will to courage.
Bending down, he kissed her in absolute silence - it was
like the sealing of a sorrowful pact.
6
ANNA, who had been out at the time of the disaster, returned
to find her husband waiting for her in the hall.
"Stephen's been naughty, she's up in the nursery; she's had
one of her fits of temper,' he remarked.
In spite of the fact that he had obviously been waiting to
intercept Anna, he now spoke quite lightly. Collins and the
footman must go, he told her. As for Stephen, he had had a long
talk with her already - Anna had better just let the thing drop,
it had only been childish temper
Anna hurried upstairs to her daughter. She, herself, had
not been a turbulent child, and Stephen's outbursts always made
her feel helpless; however she was fully prepared for the worst.
But she found Stephen sitting with her chin on her hand, and
calmly staring out of the window; her eyes were still swollen
and her face very pale, otherwise she showed no great signs
of emotion; indeed she actually smiled up at Anna - it was
rather a stiff little smile. Anna talked kindly and Stephen listened,
nodding her head from time to time in acquiescence. But Anna
felt awkward, and as though for some reason the child was anx-
ious to reassure her; that smile had been meant to be reassuring
it had been such a very unchildish smile. The mother was doing
all the talking she found. Stephen would not discuss her affection
for Collins; on this point she was firmly, obdurately silent. She
neither excused nor upheld her action in throwing a broken
flower-pot at the footman.
She's trying to keep something back,' thought Anna, feel-
ing more nonplussed every moment.
In the end Stephen took her mother's hand gravely and pro-
ceeded to stroke it, as though she were consoling. She said: ' Don't
26
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
feel worried, 'cause that worries Father - I promise I'll try not
to get
into tempers, but
feeling worried.'
you
you promise that won't go on
And absurd though it seemed, Anna heard herself saying:
'Very well then - I do promise, Stephen.'
CHAPTER 3
I
TEPHEN never went to her father's study in order to talk of her
grief over Collins. A reticence strange in so young a child,
together with a new, stubborn pride, held her tongue-tied, so
that she fought out her battle alone, and Sir Philip allowed
her to do so. Collins disappeared and with her the footman,
and in Collins' stead came a new second housemaid, a niece of
Mrs. Bingham's, who was even more timid than her predecessor,
and who talked not at all. She was ugly, having small, round
black eyes like currants - not inquisitive blue eyes like Collins.
With set lips and tight throat Stephen watched this intruder
as she scuttled to and fro doing Collins' duties. She would sit
and scowl at poor Winefred darkly, devising small torments to
add to her labours - such as stepping on dustpans and upsetting
their contents, or hiding away brooms and brushes and slop-
cloths - until Winefred, distracted, would finally unearth them
from the most inappropriate places.
''Owever did them slop-cloths get in 'ere!' she would mut-
ter, discovering them under a nursery cushion. And her face
would grow blotched with anxiety and fear as she glanced to-
wards Mrs. Bingham.
But at night, when the child lay lonely and wakeful, these
acts that had proved a consolation in the morning, having sprung
from a desperate kind of loyalty to Collins - these acts would
seem trivial and silly and useless, since Collins could neither
know of them nor see them, and the tears that had been held
in check through the day would well under Stephen's eyelids.
Nor could she, in those lonely watches of the night-time, pluck
up courage enough to reproach the Lord Jesus, who, she felt,
could have helped her quite well had He chosen to accord her
a housemaid's knee.
28
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
She would think: 'He loves neither me nor Collins - He
wants all the pain for Himself; He won't share it!'
And then she would feel contrite: 'Oh, I'm sorry, Lord
Jesus, 'cause I do know You love all miserable sinners!' And
the thought that perhaps she had been unjust to Jesus would
reduce her to still further tears.
Very dreadful indeed were those nights spent in weeping,
spent in doubting the Lord and His servant Collins. The hours
would drag by in intolerable blackness, that in passing seemed to
envelop Stephen's body, making her feel now hot and now cold.
The grandfather clock on the stairs ticked so loudly that her
head ached to hear its unnatural ticking - when it chimed, which
it did at the hours and the half-hours, its voice seemed to shake
the whole house with terror, until Stephen would creep down
under the bed-clothes to hide from she knew not what. But
presently, huddled beneath the blankets, the child would be
soothed by a warm sense of safety, and her nerves would relax,
while her body grew limp with the drowsy softness of bed. Then
suddenly a big and most comforting yawn, and another, and
another, until darkness and Collins and tall clocks that menaced,
and Stephen herself, were all blended and merged into some-
thing quite friendly, a harmonious whole, neither fearful nor
doubting - the blessed illusion we call sleep.
2
IN THE weeks that followed on Collins' departure, Anna tried
to be very gentle with her daughter, having the child more fre-
quently with her, more diligently fondling Stephen. Mother
and daughter would walk in the garden, or wander about to-
gether through the meadows, and Anna would remember the
son of her dreams, who had played with her in those meadows. A
great sadness would cloud her eyes for a moment, an infinite
regret as she looked down at Stephen; and Stephen, quick to
discern that sadness, would press Anna's hand with small, anxious
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
29
fingers; she would long to inquire what troubled her mother, but
would be held speechless through shyness.
The scents of the meadows would move those two strangely
- the queer, pungent smell from the hearts of dog-daisies; the
buttercup smell, faintly green like the grass; and then meadow-
sweet that grew close by the hedges. Sometimes Stephen must
tug at her mother's sleeve sharply - intolerable to bear that thick
fragrance alone!
One day she had said: 'Stand still or you'll hurt it - it's all
round us - it's a white smell, it reminds me of you!' And then
she had flushed, and had glanced up quickly, rather frightened in
case she should find Anna laughing.
But her mother had looked at her curiously, gravely, puzzled
by this creature who seemed all contradictions - at one moment
so hard, at another so gentle, gentle to tenderness, even. Anna
had been stirred, as her child had been stirred, by the breath
of the meadowsweet under the hedges; for in this they were
one, the mother and daughter, having each in her veins the
warm Celtic blood that takes note of such things - could they
only have divined it, such simple things might have formed a
link between them.
A great will to loving had suddenly possessed Anna Gordon,
there in that sunlit meadow - had possessed them both as they
stood together, bridging the gulf between maturity and child-
hood. They had gazed at each other as though asking for some-
thing, as though seeking for something, the one from the other;
then the moment had passed - they had walked on in silence,
no nearer in spirit than before.
3
SOMETIMES Anna would drive Stephen into Great Malvern, to
the shops, with lunch at the Abbey Hotel on cold beef and whole-
some rice pudding. Stephen loathed these excursions, which
meant dressing up, but she bore them because of the honour
30
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
which she felt to be hers when escorting her mother through
the streets, especially Church Street with its long, busy hill, be-
cause every one saw you in Church Street. Hats would be lifted
with obvious respect, while a humbler finger might fly to a
forelock; women would bow, and a few even curtsy to the lady
of Morton - women in from the country with speckled sun-
bonnets that looked like their hens, and kind faces like brown,
wrinkled apples. Then Anna must stop to inquire about calves
and babies and foals, indeed all such young creatures as prosper
on farms, and her voice would be gentle because she loved such
young creatures.
Stephen would stand just a little behind her, thinking how
gracious and lovely she was; comparing her slim and elegant
shoulders with the toil-thickened back of old Mrs. Bennett, with
the ugly, bent spine of young Mrs. Thompson who coughed
when she spoke and then said: 'I beg pardon!' as though she
were conscious that one did not cough in front of a goddess.
like Anna.
Presently Anna would look round for Stephen: 'Oh, there
you are, darling! We must go into Jackson's and change mother's
books'; or, Nanny wants some more saucers; let's walk on
and get them at Langley's.'
<
Stephen would suddenly spring to attention, especially if
they were crossing the street. She would look right and left for
imaginary traffic, slipping a hand under Anna's elbow.
Come with me,' she would order, and take care of the
puddles, 'cause you might get your feet wet - hold on by me,
Mother!'
Anna would feel the small hand at her elbow, and would
think that the fingers were curiously strong; strong and efficient
they would feel, like Sir Philip's, and this always vaguely dis-
pleased her. Nevertheless she would smile at Stephen while she
let the child guide her in and out between the puddles.
She would say: 'Thank you, dear; you're as strong as a
lion!' trying to keep that displeasure from her voice.
Very protective and careful was Stephen when she and her
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
31
mother were out alone together. Not all her queer shyness could
prevent her protecting, nor could Anna's own shyness save her
from protection. She was forced to submit to a quiet supervision
that was painstaking, gentle but extremely persistent. And yet
was this love? Anna often wondered. It was not, she felt sure,
the trusting devotion that Stephen had always felt for her father;
it was more like a sort of instinctive admiration, coupled with
a large, patient kindness.
"If she'd only talk to me as she talks to Philip, I might get
to understand her,' Anna would muse, 'It's so odd not to know
what she's feeling and thinking, to suspect that something's
always being kept in the background.'
Their drives home from Malvern were usually silent, for
Stephen would feel that her task was accomplished, her mother
no longer needing her protection now that the coachman had
the care of them both - he, and the arrogant-looking grey cobs
that were yet so mannerly and gentle. As for Anna, she would
sigh and lean back in her corner, weary of trying to make con-
versation. She would wonder if Stephen were tired or just sulky,
or if, after all, the child might be stupid. Ought she, perhaps, to
feel sorry for the child? She could never quite make up her mind.
Meanwhile, Stephen, enjoying the comfortable brougham,
would begin to indulge in kaleidoscopic musings, those musings
that belong to the end of the day, and occasionally visit children.
Mrs. Thompson's bent spine, it looked like a bow not a rain-
bow but one of the archery kind; if you stretched a tight string
from her feet to her head, could you shoot straight with Mrs.
Thompson? China dogs - they had nice china dogs at Langley's
- that made you think of someone; oh, yes, of course, Collins -
Collins and a cottage with red china dogs. But you tried not
to think about Collins! There was such a queer light slanting
over the hills, a kind of gold glory, and it made you feel sorry -
why should a gold glory make you feel sorry when it shone that
way on the hills? Rice pudding, almost as bad as tapioca – not
quite though, because it was not so slimy - tapioca evaded your
efforts to chew it, it felt horrid, like biting down on your own
32
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
gum. The lanes smelt of wetness, a wonderful smell! Yet when
Nanny washed things they only smelt soapy - but then, of
course, God washed the world without soap; being God, per-
haps He didn't need any -- you needed a lot, especially for hands
did God wash His hands without soap? Mother, talking about
calves and babies, and looking like the Virgin Mary in church,
the one in the stained-glass window with Jesus, which reminded
you of Church Street, not a bad place after all; Church Street
was really rather exciting - what fun it must be for men to have
hats that they could take off, instead of just smiling – a bowler
must be much more fun than a Leghorn - you couldn't take
that off to Mother -
<
The brougham would roll smoothly along the white road,
between stout leafy hedges starred with dog-roses; blackbirds
and thrushes would be singing loudly, so loudly that Stephen
could hear their voices above the quick clip, clip, of the cobs
and the muffled sounds of the carriage. Then from under her
brows she must glance across at Anna, who she knew loved the
songs of blackbirds and thrushes; but Anna's face would be
hidden in shadow, while her hands lay placidly folded.
And now the horses, nearing their stables, would redouble
their efforts as they swung through the gates, the tall, iron gates
of the parklands of Morton, faithful gates that had always meant
home. Old trees would fly past, then the paddocks with their
cattle - Worcestershire cattle with uncanny white faces; then the
two quiet lakes where the swans reared their cygnets; then
the lawns, and at last the wide curve in the drive, near the house,
that would lead to the massive entrance.
The child was too young to know why the beauty of Morton
would bring a lump to her throat when seen thus in the gold
haze of late afternoon, with its thoughts of evening upon it. She
would want to cry out in a kind of protest that was very near
tears: Stop it stop it, you're hurting!' But instead she would
blink hard and shut her lips tightly, unhappy yet happy. It was
a queer feeling; it was too big for Stephen, who was still rather
little when it came to affairs of the spirit. For the spirit of Morton
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
33
would be part of her then, and would always remain somewhere
deep down within her, aloof and untouched by the years that
must follow, by the stress and the ugliness of life. In those after-
years certain scents would evoke it - the scent of damp rushes
growing by water; the kind, slightly milky odour of cattle; the
smell of dried roseleaves and orris-root and violets, that together
with a vague suggestion of bees-wax always hung about Anna's
rooms. Then that part of Stephen that she still shared with Mor-
ton would know what it was to feel terribly lonely, like a soul
that wakes up to find itself wandering, unwanted, between the
spheres.
4
ANNA and Stephen would take off their coats, and go to the
study in search of Sir Philip who would usually be there waiting.
"
Hallo, Stephen!' he would say in his pleasant, deep voice,
but his eyes would be resting on Anna.
Stephen's eyes invariably followed her father's, so that she
too would stand looking at Anna, and sometimes she must catch
her breath in surprise at the fullness of that calm beauty. She
never got used to her mother's beauty, it always surprised her
each time she saw it; it was one of those queerly unbearable
things, like the fragrance of meadowsweet under the hedges.
Anna might say: 'What's the matter, Stephen? For good-
ness' sake darling, do stop staring!' And Stephen would feel hot
with shame and confusion because Anna had caught her staring.
Sir Philip usually came to her rescue: Stephen, here's that
new picture-book about hunting'; or, 'I know of a really nice
print of young Nelson; if you're good I'll order it for you
to-morrow.'
But after a little he and Anna must get talking, amusing
themselves irrespective of Stephen, inventing absurd little games,
like two children, which games did not always include the real
child. Stephen would sit there silently watching, but her heart
would be a prey to the strangest emotions - emotions that seven-
years-old could not cope with, and for which it could find no
34
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
adequate names. All she would know was that seeing her parents
together in this mood, would fill her with longings for some-
thing that she wanted yet could not define - a something that
would make her as happy as they were. And this something
would always be mixed up with Morton, with grave, stately
rooms like her father's study, with wide views from windows.
that let in much sunshine, and the scents of a spacious garden.
Her mind would go groping about for a reason, and would find
no reason - unless it were Collins - but Collins would refuse to
fit into these pictures; even love must admit that she did not
belong there any more than the brushes and buckets and slop-
cloths belonged in that dignified study.
Presently Stepherr must go off to her tea, leaving the two
grown-up children together; secretly divining that neither of
them would miss her - not even her father.
Arrived in the nursery she would probably be cross, because
her heart felt very empty and tearful; or because, having looked
at herself in the glass, she had decided that she loathed her abun-
dant long hair. Snatching at a slice of thick bread and butter,
she would upset the milk jug, or break a new tea-cup, or smear
the front of her dress with her fingers, to the fury of Mrs. Bing-
ham. If she spoke at such times it was usually to threaten: 'I
shall cut all my hair off, you see if I don't!' or, "I hate this white
dress and I'm going to burn it - it makes me feel idiotic!' But
once launched she would dig up the grievances of months, going
back to the time of the would-be young Nelson, loudly com-
plaining that being a girl spoilt everything - even Nelson. The
rest of the evening would be spent in grumbling, because one
does grumble when one is unhappy – at least one does grumble
when one is seven - later on it may seem rather useless.
At last the hour of the bath would arrive, and still grumbling,
Stephen must submit to Mrs. Bingham, fidgeting under the
nurse's rough fingers like a dog in the hands of a trimmer.
There she would stand pretending to shiver, a strong little figure,
narrow-hipped and wide-shouldered; her flanks as wiry and
thin as a greyhound's and even more ceaselessly restless.
35
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'God doesn't use soap!' she might suddenly remark.
At which Mrs. Bingham must smile, none too kindly:
'Maybe not, Miss Stephen - He don't 'ave to wash you; if He
did He'd need plenty of soap, I'll be bound!'
The bath over, and Stephen garbed in her nightgown, a long
pause would ensue, known as: 'Waiting for Mother,' and if
mother, for some reason, did not happen to arrive, the pause
could be spun out for quite twenty minutes, or for half an hour
even, if luck was with Stephen, and the nursery clock not too
precise and old-maidish.
'Now come on, say your prayers;' Mrs. Bingham would
order, and you'd better ask the dear Lord to forgive you
impious I calls it, and you a young lady! Carrying on because
you can't be a boy!'
Stephen would kneel by the side of the bed, but in such
moods as these her prayers would sound
prayers would sound angry. The nurse would
protest: Not so loud, Miss Stephen! Pray slower, and don't shout
at the Lord, He won't like it!'
But Stephen would continue to shout at the Lord in a kind
of impotent defiance.
CHAPTER 4
I
HE SORROWS of childhood are mercifully passing, for it is
only when maturity has rendered soil mellow that grief will
root very deeply. Stephen's grief for Collins, in spite of its vio-
lence, or perhaps because of that very violence, wore itself out
like a passing tempest and was all but spent by the autumn.
By Christmas, the gusts when they came were quite gentle,
rousing nothing more disturbing than a faint melancholy - by
Christmas it required quite an effort of will to recapture the
charm of Collins.
Stephen was nonplussed and rather uneasy; to have loved
so greatly and now to forget! It made her feel childish and hor-
ribly silly, as though she had cried over cutting her finger. As
on all grave occasions, she considered the Lord, remembering
His love for miserable sinners:
'Teach me to love Collins Your way,' prayed Stephen, try-
ing hard to squeeze out some tears in the process, teach me to
love her 'cause she's mean and unkind and won't be a proper
sinner that repenteth.' But the tears would not come, nor was
prayer what it had been; it lacked something - she no longer
sweated when she prayed.
Then an awful thing happened, the maid's image was fading,
and try as she would Stephen could not recall certain passing
expressions that had erst-while allured her. Now she could not
see Collins' face at all clearly even if she willed very hard in the
dark. Thoroughly disgruntled, she bethought her of books, books
of fairy tales, hitherto not much in favour, especially of those
that treated of spells, incantations and other unlawful proceed-
ings. She even requested the surprised Mrs. Bingham to read
from the Bible:
'You know where,' coaxed Stephen, it's the place they
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
37
were reading in church last Sunday, about Saul and a witch
with a name like Edna - the place where she makes some
person come up, 'cause the king had forgotten what he looked
like.'
But if prayer had failed Stephen, her spells also failed her;
indeed they behaved as spells do when said backwards, making
her see, not the person she wished to, but a creature entirely dif-
ferent. For Collins now had a most serious rival, one who had
lately appeared at the stables. He was not possessed of a real
housemaid's knee, but instead, of four deeply thrilling brown
legs - he was two up on legs, and one up on a tail, which was
rather unfair on Collins! That Christmas, when Stephen was
eight years old, Sir Philip had bought her a hefty bay pony; she
was learning to ride him, could ride him already, being naturally
skilful and fearless. There had been quite a heated discussion with
Anna, because Stephen had insisted on riding astride. In this
she had shown herself very refractory, falling off every time she
tried the side-saddle - quite obvious, of course, this falling off
process, but enough to subjugate Anna.
And now Stephen would spend long hours at the stables,
swaggering largely in corduroy breeches, hobnobbing with Wil-
liams, the old stud groom, who had a soft place in his heart.
for the child.
She would say: 'Come up, horse!' in the same tone as Wil-
liams; or, pretending to a knowledge she was far from possess-
ing: Is that fetlock a bit puffy? It looks to me puffy, supposing
we put on a nice wet bandage.'
Then Williams would rub his rough chin as though think-
ing: Maybe yes - maybe no- ' he would temporize, wisely.
-
She grew to adore the smell of the stables; it was far more
enticing than Collins' perfume - the Erasmic she had used on
her afternoons out, and which had once smelt so delicious. And
the pony! So strong, so entirely fulfilling, with his round, gentle
eyes, and his heart big with courage - he was surely more worthy
of worship than Collins, who had treated you badly because of
the footman! And yet - and yet - you owed something to Collins,
38
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
just because you had loved her, though you couldn't any
more. It was dreadfully worrying, all this hard thinking, when
you wished to enjoy a new pony! Stephen would stand there rub-
bing her chin in an almost exact imitation of Williams. She could
not produce the same scrabbly sound, but in spite of this drawback
the movement would soothe her.
Then one morning she had a bright inspiration: Come up,
horse!' she commanded, slapping the pony, Come up, horse,
and let me get close to your ear, 'cause I'm going to whisper
something dreadfully important.' Laying her cheek against his
firm neck she said softly: 'You're not you any more, you're
Collins!'
So Collins was comfortably transmigrated. It was Stephen's
last effort to remember.
2
CAME the day when Stephen rode out with her father to a meet,
a glorious and memorable day. Side by side the two of them
jogged through the gates, and the lodgekeeper's wife must smile
to see Stephen sitting her smart bay pony astride, and looking
so comically like Sir Philip.
'It do be a pity as her isn't a boy, our young lady,' she told
her husband.
It was one of those still, slightly frosty mornings when the
landing is tricky on the north side of the hedges; when the smoke
from farm chimneys rises straight as a ramrod; when the scent
of log fires or of burning brushwood, though left far behind,
still persists in the nostrils. A crystal clear morning, like a draught
of spring water, and such mornings are good when one is young.
The pony tugged hard and fought at his bridle; he was
trembling with pleasure for he was no novice; he knew all about
signs and wonders in stables, such as large feeds of corn ad-
ministered early, and extra long groomings, and pink coats with
brass buttons, like the hunt coat Sir Philip was wearing. He
frisked down the road, a mass of affectation, demanding some
skill on the part of his rider; but the child's hands were strong
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
39
yet exceedingly gentle - she possessed that rare gift, perfect hands
on a horse.
'This is better than being young Nelson,' thought Stephen,
'cause this way I'm happy just being myself."
Sir Philip looked down at his daughter with contentment;
she was good to look upon, he decided. And yet his contentment
was not quite complete, so that he looked away again quickly,
sighing a little, because, somehow these days, he had taken to
sighing over Stephen.
The meet was a large one. People noticed the child; Colonel
Antrim, the Master, rode up and spoke kindly: 'You've a fine
pony there, but he'll need a bit of holding!' And then to her
father: 'Is she safe astride, Philip? Violet's learning to ride, but
side-saddle, I prefer it - I never think girl children get the grip
astride; they aren't built for it, haven't the necessary muscle;
still, no doubt she'll stick on by balance.'
Stephen flushed: 'No doubt she'll stick on by balance!'
The words rankled, oh, very deeply they rankled. Violet was
learning to ride side-saddle, that small, flabby lump who squealed
if you pinched her; that terrified creature of muslins and ribbons
and hair that curled over the nurse's finger! Why, Violet could
never come to tea without crying, could never play a game with-
out getting herself hurt! She had fat, wobbly legs too, just like
a rag doll and you, Stephen, had been compared to Violet!
Ridiculous of course, and yet all of a sudden you felt less im-
pressive in your fine riding breeches. You felt - well, not foolish
exactly, but self-conscious - not quite at your ease, a little bit
wrong. It was almost as though you were playing at young Nelson
again, were only pretending.
-
Adap
But you said: 'I've got muscles, haven't I, Father? Williams
says I've got riding muscles already!' Then you dug your heels
sharply into the pony, so that he whisked round, bucking and
rearing. As for you, you stuck to his back like a limpet. Wasn't
that enough to convince them?
'Steady on, Stephen!' came Sir Philip's voice, warning.
Then the Master's: 'She's got a fine seat, I'll admit it – Violet's
40
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
a little bit scared on a horse, but I think she'll get confidence.
later; I hope so.'
And now hounds were moving away towards cover, tails
waving they looked like an army with banners.' Hi, Starbright
- Fancy! Get in, little bitch! Hi, Frolic, get on with it, Frolic!'
The long lashes shot out with amazing precision, stinging a
flank or stroking a shoulder, while the four-legged Amazons
closed up their ranks for the serious business ahead. 'Hi, Star-
bright!' Whips cracked and horses grew restless; Stephen's
mount required undivided attention. She had no time to think
of her muscles or her grievance, but only of the creature between
her small knees.
K
'All right, Stephen?'
"Yes, Father.'
Well, go steady at your fences; it may be a little bit slippery
this morning.' But Sir Philip's voice did not sound at all anxious;
indeed there was a note of deep pride in his voice.
'He knows that I'm not just a rag doll, like Violet; he knows
that I'm different to her!' thought Stephen.
3
THE STRANGE, implacable heart-broken music of hounds giving
tongue as they break from cover; the cry of the huntsman as
he stands in his stirrups; the thud of hooves pounding ruthlessly
forward over long, green, undulating meadows. The meadows
flying back as though seen from a train, the meadows streaming
away behind you; the acrid smell of horse sweat caught in pass-
ing; the smell of damp leather, of earth and bruised herbage - all
sudden, all passing - then the smell of wide spaces, the air smell,
cool yet as potent as wine.
Sir Philip was looking back over his shoulder: All right,
Stephen?
Oh, yes' Stephen's voice sounded breathless.
Steady on! Steady on!'
They were coming to a fence, and Stephen's grip tightened
C
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
41
a little. The pony took the fence in his stride, very gaily; for
an instant he seemed to stay poised in mid-air as though he had
wings, then he touched earth again, and away without even
pausing.
"All right, Stephen?'
'Yes, yes!'
Sir Philip's broad back was bent forward over the shoulder
of his hunter; the crisp auburn hair in the nape of his neck
showed bright where the winter sunshine touched it; and as the
child followed that purposeful back, she felt that she loved it
utterly, entirely. At that moment it seemed to embody all kind-
ness, all strength, and all understanding.
4
THEY killed not so very far from Worcester; it had been a stiff
run, the best of the season. Colonel Antrim came jogging along
to Stephen, whose prowess had amused and surprised him.
'Well, well,' he said, grinning, 'so here you are, madam,
still with a leg on each side of your horse - I'm going to tell
Violet she'll have to buck up. By the way, Philip, can Stephen
come to tea on Monday, before Roger goes back to school? She
can? Oh, splendid! And now where's that brush? I think our
young Stephen here, takes it.'
Strange it is, but unforgettable moments are often connected
with very small happenings, happenings that assume fictitious
proportions, especially when we are children. If Colonel Antrim
had offered Stephen the crown of England on a red velvet
cushion, it is doubtful whether her pride would have equalled the
pride that she felt when the huntsman came forward and pre-
sented her with her first hunting trophy - the rather pathetic,
bedraggled little brush, that had weathered so many hard miles.
Just for an instant the child's heart misgave her, as she looked
at the soft, furry thing in her hand; but the joy of attainment
was still hot upon her, and that incomparable feeling of elation
that comes from the knowledge of personal courage, so that
42
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
she forgot the woes of the fox in remembering the prowess of
Stephen.
Sir Philip fastened the brush to her saddle. ' You rode well,'
he said briefly, then turned to the Master.
But she knew that that day she had not failed him, for his
eyes had been bright when they rested on hers; she had seen
great love in those melancholy eyes, together with a curiously
wistful expression of which her youth lacked understanding.
And now many people smiled broadly at Stephen, patting her
pony and calling him a flier.
One old farmer remarked: ''E do be a good plucked un,
and so be 'is rider - beggin' your pardon.'
At which Stephen must blush and grow slightly mendacious,
pretending to give all the credit to the pony, pretending to feel
very humble of spirit, which she knew she was far from feeling.
'Come along!' called Sir Philip, 'No more to-day, Stephen,
your poor little fellow's had enough for one day.' Which was
true, since Collins was all of a tremble, what with excitement
and straining short legs to keep up with vainglorious hunters.
Whips touched hats: Good-bye, Stephen, come out soon
again - See you on Tuesday, Sir Philip, with the Croome.' And
the field settled down to the changing of horses, before drawing
yet one more cover.
5
FATHER and daughter rode home through the twilight, and now
there were no dog-roses in the hedges, the hedges stood leafless
and grey with frost rime, a network of delicate branches. The
earth smelt as clean as a newly washed garment - it smelt of
'God's washing,' as Stephen called it - while away to the left,
from a distant farm-house, came the sound of a yard-dog, bark-
ing. Small lights were glowing in cottage windows as yet un-
curtained, as yet very friendly; and beyond, where the great hills
of Malvern showed blue against the pale sky, many small lights
were burning - lights of home newly lit on the altar of the hills
to the God of both hills and homesteads. No birds were singing
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
43
in the trees by the roadside, but a silence prevailed, more lovely
than bird song; the thoughtful and holy silence of winter, the
silence of trustfully waiting furrows. For the soil is the greatest
saint of all ages, knowing neither impatience, nor fear, nor
doubting; knowing only faith, from which spring all blessings
that are needful to nurture man.
Sir Philip said: Are you happy, my Stephen?'
And she answered: 'I'm dreadfully happy, Father. I'm so
dreadfully happy that it makes me feel frightened, 'cause I mayn't
always last happy - not this way.'
He did not ask why she might not last happy; he just nodded,
as though he admitted of a reason; but he laid his hand over
hers on the bridle for a moment, a large, and comforting hand.
Then the peace of the evening took possession of Stephen, that
and the peace of a healthy body tired out with fresh air and much
vigorous movement, so that she swayed a little in her saddle and
came near to falling asleep. The pony, even more tired than his
rider, jogged along with neck drooping and reins hanging
slackly, too weary to shy at the ogreish shadows that were crouch-
ing ready to scare him. His small mind was doubtless concen-
trated on fodder; on the bucket of water nicely seasoned with
gruel; on the groom's soothing hiss as he rubbed down and
bandaged; on the warm blanket clothing, so pleasant in winter,
and above all on that golden bed of deep straw that was sure
to be waiting in his stable.
<
And now a great moon had swung up very slowly; and the
moon seemed to pause, staring hard at Stephen, while the frost
rime turned white with the whiteness of diamonds, and the
shadows turned black and lay folded like velvet round the feet
of the drowsy hedges. But the meadows beyond the hedges turned
silver, and so did the road to Morton.
6
It was late when they reached the stables at last, and old Wil-
liams was waiting in the yard with a lantern.
44
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'Did you kill?' he inquired, according to custom; then he
saw Stephen's trophy and chuckled.
Stephen tried to spring easily out of the saddle as her father
had done, but her legs seemed to fail her. To her horror and
chagrin her legs hung down stiffly as though made of wood;
she could not control them; and to make matters worse, Collins
now grew impatient and began to walk off to his loose-box.
Then Sir Philip put two strong arms around Stephen, and he
lifted her bodily as though she were a baby, and he carried her,
only faintly protesting, right up to the door of the house and
beyond it right up indeed, to the warm pleasant nursery where
a steaming hot bath was waiting. Her head fell back and lay on
his shoulder, while her eyelids drooped, heavy with well-earned
sleep; she had to blink very hard several times over in order to
get the better of that sleep.
'Happy, darling?' he whispered, and his grave face bent
nearer. She could feel his cheek, rough at the end of the day,
pressed against her forehead, and she loved that kind rough-
ness, so that she put up her hand and stroked it.
'So dreadfully, dreadfully happy, Father,' she murmured,
'so - dreadfully happy -'
CHAPTER 5
I
Of
N THE Monday that followed Stephen's first day out hunt-
ing she woke with something very like a weight on her
chest; in less than two minutes she knew why this was - she
was going to tea with the Antrims. Her relations with other chil-
dren were peculiar, she thought so herself and so did the children;
they could not define it and neither could Stephen, but there
it was all the same. A high-spirited child she should have been
popular, and yet she was not, a fact which she divined, and this
made her feel ill at ease with her playmates, who in their turn
felt ill at ease. She would think that the children were whisper-
ing about her, whispering and laughing for no apparent reason;
but although this had happened on one occasion, it was not always
happening as Stephen imagined. She was painfully hyper-sensi-
tive at times, and she suffered accordingly.
Of all the children that Stephen most dreaded, Violet and
Roger Antrim took precedence; especially Roger, who was ten
years old, and already full to the neck of male arrogance – he
had just been promoted to Etons that winter, which added to
his overbearing pride. Roger Antrim had round, brown eyes like
his mother, and a short, straight nose that might one day be
handsome; he was rather a thick-set, plump little boy, whose
buttocks looked too large in a short Eton jacket, especially when
he stuck his hands in his pockets and strutted, which he did very
often.
Roger was a bully; he bullied his sister, and would dearly
have loved to bully Stephen; but Stephen nonplussed him, her
arms were so strong, he could never wrench Stephen's arms
backwards like Violet's; he could never make her cry or show
any emotion when he pinched her, or tugged roughly at her
new hair ribbon, and then Stephen would often beat him at
46
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
games, a fact which he deeply resented. She could bowl at cricket
much straighter than he could; she climbed trees with astonish-
ing skill and prowess, and even if she did tear her skirts in the
process it was obviously cheek for a girl to climb at all. Violet
never climbed trees; she stood at the bottom admiring the courage
of Roger. He grew to hate Stephen as a kind of rival, a kind of
intruder into his especial province; he was always longing to
take her down a peg, but being slow-witted he was foolish in his
methods - no good daring Stephen, she responded at once, and
usually went one better. As for Stephen, she loathed him, and
her loathing was increased by a most humiliating consciousness.
of envy. Yes, despite his shortcomings she envied young Roger
with his thick, clumping boots, his cropped hair and his Etons;
envied his school and his masculine companions of whom he
would speak grandly as: all the other fellows!'; envied his right
to climb trees and play cricket and football - his right to be
perfectly natural; above all she envied his splendid conviction
that being a boy constituted a privilege in life; she could well
understand that conviction, but this only increased her envy.
Stephen found Violet intolerably silly, she cried quite as
loudly when she bumped her own head as when Roger applied his
most strenuous torments. But what irritated Stephen, was the
fact that she suspected that Violet almost enjoyed those torments.
'He's so dreadfully strong!' she had confided in Stephen,
with something like pride in her voice.
Stephen had longed to shake her for that: 'I can pinch quite
as hard as he can!' she had threatened, 'If you think he's
stronger than I am, I'll show you!' At which Violet had rushed
away screaming.
Violet was already full of feminine poses; she loved dolls,
but not quite so much as she pretended. People said: 'Look
at Violet, she's like a little mother; it's so touching to see that
instinct in a child!' Then Violet would become still more touch-
ing. She was always thrusting her dolls upon Stephen, making
her undress them and put them to bed. 'Now you're Nanny,
Stephen, and I'm Gertrude's mother, or you can be mother this
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
47
time if you'd rather - Oh, be careful, you'll break her! Now
you've pulled off a button! I do think you might play more like
I do!' And then Violet knitted, or said that she knitted - Stephen
had never seen anything but knots. Can't you knit?' she would
say, looking scornfully at Stephen, I can - Mother called me a
dear little housewife!' Then Stephen would lose her temper and
speak rudely: 'You're a dear little sop, that's what you are!' For
hours she must play stupid doll-games with Violet, because Roger
would not always play real games in the garden. He hated to be
beaten, yet how could she help it? Could she help throwing
straighter than Roger?
They had nothing whatever in common, these children, but
the Antrims were neighbours, and even Sir Philip, indulgent
though he was, insisted that Stephen should have friends of her
own age to play with. He had spoken quite sharply on several
occasions when the child had pleaded to be allowed to stay at
home. Indeed he spoke sharply that very day at luncheon:
'Eat your pudding please, Stephen; come now, finish it
quickly! If all this fuss is about the little Antrims, then Father
won't have it, it's ridiculous, darling.'
So Stephen had hastily swallowed her pudding, and escaped
upstairs to the nursery.
2
THE ANTRIMS lived half a mile from Ledbury, on the other side
of the hills. It was quite a long drive to their house from Morton
- Stephen was driven over in the dog-cart. She sat beside Williams
in gloomy silence, with the collar of her coat turned up to her
ears. She was filled with a sense of bitter injustice; why should
they insist on this stupid expedition? Even her father had been
cross at luncheon because she preferred to stay at home with him.
Why should she be forced to know other children? They didn't
want her nor she them. And above all the Antrims! That idiotic
Violet - Violet who was learning to ride side-saddle – and Roger
strutting about in his Etons, and bragging, always bragging
because he was a boy - and their mother who was quite sure to
48
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
patronize Stephen, because being grown-up made her put on a
manner. Stephen could hear her infuriating voice, the voice she
reserved for children. Ah, here you are, Stephen! Now then,
little people, run along and have a good feed in the schoolroom.
There's plenty of cake; I knew Stephen was coming; we all know
Stephen's capacity for cake!'
C
Stephen could hear Violet's timorous giggle and Roger's guf-
faw as they greeted this sally. She could feel his fat fingers pinch-
ing her arm; pinching cruelly, slyly, as he strutted beside her.
Then his whisper: 'You're a pig! You eat much more than I do,
mother said so to-day, and boys need more than girls!' Then
Violet: 'I'm not very fond of plum cake, it makes me feel sicky --
mother says it's indigestion. I could never eat big bits of
plum cake like Stephen. Nanny says I'm a dainty feeder.' Then
Stephen herself, saying nothing at all, but glaring sideways at
Roger.
The dog-cart was slowly climbing British Camp, that long,
steep hill out of Little Malvern. The cold air grew colder, but
marvellously pure it was, up there above the valleys. The peak
of the Camp stood out clearly defined by snow that had fallen
lightly that morning, and as they breasted the crest of the hill, the
sun shone out on the snow. Away to the right lay the valley of
the Wye, a long, lovely valley of deep blue shadows; a valley of
small homesteads and mothering trees, of soft undulations and
wide, restful spaces leading away to a line of dim mountains
leading away to the mountains of Wales, that lay just over the
border. And because she loved this kind English valley, Stephen's
sulky eyes must turn and rest upon it; not all her apprehension
and sense of injustice could take from her eyes the joy of that
seeing. She must gaze and gaze, she must let it possess her, the
peace, the wonder that lay in such beauty; while the unwilling
tears welled up under her lids - she not knowing why they had
come there.
My
And now they were trotting swiftly downhill; the valley had
vanished, but the woods of Eastnor stood naked and lovely, and
the forms of their trees were more perfect than forms that are
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
49
}
1
made with hands - unless with the hands of God. Stephen's eyes
turned again; she could not stay sulky for these were the woods.
where she drove with her father. Twice every spring they
drove up to these woods and through them to the stretching
parkland beyond. There were deer in the park - they would
sometimes get out of the dog-cart so that Stephen could feed the
does.
She began to whistle softly through her teeth, an accomplish-
ment in which she took a great pride. Impossible to go on feeling
resentful when the sun was shining between the bare branches,
when the air was as clear and as bright as crystal, when the cob
was literally flying through the air, taking all Williams' strength
to hold him.
"Steady boy steady on! He be feeling the weather - gets
into his blood and makes him that skittish - Now go quiet, you
young blight! Just look at him, will you, he's got himself all of a
lather!'
'Let me drive,' pleaded Stephen, 'Oh, please, please
Williams!'
But Williams shook his head as he grinned at her broadly:
'I've got old bones, Miss Stephen, and old bones breaks quick
when it's frosty, so I've heard tell.'
3
MRS. ANTRIM was waiting for Stephen in the lounge - she was
always waiting to waylay her in the lounge, or so it appeared to
Stephen. The lounge was a much overdressed apartment, full of
small, useless tables and large, clumsy chairs. You bumped into
the chairs and tripped over the tables; at least you did if
you were
Stephen. There was one deadly pitfall you never could avoid, a
huge polar bear skin that lay on the floor. Its stuffed head pro-
truded at a most awkward angle; you invariably stubbed your big
toe on that head. Stephen, true to tradition, stubbed her toe rather
badly as she blundered towards Mrs. Antrim.
6
Dear me,' remarked her hostess, you are a great girl; why
50
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
your
feet must be double the size of Violet's! Come here and let
me have a look at your feet.' Then she laughed as though some-
thing amused her.
Stephen was longing to rub her big toe, but she thought
better of it, enduring in silence.
Children!' called Mrs. Antrim, ' Here's Stephen, I'm sure
she's as hungry as a hunter!'
Violet was wearing a pale blue silk frock; even at seven she
was vain of her appearance. She had cried until she had got per-
mission to wear that particular pale blue frock, which was usually
reserved for parties. Her brown hair was curled into careful ring-
lets, and tied with a very large bow of blue ribbon. Mrs. Antrim
glanced quickly from Stephen to Violet with a look of maternal
pride.
Roger was bulging inside his Etons; his round cheeks were
puffed, very pink and aggressive. He eyed Stephen coldly from
above a white collar that was obviously fresh from the laundry.
On their way upstairs he pinched Stephen's leg, and Stephen
kicked backwards, swiftly and neatly.
'I suppose you think you can kick!' grunted Roger, who was
suffering acutely at that moment from his shin, 'You've not got
the strength of a flea; I don't feel it!'
At Violet's request they were left alone for tea; she liked
playing the hostess, and her mother spoilt her. A special small
teapot had had to be unearthed, in order that Violet could
lift it.
Sugar?' she inquired with tongs poised in mid air, ´ And
milk?' she added, imitating her mother. Mrs. Antrim always
said: 'And milk,' in that tone – it made you feel that you must
be rather greedy.
"Oh, chuck it!' growled Roger, whose shin was still aching,
'You know I want milk and four lumps of sugar.'
Violet's underlip began to tremble, but she held her ground
with unexpected firmness. May I give you a little more milk,
Stephen dear? Or would you prefer no milk, only lemon?'
'There isn't any lemon and you know it!' bawled Roger.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
51
'Here, give me my tea or I'll spoil your hair ribbon.' He grabbed
at his cup and nearly upset it.
'Oh, oh!' shrilled Violet,' My dress!'
They settled down to the meal at last, but Stephen observed
that Roger was watching; every mouthful she ate she could feel
him watching, so that she grew self-conscious. She was hungry,
not having eaten much luncheon, but now she could not enjoy
her cake; Roger himself was stuffing like a grampus, but his
eyes never left her face. Then Roger, the slow-witted in his
dealings with Stephen, all but choked in the throes of a great
inspiration.
'I say, you,' he began, with his mouth very full, what about
a certain young lady out hunting? What about a fat leg on each
side of her horse like a monkey on a stick, and everybody
laughing!'
C
They were not!' exclaimed Stephen, growing suddenly red.
'Oh, yes, but they were, though!' mocked Roger.
Now had Stephen been wise she would have let the thing
drop, for no fun is derived from a one-sided contest, but at eight
years old one is not always wise, and moreover her pride had been
stung to the quick.
She said: 'I'd like to see you get the brush; why you can't
stick on just riding round the paddock! I've seen you fall off
jumping nothing but a hurdle; I'd like to see you out hunting!'
Roger swallowed some more cake; there was now no great
hurry; he had thrown his sprat and had landed his mackerel. He
had very much feared that she might not be drawn – it was not
always easy to draw Stephen.
'Well now, listen,' he drawled, and I'll tell you something.
You thought they admired you squatting on your pony; you
thought you were being very grand, I'll bet, with your new
riding breeches and your black velvet cap; you thought they'd
suppose that you looked like a boy, just because you were trying
to be one. As a matter of fact, if you really want to know, they
were busting their sides; why, my father said so. He was laughing
all the time at your looking so funny on that rotten old pony
<
52
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
that's as fat as a porpoise. Why, he only gave you the brush for
fun, because you were such a small kid - he said so. He said: “I
gave Stephen Gordon the brush because I thought she might
cry if I didn't.
"You're a liar,' breathed Stephen, who had turned very pale.
'Oh, am I? Well, you ask father.'
'Do stop -' whimpered Violet, beginning to cry; 'you're
horrid, you're spoiling my party.'
But Roger was launched on his first perfect triumph; he had
seen the expression in Stephen's eyes: ' And my mother said,' he
continued more loudly, that your mother must be funny to
allow you to do it; she said it was horrid to let girls ride that way;
she said she was awfully surprised at your mother; she said that
she'd have thought that your mother had more sense; she said
that it wasn't modest; she said - '
"""
Stephen had suddenly sprung to her feet: 'How dare you!
How dare you - my mother!' she spluttered. And now she was
almost beside herself with rage, conscious only of one overwhelm-
ing impulse, and that to belabour Roger.
A plate crashed to the ground and Violet screamed faintly.
Roger, in his turn, had pushed back his chair; his round eyes
were staring and rather frightened; he had never seen Stephen
quite like this before. She was actually rolling up the sleeves of
her smock.
"You cad!' she shouted, 'I'll fight you for this!' And she
doubled up her fist and shook it at Roger while he edged away
from the table.
She stood there an enraged and ridiculous figure in her
Liberty smock, with her hard, boyish forearms. Her long hair
had partly escaped from its ribbon, and the bow sagged down
limply, crooked and foolish. All that was heavy in her face sprang
into view, the strong line of the jaw, the square, massive brow,
the eyebrows, too thick and too wide for beauty. And yet there
was a kind of large splendour about her - absurd though she
she was splendid at that moment – grotesque
grotesque and splendid,
C
was,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
53
like some primitive thing conceived in a turbulent age of
transition.
'Are you going to fight me, you coward?' she demanded,
as she stepped round the table and faced her tormentor.
But Roger thrust his hands deep into his pockets: 'I don't
fight with girls!' he remarked very grandly. Then he sauntered
out of the schoolroom.
Stephen's own hands fell and hung at her sides; her head
drooped, and she stood staring down at the carpet. The whole
of her suddenly drooped and looked helpless, as she stood staring
down at the carpet.
'How could you!' began Violet, who was plucking up
courage. 'Little girls don't have fights - I don't, I'd be
frightened - '
But Stephen cut her short: 'I'm going,' she said thickly;
'I'm going home to my father.'
She went heavily downstairs and out into the lobby, where
she put on her hat and coat; then she made her way round the
house to the stables, in search of old Williams and the dog-cart.
4
"YOU'RE home very early, Stephen,' said Anna, but Sir Philip
was staring at his daughter's face.
'What's the matter?' he inquired, and his voice sounded
anxious. Come here and tell me about it.'
<
Then Stephen quite suddenly burst into tears, and she wept
and she wept as she stood there before them, and she poured out
her shame and humiliation, telling all that Roger had said about
her mother, telling all that she, Stephen, would have done to
defend her, had it not been that Roger would not fight with a
girl. She wept and she wept without any restraint, scarcely know-
ing what she said - at that moment not caring. And Sir Philip
listened with his head on his hand, and Anna listened bewildered
and dumbfounded. She tried to kiss Stephen, to hold her to her,
G
54
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
away; in this orgy of grief
but Stephen, still sobbing, pushed her
she resented consolation, so that in the end Anna took her to the
nursery and delivered her over to the care of Mrs. Bingham,
feeling that the child did not want her.
When Anna went quietly back to the study, Sir Philip was
still sitting with his head on his hand. She said: 'It's time you
realized, Philip, that if you're Stephen's father, I'm her mother.
So far you've managed the child your own way, and I don't think
it's been successful. You've treated Stephen as though she were
a boy - perhaps it's because I've not given you a son- ' Her voice
trembled a little but she went on gravely: 'It's not good for
Stephen; I know it's not good, and at times it frightens me,
Philip.'
No, no!' he said sharply.
But Anna persisted: Yes, Philip, at times it makes me afraid
- I can't tell you why, but it seems all wrong - it makes me feel -
strange with the child.'
He looked at her out of his melancholy eyes: Can't you trust
me? Won't you try to trust me, Anna?'
But Anna shook her head: 'I don't understand, why shouldn't
you trust me, Philip? '
And then in his terror for this well-beloved woman, Sir
Philip committed the first cowardly action of his life - he who
would not have spared himself pain, could not bear to inflict it on
Anna. In his infinite pity for Stephen's mother, he sinned very
deeply and gravely against Stephen, by withholding from that
mother his own conviction that her child was not as other
children.
There's nothing for you to understand,' he said firmly,
but I like you to trust me in all things.'
After this they sat talking about the child, Sir Philip very quiet
and reassuring.
'I've wanted her to have a healthy body,' he explained,
'that's why I've let her run more or less wild; but perhaps we'd
better have a governess now, as you say; a French governess, my
dear, if you'd prefer one- Later on I've always meant to engage
| C
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
55
a bluestocking, some woman who's been to Oxford. I want
Stephen to have the finest education that care and money can
give her.'
But once again Anna began to protest. 'What's the good of
it all for a girl?' she argued. 'Did you love me any less because
I couldn't do mathematics? Do you love me less now because I
count on my fingers?
He kissed her. ‘That's different, you're you,' he said, smil-
ing, but a look that she knew well had come into his eyes, a cold,
resolute expression, which meant that all persuasion was likely
to be unavailing.
Presently they went upstairs to the nursery, and Sir Philip
shaded the candle with his hand, while they stood together gazing
down at Stephen - the child was heavily asleep.
Look, Philip,' whispered Anna, pitiful and shaken, ‘look,
Philip - she's got two big tears on her cheek!'
He nodded, slipping his arm around Anna: ‘Come away,'
he muttered, we may wake her.'
CHAPTER 6
I
M
RS. BINGHAM departed unmourned and unmourning, and
in her stead reigned Mademoiselle Duphot, a youthful
French governess with a long, pleasant face that reminded
Stephen of a horse. This equine resemblance was fortunate in one
way - Stephen took to Mademoiselle Duphot at once- but it
did not make for respectful obedience. On the contrary, Stephen
felt very familiar, kindly familiar and quite at her case; she
petted Mademoiselle Duphot. Mademoiselle Duphot was lonely
and homesick, and it must be admitted that she liked being
petted. Stephen would rush off to get her a cushion, or a footstool
or her glass of milk at eleven.
'Comme elle est gentille, cette drôle de petite fille, elle a si
bon cœur,' would think Mademoiselle Duphot, and somehow
geography would not seem to matter quite so much, or arithmetic
either in vain did Mademoiselle try to be strict, her pupil could
always beguile her.
Mademoiselle Duphot knew nothing about horses, in spite of
the fact that she looked so much like one, and Stephen would
complacently entertain her with long conversations anent splints
and spavins, cow hocks and colic, all mixed up together in a kind
of wild veterinary jumble. Had Williams been listening, he might
well have rubbed his chin, but Williams was not there to listen.
<
As for Mademoiselle Duphot, she was genuinely impressed:
'Mais quel type, quel type!' she was always exclaiming. 'Vous
êtes déjà une vraie petite Amazone, Stévenne.'
N'est-ce pas?' agreed Stephen, who was picking up French.
The child showed a real ability for French, and this delighted
her teacher; at the end of six months she could gabble quite freely,
making quick little gestures and shrugging her shoulders. She
liked talking French. it rather amused her, nor was she averse
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
57
W
to mastering the grammar; what she could not endure were the
long, foolish dictées from the edifying Bibliothèque Rose. Weak
in all other respects with Stephen, Mademoiselle Duphot clung
to these dictées; the Bibliothèque Rose became her last trench
of authority, and she held it.
"Les Petites Filles Modèles, Mademoiselle would an-
nounce, while Stephen yawned out her ineffable boredom;
Maintenant nous allons retrouver Sophie - Where to did we
arrive? Ah, oui, I remember: "Cette preuve de confiance toucha
Sophie et augmenta encore son regret d'avoir été si méchante.
6 66
Comment, se dit-elle, ai-je pu me livrer à une telle colère?
Comment ai-je été si méchante avec des amies aussi bonnes que
celles que j'ai ici, et si hardie envers une personne aussi douce,
aussi tendre que Mme. de Fleurville!
"""
"""
From time to time the programme would be varied by ex-
tracts of an even more edifying nature, and 'Les Bons Enfants'
would be chosen for dictation, to the scorn and derision of
Stephen.
La Maman. Donne-lui ton cœur, mon Henri; c'est ce que
tu pourras lui donner de plus agréable.
Mon cœur? Dit Henri en déboutonnant son habit et en
ouvrant sa chemise. Mais comment faire? il me faudrait un
couteau.' At which Stephen would giggle.
One day she had added a comment of her own in the margin:
Little beast, he was only shamming!' and Mademoiselle, com-
ing on this unawares, had been caught in the act of laughing
by her pupil. After which there was naturally less discipline than
ever in the schoolroom, but considerably more friendship.
However, Anna seemed quite contented, since Stephen was
becoming so proficient in French; and observing that his wife
looked less anxious these days, Sir Philip said nothing, biding
his time. This frank, jaunty slacking on the part of his daughter
should be checked later on, he decided. Meanwhile, Stephen
grew fond of the mild-faced Frenchwoman, who in her turn
adored the unusual child. She would often confide her troubles
to Stephen, those family troubles in which governesses abound –
-
58
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
her Maman was old and delicate and needy; her sister had a
wicked and spendthrift husband, and now her sister must make
little bags for the grand shops in Paris that paid very badly, her
sister was gradually losing her eyesight through making those
little bead bags for the shops that cared nothing, and paid very
badly. Mademoiselle sent Maman a part of her earnings, and
sometimes, of course, she must help her sister. Her Maman must
have her chicken on Sundays: Bon Dieu, il faut vivre - il faut
manger, au moins - ' And afterwards that chicken came in very
nicely for Petite Marmite, which was made from his carcass and
a few leaves of cabbage – Maman loved Petite Marmite, the
warmth of it eased her old gums.
Stephen would listen to these long dissertations with patience
and with apparent understanding. She would nod her head
wisely: Mais c'est dur,' she would comment, 'c'est terriblement
dur, la vie!'
،
But she never confided her own special troubles, and Made-
moiselle Duphot sometimes wondered about her: Est-elle
heureuse, cet étrange petit être?' she would wonder. Sera-
t-elle heureuse plus tard? Qui sait!'
2
IDLENESS and peace had reigned in the schoolroom for more than
two years, when ex-Sergeant Smylie sailed over the horizon and
proceeded to announce that he taught gymnastics and fencing.
From that moment peace ceased to reign in the schoolroom, or
indeed anywhere in the house for that matter. In vain did
Mademoiselle Duphot protest that gymnastics and fencing thick-
ened the ankles, in vain did Anna express disapproval, Stephen
merely ignored them and consulted her father.
'I want to go in for Sandowing,' she informed him, as though
they were discussing a career.
He laughed: 'Sandowing? Well, and how will you start it?
Then Stephen explained about ex-Sergeant Smylie.
'I see,' nodded Sir Philip, 'you want to learn fencing.'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
59
"And how to lift weights with my stomach,' she said quickly.
"Why not with your large front teeth?' he teased her. 'Oh,
well,' he added, there's no harm in fencing or gymnastics
either - provided, of course, that you don't try to wreck Morton
Hall like a Sampson wrecking the house of the Philistines; I
foresee that that might easily happen -
Stephen grinned: ' But it mightn't if I cut off my hair! May
I cut off my hair? Oh, do let me, Father!'
<
Certainly not, I prefer to risk it,' said Sir Philip, speaking
quite firmly.
Stephen went pounding back to the schoolroom. 'I'm going
to those classes!' she announced in triumph. 'I'm going to be
driven over to Malvern next week; I'm going to begin on Tues-
day, and I'm going to learn fencing so as I can kill your brother-
in-law who's a beast to your sister, I'm going to fight duels for
wives in distress, like men do in Paris, and I'm going to learn
how to lift pianos on my stomach by expanding something
the diapan muscles - and I'm going to cut my hair off!' she
mendaciously concluded, glancing sideways to observe the effect
of this bombshell.
'Bon Dieu, soyez clément!' breathed Mademoiselle Duphot,
casting her eyes to heaven.
3
IT WAS not very long before ex-Sergeant Smylie discovered that
in Stephen he had a star pupil. Some day you ought to make
a champion fencer, if you work really hard at it, Miss,' he told
her.
Stephen did not learn to lift pianos with her stomach, but
as time went on she did become quite an expert gymnast and
fencer; and as Mademoiselle Duphot confided to Anna, it was
after all very charming to watch her, so supple and young and
quick in her movements.
And she fence like an angel,' said Mademoiselle fondly,
'she fence now almost as well as she ride.'
Anna nodded. She herself had seen Stephen fencing many
бо
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
times, and had thought it a fine performance for so young a
child, but the fencing displeased her, so that she found it hard
to praise Stephen.
'I hate all that sort of thing for girls,' she said slowly.
'But she fence like a man, with such power and such grace,'
babbled Mademoiselle Duphot, the tactless.
And now life was full of new interest for Stephen, an interest
that centred entirely in her body. She discovered her body for a
thing to be cherished, a thing of real value since its strength
could rejoice her; and young though she was she cared for her
body with great diligence, bathing it night and morning in dull,
tepid water - cold baths were forbidden, and hot baths, she had
heard, sometimes weakened the muscles. For gymnastics she
wore her hair in a pigtail, and somehow that pigtail began to
intrude on other occasions. In spite of protests, she always forgot
and came down to breakfast with a neat, shining plait, so that
Anna gave in in the end and said, sighing:
Have your pigtail do, child, if you feel that you must -
but I can't say it suits you, Stephen.'
And Mademoiselle Duphot was foolishly loving. Stephen
would stop in the middle of lessons to roll back her sleeves and
examine her muscles; then Mademoiselle Duphot, instead of pro-
testing, would laugh and admire her absurd little biceps.
Stephen's craze for physical culture increased, and now it began
to invade the schoolroom. Dumb-bells appeared in the school-
room bookcases, while half worn-out gym shoes skulked in the
corners. Everything went by the board but this passion of
the child's for training her body. And what must Sir Philip elect
to do next, but to write out to Ireland and purchase a hunter
for his daughter to ride a real, thoroughbred hunter. And
what must he say but: That's one for young Roger!' So that
Stephen found herself comfortably laughing at the thought of
young Roger; and that laugh went a long way towards healing
the wound that had rankled within her - perhaps this was why
Sir Philip had written out to Ireland for that thoroughbred
hunter.
(Mag
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
6I
The hunter, when he came, was grey-coated and slender,
and his eyes were as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage
was as bright as an Irish sunrise, and his heart was as young
as the wild heart of Ireland, but devoted and loyal and eager
for service, and his name was sweet on the tongue as you spoke
it - being Raftery, after the poet. Stephen loved Raftery and
Raftery loved Stephen. It was love at first sight, and they talked
to each other for hours in his loose box - not in Irish or English,
but in a quiet language having very few words but many small
sounds and many small movements, which to both of them
meant more than words. And Raftery said: 'I will carry you
bravely, I will serve you all the days of my life.' And she an-
swered: 'I will care for you night and day, Raftery - all the
days of your life.' Thus Stephen and Raftery pledged their devo-
tion, alone in his fragrant, hay-scented stable. And Raftery was
five and Stephen was twelve when they solemnly pledged their
devotion.
Never was rider more proud or more happy than Stephen,
when first she and Raftery went a-hunting; and never was
youngster more wise or courageous than Raftery proved himself
at his fences; and never can Bellerophon have thrilled to more
daring than did Stephen, astride of Raftery that day, with the
wind in her face and a fire in her heart that made life a thing
of glory. At the very beginning of the run the fox turned in the
direction of Morton, actually crossing the big north paddock
before turning once more and making for Upton. In the paddock
was a mighty, upstanding hedge, a formidable place concealing
timber, and what must they do, these two young creatures, but
go straight at it and get safely over - those who saw Raftery fly
that hedge could never afterwards doubt his valour. And when
they got home there was Anna waiting to pat Raftery, because
she could not resist him. Because, being Irish, her hands loved
the feel of fine horse-flesh under their delicate fingers and
because she did very much want to be tender to Stephen, and un-
derstanding. But as Stephen dismounted, bespattered and di-
shevelled, and yet with that perversive look of her father, the
S
62
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
1
words that Anna had been planning to speak died
away before
they could get themselves spoken - she shrank back from the
child; but the child was too overjoyed at that moment to
perceive it.
4
HAPPY days, splendid days of childish achievements; but they
passed all too soon, giving place to the seasons, and there came
the winter when Stephen was fourteen.
On a January afternoon of bright sunshine, Mademoiselle
Duphot sat dabbing her eyes; for Mademoiselle Duphot must
leave her loved Stévenne, must give place to a rival who
could teach Greek and Latin - she would go back to Paris,
the poor Mademoiselle Duphot, and take care of her ageing
Maman.
Meanwhile, Stephen, very angular and lanky at fourteen,
was standing before her father in his study. She stood still, but
her glance kept straying to the window, to the sunshine that
seemed to be beckoning through the window. She was dressed
for riding in breeches and gaiters, and her thoughts were with
Raftery.
Sit down,' said Sir Philip, and his voice was so grave that
her thoughts came back with a leap and a bound; you and
I have got to talk this thing out, Stephen.'
'What thing, Father?' she faltered, sitting down abruptly.
'Your idleness, my child. The time has now come when all
play and no work will make a dull Stephen, unless we pull our-
selves together.'
G
She rested her large, shapely hands on her knees and bent
forward, searching his face intently. What she saw there was
a quiet determination that spread from his lips to his eyes. She
grew suddenly uneasy, like a youngster who objects to the rather
unpleasant process of mouthing.
'I speak French,' she broke out, I speak French like a
native; I can read and write French as well as Mademoiselle
does.'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
63
'And beyond that you know very little,' he informed her;
'it's not enough, Stephen, believe me.'
There ensued a long silence, she tapping her leg with her
whip, he speculating about her. Then he said, but quite gently:
"I've considered this thing - I've considered this matter of your
education. I want you to have the same education, the same
advantages as I'd give to my son - that is as far as possible –
he added, looking away from Stephen.
'But I'm not your son, Father,' she said very slowly,
and even as she said it her heart felt heavy - heavy and sad
as it had not done for years, not since she was quite a small
child.
And at this he looked back at her with love in his
eyes, love
and something that seemed like compassion; and their looks.
met and mingled and held for a moment, speechless yet some-
how expressing their hearts. Her own eyes clouded and she
stared at her boots, ashamed of the tears that she felt might
flow over. He saw this and went on speaking more quickly,
though anxious to cover her confusion.
You're all the son that I've got,' he told her. 'You're brave
and strong-limbed, but I want you to be wise - I want you to
be wise for your own sake, Stephen, because at the best life re-
quires great wisdom. I want you to learn to make friends of your
books; some day you may need them, because – ' He hesitated,
'because you mayn't find life at all easy, we none of us do, and
books are good friends. I don't want you to give up your fencing
and gymnastics or your riding, but I want you to show modera-
tion. You've developed your body, now develop your mind; let
your mind and your muscles help, not hinder each other - it can
be done, Stephen, I've done it myself, and in many respects
you're like me. I've brought you up very differently from most
girls, you must know that - look at Violet Antrim. I've indulged
you, I suppose, but I don't think I've spoilt you, because I believe
in you absolutely. I believe in myself too, where you're concerned;
I believe in my own sound judgment. But you've now got to
prove that my judgment's been sound, we've both got to prove
64
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
dag
it to ourselves and to your mother - she's been very patient with
my unusual methods - I'm going to stand trial now, and she'll
be my judge. Help me, I'm going to need all your help; if you fail
then I fail, we shall go down together. But we're not going to
fail, you're going to work hard when your new governess comes,
and when you're older you're going to become a fine woman;
you must, dear - I love you so much that you can't disappoint
me.' His voice faltered a little, then he held out his hand: ' and
Stephen, come here - look me straight in the eyes - what is
honour, my daughter?
She looked into his anxious, questioning eyes: 'You are
honour,' she said quite simply.
5
WHEN Stephen kissed Mademoiselle Duphot good-bye, she cried,
for she felt that something was going that would never come
back - irresponsible childhood. It was going, like Mademoiselle
Duphot. Kind Mademoiselle Duphot, so foolishly loving, so easily
coerced, so glad to be persuaded; so eager to believe that you
were doing your best, in the face of the most obvious slacking.
Kind Mademoiselle Duphot who smiled when she shouldn't,
who laughed when she shouldn't, and now she was weeping --
but weeping as only a Latin can weep, shedding rivers of tears
and sobbing quite loudly.
V
'Chérie -- mon bébé, petit chou!' she was sobbing, as she
clung to the angular Stephen.
The tears ran down on to Mademoiselle's tippet, and they
wet the poor fur which already looked jaded, and the fur clogged
together, turning black with those tears, so that Mademoiselle
tried to wipe it. But the more she wiped it the wetter it grew,
since her handkerchief only augmented the trouble; nor was
Stephen's large handkerchief very dry either, as she found when
she started to help.
The old station fly that had come out from Malvern, drove
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
65
up, and the footman seized Mademoiselle's luggage. It was such
meagre luggage that he waved back assistance from the driver,
and lifted the trunk single-handed. Then Mademoiselle Duphot
broke out into English - heaven only knew why, perhaps from
emotion.
'It's not farewell, it shall not be for ever - ' she sobbed. You
come, but I feel it, to Paris. We meet once more, Stévenne, my
poor little baby, when you grow up bigger, we two meet once.
more' And Stephen, already taller than she was, longed to
grow small again, just to please Mademoiselle. Then, because
the French are a practical people even in moments of real emo-
tion, Mademoiselle found her handbag, and groping in its depths
she produced a half sheet of paper.
"The address of my sister in Paris,' she said, snuffling; ' the
address of my sister who makes little bags - if you should hear
of anyone, Stévenne - any lady who would care to buy one little
bag-
Ma
'Yes, yes, I'll remember,' muttered Stephen.
At last she was gone; the fly rumbled away down the drive
and finally turned the corner. To the end a wet face had been
thrust from the window, a wet handkerchief waved despondently
at Stephen. The rain must have mingled with Mademoiselle's
tears, for the weather had broken and now it was raining.
It was surely a desolate day for departure, with the mist clos-
ing over the Severn Valley and beginning to creep up the
hill-sides.
•
Stephen made her way to the empty schoolroom, empty of
all save a general confusion; the confusion that stalks in some
people's trail - it had always stalked Mademoiselle Duphot. On
the chairs, which stood crooked, lay odds and ends meaning
nothing - crumpled paper, a broken shoehorn, a well-worn
brown glove that had lost its fellow and likewise two of its but-
tons. On the table lay a much abused pink blotting pad, from
which Stephen had torn off the corners, unchidden - it was
crossed and re-crossed with elegant French script until its scarred
66
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
face had turned purple. And there stood the bottle of purple
ink, half-empty, and green round its neck with dribbles; and a
pen with a nib as sharp as a pin point, a thin, peevish nib that
jabbed at the paper. Chock-a-block with the bottle of purple ink
lay a little piety card of St. Joseph that had evidently slipped out
of Mademoiselle's missal - St. Joseph looked very respectable and
kind, like the fishmonger in Great Malvern. Stephen picked up
the card and stared at St. Joseph; something was written across
his corner; looking closer she read the minute handwriting:
'Priez pour ma petite Stévenne.'
She put the card away in her desk; the ink and the blotter
she hid in the cupboard together with the peevish steel nib that
jabbed paper, and that richly deserved cremation. Then she
straightened the chairs and threw away the litter, after which
she went in search of a duster; one by one she dusted the few
remaining volumes in the bookcase, including the Bibliothèque
Rose. She arranged her dictation notebooks in a pile with others
that were far less accurately written - books of sums, mostly
careless and marked with a cross; books of English history, in
one of which Stephen had begun to write the history of the horse!
Books of geography with Mademoiselle's comments in strong
purple ink: ‘Grand manque d'attention.' And lastly she col-
lected the torn lesson books that had lain on their backs, on their
sides, on their bellies - anyhow, anywhere in drawers or in cup-
boards, but not very often in the bookcase. For the bookcase was
harbouring quite other things, a motley and most unstudious
collection; dumb-bells, wooden and iron, of varying sizes – some
Indian clubs, one split off at the handle - cotton laces, for gym
shoes, the belt of a tunic. And then stable keepsakes, including
a headband that Raftery had worn on some special occasion; a
miniature horseshoe kicked sky-high by Collins; a half-eaten
carrot, now withered and mouldy, and two hunting crops that
had both lost their lashes and were waiting to visit the saddler.
Stephen considered, rubbing her chin - a habit which by
now had become automatic - she finally decided on the ample
box-sofa as a seemly receptacle. Remained only the carrot, and
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
67
she stood for a long time with it clasped in her hand, disturbed
and unhappy - this clearing of decks for stern mental action was
certainly very depressing. But at last she threw the thing into
the fire, where it shifted distressfully, sizzling and humming.
Then she sat down and stared rather grimly at the flames that
were burning up Raftery's first carrot.
CHAPTER 7
I
Soa
OON after the departure of Mademoiselle Duphot, there oc-
curred two distinct innovations at Morton. Miss Puddleton
arrived to take possession of the schoolroom, and Sir Philip
bought himself a motor-car. The motor was a Panhard, and it
caused much excitement in the neighbourhood of Upton-on-
Severn. Conservative, suspicious of all innovations, people had
abstained from motors in the Midlands, and, incredible as it now
seems to look back on, Sir Philip was regarded as a kind of
pioneer. The Panhard was a high-shouldered, snub-nosed
abortion with a loud, vulgar voice and an uncertain
temper. It suffered from frequent fits of dyspepsia, brought
about by an unhealthy spark-plug. Its seats were the very acme
of discomfort, its primitive gears unhandy and noisy, but
nevertheless it could manage to attain to a speed of about
fifteen miles per hour - given always that, by God's good
grace and the chauffeur's, it was not in the throes of
indigestion.
Anna felt doubtful regarding this new purchase. She was one
of those women who, having passed forty, were content to go
on placidly driving in their broughams, or, in summer, in their
charming little French victorias. She detested the look of herself
in large goggles, detested being forced to tie on her hat, detested
the heavy, mannish coat of rough tweed that Sir Philip insisted
she must wear when motoring. Such things were not of her; they
offended her sense of the seemly, her preference for soft, cling-
ing garments, her instinct for quiet, rather slow, gentle move-
ments, her love of the feminine and comely. For Anna at forty-
four was still slender, and her dark hair, as yet, was untouched
with grey, and her blue Irish eyes were as clear and candid as
when she had come as a bride to Morton. She was beautiful still,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
69
and this fact rejoiced her in secret, because of her husband. Yet
Anna did not ignore middle age; she met it half-way with dignity
and courage; and now her soft dresses were of reticent colours,
and her movements a little more careful than they had been, and
her mind more severely disciplined and guarded – too much
guarded these days, she was gradually growing less tolerant
as her interests narrowed. And the motor, an unimportant
thing in itself, served nevertheless to crystallize in Anna a cer-
tain tendency towards retrogression, a certain instinctive
dislike of the unusual, a certain deep-rooted fear of the
unknown.
Old Williams was openly disgusted and hostile; he con-
sidered the car to be an outrage to his stables – those immaculate
stables with their spacious coach-houses, their wide plaits of straw
neatly interwoven with yards of red and blue saddler's tape, and
their fine stable-yard hitherto kept so spotless. Came the Pan-
hard, and behold, pools of oil on the flagstones, greenish, bad-
smelling oil that defied even scouring; and a medley of odd-
looking tools in the coach-house, all greasy, all soiling your hands
when you touched them; and large tins of what looked like black
vaseline; and spare tyres for which nails had been knocked into
the woodwork; and a bench with a vice for the motor's insides
which were frequently being dissected. From this coach-house the
dog-cart had been ruthlessly expelled, and now it must stand
chock-a-block with the phaeton, so that room might be made for
the garish intruder together with its young bodyservant. The
young bodyservant was known as a chauffeur - he had come
down from London and wore clothes made of leather. He talked
Cockney, and openly spat before Williams in the coach-house,
then rubbed his foot over the spittle.
'I'll 'ave none of yer expectoration 'ere in me coach-house, I
tells ee!' bawled Williams, apoplectic with temper.
Oh, come orf it, do, Grandpa; we're not in the ark!' was
how the new blood answered Williams.
There was war to the knife between Williams and Burton --
Burton who expressed large disdain of the horses.
70
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
<
Yer time's up now, Grandpa,' he was constantly remarking;
it's all up with the gees - better learn to be a shovver!'
"'Opes I'll die afore ever I demean meself that way, you
young blight!' bawled the outraged Williams. Very angry he
grew, and his dinner fermented, dilating his stomach and caus-
ing discomfort, so that his wife became anxious about him.
'Now don't ee go worryin', Arth-thur,' she coaxed; ' us be
old, me and you, and the world be progressin'.'
'It be goin' to the devil, that's what it be doin'!' groaned
Williams, rubbing his stomach.
To make matters worse, Sir Philip's behaviour was that of a
schoolboy with some horrid new contraption. He was caught by
his stud-groom lying flat on his back with his feet sticking out
beneath the bonnet of the motor, and when he emerged there
was soot on his cheek-bones, on his hair, and even on the tip of
his nose. He looked terribly sheepish, and as Williams said later
to his wife:
'It were somethin' aw-ful to see 'im all mucked up, and ’im
such a neat gentleman, and 'im in a filthy old coat of that Bur-
ton's, and that Burton agrinnin' at me and just pointin', silent,
because the master couldn't see 'im, and the master a-callin' up
familiar-like to Burton: "I say! She's got somethin' all wrong
with 'er exhaust pipe!" and Burton acontradictin' the master:
"It's that piston," says 'e, as cool as yer please.'
Nor was Stephen less thrilled by the car than was her father.
Stephen made friends with the execrable Burton, and Burton,
who was only too anxious to gain allies, soon started to teach her
the parts of the engine; he taught her to drive too, Sir Philip
being willing, and off they would go, the three of them together,
leaving Williams to glare at the disappearing motor.
And 'er such a fine 'orse-woman and all!' he would grum-
ble, rubbing a disconsolate chin.
It is not too much to say that Williams felt heart-broken, he
was like a very unhappy old baby; quite infantile he was in his
fits of bad temper, in his mouthings and his grindings of toothless
gums. And all about nothing, for Sir Philip and his daughter
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
71
had the lure of horseflesh in their very bones - and then there
was Raftery, and Raftery loved Stephen, and Stephen loved
Raftery.
2
up
THE MOTORING, of course, was the most tremendous fun, but -
and it was a very large but indeed - when Stephen got home to
Morton and the schoolroom, a little grey figure would be sitting
at the table correcting an exercise book, or preparing some task
for the following morning. The little grey figure might look
and smile, and when it did this its face would be charming; but
if it refrained from smiling, then its face would be ugly, too hard
and too square in formation - except for the brow, which was
rounded and shiny like a bare intellectual knee. If the little grey
figure got up from the table, you were struck by the fact that it
seemed square all over - square shoulders, square hips, a flat,
square line of bosom; square tips to the fingers, square toes to the
shoes, and all tiny; it suggested a miniature box that was neatly
spliced at the corners. Of uncertain age, pale, with iron-grey hair,
grey eyes, and invariably dressed in dark grey, Miss Puddleton
did not look very inspiring - not at all as one having authority, in
fact. But on close observation it had to be admitted that her chin,
though minute, was extremely aggressive. Her mouth, too, was
firm, except when its firmness was melted by the warmth and
humour of her smile - a smile that mocked, pitied and questioned
the world, and perhaps Miss Puddleton as well.
From the very first moment of Miss Puddleton's arrival,
Stephen had had an uncomfortable conviction that this queer
little woman was going to mean something, was going to become
a fixture. And sure enough she had settled down at once, so that
in less than two months it seemed to Stephen that Miss Puddleton
must always have been at Morton, must always have been sitting
at the large walnut table, must always have been saying in that
dry, toneless voice with the Oxford accent: 'You've forgotten
something, Stephen,' and then, the books can't walk to the
bookcase, but you can, so suppose that you take them with you.'
72
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
It was truly amazing, the change in the schoolroom, not a
book out of place, not a shelf in disorder; even the box lounge
had had to be opened and its dumb-bells and clubs paired off
nicely together - Miss Puddleton always liked things to be
paired, perhaps an unrecognized matrimonial instinct. And now
Stephen found herself put into harness for the first time in her
life, and she loathed the sensation. There were so many rules that
a very large time-sheet had had to be fastened to the blackboard
in the schoolroom.
'Because,' said Miss Puddleton as she pinned the thing up,
' even my brain won't stand your complete lack of method, it's
infectious; this time-shect is my anti-toxin, so please don't tear
it to pieces!'
Mathematics and algebra, Latin and Greek, Roman history,
Greek history, geometry, botany, they reduced Stephen's mind
to a species of bechive in which every bee buzzed on the least
provocation. She would gaze at Miss Puddleton in a kind of
amazement; that tiny, square box to hold all this grim knowl-
edge! And sceing that gaze Miss Puddleton would smile her
most warm, charming smile, and would say as she did so:
C
Yes, I know - but it's only the first effort, Stephen; presently
your mind will get neat like the schoolroom, and then you'll be
able to find what you want without all this rummaging and
bother.'
But her tasks being over, Stephen must often slip away to
visit Raftery in the stables: 'Oh, Raftery, I'm hating it so!' she
would tell him. 'I feel like you'd feel if I put you in harness-
hard wooden shafts and a kicking strap, Raftery - but my
dar-
ling, I'd never put you into harness!'
And Raftery would hardly know what he should answer,
since all human creatures, so far as he knew them, must run be-
tween shafts - God-like though they were, they undoubtedly had
to run between shafts...
Nothing but Stephen's great love for her father helped her to
endure the first six months of learning - that and her own stub-
born, arrogant will that made her hate to be beaten. She would
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
73
swing clubs and dumb-bells in a kind of fury, consoling herself
with the thought of her muscles, and, finding her at it, Miss
Puddleton had laughed.
'You must feel that your teacher's some sort of midge,
Stephen – a tiresome midge that you want to brush off!'
Then Stephen had laughed too: 'Well, you are little, Puddle
– oh,
oh, I'm sorry -
>
'I don't mind,' Miss Puddleton had told her;' call me Puddle
if you like, it's all one to me.' After which Miss Puddleton dis-
appeared somehow, and Puddle took her place in the household.
An insignificant creature this Puddle, yet at moments un-
mistakably self-assertive. Always willing to help in domestic af-
fairs, such as balancing Anna's chaotic account books, or making
out library lists for Jackson's, she was nevertheless very guardful
of her rights, very quick to assert and maintain her position.
Puddle knew what she wanted and saw that she got it, both in
and out of the schoolroom. Yet every one liked her; she took what
she
gave and she gave what she took, yes, but sometimes she gave
just a little bit more - and that little bit more is the whole art of
teaching, the whole art of living, in fact, and Miss Puddleton
knew it. Thus gradually, oh, very gradually at first, she wore
down her pupil's unconscious resistance. With small, dexterous
fingers she caught Stephen's brain, and she stroked it and
modelled it after her own fashion. She talked to that brain and
showed it new pictures; she gave it new thoughts, new hopes
and ambitions; she made it feel certain and proud of achieve-
ment. Nor did she belittle Stephen's muscles in the process, never
once did Puddle make game of the athlete, never once did she
show by so much as the twitch of an eyelid that she had her own
thoughts about her pupil. She appeared to take Stephen as a
matter of course, nothing surprised or even amused her it seemed,
and Stephen grew quite at case with her.
I can always be comfortable with you, Puddle,' Stephen
would say in a tone of satisfaction, 'you're like a nice chair;
though you are so tiny yet one's got room to stretch, I don't know
how you do it."
74
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Then Puddle would smile, and that smile would warm
Stephen while it mocked her a little; but it also mocked Puddle -
they would share that warm smile with its fun and its kindness,
so that neither of them could feel hurt or embarrassed. And their
friendship took root, growing strong and verdant, and it
flourished like a green bay-tree in the schoolroom.
Came the time when Stephen began to realize that Puddle had
genius the genius of teaching; the genius of compelling her
pupil to share in her own enthusiastic love of the Classics.
Oh, Stephen, if only you could read this in Greek!' she
would say, and her voice would sound full of excitement; the
beauty, the splendid dignity of it - it's like the sea, Stephen,
rather terrible but splendid; that's the language, it's far more
virile than Latin.' And Stephen would catch that sudden excite-
ment, and determine to work even harder at Greek.
M
But Puddle did not live by the ancients alone, she taught
Stephen to appreciate all literary beauty, observing in her pupil a
really fine judgment, a great feeling for balance in sentences and
words. A vast tract of new interest was thus opened up, and
Stephen began to excel in composition; to her own deep amaze-
ment she found herself able to write many things that had long
lain dormant in her heart - all the beauty of nature, for instance,
she could write it. Impressions of childhood - gold light on the
hills; the first cuckoo, mysterious, strangely alluring; those rides
home from hunting together with her father - bare furrows, the
meaning of those bare furrows. And later, how many queer hopes
and queer longings, queer joys and even more curious frustra-
tions. Joy of strength, splendid physical strength and courage;
joy of health and sound sleep and refreshed awakening; joy of
Raftery leaping under the saddle, joy of wind racing backward
as Raftery leapt forward. And then, what? A sudden impene-
trable darkness, a sudden vast void all nothingness and darkness;
a sudden sense of acute apprehension: 'I'm lost, where am I?
Where am I? I'm nothing - yes I am, I'm Stephen - but that's
being nothing' then that horrible sense of apprehension.
Writing, it was like a heavenly balm, it was like the flowing
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
75
out of deep waters, it was like the lifting of a load from the
spirit; it brought with it a sense of relief, of assuagement. One
could say things in writing without feeling self-conscious, with-
out feeling shy and ashamed and foolish - one could even write of
the days of young Nelson, smiling a very little as one did so.
Sometimes Puddle would sit alone in her bedroom reading
and re-reading Stephen's strange compositions; frowning, or
smiling a little in her turn, at those turbulent, youthful out-
pourings.
She would think: Here's real talent, real red-hot talent -
interesting to find it in that great, athletic creature; but what is
she likely to make of her talent? She's up agin the world, if she
only knew it!' Then Puddle would shake her head and look
doubtful, feeling sorry for Stephen and the world in general.
3
THIS then was how Stephen conquered yet another kingdom,
and at seventeen was not only athlete but student. Three years
under Puddle's ingenious tuition, and the girl was as proud of
her brains as of her muscles - a trifle too proud, she was growing
conceited, she was growing self-satisfied, arrogant even, and Sir
Philip must tease her: Ask Stephen, she'll tell us. Stephen,
what's that reference to Adeimantus, something about a mind
fixed on true being - doesn't it come in Euripides, somewhere?
Oh, no, I'm forgetting, of course it's Plato; really my Greek is
disgracefully rusty!' Then Stephen would know that Sir Philip
was laughing at her, but very kindly.
In spite of her newly acquired book learning, Stephen still
talked quite often to Raftery. He was now ten years old and had
grown much in wisdom himself, so he listened with care and
attention.
"You see,' she would tell him, ' it's very important to develop
the brain as well as the muscles; I'm now doing both - stand still,
will you, Raftery! Never mind that old corn-bin, stop rolling your
eye round - it's very important to develop the brain because that
76
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
gives you an advantage over people, it makes you more able to do
as you like in this world, to conquer conditions, Raftery.'
And Raftery, who was not really thinking of the corn-bin,
but rolling his eye in an effort to answer, would want to say some-
thing too big for his language, which at best must consist of small
sounds and small movements; would want to say something
about a strong feeling he had that Stephen was missing the truth.
But how could he hope to make her understand the age-old
wisdom of all the dumb creatures? The wisdom of plains and
primeval forests, the wisdom come down from the youth of the
world.
CHAPTER 8
I
Α'
T SEVENTEEN Stephen was taller than Anna, who had used
to be considered quite tall for a woman, but Stephen was
nearly as tall as her father - not a beauty this, in the eyes of the
neighbours.
.<
Colonel Antrim would shake his head and remark: 'I like
'em plump and compact, it's more taking.'
Then his wife, who was certainly plump and compact, so
compact in her stays that she felt rather breathless, would say:
But then Stephen is very unusual, almost – well, almost a wec
bit unnatural - such a pity, poor child, it's a terrible drawback;
young men do hate that sort of thing, don't they?'
But in spite of all this Stephen's figure was handsome in a
flat, broad-shouldered and slim flanked fashion; and her move-
ments were purposeful, having fine poise, she moved with the easy
assurance of the athlete. Her hands, although large for a woman,
were slender and meticulously tended; she was proud of her
hands. In face she had changed very little since childhood, still
having Sir Philip's wide, tolerant expression. What change there
was only tended to strengthen the extraordinary likeness between
father and daughter, for now that the bones of her face showed
more clearly, as the childish fullness had gradually diminished,
the formation of the resolute jaw was Sir Philip's. His too the
strong chin with its shade of a cleft; the well modelled, sensitive
lips were his also. A fine face, very pleasing, yet with something
about it that went ill with the hats on which Anna insisted – large
hats trimmed with ribbons or roses or daisies, and supposed to
be softening to the features.
Staring at her own reflection in the glass, Stephen would feel
just a little uneasy: 'Am I queer looking or not?' she would
wonder, 'Suppose I wore my hair more like Mother's?' and
78
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
then she would undo her splendid, thick hair, and would part
it in the middle and draw it back loosely.
The result was always far from becoming, so that Stephen
would hastily plait it again. She now wore the plait screwed up
very tightly in the nape of her neck with a bow of black ribbon.
Anna hated this fashion and constantly said so, but Stephen was
stubborn: 'I've tried your way, Mother, and I look like a scare-
crow; you're beautiful, darling, but your young daughter isn't,
which is jolly hard on you.'
،
She makes no effort to improve her appearance,' Anna
would reproach, very gravely.
These days there was constant warfare between them on the
subject of clothes; quite a seemly warfare, for Stephen was learn-
ing to control her hot temper, and Anna was seldom anything
but gentle. Nevertheless it was open warfare, the inevitable clash
of two opposing natures who sought to express themselves in ap-
parel, since clothes, after all, are a form of self-expression. The
victory would be now on this side, now on that; sometimes
Stephen would appear in a thick woollen jersey, or a suit of rough
tweeds surreptitiously ordered from the excellent tailor in Mal-
vern. Sometimes Anna would triumph, having journeyed to Lon-
don to procure soft and very expensive dresses, which her daugh-
ter must wear in order to please her, because she would come
home quite tired by such journeys. On the whole, Anna got her
own way at this time, for Stephen would suddenly give up the
contest, reduced to submission by Anna's disappointment, always
more efficacious than mere disapproval.
'Here, give it to me!' she would say rather gruffly, grabbing
the delicate dress from her mother.
Then off she would rush and put it on all wrong, so that Anna
would sigh in a kind of desperation, and would pat, readjust, un-
fasten and fasten, striving to make peace between wearer and
model, whose inimical feelings were evidently mutual.
Came a day when Stephen was suddenly outspoken: 'It's my
face,' she announced, ' something's wrong with my face.'
'Nonsense!' exclaimed Anna, and her cheeks flushed a little,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
79
as though the girl's words had been an offence, then she turned
away quickly to hide her expression.
But Stephen had seen that fleeting expression, and she stood
very still when her mother had left her, her own face growing
heavy and sombre with anger, with a sense of some uncompre-
hended injustice. She wrenched off the dress and hurled it from
her, longing intensely to rend it, to hurt it, longing to hurt her-
self in the process, yet filled all the while with that sense of in-
justice. But this mood changed abruptly to one of self pity; she
wanted to sit down and weep over Stephen; on a sudden impulse
she wanted to pray over Stephen as though she were some one
apart, yet terribly personal too in her trouble. Going over to the
dress she smoothed it out slowly; it seemed to have acquired an
enormous importance; it seemed to have acquired the importance
of
prayer, the poor, crumpled thing lying crushed and dejected.
Yet Stephen, these days, was not given to prayer,
God had grown
so unreal, so hard to believe in since she had studied Comparative
Religion; engrossed in her studies she had somehow mislaid Him.
But now, here she was, very wishful to pray, while not knowing
how to explain her dilemma: 'I'm terribly unhappy, dear, im-
probable God -' would not be a very propitious beginning. And
yet at this moment she was wanting a God and a tangible one,
very kind and paternal; a God with a white flowing beard
and wide forehead, a benevolent parent Who would lean out of
Heaven and turn His face sideways the better to listen from His
cloud, upheld by cherubs and angels. What she wanted was a
wise old family God, surrounded by endless heavenly relations.
In spite of her troubles she began to laugh weakly, and the laugh-
ter was good for it killed self pity; nor can it have offended that
Venerable Person whose image persists in the hearts of small
children.
She donned the new dress with infinite precaution, pulling
out its bows and arranging its ruffles. Her large hands were
clumsy but now they were willing, very penitent hands full of
deep resignation. They fumbled and paused, then continued to
fumble with the endless small fastenings so cunningly hidden.
!
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
She sighed once or twice but the sighs were quite patient, so per-
haps in this wise, after all, Stephen prayed.
2
ANNA worried continually over her daughter; for one thing
Stephen was a social disaster, yet at seventeen many a girl was
presented, but the bare idea of this had terrified Stephen, and so it
had had to be abandoned. At garden parties she was always a
failure, seemingly ill at ease and ungracious. She shook hands
much too hard, digging rings into fingers, this from sheer auto-
matic nervous reaction. She spoke not at all, or else gabbled too
freely, so that Anna grew vague in her own conversation; all eyes
and ears she would be as she listened - it was certainly terribly
hard on Anna. But if hard on Anna, it was harder on Stephen
who dreaded these festive gatherings intensely; indeed her dread
of them lacked all proportion, becoming a kind of unreasoning
obsession. Every vestige of self-confidence seemed to desert her, so
that Puddle, supposing she happened to be present would find
herself grimly comparing this Stephen with the graceful, light-
footed, proficient young athlete, with the clever and somewhat
opinionated student who was fast outstripping her own powers as
a teacher. Yes, Puddle would sit there grimly comparing, and
would feel not a little uneasy as she did so. Then something of
her pupil's distress would reach her, so that perforce she would
have to share it and as like as not she would want to shake Stephen.
'Good Lord,' she would think, why can't she hit back? It's
absurd, it's outrageous to be so disgruntled by a handful of petty,
half-educated yokels – a girl with her brain too, it's simply out-
rageous! She'll have to tackle life more forcibly than this, if she's
not going to let herself go under!'
८
and
But Stephen, completely oblivious of Puddle, would be deep
in the throes of her old suspicion, the suspicion that had haunted
her ever since childhood - she would fancy that people were
laughing at her. So sensitive was she, that a half-heard sentence,
a word, a glance, made her inwardly crumble. It might well be
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
81
that people were not even thinking about her, much less discuss-
ing her
appearance - no good, she would always imagine that the
word, the glance, had some purely personal meaning. She would
twitch at her hat with inadequate fingers, or walk clumsily,
slouching a little as she did so, until Anna would whisper:
'Hold your back up, you're stooping.'
Or Puddle exclaim crossly: 'What on earth's the matter,
Stephen!'
All of which only added to Stephen's tribulation by making
her still more self-conscious.
With other young girls she had nothing in common, while
they, in their turn, found her irritating. She was shy to primness
regarding certain subjects, and would actually blush if they hap-
pened to be mentioned. This would strike her companions as
queer and absurd - after all, between girls - surely every one
knew that at times one ought not to get one's feet wet, that one
didn't play games, not at certain times - there was nothing to
make all this fuss about surely! To see Stephen Gordon's expres-
sion of horror if one so much as threw out a hint on the subject,
was to feel that the thing must in some way be shameful, a kind of
disgrace, a humiliation! And then she was odd about other things
too; there were so many things that she didn't like mentioned.
In the end, they completely lost patience with her, and they
left her alone with her fads and her fancies, disliking the check
that her presence imposed, disliking to feel that they dare not
allude to even the necessary functions of nature without being
made to feel immodest.
But at times Stephen hated her own isolation, and then she
would make little awkward advances, while her eyes would grow
rather apologetic, like the eyes of a dog who has been out of fa-
vour. She would try to appear quite at ease with her companions,
as she joined in their light-hearted conversation. Strolling up to a
group of
young girls at a party, she would grin as though their
small jokes amused her, or else listen gravely while they talked
about clothes or some popular actor who had visited Malvern. As
long as they refrained from too intimate details, she would fondly
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
imagine that her interest passed muster. There she would stand
with her strong arms folded, and her face somewhat strained in
an effort of attention. While despising these girls, she yet longed
to be like them - yes, indeed, at such moments she longed to be
like them. It would suddenly strike her that they seemed very
happy, very sure of themselves as they gossiped together. There
was something so secure in their feminine conclaves, a secure sense
of oneness, of mutual understanding; each in turn understood the
other's ambitions. They might have their jealousies, their quarrels
even, but always she discerned, underneath, that sense of oneness.
Poor Stephen! She could never impose upon them; they al-
ways saw through her as though she were a window. They knew
well enough that she cared not so much as a jot about clothes and
popular actors. Conversation would falter, then die down com-
pletely, her presence would dry up their springs of inspiration.
She spoilt things while trying to make herself agreeable; they
really liked her better when she was grumpy.
Could Stephen have met men on equal terms, she would al-
ways have chosen them as her companions; she preferred them
because of their blunt, open outlook, and with men she had much
in common
for instance. But men found her too clever if
sport
she ventured to expand, and too dull if she suddenly subsided into
shyness. In addition to this there was something about her that
antagonized slightly, an unconscious presumption. Shy though
she might be, they sensed this presumption; it annoyed them, it
made them feel on the defensive. She was handsome but much
too large and unyielding both in body and mind, and they liked
clinging women. They were oak-trees, preferring the feminine
ivy. It might cling rather close, it might finally strangle, it
frequently did, and yet they preferred it, and this being so, they
resented Stephen, suspecting something of the acorn about her.
―――
3
STEPHEN's worst ordeals at this time were the dinners given in
turn by a hospitable county. They were long, these dinners, over-
"}
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
loaded with courses; they were heavy, being weighted with polite
conversation; they were stately, by reason of the family silver;
above all they were firmly conservative in spirit, as conservative
as the marriage service itself, and almost as insistent upon sex
distinction.
Captain Ramsay, will you take Miss Gordon in to dinner? '
A politely crooked arm: Delighted, Miss Gordon.'
Then the solemn and very ridiculous procession, animals
marching into Noah's Ark two by two, very sure of divine pro-
tection - male and female created He them! Stephen's skirt would
be long and her foot might get entangled, and she with but one
free hand at her disposal - the procession would stop and she
would have stopped it! Intolerable thought, she had stopped the
procession!
'I'm so sorry, Captain Ramsay!
'I say, can I help you?
'No- it's really - all right, I think I can manage
But oh, the utter confusion of spirit, the humiliating feel-
ing that some one must be laughing, the resentment at having
to cling to his arm for support, while Captain Ramsay looked
patient.
'Not much damage, I think you've just torn the frill, but I
often wonder how you women manage. Imagine a man in a dress
like that, too awful to think of - imagine me in it!' Then a laugh,
not unkindly but a trifle self-conscious, and rather more than a
trifle complacent.
Safely steered to her seat at the long dinner-table, Stephen
would struggle to smile and talk brightly, while her partner
would think:Lord, she's heavy in hand; I wish I had the mother;
now there's a lovely woman!
And Stephen would think: 'I'm a bore, why is it?' Then,
"But if I were he I wouldn't be a bore, I could just be myself, I'd
feel perfectly natural.'
Her face would grow splotched with resentment and worry;
she would feel her neck flush and her hands become awkward.
Embarrassed, she would sit staring down at her hands, which
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
would seem to be growing more and more awkward. No escape!
No escape! Captain Ramsay was kind-hearted, he would try very
hard to be complimentary; his grey eyes would try to express ad-
miration, polite admiration as they rested on Stephen. His voice
would sound softer and more confidential, the voice that nice men
reserve for good women, protective, respectful, yet a little sex-
conscious, a little expectant of a tentative response. But Stephen
would feel herself growing more rigid with every kind word and
gallant allusion. Openly hostile she would be feeling, as poor
Captain Ramsay or some other victim was manfully trying to do
his duty.
In such a mood as this she had once drunk champagne, one
glass only, the first she had ever tasted. She had gulped it all down
in sheer desperation - the result had not been Dutch courage but
hiccups. Violent, insistent, incorrigible hiccups had echoed along
the whole length of the table. One of those weird conversational
lulls had been filled, as it were, to the brim with her hiccups.
Then Anna had started to talk very loudly; Mrs. Antrim
had smiled and so had their hostess. Their hostess had finally
beckoned to the butler: 'Give Miss Gordon a glass of water,'
she had whispered. After that Stephen shunned champagne
like the plague - better hopeless depression, she decided, than
hiccups!
It was strange how little her fine brain seemed able to help
her when she was trying to be social; in spite of her confident
boasting to Raftery, it did not seem able to help her at all. Perhaps
is was the clothes, for she lost all conceit the moment she was
dressed as Anna would have her; at this period clothes greatly
influenced Stephen, giving her confidence or the reverse. But be
that as it might, people thought her peculiar, and with them that
was tantamount to disapproval.
1
And thus, it was being borne in upon Stephen, that for her
there was no real abiding city beyond the strong, friendly old gates
of Morton, and she clung more and more to her home and to her
father. Perplexed and unhappy she would seek out her father on
all social occasions and would sit down beside him. Like a very
85
small child this large muscular creature would sit down beside
him because she felt lonely, and because youth most rightly re-
sents isolation, and because she had not yet learnt her hard lesson
- she had not yet learnt that the loneliest place in this world is the
no-man's-land of sex.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
CHAPTER 9
I
STRP
IR PHILIP and his daughter had a new common interest; they
could now discuss books and the making of books and the feel
and the smell and the essence of books - a mighty bond this, and
one full of enchantment. They could talk of these things with.
mutual understanding; they did so for hours in the father's study,
and Sir Philip discovered a secret ambition that had lain in the
girl like a seed in deep soil; and he, the good gardener of her body
and spirit, hoed the soil and watered this seed of ambition. Stephen
would show him her queer compositions, and would wait very
breathless and still while he read them; then one evening he
looked up and saw her expression, and he smiled:
So that's it, you want to be a writer. Well, why not? You've
got plenty of talent, Stephen; I should be a proud man if
you were
a writer.' After which their discussions on the making of books
held an even more vital enchantment.
But Anna came less and less often to the study, and she would
be sitting alone and idle. Puddle, upstairs at work in the school-
room, might be swatting at her Greek to keep pace with Stephen,
but Anna would be sitting with her hands in her lap in the vast
drawing-room so beautifully proportioned, so restfully furnished
in old polished walnut, so redolent of beeswax and orris root and
violets –– all alone in its vastness would Anna be sitting, with her
white hands folded and idle.
A lovely and most comfortable woman she had been, and still
was, in spite of her gentle ageing, but not learned, oh, no, very
far from learned – that, indeed, was why Sir Philip had loved
her, that was why he had found her so infinitely restful, that was
why he still loved her after very many years; her simplicity was
stronger to hold him than learning. But now Anna went less and
less often to the study.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
87
It was not that they failed to make her feel welcome, but
rather that they could not conceal their deep interest in subjects
of which she knew little or nothing. What did she know of or
care for the Classics? What interest had she in the works of
Erasmus? Her theology needed no erudite discussion, her philos-
ophy consisted of a home swept and garnished, and as for the
poets, she liked simple verses; for the rest her poetry lay in her
husband. All this she well knew and had no wish to alter, yet
lately there had come upon Anna an aching, a tormenting ach-
ing that she dared give no name to. It nagged at her heart when
she went to that study and saw Sir Philip together with their
daughter, and knew that her presence contributed nothing to his
happiness when he sat reading to Stephen.
Staring at the girl she would see the strange resemblance, the
invidious likeness of the child to the father, she would notice their
movements so grotesquely alike; their hands were alike, they
made the same gestures, and her mind would recoil with that
nameless resentment, the while she reproached herself, penitent
and trembling. Yet penitent and trembling though Anna might
be, she would sometimes hear herself speaking to Stephen in a
way that would make her feel secretly ashamed. She would hear
herself covertly, cleverly gibing, with such skill that the girl would
look up at her bewildered; with such skill that even Sir Philip
himself could not well take exception to what she was saying;
then, as like as not, she would laugh if off lightly, as though all
the time she had only been jesting, and Stephen would laugh too,
a big, friendly laugh. But Sir Philip would not laugh, and his eyes
would seek Anna's, questioning, amazed, incredulous and angry.
That was why she now went so seldom to the study when Sir
Philip and his daughter were together.
But sometimes, when she was alone with her husband, Anna
would suddenly cling to him in silence. She would hide her face
against his hard shoulder clinging closer and closer, as though
she were frightened, as though she were afraid for this great love
of theirs. He would stand very still, forbearing to move, forbear-
ing to question, for why should he question? He knew already,
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
and she knew that he knew. Yet neither of them spoke it, this
most unhappy thing, and their silence spread round them like a
poisonous miasma. The spectre that was Stephen would seem to
be watching, and Sir Philip would gently release himself from
Anna, while she, looking up, would see his tired eyes, not angry
any more, only very unhappy. She would think that those
were pleading, beseeching; she would think: 'He's pleading
with me for Stephen.' Then her own eyes would fill with tears
of contrition, and that night she would kneel long in prayer to
her Maker:
eyes
'Give me peace,' she would entreat, and enlighten my
spirit, so that I may learn how to love my own child.'
2
SIR PHILIP looked older now than his age, and seeing this, Anna
could scarcely endure it. Everything in her cried out in rebellion
so that she wanted to thrust back the years, to hold them at bay
with her own weak body. Had the years been an army of naked
swords she would gladly have held them at bay with her body.
He would constantly now remain in his study right into the
early hours of the morning. This habit of his had been growing
on him lately, and Anna, waking to find herself alone, and feel-
ing uneasy would steal down to listen. Backwards and forwards,
backwards and forwards! She would hear his desolate sounding
footsteps. Why was he pacing backwards and forwards, and why
was she always afraid to ask him? Why was the hand she stretched
out to the door always fearful when it came to turning the handle?
Oh, but it was strong, this thing that stood between them, strong
with the strength of their united bodies. It had drawn its own life
from their youth, their passion, from the splendid and purposeful
meaning of their passion - that was how it had leapt full of power
into life, and now it had thrust in between them. They were age-
ing, they had little left but their loving - that gentler loving, per-
haps the more perfect - and their faith in each other, which was
part of that loving, and their peace, which was part of the peace
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
89
of Morton. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards!
Those incessant and desolate sounding footsteps. Peace? There
was surely no peace in that study, but rather some affliction, men-
acing, prophetic! Yet prophetic of what? She dared not ask him,
she dared not so much as turn the door-handle, a haunting pre-
monition of disaster would make her creep away with her question
unasked.
Then something would draw her, not back to her bedroom,
but on up the stairs to the room of their daughter. She would open
that door very gently - by inches. She would hold her hand so
that it shaded the candle, and would stand looking down at the
sleeping Stephen as she and her husband had done long ago. But
now there would be no little child to look down on, no small
helplessness to arouse mother-pity. Stephen would be lying very
straight, very large, very long, underneath the neatly drawn cov-
ers. Quite often an arm would be outside the bedspread, the sleeve
having fallen away as it lay there, and that arm would look firm
and
strong and
and possessive, and so would the face by the light of
the candle. She slept deeply. Her breathing would be even and
placid. Her body would be drinking in its fill of refreshment. It
would rise up clean and refreshed in the morning; it would eat,
speak, move - it would move about Morton. In the stables, in the
gardens, in the neighbouring paddocks, in the study - it would
move about Morton. Intolerable dispensation of nature, Anna
would stare at that splendid young body, and would feel, as she
did so, that she looked on a stranger. She would scourge her heart
and her anxious spirit with memories drawn from this stranger's
beginnings: 'Little – you were so very little!' she would whisper,
' and you sucked from my breast because you were hungry – little
and always so terribly hungry – a good baby though, a contented
little baby -'
-
And Stephen would sometimes stir in her sleep as though she
were vaguely conscious of Anna. It would pass and she would lie
quiet again, breathing in those deep, placid draughts of refresh-
ment. Then Anna, still ruthlessly scourging her heart and her
anxious spirit, would stoop and kiss Stephen, but lightly and very
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
quickly on the forehead, so that the girl should not be awakened.
So that the girl should not wake and kiss back, she would kiss her
lightly and quickly on the forehead.
3
THE EYE of youth is very observant. Youth has its moments and
keen intuition, even normal youth - but the intuition of those
who stand midway between the sexes, is so ruthless, so poignant,
so accurate, so deadly, as to be in the nature of an added scourge;
and by such an intuition did Stephen discover that all was not
well with her parents.
Their outward existence seemed calm and unruffled; so far
nothing had disturbed the outward peace of Morton. But their
child saw their hearts with the eyes of the spirit; flesh of their
flesh, she had sprung from their hearts, and she knew that those
hearts were heavy. They said nothing, but she sensed that some
deep, secret trouble was afflicting them both; she could see it in
their eyes. In the words that they left unspoken she could hear it
- it would be there, filling the small gaps of silence. She thought
that she discerned it in her father's slow movements - surely
his movements had grown slower of late? And his hair was quite
grey; it was quite grey all over. She realized this with a slight
shock one morning as he sat in the sunlight - it had used to look
auburn in the nape of his neck when the sun fell upon it - and
now it was dull grey
all over.
But this mattered little. Even their trouble mattered little in
comparison with something more vital, with their love that,
she felt, was the only thing that mattered, and that was the thing
that now stood most in danger. This love of theirs had been a
great glory; all her life she had lived with it side by side, but
never until it appeared to be threatened, did she feel that she had
really grasped its true meaning - the serene and beautiful spirit
of Morton clothed in flesh, yes, that had been its true meaning.
Yet that had been only part of its meaning for her, it had meant
something greater than Morton, it had stood for the symbol of
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
91
perfect fulfilment - she remembered that even as a very small
child she had vaguely discerned that perfect fulfilment. This love
had been glowing like a great friendly beacon, a thing that was
steadfast and very reassuring. All unconscious, she must often
have warmed herself at it, must have thawed out her doubts and
her vague misgivings. It had always been their love, the one for
the other; she knew this, and yet it had been her beacon. But now
those flames were no longer steadfast; something had dared to
blemish their brightness. She longed to leap up in her youth and
strength and cast this thing out of her holy of holies. The fire
must not die and leave her in darkness.
And yet she was utterly helpless, and she knew it. All that
she did seemed inadequate and childish: When I was a child I
spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child.'
Remembering Saint Paul, she decided grimly that surely she
had remained as a child. She could sit and stare at them - these
poor, stricken lovers - with eyes that were scared and deeply re-
proachful: You must not let anything spoil your loving, I need
it,' her
eyes could send them that message. She could love them in
her turn, possessively, fiercely: ' You're mine, mine, mine, the one
perfect thing about me. You're one and you're mine, I'm fright-
ened, I need you!' Her thoughts could send them that message.
She could start to caress them, awkwardly, shyly, stroking their
hands with her strong, bony fingers - first his hand, then hers,
then perhaps both together, so that they smiled in spite of their
trouble. But she dared not stand up before them accusing, and
say: I'm Stephen, I'm you, for you bred me. You shall not
fail me by failing yourselves. I've a right to demand that you
shall not fail me!' No, she dared not stand up and speak
such words as these - she had never demanded anything from
them.
Sometimes she would think them quietly over as two fellow
creatures whom chance had made her parents. Her father, her
mother - a man, a woman; and then she would be amazed to dis-
cover how little she knew of this man and this woman. They had
once been babies, and later small children, ignorant of life and
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
utterly dependent. That seemed so curious, ignorant of life – her
father utterly weak and dependent. They had come to adolescence
even as she had, and perhaps at times they too had felt unhappy.
What had their thoughts been, those thoughts that lie hidden,
those nebulous misgivings that never get spoken? Had her mother
shrunk back resentful, protesting, when the seal of her woman-
hood had been stamped upon her? Surely not, for her mother was
somehow so perfect, that all that befell her must in its turn, be
perfect - her mother gathered nature into her arms and embraced
it as a friend, as a well loved companion. But she, Stephen, had
never felt friendly like that, which must mean, she supposed, that
she lacked some fine instinct.
There had been those young years of her mother's in Ireland;
she spoke of them sometimes but only vaguely, as though they
were now very far away, as though they had never seriously
counted. And yet she had been lovely, lovely Anna Molloy, much
admired, much loved and constantly courted - And her father,
he too had been in the world, in Rome, in Paris, and often in
London - he had not lived much at Morton in those days; and
how queer it seemed, there had been a time when her father had
actually not known her mother. They had been completely un-
conscious of each other, he for twenty-nine years, she for just over
twenty, and yet all the while had been drawing together, in spite
of themselves, always nearer together. Then had come that morn-
ing away in County Clare, when those two had suddenly seen
each other, and had known from that moment the meaning of
life, of love, just because they had seen each other. Her father
spoke very seldom of such things, but this much he had told her, it
had all grown quite clear - What had it felt like when they
realized each other? What did it feel like to see things quite
clearly, to know the innermost reason for things?
Morton - her mother had come home to Morton, to wonder-
ful, gently enfolding Morton. She had passed for the first time
through the heavy white doorway under the shining semi-circular
fanlight. She had walked into the old square hall with its bear-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
93
skins, and its pictures of funny, dressed-up looking Gordons - the
hall with the whip-rack where Stephen kept her whips - the hall
with the beautiful iridescent window, that looked over the lawns
and herbaceous borders. Then, perhaps hand in hand, they had
passed beyond the hall, her father a man, her mother a woman,
with their destiny already upon them - and that destiny of theirs
had been Stephen.
Ten years. For ten years they had just had each other, each
other and Morton - surely wonderful years. But what had they
been thinking about all those years? Had they perhaps thought a
little about Stephen? Oh, but what could she hope to know of
these things, their thoughts, their feelings, their secret ambitions.
- she, who had not even been conceived, she, who had not yet
come into existence? They had lived in a world that her eyes had
not looked on; days and nights had slipped into the weeks, months
and years. Time had existed, but she, Stephen, had not. They had
lived through that time; it had gone to their making; their pres-
ent had been the result of its travail, had sprung from its womb
as she from her mother's, only she had not been a part of that
travail, as she had been a part of her mother's. Hopeless! And yet
she must try to know them, these two, every inch of their hearts,
of their minds; and knowing them, she must then try to guard
them - but him first, oh, him first - she did not ask why, she only
knew that because she loved him as she did, he would always have
to come first. Love was simply like that; it just followed its im-
pulse and asked no questions - it was beautifully simple. But for
his sake she must also love the thing that he loved, her mother,
though this love was somehow quite different; it was less hers
than his, he had thrust it upon her; it was not an integral part of
her being. Nevertheless it too must be served, for the happiness of
one was that of the other. They were indivisible, one flesh, one
spirit, and whatever it was that had crept in between them was
trying to tear asunder this oneness -- that was why she, their child,
must rise up and help them if she could, for was she not the fruit
of their oneness?
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
4
THERE were times when she would think that she must have been
mistaken, that no trouble was overshadowing her father; these
would be when they two were sitting in his study, for then he
would seem contented. Surrounded by his books, caressing their
bindings, Sir Philip would look care-free again and light-hearted.
No friends in the world like books,' he would tell her." Look
at this fellow in his old leather jacket!'
There were times, too, out hunting when he seemed very
young, as Raftery had been that first season. But the ten-year-old
Raftery was now wiser than Sir Philip, who would often behave
like a foolhardy schoolboy. He would give Stephen leads over
hair-raising places, and then, she safely landed, turn round and
grin at her. He liked her to ride the pick of his hunters these days,
and would slyly show off her prowess. The sport would bring back
the old light to his eyes, and his eyes would look happy as they
rested on his daughter.
She would think: 'I must have been terribly mistaken,' and
would feel a great peace surge over her spirit.
He might say, as they slowly jogged home to Morton: 'Did
you notice my youngster here take that stiff timber? Not bad for
a five-year-old, he'll do nicely.' And perhaps he might add: ‘Put
a three on that five, and then tell your old sire that he's not so
bad either! I'm fifty-three, Stephen, I'll be going in the wind if
I don't knock off smoking quite soon, and that's certain!'
Then Stephen would know that her father felt young, very
young, and was wanting her to flatter him a little.
But this mood would not last; it had often quite changed by
the time that the two of them reached the stables. She would
notice with a sudden pain in her heart that he stooped when he
walked, not much yet, but a little. And she loved his broad back,
she had always loved it – a kind, reassuring protective back. Then
the thought would come that perhaps its great kindness had
caused it to stoop as though bearing a burden; and the thought
would come: He is bearing a burden, not his own, it's some one
else's - but whose?
CHAPTER 10
I
Cbut
HRISTMAS came and with it the girl's eighteenth birthday,
but the shadows that clung round her home did not lessen;
nor could Stephen, groping about in those shadows, find a way
to win through to the light. Every one tried to be cheerful and
happy, as even sad people will do at Christmas, while the gar-
deners brought in huge bundles of holly with which to festoon
the portraits of Gordons - rich, red-berried holly that came from
the hills, and that year after year would be sent down to Mor-
ton. The courageous-eyed Gordons looked out from their wreaths
unsmiling, as though they were thinking of Stephen.
In the hall stood the Christmas-tree of her childhood, for Sir
Philip loved the old German custom which would seem to insist
that even the aged be as children and play with God on His birth-
day. At the top of the tree swung the little wax Christ-child in
His spangled nightgown with gold and blue ribbons; and the little
wax Christ-child bent downwards and sideways because, although
small, He was rather heavy - or, as Stephen had thought when she
too had been small, because He was trying to look for His presents.
In the morning they all went to church in the village, and
the church smelt of coldness and freshly bruised greenstuff -
of the laurel and holly and pungent pine branches, that wreathed
the oak pulpit and framed the altar; and the anxious-faced eagle
who must carry the Scriptures on his wings, he too was looking
quite festive. Very redolent of England it was, that small church,
with its apple-cheeked choirboys in newly washed garments;
with its young Oxford parson who in summer played cricket to
the glory of God and the good of the county; with its trim con-
gregation of neighbouring gentry who had recently purchased
an excellent organ, so that now they could hear the opening bars
of the hymns with a feeling of self-satisfaction, but with some-
96
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
thing else too that came nearer to Heaven, because of those lovely
old songs of Christmas. The choir raised their sexless, untroubled
voices: While shepherds watched their flocks. '
sang the
choir; and Anna's soft mezzo mingled and blended with her hus-
band's deep boom and Puddle's soprano. Then Stephen sang too
for the sheer joy of singing, though her voice at best was inclined
to be husky: 'While shepherds watched their flocks by night,'
carolled Stephen - for some reason thinking of Raftery.
After church the habitual Christmas greetings: 'Merry
Christmas.' 'Merry Christmas.' 'Same to you, many of them!'
Then home to Morton and the large mid-day dinner - turkey,
plum pudding with its crisp brandy butter, and the mince-pies
that invariably gave Puddle indigestion. Then dessert with all
sorts of sweet fruits out of boxes, crystallized fruits that made your
hands sticky, together with fruit from the Morton green-houses;
and from somewhere that no one could ever remember, the ele-
gant miniature Lady-apples that you ate skins and all in two bites
if you were greedy.
A long afternoon spent in waiting for darkness when Anna
could light the Christmas-tree candles; and no ringing of bells
to disturb the servants, not until they must all file in for their pres-
ents which were piled up high round the base of the tree on which
Anna would light the small candles. Dusk – draw the curtains, it
was dark enough now, and some one must go and fetch Anna the
taper, but she must take care of the little wax Christ-child, Who
liked many lights even though they should melt Him.
'Stephen, climb up, will you, and tie back the Christ-child,
His toe is almost touching that candle!'
•
Then Anna applying the long lighted taper from branch to
branch, very slowly and gravely, as though she accomplished some
ritual, as though she herself were a ministering priestess - Anna
very slender and tall in a dress whose soft folds swept her limbs
and lay round her ankles.
'Ring three times, will you, Philip? I think they're all lighted
- no, wait - all right now, I'd missed that top candle. Stephen,
begin to sort out the presents, please, dear, your father's just rung
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
97
for the servants. Oh, and Puddle, you might push over the table,
I may need it - no, not that one, the table by the window -
A subdued sound of voices, a stifled giggle. The servants filing
in through the green baize door, and only the butler and footmen
familiar in appearance, the others all strangers, in mufti. Mrs.
Wilson, the cook, in black silk with jet trimming, the scullery
maid in electric blue cashmere, one housemaid in mauve, another
in green, and the upper of three in dark terracotta, while Anna's
own maid wore an old dress of Anna's. Then the men from out-
side, from the gardens and stables - men bare-headed who were
usually seen in their caps - old Williams displaying a widening
bald patch, and wearing tight trousers instead of his breeches; old
Williams walking stiffly because his new suit felt like cardboard,
and because his white collar was too high, and because his hard,
made-up black bow would slip crooked. The grooms and the
boys, all exceedingly shiny from their neatly oiled heads to their
well polished noses - the boys very awkward, short-sleeved and
rough-handed, shuffling a little because trying not to. And the
gardeners led in by the grave Mr. Hopkins, who wore black of
a Sunday and carried a Church Service, and whose knowledge
of the ills that all grape-flesh is heir to, had given his face a patient,
pained expression. Men smelling of soil these, in spite of much
scrubbing; men whose necks and whose hands were crossed and
recrossed by a network of tiny and earth-clogged furrows – men
whose backs would bend early from tending the earth. There they
stood in the wake of the grave Mr. Hopkins, with their eyes on
the big, lighted Christmas-tree, while they never so much as
glanced at the flowers that had sprung from many long hours of
their labour. No, instead they must just stand and gape at the
tree, as though with its candles and Christ-child and all, it were
some strange exotic plant in Kew Gardens.
Then Anna called her people by name, and to each one she
gave the gifts of that Christmas; and they thanked her, thanked
Stephen and thanked Sir Philip; and Sir Philip thanked them for
their faithful service, as had always been the good custom at Mor-
ton for more years than Sir Philip himself could remember. Thus
QUA
98
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
the day had passed by in accordance with tradition, every one
from the highest to the lowest remembered; nor had Anna for-
gotten her gifts for the village - warm shawls, sacks of coal,
cough mixture and sweets. Sir Philip had sent a cheque to the
vicar, which would keep him for a long time in cricketing flan-
nels; and Stephen had carried a carrot to Raftery and two lumps
of sugar to the fat, aged Collins, who because he was all but blind
of one eye, had bitten her hand in place of his sugar. And Puddle
had written at great length to a sister who lived down in Corn-
wall and whom she neglected, except on such memory-jogging oc-
casions as Christmas, when somehow we always remember. And
the servants had gorged themselves to repletion, and the hunters.
had rested in their hay-scented stables; while out in the fields, sea-
gulls, come far inland, had feasted in their turn on humbler crea-
tures - grubs and slugs, and other unhappy small fry, much rel-
ished by birds and hated by farmers.
GRAN
Night closed down on the house, and out of the darkness.
came the anxious young voices of village schoolchildren: 'Noël,
Noël -' piped the anxious young voices, lubricated by sweets
from the lady of Morton. Sir Philip stirred the logs in the hall to
a blaze, while Anna sank into a deep chair and watched them.
Her hands that were wearied by much ministration, lay over the
arms of the chair in the firelight, and the firelight sought out the
rings on her hands, and it played with the whiter flames in her
diamonds. Then Sir Philip stood up, and he gazed at his wife,
while she stared at the logs not appearing to notice him; but
Stephen, watching in silence from her corner, seemed to see a
dark shadow that stole in between them - beyond this her vision
was mercifully dim, otherwise she must surely have recognized
that shadow.
2
ON NEW YEAR'S EVE Mrs. Antrim gave a dance in order, or so she
said, to please Violet, who was still rather young to attend the
hunt balls, but who dearly loved gaiety, especially dancing. Violet
was plump, pert and adolescent, and had lately insisted on put-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
99
ting her hair up. She liked men, who in consequence always liked
her, for like begets like when it comes to the sexes, and Violet was
full of what people call:' allure,' or in simpler language, of sexual
attraction. Roger was home for Christmas from Sandhurst, so that
he would be there to assist his mother. He was now nearly twenty,
a good-looking youth with a tiny moustache which he tentatively
fingered. He assumed the grand air of the man of the world who
has actually weathered about nineteen summers. He was hoping
to join his regiment quite soon, which greatly augmented his self-
importance.
Could Mrs. Antrim have ignored Stephen Gordon's existence,
she would almost certainly have done so. She disliked the girl;
she had always disliked her; what she called Stephen's ‘queer-
ness' aroused her suspicion - she was never quite clear as to what
she suspected, but felt sure that it must be something outlandish:
'A young woman of her age to ride like a man, I call it pre-
posterous!' declared Mrs. Antrim.
It can safely be said that Stephen at eighteen had in no way
outgrown her dread of the Antrims; there was only one member
of that family who liked her, she knew, and that was the small,
hen-pecked Colonel. He liked her because, a fine horseman him-
self, he admired her skill and her courage out hunting.
´
'It's a pity she's so tall, of course -' he would grumble, but
she does know a horse and how to stick on one. Now my children
might have been brought up at Margate, they're just about fitted
to ride the beach donkeys!'
Pag
But Colonel Antrim would not count at the dance; indeed
in his own house he very seldom counted. Stephen would have to
endure Mrs. Antrim and Violet - and then Roger was home from
Sandhurst. Their antagonism had never quite died, perhaps be-
cause it was too fundamental. Now they covered it up with a cloak
of good manners, but these two were still enemies at heart, and
they knew it. No, Stephen did not want to go to that dance,
though she went in order to please her mother. Nervous, awk-
ward and apprehensive, Stephen arrived at the Antrims that
night, little thinking that Fate, the most expert of tricksters, was
100
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
waiting to catch her just round the corner. Yet so it was, for dur-
ing that evening Stephen met Martin and Martin met Stephen,
and their meeting was great with portent for them both, though
neither of them could know it.
E
It all happened quite simply as such things will happen. It was
Roger who introduced Martin Hallam; it was Stephen who ex-
plained that she danced very badly; it was Martin who suggested
that they sit out their dances. Then - how quickly it occurs if the
thing is pre-destined - they suddenly knew that they liked each
other, that some chord had been struck to a pleasant vibration;
and this being so they sat out many dances, and they talked for
quite a long while that evening.
Martin lived in British Columbia, it seemed, where he owned
several farms and a number of orchards. He had gone out there
after the death of his mother, for six months, but had stayed on
for love of the country. And now he was having a holiday in Eng-
land - that was how he had got to know young Roger Antrim,
they had met up in London and Roger had asked him to come
down for a week, and so here he was - but it felt almost strange
to be back again in England. Then he talked of the vastness of
that new country that was yet so old; of its snow-capped moun-
tains, of its canyons and gorges, of its deep, princely rivers, of its
lakes, above all of its mighty forests. And when Martin spoke of
those mighty forests, his voice changed, it became almost reveren-
tial; for this young man loved trees with a primitive instinct, with
a strange and inexplicable devotion. Because he liked Stephen he
could talk of his trees, and because she liked him she could listen
while he talked, feeling that she too would love his great forests.
His face was very young, clean-shaven and bony; he had bony,
brown hands with spatulate fingers; for the rest, he was tall with
a loosely knit figure, and he slouched a little when he walked,
from much riding. But his face had a charming quality about it,
especially when he talked of his trees; it glowed, it seemed to be
inwardly kindled, and it asked for a real and heart-felt under-
standing of the patience and the beauty and the goodness of
trees - it was eager for your understanding. Yet in spite of this
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
ΙΟΙ
touch of romance in his make-up, which he could not keep out of
his voice at moments, he spoke simply, as one man will speak to
another, very simply, not trying to create an impression. He
talked about trees as some men talk of ships, because they love
them and the element they stand for. And Stephen, the awkward,
the bashful, the tongue-tied, heard herself talking in her turn,
quite freely, heard herself asking him endless questions about for-
estry, farming and the care of vast orchards; thoughtful questions,
unromantic but apt - such as one man will ask of another.
Then Martin wished to learn about her, and they talked of
her fencing, her studies, her riding, and she told him about Raf-
tery who was named for the poet. And all the while she felt natu-
ral and happy because here was a man who was taking her for
granted, who appeared to find nothing eccentric about her or her
tastes, but who quite simply took her for granted. Had
you asked
Martin Hallam to explain why it was that he accepted the girl at
her own valuation, he would surely have been unable to tell
you
- it had happened, that was all, and there the thing ended. But
whatever the reason, he felt drawn to this friendship that had
leapt so suddenly into being.
Before Anna left the dance with her daughter, she invited the
young man to drive over and see them; and Stephen felt glad of
that invitation, because now she could share her new friend with
Morton. She said to Morton that night in her bedroom: 'I know
you're going to like Martin Hallam.'
I
CHAPTER II
Τ
M
ARTIN went to Morton, he went very often, for Sir Philip
liked him and encouraged the friendship. Anna liked Mar-
tin too, and she made him feel welcome because he was
young and
had lost his mother. She spoilt him a little, as a woman will spoil
who, having no son must adopt some one else's, so to Anna he
went with all his small troubles, and she doctored him when he
caught a bad chill out hunting. He instinctively turned to her in
such things, but never, in spite of their friendship, to Stephen.
Yet now he and Stephen were always together, he was stay-
ing on and on at the hotel in Upton; ostensibly staying because of
the hunting; in reality staying because of Stephen who was filling
a niche in his life long empty, the niche reserved for the perfect
companion. A queer, sensitive fellow this Martin Hallam, with
his strange love of trees and primitive forests -- not a man to make
many intimate friends, and in consequence a man to be lonely. He
knew little about books and had been a slack student, but Stephen
and he had other things in common; he rode well, and he cared
for and understood horses; he fenced well and would quite often
now fence with Stephen; nor did he appear to resent it when she
beat him; indeed he seemed to accept it as natural, and would
merely laugh at his own lack of skill. Out hunting these two
would keep close to each other, and would ride home together
as far as Upton; or perhaps he would go on to Morton with her,
for Anna was always glad to see Martin. Sir Philip gave him
the freedom of the stables, and even old Williams forbore to
grumble:
'
"E be trusty, that's what 'e be,' declared Williams, and the
horses knows it and acts accordin'.'
But sport was not all that drew Stephen to Martin, for his
mind, like hers, was responsive to beauty, and she taught him the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
103
country-side that she loved, from Upton to Castle Morton com-
mon - the common that lies at the foot of the hills. But far be-
yond Castle Morton she took him. They would ride down the
winding lane to Bromsberrow, then crossing the small stream at
Clincher's Mill, jog home through the bare winter woods of
Eastnor. And she taught him the hills whose plentiful bosoms had
made Anna think of green-girdled mothers, mothers of sons, as
she sat and watched them, great with the child who should have
been her son. They climbed the venerable Worcestershire Beacon
that stands guardian of all the seven Malverns, or wandered across
the hills of the Wells to the old British Camp above the Wye
Valley. The Valley would lie half in light, half in shadow, and
beyond would be Wales and the dim Black Mountains. Then
Stephen's heart would tighten a little, as it always had done be-
cause of that beauty, so that one day she said:
'When I was a child, this used to make me want to cry,
Martin.'
And he answered: 'Some part of us always sheds tears when
we see lovely things - they make us regretful.' But when she
asked him why this should be, he shook his head slowly, unable
to tell her.
Sometimes they walked through Hollybush woods, then on
up Raggedstone, a hill grim with legend - its shadow would
bring misfortune or death to those it fell on, according to legend.
Martin would pause to examine the thorn trees, ancient thorns
that had weathered many a hard winter. He would touch them
with gentle, pitying fingers:
Look, Stephen - the courage of these old fellows! They're
all twisted and crippled; it hurts me to see them, yet they go on
patiently doing their bit - have you ever thought about the
enormous courage of trees? I have, and it seems to me amazing.
The Lord dumps them down and they've just got to stick it,
no matter what happens — that must need some courage!' And
one day he said: 'Don't think me quite mad, but if we survive
death then the trees will survive it; there must be some sort of
a forest heaven for all the faithful - the faithful of trees. I
expect
<
104
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
they take their birds along with them; why not?" And in death
they were not divided." ' Then he laughed, but she saw that his
eyes were quite grave, so she asked him:
'Do you believe in God, Martin?"
And he answered: Yes, because of His trees. Don't you?'
'I'm not sure –
<
C
Oh, my poor, blind Stephen! Look again, go on looking
until you do believe.'
They discussed many things quite simply together, for be-
tween these two was no vestige of shyness. His youth met hers
and walked hand in hand with it, so that she knew how utterly
lonely her own youth had been before the coming of Martin.
She said: 'You're the only real friend I've ever had, except
Father - our friendship's so wonderful, somehow - we're like
brothers, we enjoy all the same sort of things.'
He nodded: "I know, a wonderful friendship.'
The hills must let Stephen tell him their secrets, the secrets of
bypaths most cunningly hidden; the secrets of small, unsuspected
green hollows; the secrets of ferns that live only by hiding. She
might even reveal the secrets of birds, and show him the play-
ground of shy, spring cuckoos.
'They fly quite low up here, one can see them; last year a
couple flew right past me, calling. If you were not going away so
soon, Martin, we'd come later on - I'd love you to see them.
'And I'd love you to see my huge forests,' he told her, 'why
can't you come back to Canada with me? What rot it is, all this
damned convention; we're such pals you and I, I'll be desperately
lonely - Lord, what a fool of a world we live in!'
And she said quite simply: 'I'd love to come with you.
Then he started to tell her about his huge forests, so vast
that their greenness seemed almost eternal. Great trees he told of,
erect, towering firs, many centuries old and their girth that of
giants. And then there were all the humbler tree-folk whom he
spoke of as friends that were dear and familiar; the hemlocks that
grow by the courses of rivers, in love with adventure and clear
running water; the slender white spruces that border the lakes;
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
105
the red pines, that glow like copper in the sunset. Unfortunate
trees these beautiful red pines, for their tough, manly wood is
coveted by builders.
'But I won't have my roof-tree hacked from their sides,'
declared Martin, ' I'd feel like a positive assassin!'
Happy days spent between the hills and the stables, happy
days for these two who had always been lonely until now, and
now this wonderful friendship - there had never been anything
like it for Stephen. Oh, but it was good to have him beside her,
so young, so strong and so understanding. She liked his quiet
voice with its careful accent, and his thoughtful blue eyes that
moved rather slowly, so that his glance when it came, came
slowly - sometimes she would meet his glance half-way, smiling.
She who had longed for the companionship of men, for their
friendship, their good-will, their toleration, she had it all now
and much more in Martin, because of his great understanding.
She said to Puddle one night in the schoolroom: 'I've grown
fond of Martin – isn't that queer after only a couple of months
of friendship? But he's different somehow - when he's gone I
shall miss him."
And her words had the strangest effect on Puddle who quite
suddenly beamed at Stephen and kissed her - Puddle who never
betrayed her emotions, quite suddenly beamed at Stephen and
kissed her.
2
PEOPLE gossiped a little because of the freedom allowed Martin
and Stephen by her parents; but on the whole they gossiped quite
kindly, with a great deal of smiling and nodding of heads. After
all the girl was just like other girls - they almost ceased to resent
her. Meanwhile Martin continued to stay on in Upton, held
fast by the charm and the strangeness of Stephen - her very
strangeness it was that allured him, yet all the while he must
think of their friendship, not even admitting that strangeness. He
deluded himself with these thoughts of friendship, but Sir Philip
and Anna were not deluded. They looked at each other al-
106
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
most shyly at first, then Anna grew bold, and she said to her
husband:
Is it possible the child is falling in love with Martin? Of
course he's in love with her. Oh, my dear, it would make me
so awfully happy -' And her heart went out in affection to
Stephen, as it had not done since the girl was a baby.
Her hopes would go flying ahead of events; she would start
making plans for her daughter's future. Martin must give up
his orchards and forests and buy Tenley Court that was now in
the market; it had several large farms and some excellent pasture,
quite enough to keep any man happy and busy. Then Anna
would suddenly grow very thoughtful; Tenley Court was also
possessed of fine nurseries, big, bright, sunny rooms facing south,
with their bathroom, there were bars to the windows it was
all there and ready.
. . .
Sir Philip shook his head and warned Anna to go slowly, but
he could not quite keep the great joy from his eyes, nor the hope
from his heart. Had he been mistaken? Perhaps after all he had
been mistaken - the hope thudded ceaselessly now in his heart.
3
CAME a day when winter must give place to spring, when the
daffodils marched across the whole country from Castle Morton
Common to Ross and beyond, pitching camps by the side of the
river. When the hornbeam made patches of green in the hedges,
and the hawthorn broke out into small, budding bundles; when
the old cedar tree on the lawn at Morton grew reddish pink tips
to its elegant fingers; when the wild cherry trees on the sides of
the hills were industriously putting forth both leaves and blos-
soms; when Martin looked into his heart and saw Stephen -
saw her suddenly there as a woman.
Friendship! He marvelled now at his folly, at his blindness,
his coldness of body and spirit. He had offered this girl the cold
husks of his friendship, insulting her youth, her womanhood, her
beauty - for he saw her now with the eyes of a lover. To a man
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
107
such as he was, sensitive, restrained, love came as a blinding
revelation. He knew little about women, and the little he did
know was restricted to episodes that he thought best forgotten.
On the whole he had led a fairly chaste life - less from scruple
than because he was fastidious by nature. But now he was very
deeply in love, and those years of restraint took their toll of poor
Martin, so that he trembled before his own passion, amazed at
its strength, not a little disconcerted. And being by habit a quiet,
reserved creature, he must quite lose his head and become the
reverse. So impatient was he that he rushed off to Morton very
early one morning to look for Stephen, tracking her down in the
end at the stables, where he found her talking to Williams and
Raftery.
He said: 'Never mind about Raftery, Stephen - let's go into
the garden, I've got something to tell you.' And she thought that
he must have had bad news from home, because of his voice and
his curious pallor.
She went with him and they walked on in silence for a while,
then Martin stood still, and began to talk quickly; he was saying
amazing, incredible things: ' Stephen, my dear - I do utterly love
you.' He was holding out his arms, while she shrank back be-
wildered: 'I love you, I'm deeply in love with you, Stephen
look at me, don't you understand me, beloved? I want you to
marry me - you do love me, don't you?' And then, as though
she had suddenly struck him, he flinched: 'Good God! What's
the matter, Stephen?'
-
She was staring at him in a kind of dumb horror, staring at
his eyes that were clouded by desire, while gradually over her
colourless face there was spreading an expression of the deepest
repulsion - terror and repulsion he saw on her face, and some-
thing else too, a look as of outrage. He could not believe this thing
that he saw, this insult to all that he felt to be sacred; for a
moment he in his turn, must stare, then he came a step nearer,
still unable to believe. But at that she wheeled round and fled
from him wildly, fled back to the house that had always pro-
tected; without so much as a word she left him, nor did she once
108
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
pause in her flight to look back. Yet even in this moment of head-
long panic, the girl was conscious of something like amazement,
amazement at herself, and she gasped as she ran: 'It's Martin
Martin -' And again: 'It's Martin!'
drgent
He stood perfectly still until the trees hid her. He felt stunned,
incapable of understanding. All that he knew was that he must
get away, away from Stephen, away from Morton, away from
the thoughts that would follow after. In less than two hours he
was motoring to London; in less than two weeks he was standing
on the deck of the steamer that would carry him back to his
forests that lay somewhere beyond the horizon.
CHAPTER 12
I
N
O ONE questioned at Morton; they spoke very little. Even
Anna forbore to question her daughter, checked by some-
thing that she saw in the girl's pale face.
But alone with her husband she gave way to her misgivings,
to her deep disappointment: 'It's heartbreaking, Philip. What's
happened? They seemed so devoted to each other. Will you ask
the child? Surely one of us ought to
)-
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
Sir Philip said quietly: 'I think Stephen will tell me.' And
with that Anna had perforce to be content.
eyes
Very silently Stephen now went about Morton, and her
looked bewildered and deeply unhappy. At night she would lie
awake thinking of Martin, missing him, mourning him as though
he were dead. But she could not accept this death without ques-
tion, without feeling that she was in some way blameworthy.
What was she, what manner of curious creature, to have been so
repelled by a lover like Martin? Yet she had been repelled, and
even her pity for the man could not wipe out that stronger feeling.
She had driven him away because something within her was
intolerant of that new aspect of Martin.
Oh, but she mourned his good, honest friendship; he had
taken that from her, the thing she most needed - but perhaps
after all it had never existed except as a cloak for this other
emotion. And then, lying there in the thickening darkness, she
would shrink from what might be waiting in the future, for all
that had just happened might happen again - there were other
men in the world beside Martin. Fool, never to have visualized
this thing before, never to have faced the possibility of it; now
she understood her resentment of men when their voices grew
soft and insinuating. Yes, and now she knew to the full the mean-
ing of fear, and Martin it was, who had taught her its meaning -
110
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
her friend - the man she had utterly trusted had pulled the scales
from her eyes and revealed it. Fear, stark fear, and the shame of
such fear - that was the legacy left her by Martin. And yet he had
made her so happy at first, she had felt so contented, so natural
with him; but that was because they had been like two men,
companions, sharing each other's interests. And at this thought
her bitterness would all but flow over; it was cruel, it was
cowardly of him to have deceived her, when all the time he had
only been waiting for the chance to force this other thing on her.
But what was she? Her thoughts slipping back to her child-
hood, would find many things in her past that perplexed her.
She had never been quite like the other small children, she had
always been lonely and discontented, she had always been trying
to be some one else - that was why she had dressed herself up as
young Nelson. Remembering those days she would think of
her father, and would wonder if now, as then, he could help her.
Supposing she should ask him to explain about Martin? Her
father was wise, and had infinite patience - yet somehow she
instinctively dreaded to ask him. Alone - it was terrible to feel
so much alone - to feel oneself different from other people. At
one time she had rather enjoyed this distinction - she had rather
enjoyed dressing up as young Nelson. Yet had she enjoyed it?
Or had it been done as some sort of inadequate, childish protest?
But if so against what had she been protesting when she strutted
about the house, masquerading? In those days she had wanted to
be a boy - had that been the meaning of the pitiful young
Nelson? And what about now? She had wanted Martin to treat
her as a man, had expected it of him. . . . The questions to
which she could find no answers, would pile themselves up and
up
in the darkness; oppressing, stifling by sheer weight of num-
bers, until she would feel them getting her under; 'I don't know
oh, God, I don't know!' she would mutter, tossing as though
to fling off those questions.
P
Then one night towards dawn she could bear it no longer;
her dread must give place to her need of consolation. She would
ask her father to explain her to herself; she would tell him her
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
III
deep desolation over Martin. She would say: 'Is there anything
strange about me, Father, that I should have felt as I did about
Martin?' And then she would try to explain very calmly what
it was she had felt, the intensity of it. She would try to make him
understand her suspicion that this feeling of hers was a thing
fundamental, much more than merely not being in love; much,
much more than not wanting to marry Martin. She would tell
him why she found herself so utterly bewildered; tell him how
she had loved Martin's strong, young body, and his honest brown
face, and his slow thoughtful eyes, and his careless walk – all
these things she had loved. Then suddenly terror and deep re-
pugnance because of that unforeseen change in Martin, the
change that had turned the friend into the lover - in reality it
had been no more than that, the friend had turned lover and
had wanted from her what she could not give him, or indeed any
man, because of that deep repugnance. Yet there should have been
nothing repugnant about Martin, nor was she a child to have
felt such terror. She had known certain facts about life for some
time and they had not repelled her in other people – not until
they had been brought home to herself had these facts both ter-
rified and repelled her.
She got up. No good in trying to sleep, those eternal questions
kept stifling, tormenting. Dressing quickly she stole down the
wide, shallow stairs to the garden door, then out into the garden.
The garden looked unfamiliar in the sunrise, like a well-known
face that is suddenly transfigured. There was something aloof
and awesome about it, as though it were lost in ecstatic devotion.
She tried to tread softly for she felt apologetic, she and her
troubles were there as intruders; their presence disturbed this
strange hush of communion, this oneness with something beyond
their knowledge, that was yet known and loved by the soul of the
garden. A mysterious and wonderful thing this oneness, pregnant
with comfort could she know its true meaning - she felt this
somewhere deep down in herself, but try as she would her mind
could not grasp it; perhaps even the garden was shutting her out
of its prayers, because she had sent away Martin. Then a thrush
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
began to sing in the cedar, and his song was full of wild jubila-
tion: 'Stephen, look at me, look at me!' sang the thrush, 'I'm
happy, happy, it's all very simple!' There was something heart-
less about that singing which only served to remind her of Martin.
She walked on disconsolate, thinking deeply. He had gone, he
would soon be back in his forests - she had made no effort to keep
him beside her because he had wanted to be her lover.
•
Stephen, look at us, look at us!' sang the birds, We're happy,
happy, it's all very simple!' Martin walking in dim, green places
-
she could picture his life away in the forests, a man's life, good
with the goodness of danger, a primitive, strong, imperative thing
- a man's life, the life that should have been hers - And her eyes
filled with heavy, regretful tears, yet she did not quite know for
what she was weeping. She only knew that some great sense of
loss, some great sense of incompleteness possessed her, and she
let the tears trickle down her face, wiping them off one by one
with her finger.
water.
And now she was passing the old potting shed where Collins
had lain in the arms of the footman. Choking back her tears she
paused by the shed, and tried to remember the girl's appearance.
Grey eyes – no, blue, and a round-about figure - plump hands,
with soft skin always puckered from soap-suds - a housemaid's
knee that had pained very badly: 'See that dent? That's the
It fair makes me sick.' Then a queer little girl
dressed up as young Nelson: 'I'd like to be awfully hurt for you,
Collins, the way that Jesus was hurt for sinners. The
potting shed smelling of earth and dampness, sagging a little on
one side, lop-sided-Collins lying in the arms of the footman,
Collins being kissed by him, wantonly, crudely – a broken flower
pot in the hand of a child – rage, deep rage a great anguish of
spirit - blood on a face that was pale with amazement, very
bright red blood that kept trickling and trickling - flight, wild,
inarticulate flight, away and away, anyhow, anywhere – the pain
of torn skin, the rip of torn stockings -
—
She had not remembered these things for years, she had
thought that all this had been quite forgotten; there was nothing
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
113
to remind her of Collins these days but a fat, half-blind and
pampered old pony. Strange how these memories came back this
morning; she had lain in bed lately trying to recapture the child-
ish emotions aroused in her by Collins and had failed, yet this
morning they came back quite clearly. But the garden was full of
a new memory now; it was full of the sorrowful memory of
Martin. She turned abruptly, and leaving the shed walked
towards the lakes that gleamed faintly in the distance.
Down by the lakes there was a sense of great stillness which
the
songs of the birds could in no way lessen, for this place had
that curious stillness of spirit that seems to interpenetrate sound.
A swan paddled about in front of his island, on guard, for his
mate had a nest full of cygnets; from time to time he glanced
crossly at Stephen though he knew her quite well, but now there
were cygnets. He was proud in his splendid, incredible whiteness,
and paternity made him feel overbearing, so that he refused to
feed from Stephen's hand although she found a biscuit in her
pocket.
<
-
Coup, c-o-u-p!' she called, but he swung his neck sideways
as he swam - it was like a disdainful negation. Perhaps he
thinks I'm a freak,' she mused grimly, feeling more lonely
because of the swan.
The lakes were guarded by massive old beech trees, and the
beech trees stood ankle-deep in their foliage; a lovely and lumi-
nous carpet of leaves they had spread on the homely brown earth
of Morton. Each spring came new little shuttles of greenness that
in time added warp and woof to the carpet, so that year by
year it grew softer and deeper, and year by year it glowed more
resplendent. Stephen had loved this spot from her childhood, and
now she instinctively went to it for comfort, but its beauty only
added to her melancholy, for beauty can wound like a two-edged
sword. She could not respond to its stillness of spirit, since she
could not lull her own spirit to stillness.
She thought: 'I shall never be one with great peace any more,
I shall always stand outside this stillness - wherever there is ab-
solute stillness and peace in this world, I shall always stand just
114
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
outside it.' And as though these thoughts were in some way pro-
phetic, she inwardly shivered a little.
Then what must the swan do but start to hiss loudly, just to
show her that he was really a father: 'Peter,' she reproached him,
'I won't hurt your babies - can't you trust me? I fed you the
whole of last winter!'
But apparently Peter could not trust her at all, for he
squawked to his mate who came out through the bushes, and
she hissed in her turn, flapping strong angry wings, which meant
in mere language: 'Get out of this, Stephen, you clumsy, inade-
quate, ludicrous creature; you destroyer of nests, you disturber of
young, you great wingless blot on a beautiful morning!' Then
they both hissed together: Get out of this, Stephen!' So Stephen
left them to the care of their cygnets.
Remembering Raftery, she walked to the stables, where all
was confusion and purposeful bustle. Old Williams was ruthlessly.
out on the warpath; he was scolding: Drat the boy, what be
'e a-doin'? Come on, do! 'Urry up, get them two horses bridled,
and don't go forgettin' their knee-caps this mornin' – and that
bucket there don't belong where it's standin', nor that broom!
Did Jim take the roan to the blacksmith's? Gawd almighty, why
not? 'Er shoes is like paper! 'Ere, you Jim, don't you go on ig-
norin' my orders, if
orders, if you do - Come on, boy, got them two horses
ready? Right, well then, up you go! You don't want no saddle,
like as not you'd give 'im a gall if you 'ad one!
Kak
The sleek, good-looking hunters were led out in clothing -
for the early spring mornings were still rather nippy – and among
them came Raftery, slender and skittish; he was wearing his
hood, and his eyes peered out bright as a falcon's from the two
neatly braided eye-holes. From a couple more holes in the top of
his head-dress, shot his small, pointed ears, which now worked
with excitement.
"'Old on!' bellowed Williams, ' What the 'ell be you doin'?
Quick, shorten 'is bridle, yer not in a circus!' And then seeing
Stephen: Beg pardon, Miss Stephen, but it be a fair crime not to
lead that horse close, and 'im all corned up until 'e's fair dancin'!'
C
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
115
They stood watching Raftery skip through the gates, then
old Williams said softly: 'E do be a wonder - more nor fifty odd
years 'ave I worked in the stables, and never no beast 'ave I loved
like Raftery. But 'e's no common horse, 'e be some sort of
Christian, and a better one too than a good few I knows on -
S
And Stephen answered: ' Perhaps he's a poet like his name-
sake; I think if he could write he'd write verses. They say all the
Irish are poets at heart, so perhaps they pass on the gift to their
horses.'
Then the two of them smiled, each a little embarrassed, but
their eyes held great friendship the one for the other, a friendship
of years now cemented by Raftery whom they loved - and small
wonder, for assuredly never did more gallant or courteous horse
step out of stable.
Oh, well,' sighed Williams, 'I be gettin' that old – and
Raftery, 'e do be comin' eleven, but 'e don't feel it yet in 'is
limbs the way I does me rheumatics 'as troubled me awful this
winter.'
She stayed on a little while, comforting Williams, then made
her way back to the house, very slowly. 'Poor Williams,' she
thought, he is getting old, but thank the Lord nothing's the
matter with Raftery.'
The house lay full in a great slant of sunshine; it looked as
though it was sunning its shoulders. Glancing up, she came eye
to eye with the house, and she fancied that Morton was thinking
about her, for its windows seemed to be beckoning, inviting:
'Come home, come home, come inside quickly, Stephen!' And
as though they had spoken, she answered: 'I'm coming,' and she
quickened her lagging steps to a run, in response to this most
compassionate kindness. Yes, she actually ran through the heavy
white doorway under the semi-circular fanlight, and on up the
staircase that led from the hall in which hung the funny old
portraits of Gordons - men long dead and gone but still wonder-
fully living, since their thoughts had fashioned the comeliness of
Morton; since their loves had made children from father to son -
from father to son until the advent of Stephen.
116
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
2
THAT evening she went to her father's study, and when he looked
up she thought she was expected.
She said: 'I want to talk to you, Father.'
And he answered: 'I know - sit close to me, Stephen.'
He shaded his face with his long, thin hand, so that she could
not see his expression, yet it seemed to her that he knew quite well
why she had come to him in that study. Then she told him about
Martin, told him all that had happened, omitting no detail, spar-
ing him nothing. She openly mourned the friend who had failed
her, and herself she mourned for failing the lover and Sir
Philip listened in absolute silence.
After she had spoken for quite a long time, she at length
found the courage to ask her question: 'Is there anything strange
about me, Father, that I should have felt as I did about Martin?'
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
It had come. It fell on his heart like a blow. The hand that
was shading his pale face trembled, for he felt a great trembling
take hold of his spirit. His spirit shrank back and cowered in his
body, so that it dared not look out on Stephen.
She was waiting, and now she was asking again: 'Father, is
there anything strange about me? I remember when I was a
little child - I was never quite like all the other children – '
Her voice sounded apologetic, uncertain, and he knew that
the tears were not far from her eyes, knew that if he looked now
he would see her lips shaking, and the tears making ugly red
stains on her eyelids. His loins ached with pity for this fruit of
his loins an insufferable aching, an intolerable pity. He was
frightened, a coward because of his pity, as he had been once long
ago with her mother. Merciful God! How could a man answer?
What could he say, and that man a father? He sat there inwardly
grovelling before her: 'Oh, Stephen, my child, my little, little
Stephen.' For now in his pity she seemed to him little, little and
utterly helpless again - he remembered her hands as the hands of
a baby, very small, very pink, with minute perfect nails - he had
played with her hands, exclaiming about them, astonished be-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
117
cause of their neat perfection: 'Oh, Stephen, my
little, little
Stephen.' He wanted to cry out against God for this thing; he
wanted to cry out: 'You have maimed my Stephen! What had I
done or my father before me, or my father's father, or his father's
father? Unto the third and fourth generations. . . .' And
Stephen was waiting for his answer. Then Sir Philip set the lips
of his spirit to the cup, and his spirit must drink the gall of
deception: 'I will not tell her, You cannot ask it - there are some
things that even God should not ask.'
And now he turned round and deliberately faced her; smil-
ing right into her eyes he lied glibly: ' My dear, don't be foolish,
there's nothing strange about you, some day you may meet a man
you can love. And supposing you don't, well, what of it, Stephen?
Marriage isn't the only career for a woman. I've been thinking
about your writing just lately, and I'm going to let you go up to
Oxford; but meanwhile you mustn't get foolish fancies, that
won't do at all – it's not like you, Stephen.' She was gazing at
him and he turned away quickly: 'Darling, I'm busy, you must
leave me,' he faltered.
"Thank you,' she said very quietly and simply, 'I felt that I
had to ask you about Martin – '
3
AFTER she had gone he sat on alone, and the lie was still bitter to
his spirit as he sat there, and he covered his face for the shame that
was in him - but because of the love that was in him he wept.
CHAPTER 13
I
T
HERE was gossip in plenty over Martin's disappearance, and
to this Mrs. Antrim contributed her share, even more than
her share, looking wise and mysterious whenever Stephen's
name was mentioned. Every one felt very deeply aggrieved. They
had been so eager to welcome the girl as one of themselves, and
now this strange happening - it made them feel foolish which in
turn made them angry.
The spring meets were heavy with tacit disapproval - nice
men like young Hallam did not run away for nothing; and then
what a scandal if those two were not engaged; they had wandered
all over the country together. This tacit disapproval was extended
to Sir Philip, and via him to Anna for allowing too much free-
dom; a mother ought to look after her daughter, but then Stephen
had always been allowed too much freedom. This, no doubt, was
what came of her riding astride and fencing and all the rest of the
nonsense; when she did meet a man she took the bit between her
teeth and behaved in a most amazing manner. Of course, had
there been a proper engagement - but obviously that had never
existed. They marvelled, remembering their own toleration, they
had really been extremely broad-minded. An extraordinary girl,
she had always been odd, and now for some reason she seemed
odder than ever. Not so much as a word was said in her hearing
that could possibly offend, and yet Stephen well knew that her
neighbors' good-will had been only fleeting, a thing entirely
dependent upon Martin. He it was who had raised her status
among them - he, the stranger, not even connected with their
county. They had all decided that she meant to marry Martin,
and that fact had at once made them welcoming and friendly;
and suddenly Stephen longed intensely to be welcomed, and she
wished from her heart that she could have married Martin.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
119
The strange thing was that she understood her neighbours
in a way, and was therefore too just to condemn them; indeed
had nature been less daring with her, she might well have become
upholder
very much what they were a breeder of children, an
of home, a careful and diligent steward of pastures. There was
little of the true pioneer about Stephen, in spite of her erstwhile
longing for the forests. She belonged to the soil and the fruitful-
ness of Morton, to its pastures and paddocks, to its farms and its
cattle, to its quiet and gentlemanly ordered traditions, to the
dignity and pride of its old red brick house, that was yet without
ostentation. To these things she belonged and would always be-
long by right of those past generations of Gordons whose thoughts
had fashioned the comeliness of Morton, whose bodies had gone
to the making of Stephen. Yes, she was of them, those bygone
people; they might spurn her - the lusty breeders of sons that
they had been - they might even look down from Heaven
with raised eyebrows, and say: 'We utterly refuse to acknowl-
edge this curious creature called Stephen.' But for all that they
could not drain her of blood, and her blood was theirs also,
so that do what they would they could never completely rid
themselves of her nor she of them - they were one in their
blood.
p
But Sir Philip, that other descendant of theirs, found little
excuse for his critical neighbours. Because he loved much he must
equally suffer, consuming himself at times with resentment. And
now when he and Stephen were out hunting he would be on his
guard, very anxious and watchful lest any small incident should
occur to distress her, lest at any time she should find herself lonely.
When hounds checked and the field collected together, he would
make little jokes to amuse his daughter, he would rack his brain
for these poor little jokes, in order that people should see Stephen
laughing.
Sometimes he would whisper: 'Let 'em have it hot, Stephen,
that youngster you're on loves a good bit of timber - don't mind
me, I know you won't damage his knees, just you give 'em a lead
and let's see if they'll catch you!' And because it was seldom in-
120
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
deed that they caught her, his sore heart would know a fleeting
contentment.
Yet people begrudged her even this triumph, pointing out
that the girl was magnificently mounted: 'Anyone could get
there on that sort of horse,' they would murmur, when Stephen
was out of hearing.
But small Colonel Antrim, who was not always kind, would
retort if he heard them: 'Damn it, no, it's the riding. The girl
rides, that's the point; as for some of you others -' And then he
would let loose a flood of foul language. If some bloody fools
that I know rode like Stephen, we'd have bloody well less to pay
to the farmers,' and much more he would say to the same effect,
with rich oaths interlarding his every sentence - the foulest-
mouthed master in the whole British Isles he was said to be, this
small Colonel Antrim.
Oh, but he dearly loved a fine rider, and he cursed and he
swore his appreciation. Even in the presence of a sporting bishop
one day, he had failed to control his language; indeed, he had
sworn in the face of the bishop with enthusiasm, as he pointed to
Stephen. An ineffectual and hen-pecked little fellow - in his
home he was hardly allowed to say 'damn.' He was never per-
mitted to smoke a cigar outside of his dark, inhospitable study.
He must not breed Norwich canaries, which he loved, because
they brought mice, declared Mrs. Antrim; he must not keep a
pet dog in the house, and the 'Pink 'Un' was anathema be-
cause of Violet. His taste in art was heavily censored, even on
the walls of his own water-closet, where nothing might hang
but a family group taken sixteen odd years ago with the
children.
On Sundays he sat in an uncomfortable pew while his wife
chanted psalms in the voice of a peacock. Oh come, let us sing
unto the Lord,' she would chant, as she heartily rejoiced in the
strength of her salvation. All this and a great deal more he en-
dured, indeed most of his life was passed in endurance – had it
not been for those red-letter days out hunting, he might well have
become melancholic from boredom. But those days, when he
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
121
actually found himself master, went far to restore his anæmic
manhood, and on them he would speak the good English lan-
guage as some deep-seated complex knew it ought to be spoken
ruddily, roundly, explosively spoken, with elation, at times with
total abandon - especially if he should chance to remember Mrs.
Antrim would he speak it with total abandon.
But his oaths could not save Stephen now from her neigh-
bours, nothing could do that since the going of Martin - for
quite unknown to themselves they feared her; it was fear that
aroused their antagonism. In her they instinctively sensed an out-
law, and theirs was the task of policing nature.
2
-
IN HER vast drawing-room so beautifully proportioned, Anna
would sit with her pride sorely wounded, dreading the thinly
veiled questions of her neighbours, dreading the ominous silence
of her husband. And the old aversion she had felt for her child
would return upon her like the unclean spirit who gathered to
himself seven others more wicked, so that her last state was worse
than her first, and at times she must turn away her eyes from
Stephen.
Thus tormented, she grew less tactful with her husband,
and now she was always plying him with questions: ' But why
can't you tell me what Stephen said to you, Philip, that evening
when she went to your study?
And he, with a mighty effort to be patient, would answer:
'She said that she couldn't love Martin - there was no crime
in that. Leave the child alone, Anna, she's unhappy enough;
why not let her alone?' And then he would hastily change the
subject.
But Anna could not let Stephen alone, could never keep off
the topic of Martin. She would talk at the girl until she grew
crimson; and seeing this, Sir Philip would frown darkly, and
when he and his wife were alone in their bedroom he would
often reproach her with violence.
122
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
-
'Cruel - it's abominably cruel of you, Anna. Why in God's
name must you go on nagging Stephen?'
Anna's taut nerves would tighten to breaking, so that she,
when she answered, must also speak with violence.
One night he said abruptly: Stephen won't marry - I don't
'
want her to marry; it would only mean disaster.'
And at this Anna broke out in angry protest. Why shouldn't
Stephen marry? She wished her to marry. Was he mad? And
what did he mean by disaster? No woman was ever complete
without marriage – what on earth did he mean by disaster? He
frowned and refused to answer her question. Stephen, he said,
must go up to Oxford. He had set his heart on a good education
for the child, who might some day become a fine writer. Marriage
wasn't the only career for a woman. Look at Puddle, for instance;
she'd been at Oxford - a most admirable, well-balanced, sen-
sible creature. Next year he was going to send Stephen to Oxford.
Anna scoffed: Yes, indeed, he might well look at Puddle! She
was what came of this higher education - a lonely, unfulfilled,
middle-aged spinster. Anna didn't want that kind of life for her
daughter.
And then: 'It's a pity you can't be frank, Philip, about what
was said that night in your study. I feel that there's some-
thing you're keeping back from me - it's so unlike Martin to
behave as he has done; there must have been something that
you haven't told me, to have made him go off without even a
letter - '
'
He flared up at once because he felt guilty. 'I don't care a
damn about Martin!' he said hotly. All I care about is Stephen,
and she's going to Oxford next year; she's my child as well as
yours, Anna!'
Then quite suddenly Anna's self-control left her, and she
let him see into her tormented spirit; all that had lain unspoken
between them she now put into crude, ugly words for his hearing:
'You care nothing for me any more - you and Stephen are en-
leagued against me -- you have been for years.' Aghast at herself,
she must yet go on speaking: 'You and Stephen - oh, I've seen it
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
123
for years - you and Stephen.' He looked at her, and there was
warning in his eyes, but she babbled on wildly: 'I've seen it for
years - the cruelty of it; she's taken you from me, my own child
the unspeakable cruelty of it!'
.
C
Cruelty, yes, but not Stephen's, Anna - it's yours; for in all
the child's life you've never loved her.'
Ugly, degrading, rather terrible half-truths; and he knew
the whole truth, yet he dared not speak it. It is bad for the soul to
know itself a coward, it is apt to take refuge in mere wordy
violence.
C
Yes, you, her mother, you persecute Stephen, you torment
her; I sometimes think you hate her!'
"Philip - good God!'
"Yes, I think you hate her; but be careful, Anna, for hatred
breeds hatred, and remember I stand for the rights of my child -
if
you hate her you've got to hate me; she's my child. I won't let
her face your hatred alone.'
Ugly, degrading, rather terrible half-truths. Their hearts
ached while their lips formed recriminations. Their hearts burst
into tears while their eyes remained dry and accusing, staring in
hostility and anger. Far into the night they accused each other,
they who before had never seriously quarrelled; and something
very like the hatred he spoke of leapt out like a flame that seared
them at moments.
Stephen, my own child - she's come between us.'
'It's you who have thrust her between us, Anna.'
Mad, it was madness! They were such faithful lovers, and
their love it was that had fashioned their child. They knew that
it was madness and yet they persisted, while their anger dug
out for itself a deep channel, so that future angers might more
easily follow. They could not forgive and they could not sleep,
for neither could sleep without the other's forgiveness, and the
hatred that leapt out at moments between them would be
drowned in the tears that their hearts were shedding.
<
A
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
3
LIKE some vile and prolific thing, this first quarrel bred others,
and the peace of Morton was shattered. The house seemed to
mourn, and withdraw into itself, so that Stephen went searching
for its spirit in vain. 'Morton,' she whispered, 'where are you,
Morton? I must find
you, I need you so badly.'
For now Stephen knew the cause of their quarrels, and she
recognized the form of the shadow that had seemed to creep
in between them at Christmas, and knowing, she stretched out
her arms to Morton for comfort: 'My Morton, where are you?
I need you.'
Grim and exceedingly angry grew Puddle, that little, grey
box of a woman in her schoolroom; angry with Anna for her
treatment of Stephen, but even more deeply angry with Sir Philip,
who knew the whole truth, or so she suspected, and who yet kept
that truth back from Anna.
it's
Stephen would sit with her head in her hands. Oh, Puddle,
my fault; I've come in between them, and they're all I've got
- they're my one perfect thing I can't bear it - why have I
come in between them?'
Magy
C
And Puddle would flush with reminiscent anger as her mind
slipped back and back over the years to old sorrows, old miseries,
long decently buried but now disinterred by this pitiful Stephen.
She would live through those years again, while her spirit would
cry out, unregenerate, against their injustice.
Frowning at her pupil, she would speak to her sharply:
'Don't be a fool, Stephen. Where's your brain, where's your
backbone? Stop holding your head and get on with your Latin.
My God, child, you'll have worse things than this to face later -
life's not all beer and skittles, I do assure you. Now come along,
do, and get on with that Latin. Remember you'll soon be going
up to Oxford.' But after a while she might pat the girl's shoulder
and say rather gruffly: 'I'm not angry, Stephen - I do under-
stand, my dear, I do really - only somehow I've just got to make
you have backbone. You're too sensitive, child, and the sensitive.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
125
suffer well, I don't want to see you suffer, that's all. Let's go out
for a walk - we've done enough Latin for to-day - let's walk
over the meadows to Upton.'
C
Stephen clung to this little, grey box of a woman as a drown-
ing man will cling to a spar. Puddle's very hardness was some-
how consoling - it seemed concrete, a thing you could trust, could
rely on, and their friendship that had flourished as a green bay-
tree grew into something more stalwart and much more endur-
ing. And surely the two of them had need of their friendship, for
now there was little happiness at Morton; Sir Philip and Anna
were deeply unhappy - degraded they would feel by their cease-
less quarrels.
Sir Philip would think: ' I must tell her the truth - I must tell
her what I believe to be the truth about Stephen.' He would go
in search of his wife, but having found her would stand there
tongue-tied, with his eyes full of pity.
And one day Anna suddenly burst out weeping, for no
reason except that she felt his great pity. Not knowing and not
caring why he pitied, she wept, so that all he could do was to
console her.
They clung together like penitent children. 'Anna, forgive
me.'
'Forgive me, Philip - ' For in between quarrels they were
sometimes like children, naïvely asking each other's forgiveness.
Sir Philip's resolution weakened and waned as he kissed the
tears from her poor, reddened eyelids. He thought: 'To-morrow
- to-morrow I'll tell her - I can't bear to make her more unhappy
to-day.'
So the weeks drifted by and still he had not spoken; summer
came and went, giving place to the autumn. Yet one more Christ-
mas visited Morton, and still Sir Philip had not spoken.
CHAPTER 14
I
F
EBRUARY came bringing snowstorms with it, the heaviest
known for many a year. The hills lay folded in swathes of
whiteness, and so did the valleys at the foot of the hills, and so
did the spacious gardens of Morton - it was all one vast panorama
of whiteness. The lakes froze, and the beech trees had crystalline
branches, while their luminous carpet of leaves grew brittle so
that it crackled now underfoot, the only sound in the frozen still-
ness of that place that was always infinitely still. Peter, the ar-
rogant swan, turned friendly, and he and his family now wel-
comed Stephen who fed them every morning and evening, and
they glad enough to partake of her bounty. On the lawn Anna set
out a tray for the birds, with chopped suet, seed, and small mounds
of breadcrumbs; and down at the stables old Williams spread
straw in wide rings for exercising the horses who could not be
taken beyond the yard, so bad were the roads around Morton.
The gardens lay placidly under the snow, in no way perturbed
or disconcerted. Only one inmate of theirs felt anxious, and that
was the ancient and wide-boughed cedar, for the weight of the
snow made an ache in its branches - its branches were brittle like
an old man's bones; that was why the cedar felt anxious. But it
could not cry out or shake off its torment; no, it could only en-
dure with patience, hoping that Anna would take note of its
trouble, since she sat in its shade summer after summer since
once long ago she had sat in its shade dreaming of the son she
would bear her husband. And one morning Anna did notice its
plight, and she called Sir Philip, who hurried from his study.
She said: 'Look, Philip! I'm afraid for my cedar - it's all
weighted down - I feel worried about it.'
Categ
Then Sir Philip sent in to Upton for chain, and for stout pads
of felt to support the branches; and he himself must direct the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
127
gardeners while they climbed into the tree and pushed off the
snow; and he himself must see to the placing of the stout felt pads,
lest the branches be galled. Because he loved Anna who loved the
cedar, he must stand underneath it directing the gardeners.
A sudden and horrible sound of rending. 'Sir, look out! Sir
Philip, look out, sir, it's giving!'
A crash, and then silence - a horrible silence, far worse than
that horrible sound of rending.
'Sir Philip - oh, Gawd, it's over 'is chest! It's crushed in 'is
chest - it's the big branch wot's given! Some one go for the doctor
- go quick for Doctor Evans. Oh, Gawd, 'is mouth's bleedin' –
it's crushed in 'is chest - Won't nobody go for the doctor? '
-
The grave, rather pompous voice of Mr. Hopkins: 'Steady,
Thomas, it's no good losin' your head. Robert, you'd best slip over
to the stables and tell Burton to go in the car for the doctor. You,
Thomas, give me a hand with this bough - steady on – ease it off
a bit to the right, now lift! Steady on, keep more to the right -
now then, gently, gently, man - lift!'
Sir Philip lay very still on the snow, and the blood oozed
slowly from between his lips. He looked monstrously tall as he
lay on that whiteness, very straight, with his long legs stretched
out to their fullest, so that Thomas said foolishly: 'Don't 'e be
big - I don't know as I ever noticed before -'
And now some one came scuttling over the snow, panting,
stumbling, hopping grotesquely - old Williams, hatless and in
his shirt sleeves and as he came on he kept calling out some-
thing: Master, oh, Master!' And he hopped grotesquely as
he came on over the slippery snow. 'Master, Master – oh,
Master!'
They found a hurdle, and with dreadful care they placed the
master of Morton upon it, and with dreadful slowness they car-
ried the hurdle over the lawn, and in through the door that Sir
Philip himself had left standing ajar.
Slowly they carried him into the hall, and even more slowly
his tired eyes opened, and he whispered: 'Where's Stephen? I
want the child.'
Garden
128
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
And old Williams muttered thickly: 'She's comin', Master -
she be comin' down the stairs; she's here, Sir Philip.'
Then Sir Philip tried to move, and he spoke quite loudly:
'Stephen! Where are you? I want you, child -'
She went to him, saying never a word, but she thought: 'He's
dying - my Father.'
And she took his large hand in hers and stroked it, but still
without speaking, because when one loves there is nothing left in
the world to say, when the best belovèd lies dying. He looked at
her with the pleading eyes of a dog who is dumb, but who yet
asks forgiveness. And she knew that his eyes were asking for-
giveness for something beyond her poor comprehension; so she
nodded, and just went on stroking his hand.
Mr. Hopkins asked quietly: 'Where shall we take him?'
And as quietly Stephen answered: 'To the study.'
M
Then she herself led the way to the study, walking steadily,
just as though nothing had happened, just as though when she
got there she would find her father lolling back in his arm-
chair, reading. But she thought all the while: 'He's dying -
my Father - Only the thought seemed unreal, preposterous. It
seemed like the thinking of somebody else, a thing so unreal as
to be preposterous. Yet when they had set him down in the study,
her own voice it was that she heard giving orders.
'Tell Miss Puddleton to go at once to my Mother and break
the news gently - I'll stay with Sir Philip. One of you please send
a housemaid to me with a sponge and some towels and a basin of
cold water. Burton's gone for Doctor Evans, you say? That's quite
right. Now I'd like you to go up and fetch down a mattress, the
one from the blue room will do - get it quickly. Bring some
blankets as well and a couple of pillows - and I may need a little
brandy.'
They ran to obey, and before very long she had helped to lift
him on to the mattress. He groaned a little, then he actually smiled
as he felt her strong arms around him. She kept wiping the blood
away from his mouth, and her fingers were stained; she looked at
her fingers, but without comprehension - they could not be hers
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
129
- like her thoughts, they must surely be somebody else's. But now
his eyes were growing more restless - he was looking for some
one, he was looking for her mother.
'Have you told Miss Puddleton, Williams?' she whispered.
The man nodded.
Then she said: 'Mother's coming, darling; you lie still,' and
her voice was softly persuasive as though she were speaking to
a small, suffering child. 'Mother's coming; you lie quite still,
darling.'
And she came - incredulous, yet wide-eyed with horror.
Philip, oh, Philip!' She sank down beside him and laid her
white face against his on the pillow. 'My dear, my dear - it's
most terribly hurt you try to tell me where it hurts; try to tell
me, beloved. The branch gave - it was the snow - it fell on you,
Philip - but try to tell me where it hurts most, belovèd.'
Stephen motioned to the servants and they went away slowly
with bowed heads, for Sir Philip had been a good friend; they
loved him, each in his or her way, each according to his or her
capacity for loving.
And always that terrible voice went on speaking, terrible be-
cause it was quite unlike Anna's - it was toneless, and it asked
and re-asked the same question: "Try to tell me where it hurts
most, belovèd.”
But Sir Philip was fighting the battle of pain; of intense,
irresistible, unmanning pain. He lay silent, not answering
Anna.
Then she coaxed him in words soft with memories of her
country.' And
'And you the loveliest man,' she whispered, and you
´
with the light of God in your eyes.' But he lay there unable to
answer.
And now she seemed to forget Stephen's presence, for she
spoke as one lover will speak with another - foolishly, fondly,
inventing small names, as one lover will do for another. And
watching them Stephen beheld a great marvel, for he opened his
eyes and his eyes met her mother's, and a light seemed to shine
over both their poor faces, transfiguring them with something
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
triumphant, with love - thus those two rekindled the beacon for
their child in the shadow of the valley of death.
IT WAS late afternoon before the doctor arrived; he had been out
all day and the roads were heavy. He had come the moment he
received the news, come as fast as a car clogged with snow could
bring him. He did what he could, which was very little, for Sir
Philip was conscious and wished to remain so; he would not per-
mit them to ease his pain by administering drugs. He could speak
very slowly.
'No - not that something urgent - I want to say. No
drugs - I know I'm - dying - Evans.'
My p
The doctor adjusted the slipping pillows, then turning he
whispered carefully to Stephen. Look after your mother. He's
going, I think it can't be long now. I'll wait in the next room.
If
you need me you've only got to call me.'
<
'Thank you,' she answered, if I need you I'll call you.'
Then Sir Philip paid even to the uttermost farthing, paid with
stupendous physical courage for the sin of his anxious and pitiful
heart; and he drove and he goaded his ebbing strength to the
making of one great and terrible effort: 'Anna - it's Stephen
listen.' They were holding his hands. It's - Stephen - our child
- she's, she's - it's Stephen - not like – '
Lang
M
M
2
-
Ad
His head fell back rather sharply, and then lay very still
upon Anna's bosom.
Stephen released the hand she was holding, for Anna had
stooped and was kissing his lips, desperately, passionately kissing
his lips, as though to breathe back the life into his body. And none
might be there to witness that thing, save God - the God of death
and affliction, Who is also the God of love. Turning away she
stole out of their presence, leaving them alone in the darkening
study, leaving them alone with their deathless devotion --hand in
hand, the quick and the dead.
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER 15
I
STRE
IR PHILIP's death deprived his child of three things; of com-
panionship of mind born of real understanding, of a stalwart
barrier between her and the world, and above all of love — that
faithful love that would gladly have suffered all things for her
sake, in order to spare her suffering.
Stephen, recovering from the merciful numbness of shock
and facing her first deep sorrow, stood utterly confounded, as a
child will stand who is lost in a crowd, having somehow let go of
the hand that has always guided. Thinking of her father, she
realized how greatly she had leant on that man of deep kindness,
how sure she had felt of his constant protection, how much she
had taken that protection for granted. And so together with her
constant grieving, with the ache for his presence that never left
her, came the knowledge of what real loneliness felt like. She
would marvel, remembering how often in his lifetime she had
thought herself lonely, when by stretching out a finger she could
touch him, when by speaking she could hear his voice, when by
raising her eyes she could see him before her. And now also she
knew the desolation of small things, the power to give infinite
pain that lies hidden in the little inanimate objects that persist, in
a book, in a well-worn garment, in a half-finished letter, in a
favourite arm-chair.
·0
She thought: They go on - they mean nothing at all, and yet
they go on,' and the handling of them was anguish, and yet she
must always touch them. How queer, this old arm-chair has out-
lived him, an old chair - ' And feeling the creases in its leather,
the dent in its back where her father's head had lain, she would
hate the inanimate thing for surviving, or perhaps she would love
it and find herself weeping.
Morton had become a place of remembering that closed round
134
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
grass in
her and held her in its grip of remembrance. It was pain, yet now
more than ever she adored it, every stone, every blade of
its meadows. She fancied that it too grieved for her father and
was turning to her for comfort. Because of Morton the days must
go on, all their trifling tasks must be duly accomplished. At times
she might wonder that this should be so, might be filled with a
fleeting sense of resentment, but then she would think of her
home as a creature dependent upon her and her mother for its
needs, and the sense of resentment would vanish.
Very gravely she listened to the lawyer from London. The
place goes to your mother for her lifetime,' he told her; ' on her
death, of course, it becomes yours, Miss Gordon. But your father
made a separate provision; when you're twenty-one, in about two
years time, you'll inherit quite a considerable income.
""
She said: ' Will that leave enough money for Morton?'
'More than enough,' he reassured her, smiling.
In the quiet old house there was discipline and order, death
had come and gone, yet these things persisted. Like the well-worn
garment and favourite chair, discipline and order had survived
the great change, filling the emptiness of the rooms with a queer
sense of unreality at times, with a new and very bewildering doubt
as to which was real, life or death. The servants scoured and swept
and dusted. From Malvern, once a week, came a young clock-
winder, and he set the clocks with much care and precision so
that when he had gone they all chimed together - rather hur-
riedly they would all chime together, as though flustered by the
great importance of time. Puddle added up the books and made
lists for the cook. The tall under-footman polished the windows-
the iridescent window that looked out on the lawns and the semi-
circular fanlight he polished. In the gardens work progressed just
as usual. Gardeners pruned and hoed and diligently planted.
Spring gained in strength to the joy of the cuckoos, trees blos-
somed, and outside Sir Philip's study glowed beds of the old-
fashioned single tulips he had loved above all the others. Accord-
ing to custom the bulbs had been planted, and now, still according
to custom, there were tulips. At the stables the hunters were
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
135
turned out to grass, and the ceilings and walls had a fresh coat of
whitewash. Williams went into Upton to buy tape for the plaits
which the grooms were now engaged upon making; while be-
yond, in a paddock adjoining the beech wood, a couple of mares
gave birth to strong foals - thus were all things accomplished in
their season at Morton.
But Anna, whose word was now absolute law, had become
one of those who have done with smiling; a quiet, enduring, grief-
stricken woman, in whose eyes was a patient, waiting expression.
She was gentle to Stephen, yet terribly aloof; in their hour of
great need they must still stand divided these two, by the old, in-
sidious barrier. Yet Stephen clung closer and closer to Morton; she
had definitely given up all idea of Oxford. In vain did Puddle try
to protest, in vain did she daily remind her pupil that Sir Philip
had set his heart on her going; no good, for Stephen would always
reply:
Morton needs me; Father would want me to stay, because
he taught me to love it.'
And Puddle was helpless. What could she do, bound as she
was by the tyranny of silence? She dared not explain the girl to
herself, dared not say: ' For your own sake you must go to Oxford,
you'll need every weapon your brain can give you; being what
you are you'll need every weapon,' for then certainly Stephen
would start to question, and her teacher's very position of trust
would forbid her to answer those questions.
Outrageous, Puddle would feel it to be, that wilfully selfish
tyranny of silence evolved by a crafty old ostrich of a world for
its own well-being and comfort. The world hid its head in the
sands of convention, so that seeing nothing it might avoid Truth.
It said to itself: If seeing's believing, then I don't want to see - if
silence is golden, it is also, in this case, very expedient.' There
were moments when Puddle would feel sorely tempted to shout
out loud at the world.
Sometimes she thought of giving up her post, so weary was
she of fretting over Stephen. She would think: 'What's the good
of my worrying myself sick? I can't help the girl, but I can help
136
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
myself - seems to me it's a matter of pure self-preservation.' Then
all that was loyal and faithful in her would protest: 'Better stick
it, she'll probably need you one day and you ought to be here to
help her.' So Puddle decided to stick it.
They did very little work, for Stephen had grown idle with
grief and no longer cared for her studies. Nor could she find con-
solation in her writing, for sorrow will often do one of two things
- it will either release the springs of inspiration, or else it will dry
up those springs completely, and in Stephen's case it had done
the latter. She longed for the comforting outlet of words, but
now the words would always evade her.
'I can't write any more, it's gone from me, Puddle - he's
taken it with him.' And then would come tears, and the tears
would go splashing down on to the paper, blotting the
poor in-
adequate lines that meant little or nothing as their author well
knew, to her own added desolation.
There she would sit like a woebegone child, and Puddle
would think how childish she seemed in this her first encounter
with grief, and would marvel because of the physical strength
of the creature, that went so ill with those tears. And because her
own tears were vexing her eyes she must often speak rather
sharply to Stephen. Then Stephen would go off and swing her
large dumb-bells, seeking the relief of bodily movement, seeking
to wear out her muscular body because her mind was worn out by
sorrow.
August came and Williams got the hunters in from grass.
Stephen would sometimes get up very early and help with the
exercising of the horses, but in spite of this the old man's heart
misgave him, she seemed strangely averse to discussing the
hunting.
He would think: 'Maybe it's 'er father's death, but the in-
stinct be pretty strong in 'er blood, she'll be all right after 'er's 'ad
'er first gallop.' And perhaps he might craftily point to Raftery.
Look, Miss Stephen, did ever you see such quarters? 'E's a
mighty fine doer, keeps 'imself fit on grass! I do believe as 'e does
it on purpose; I believe 'e's afraid 'e'll miss a day's huntin'.'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
137
But the autumn slipped by and the winter was passing.
Hounds met at the very gates of Morton, yet Stephen forbore to
send those orders to the stables for which Williams was anxiously
waiting. Then one morning in March he could bear it no longer,
and he suddenly started reproaching Stephen: Yer lettin' my
'orses go stale in their boxes. It's a scandal, Miss Stephen, and you
such a rider, and our stables the finest bar none in the county, and
yer father so almighty proud of yer ridin'! And then: 'Miss
Stephen - yer'll not give it up? Won't yer' hunt Raftery day after
to-morrow? The 'ounds is meetin' quite near by Upton – Miss
Stephen, say yer won't give it all up!'
There were actually tears in his worried old eyes, and so to
console him she answered briefly: 'Very well then, I'll hunt the
day after to-morrow.' But for some strange reason that she did not
understand, this prospect had quite ceased to give her pleasure.
2
ON A morning of high scudding clouds and sunshine, Stephen
rode Raftery into Upton, then over the bridge that spans the river
Severn, and on to the Meet at a neighbouring village. Behind her
came jogging her second horseman on one of Sir Philip's favourite
youngsters, a raw-boned, upstanding, impetuous chestnut, now
all
eyes and ears for what might be coming; but beside her rode
only memory and heart-ache. Yet from time to time she turned
her head quickly as though some one must surely be there at
her side.
Her mind was a prey to the strangest fancies. She pictured
her father very grave and anxious, not gay and light-hearted as
had been his wont when they rode to a Meet in the old days. And
because this day was so vibrant with living it was difficult for
Stephen to tolerate the idea of death, even for a little red fox, and
she caught herself thinking: 'If we find, this morning, there'll
be two of us who are utterly alone, with every man's hand
against us.'
At the Meet she was a prey to her self-conscious shyness, so
138
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
that she fancied people were whispering. There was no one now
with bowed, patient shoulders to stand between her and those
unfriendly people.
Colonel Antrim came up. 'Glad to see you out, Stephen.'
But his voice sounded stiff because he was embarrassed - every
one felt just a little embarrassed, as people will do in the face of
bereavement.
And then there was something so awkward about her, so
aloof that it checked every impulse of kindness. They, in their
turn, felt shy, remembering Sir Philip, remembering what his
death must have meant to his daughter, so that more than one
greeting remained unspoken.
And again she thought grimly: Two of us will be alone, with
every man's hand against us.'
They found their fox in the very first cover and went away
over the wide, bare meadows. As Raftery leapt forward her curi-
ous fancies gained strength, and now they began to obsess her.
She fancied that she was being pursued, that the hounds were be-
hind her instead of ahead, that the flushed, bright-eyed people
were hunting her down, ruthless, implacable untiring people -
they were many and she was one solitary creature with every
man's hand against her. To escape them she suddenly took her
own line, putting Raftery over some perilous places; but he, noth-
ing loath, stretched his muscles to their utmost, landing safely –
yet always she imagined pursuit, and now it was the world that
had turned against her. The whole world was hunting her down
with hatred, with a fierce, remorseless will to destruction – the
world against one insignificant creature who had nowhere to turn
for pity or protection. Her heart tightened with fear, she was
terribly afraid of those flushed, bright-eyed people who were hard
on her track. She, who had never lacked physical courage in her
life, was now actually sweating with terror, and Raftery divining
her terror sped on, faster and always faster.
Then Stephen saw something just ahead, and it moved.
Checking Raftery sharply she stared at the thing. A crawling,
bedraggled streak of red fur, with tongue lolling, with agonized
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
139
lungs filled to bursting, with the desperate eyes of the hopelessly
pursued, bright with terror and glancing now this way now
that as though looking for something; and the thought came to
Stephen: 'It's looking for God Who made it.'
At that moment she felt an imperative need to believe that
the stricken beast had a Maker, and her own eyes grew bright,
but with blinding tears because of her mighty need to believe, a
need that was sharper than physical pain, being born of the pain
of the spirit. The thing was dragging its brush in the dust, it was
limping, and Stephen sprang to the ground. She held out her
hands to the unhappy creature, filled with the will to succour and
protect it, but the fox mistrusted her merciful hands, and it crept
away into a little coppice. And now in a deathly and awful silence
the hounds swept past her, their muzzles to ground. After them
galloped Colonel Antrim, crouching low in his saddle, avoiding
the branches, and after him came a couple of huntsmen with the
few bold riders who had stayed that stiff run. Then a savage
clamour broke out in the coppice as the hounds gave tongue in
their wild jubilation, and Stephen well knew that that sound
meant death - very slowly she remounted Raftery.
Riding home, she felt utterly spent and bewildered. Her
thoughts were full of her father again - he seemed very near,
incredibly near her. For a moment she thought that she heard his
voice, but when she bent sideways trying to listen, all was silence,
except for the tired rhythm of Raftery's hooves on the road. As
her brain grew calmer, it seemed to Stephen that her father had
taught her all that she knew. He had taught her courage and
truth and honour in his life, and in death he had taught her mercy
- the mercy that he had lacked he had taught her through the
mighty adventure of death. With a sudden illumination of vision,
she perceived that all life is only one life, that all joy and all sor-
row are indeed only one, that all death is only one dying. And
she knew that because she had seen a man die in great suffering,
yet with courage and love that are deathless, she could never
again inflict wanton destruction or pain upon any poor, hapless
creature. And so it was that by dying to Stephen, Sir Philip would
140
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
live on in the attribute of mercy that had come that day to his
child.
But the body is still very far from the spirit, and it clings to the
primitive joys of the earth to the sun and the wind and the
good rolling grass-lands, to the swift elation of reckless move-
ment, so that Stephen, feeling Raftery between her strong knees,
was suddenly filled with regret. Yes, in this her moment of spirit-
ual insight she was infinitely sad, and she said to Raftery: 'We'll
never hunt any more, we two, Raftery - we'll never go out hunt-
ing together any more.'
P
And because in his own way he had understood her, she felt
his sides swell with a vast, resigned sigh; heard the creaking of
damp girth leather as he sighed because he had understood her.
For the love of the chase was still hot in Raftery, the love of
splendid, unforeseen danger, the love of crisp mornings and frost-
bound evenings, and of long, dusky roads that always led home.
He was wise with the age-old wisdom of the beasts, it is true, but
that wisdom was not guiltless of slaying, and deep in his gentle
and faithful mind lurked a memory bequeathed him by some
wild forbear. A memory of vast and unpeopled spaces, of fierce
open nostrils and teeth bared in battle, of hooves that struck death
with every sure blow, of a great untamed mane that streamed out
like a banner, of the shrill and incredibly savage war-cry that ac-
companied that gallant banner. So now he too felt infinitely sad,
and he sighed until his strong girths started creaking, after which
he stood still and shook himself largely, in an effort to shake off
depression.
Stephen bent forward and patted his neck. 'I'm sorry, sorry,
Raftery,' she said gravely.
CHAPTER 16
W breaking up
ITH the breaking up of the stables at Morton came the
of their faithful servant. Old age took its toll
of Williams at last, and it got him under completely. Sore at heart
and gone in both wind and limb, he retired with a pension to his
comfortable cottage; there to cough and grumble throughout the
winter, or to smoke disconsolate pipes through the summer, seated
on a chair in his trim little garden with a rug wrapped around
his knees.
I
'It do be a scandal,' he was now for ever saying,' and 'er such
a splendid woman to 'ounds!'
And then he would start remembering past glories, while his
mind would begin to grieve for Sir Philip. He would cry just a
little because he still loved him, so his wife must bring Williams
a strong cup of tea.
There, there, Arth-thur, you'll soon be meetin' the master;
we be old me and you - it can't be long now.'
At which Williams would glare: 'I'm not thinkin' of 'eaven
- like as not there won't be no 'orses in 'eaven - I wants the
master down 'ere at me stables. Gawd knows they be needin' a
master!'
For now besides Anna's carriage horses, there were only four
inmates of those once fine stables; Raftery and Sir Philip's young
upstanding chestnut, a cob known as James, and the aged Collins
who had taken to vice in senile decay, and persisted in eating his
bedding.
Anna had accepted this radical change quite calmly, as she
now accepted most things. She hardly ever opposed her daughter
these days in matters concerning Morton. But the burden of ar-
ranging the sale had been Stephen's; one by one she had said
good-bye to the hunters, one by one she had watched them led out
J
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
of the yard, with a lump in her throat that had almost choked
her, and when they were gone she had turned back to Raftery
for comfort.
G
‘Oh, Raftery, I'm so unregenerate - I minded so terribly see-
ing them go! Don't let's look at their empty boxes -
2
ANOTHER year passed and Stephen was twenty-one, a rich, in-
dependent woman. At any time now she could go where she
chose, could do entirely as she listed. Puddle remained at her post;
she was waiting a little grimly for something to happen. But noth-
ing much happened, beyond the fact that Stephen now dressed in
tailor-made clothes to which Anna had perforce to withdraw her
opposition. Yet life was gradually reasserting its claims on the
girl, which was only natural, for the young may not be delivered
over to the dead, nor to grief that refuses consolation. She still
mourned her father, she would always mourn him, but at twenty-
one with a healthful body, there came a day when she noticed the
sunshine, when she smelt the good earth and was thankful for it,
when she suddenly knew herself to be alive and was glad, in
despite of death.
On one such morning early that June, Stephen drove her car
into Upton. She was meaning to cash a cheque at the bank, she
was meaning to call at the local saddler's, she was meaning to
buy a new pair of gloves - in the end, however, she did none of
these things.
It was outside the butcher's that the dog fight started. The
butcher owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had
taken up his post in the doorway of the shop, as had long been his
custom. Down the street, on trim but belligerent tiptoes, came
a very small, snow-white West Highland terrier; perhaps he was
looking for trouble, and if so he certainly got it in less than two
minutes. His yells were so loud that Stephen stopped the car and
turned round in her seat to see what was happening. The butcher
ran out to swell the confusion by shouting commands that no one
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
obeyed; he was trying to grasp his dog by the tail which was short
and not at all handy for grasping. And then, as it seemed from
nowhere at all, there suddenly appeared a very desperate young
woman; she was carrying her parasol as though it were a lance
with which she intended to enter the battle. Her wails of despair
rose above the dog's yells:
'Tony! My Tony! Won't anyone stop them? My dog's being
killed, won't any of you stop them?' And she actually tried to
stop them herself, though the parasol broke at the first encounter.
But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, more-
over, the Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out
of the car it seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She
grabbed the old rip by the scruff of his neck, while the butcher
dashed off for a bucket of water. The desperate young woman
seized her dog by a leg; she pulled, Stephen pulled, they both
pulled together. Then Stephen gave a punishing twist which dis-
tracted the Airedale, he wanted to bite her; having only one mouth
he must let go of Tony, who was instantly clasped to his owner's
bosom. The butcher arrived on the scene with his bucket while
Stephen was still clinging to the Airedale's collar.
'I'm so sorry, Miss Gordon, I do hope you're not hurt?
'I'm all right. Here, take this grey devil and thrash him; he's
no business to eat up a dog half his size.'
Meanwhile, Tony was dripping all over with gore, and his
mistress, it seemed, had got herself bitten. She alternately strug-
gled to staunch Tony's wounds and to suck her own hand which
was bleeding freely.
'Better give me your dog and come across to the chemist,
your hand will want dressing,' remarked Stephen.
Tony was instantly put into her arms, with a rather pale smile
that suggested a breakdown.
'It's quite all right now,' said Stephen quickly, very much
afraid the young woman meant to cry.
'Will he live, do you think?' inquired a weak voice.
"Yes, of course; but your hand - come along to the chemist.'
'Oh, never mind that, I'm thinking of Tony!'
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'He's all right. We'll take him straight off to the vet when
your hand's been seen to; there's quite a good one.'
The chemist applied fairly strong carbolic; the hand had been
bitten on two of the fingers, and Stephen was impressed by the
pluck of this stranger, who set her small teeth and endured in
silence. The hand bandaged they drove along to the vet, who was
fortunately in and could sew up poor Tony. Stephen held his front
paws, while his mistress held his head as best she could in her own
maimed condition. She kept pressing his face against her shoulder,
presumably so that he should not see the needle.
'Don't look, darling - you mustn't look at it, honey!'
Stephen heard her whispering to Tony.
At last he too was carbolicked and bandaged, and Stephen
had time to examine her companion. It occurred to her that she
had better introduce herself, so she said: 'I'm Stephen Gordon.'
'And I'm Angela Crossby,' came the reply; 'we've taken
The Grange, just the other side of Upton.'
Angela Crossby was amazingly blonde, her hair was not so
much golden as silver. She wore it cut short like a mediæval page;
it was straight, and came just to the lobes of her ears, which at
that time of pompadours and much curling gave her an unusual
appearance. Her skin was very white, and Stephen decided that
this woman would never have a great deal of colour, nor would
her rather wide mouth be red, it would always remain the tint of
pale coral. All the colour that she had seemed to lie in her eyes,
which were large and fringed with long fair lashes. Her eyes were
of rather an unusual blue that almost seemed to be tinted with
purple, and their candid expression was that of a child – very in-
nocent it was, a trustful expression. And Stephen as she looked
at those eyes felt indignant, remembering the gossip she had
heard about the Crossbys.
The Crossbys, as she knew, were deeply resented. He had
been an important Birmingham magnate who had lately retired
from some hardware concern, on account of his health, or so ran
the gossip. His wife, it was rumoured, had been on the stage in
New York, so that her antecedents were doubtful - no one really
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
145
knew anything at all about her, but her curious hair gave grounds
for suspicion. An American wife who had been an actress was a
very
bad asset for Crossby. Nor was Crossby himself a prepossess-
ing person; when judged by the county's standards, he bounded.
Moreover he showed signs of unpardonable meanness. His sub-
scription to the Hunt had been a paltry five guineas. He had writ-
ten to say that his very poor health would preclude his hunting,
and had actually added that he hoped the Hunt would keep clear
of his covers! And then every one felt a natural resentment that
The Grange should have had to be sacrificed for money – quite a
small Tudor house it was yet very perfect. But Captain Ramsay,
its erstwhile owner, had died recently, leaving large debts behind
him, so his heir, a young cousin who lived in London, had
promptly sold to the first wealthy bidder - hence the advent of
Mr. Crossby.
Stephen, looking at Angela, remembered these things, but
they suddenly seemed devoid of importance, for now those child-
like eyes were upon her, and Angela was saying: 'I don't know
how to thank you for saving my Tony, it was wonderful of you!
If
you hadn't been there they'd have let him get killed, and I'm
just devoted to Tony.'
Her voice had the soft, thick drawl of the South, an indolent
voice, very lazy and restful. It was quite new to Stephen, that soft,
Southern drawl, and she found it unexpectedly pleasant. Then
it dawned on the girl that this woman was lovely – she was like
some queer flower that had grown up in darkness, like some rare,
pale flower without blemish or stain, and Stephen said flushing:
'I was glad to help you - I'll drive you back to The Grange,
if you'll let me?'
"Why, of course we'll let you,' came the prompt answer.
'Tony says he'll be most grateful, don't you, Tony?' Tony
wagged his tail rather faintly.
Stephen wrapped him up in a motor rug at the back of the
car, where he lay as though prostrate. Angela she placed in the
seat beside herself, helping her carefully as she did so.
Presently Angela said: "Thanks to Tony I've met you at last;
146
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
I've been longing to meet you!' And she stared rather discon-
certingly at Stephen, then smiled as though something she saw
had amused her.
Stephen wondered why anyone should have longed to meet
her. Feeling suddenly shy she became suspicious: 'Who told you
about me?' she asked abruptly.
'Mrs. Antrim, I think - yes, it was Mrs. Antrim. She said
you were such a wonderful rider but that now, for some reason,
you'd given up hunting. Oh, yes, and she said you fenced like a
man. Do you fence like a man?'
'I don't know,' muttered Stephen.
८
you
Well, I'll tell
you whether
do when I've seen you; my
father was quite a well-known fencer at one time, so I learnt a
lot about fencing in the States - perhaps some day, Miss Gordon,
you'll let me see you?'
By now Stephen's face was the colour of a beetroot, and she
gripped the wheel as though she meant to hurt it. She was long-
ing to turn round and look at her companion, the desire to look
at her was almost overwhelming, but even her eyes seemed too
stiff to move, so she gazed at the long dusty road in silence.
C
'Don't punish the poor, wooden thing that way,' murmured
Angela,' it can't help being just wood!' Then she went on talk-
ing as though to herself: What should I have done if that brute
had killed Tony? He's a real companion to me on my walks -
I don't know what I'd do if it weren't for Tony, he's such a de-
voted, cute little fellow, and these days I'm kind of thrown back
on my dog - it's a melancholy business walking alone, yet I've
always been fond of walking-
Stephen wanted to say: ' But I like walking too; let me come
with
you sometimes as well as Tony.' Then suddenly mustering
up her courage, she jerked round in the seat and looked at this
woman. As their eyes met and held each other for a moment,
something vaguely disturbing stirred in Stephen, so that the car
made a dangerous swerve. 'I'm sorry,' she said quickly,' that was
rotten bad driving.'
But Angela did not answer.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
147
3
RALPH CROSSBY was standing at the open doorway as the car
swung up and came to a halt. Stephen noticed that he was im-
maculately dressed in a grey tweed suit that by rights should have
been shabby. But everything about him looked aggressively new,
his very
hair had a quality of newness - it was thin brown hair
that shone as though polished.
'I wonder if he puts it out with his boots,' thought Stephen,
surveying him with interest.
He was one of those rather indefinite men, who are neither
short nor tall, fat nor thin, old nor young, good-looking nor
actually ugly. As his wife would have said, had anybody asked
her, he was just plain man,' which exactly described him,
for his only distinctive features were his newness and the
peevish expression about his mouth - his mouth was intensely
peevish.
When he spoke his high-pitched voice sounded fretful.' What
on earth have you been doing? It's past two o'clock. I've been
waiting since one, the lunch must be ruined; I do wish you'd try
and be punctual, Angela!' He appeared not to notice Stephen's
existence, for he went on nagging as though no one were present.
'Oh, I see, that damn dog of yours has been fighting again, I've
a good mind to give him a thrashing; and what in God's name's
the matter with
your hand
- you don't mean to say that you've
got yourself bitten? Really, Angela, this is a bit too bad!' His
whole manner suggested a personal grievance.
'Well,' drawled Angela, extending the bandaged hand for
inspection, 'I've not been getting manicured, Ralph.' And her
voice was distinctly if gently provoking, so that he winced with
quick irritation. Then she seemed quite suddenly to remember
Stephen: Miss Gordon, let me introduce my husband.'
He bowed, and pulling himself together: Thank you for driv-
ing my wife home, Miss Gordon, it was most kind, I'm sure.' But
he did not seem friendly, he kept glaring at Angela's dog-bitten
hand, and his tone, Stephen thought, was distinctly ungracious.
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Getting out of the car she started her engine.
Good-bye,' smiled Angela, holding out her hand, the left
one, which Stephen grasped much too firmly. 'Good-bye – per-
haps one day you'll come to tea. We're on the telephone, Upton
25; ring up and suggest yourself some day quite soon.'
Thanks awfully, I will,' said Stephen.
<
4
'HAD a breakdown or something?' inquired Puddle brightly, as
at three o'clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom.
'No - but Mrs. Crossby's dog had a fight. She got bitten, so
I drove her back to The Grange.
Puddle pricked up her ears: What's she like? I've heard
rumours
Well, she's not at all like them,' snapped Stephen.
There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, but con-
sideration does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddle
made a really bad break: 'She's pretty impossible, isn't she,
Stephen? They say he unearthed her somewhere in New York;
Mrs. Antrim says she was a music-hall actress. I suppose you were
obliged to give her a lift, but be careful, I believe she's fearfully
pushing.'
Stephen flared up like an emotional schoolgirl: 'I'm not go-
ing to discuss her if that's your opinion; Mrs. Crossby is quite as
much a lady as you are, or any of the others round here, for that
matter. I'm sick unto death of your beastly gossip.' And turning
abruptly she strode from the room.
"Oh, Lord!' murmured Puddle, frowning.
5
THAT evening Stephen rang up The Grange. 'Is that Upton 25?
It's Miss Gordon speaking – no, no, Miss Gordon, speaking from
Morton. How is Mrs. Crossby and how is the dog? I hope Mrs.
Crossby's hand isn't very painful? Yes, of course I'll hold on while
you go and inquire.' She felt shy, yet unusually daring.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
149
Presently the butler came back and said gravely that Mrs.
Crossby had just seen the doctor and had now gone to bed, as her
hand was aching, but that Tony felt better and sent his love. He
added: Madam says would you come to tea on Sunday? She'd
be very glad indeed if you would.'
And Stephen answered: 'Will you thank Mrs. Crossby and
tell her that I'll certainly come on Sunday.' Then she gave the
message all over again, very slowly, with pauses. Will you
-
thank Mrs. Crossby - and tell her - I'll certainly come - on
Sunday. Do you quite understand. Have I made it quite clear?
Say I'm coming to tea on Sunday.'
-
CHAPTER 17
I
La
T WAS only five days till Sunday, yet for Stephen those five
days seemed like as many years. Every evening now she rang
up The Grange to inquire about Angela's hand and Tony, so that
she grew quite familiar with the butler, with his quality of voice,
with his habit of coughing, with the way he hung up the receiver.
She did not stop to analyse her feelings, she only knew that
she felt exultant - for no reason at all she was feeling exultant,
very much alive too and full of purpose, and she walked for miles
alone on the hills, unable to stay really quiet for a moment. She
found herself becoming acutely observant, and now she discovered
all manner of wonders; the network of veins on the leaves, for
instance, and the delicate hearts of the wild dog-roses, the un-
certain shimmering flight of the larks as they fluttered up singing,
close to her feet. But above all she rediscovered the cuckoo - it
was June, so the cuckoo had changed his rhythm - she must
often stand breathlessly still to listen: Cuckoo-kook, cuckoo-
kook,' all over the hills; and at evening the songs of blackbirds
and thrushes.
C
Her wanderings would sometimes lead her to the places that
she and Martin had visited together, only now she could think
of him with affection, with toleration, with tenderness even. In
a curious way she now understood him as never before, and in
consequence condoned. It had just been some rather ghastly mis-
take, his mistake, yet she understood what he must have felt; and
thinking of Martin she might grow rather frightened – what if
she should ever make such a mistake? But the fear would be
driven into the background by her sense of well-being, her fine
exultation. The very earth that she trod seemed exalted, and the
green, growing things that sprang out of the earth, and the birds,
"Cuckoo-kook,' all over the hills and at evening the
blackbirds and thrushes.
songs of
S
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
151
She became much more anxious about her appearance; for
five mornings she studied her face in the glass as she dressed
after all she was not so bad looking. Her hair spoilt her a little, it
was too thick and long, but she noticed with pleasure that at least
it was wavy – then she suddenly admired the colour of her hair.
Opening cupboard after cupboard she went through her clothes.
They were old, for the most part distinctly shabby. She would go
into Malvern that very afternoon and order a new flannel suit at
her tailor's. The suit should be grey with a little white pin stripe,
and the jacket, she decided, must have a breast pocket. She would
wear a black tie - no, better a grey one to match the new suit with
the little white pin stripe. She ordered not one new suit but three,
and she also ordered a pair of brown shoes; indeed she spent most
of the afternoon in ordering things for her personal adornment.
She heard herself being ridiculously fussy about details, disputing
with her tailor over buttons; disputing with her bootmaker over
the shoes, their thickness of sole, their amount of broguing; dis-
puting regarding the match of her ties with the young man who
sold her handkerchiefs and neckties - for such trifles had assumed
an enormous importance; she had, in fact, grown quite long-
winded about them.
That evening she showed her smart neckties to Puddle, whose
manner was most unsatisfactory - she grunted.
And now some one seemed to be always near Stephen, some
one for whom these things were accomplished - the purchase of
the three new suits, the brown shoes, the six carefully chosen,
expensive neckties. Her long walks on the hills were a part of this
person, as were also the hearts of the wild dog-roses, the delicate
network of veins on the leaves and the queer June break in the
cuckoo's rhythm. The night with its large summer stars and its
silence, was pregnant with a new and mysterious purpose, so that
lying at the mercy of that age-old purpose, Stephen would feel
little shivers of pleasure creeping out of the night and into her
body. She would get up and stand by the open window, thinking
always of Angela Crossby.
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2
SUNDAY came and with it church in the morning; then two in-
terminable hours after lunch, during which Stephen changed her
necktie three times, and brushed back her thick chestnut hair with
water, and examined her shoes for imaginary dust, and finally
gave a hard rub to her nails with a nail pad snatched brusquely
away from Puddle.
S
When the moment for departure arrived at last, she said rather
tentatively to Anna: 'Aren't you going to call on the Crossbys,
Mother?
Anna shook her head: 'No, I can't do that, Stephen - I go
nowhere these days; you know that, my dear.'
But her voice was quite gentle, so Stephen said quickly:' Well
then, may I invite Mrs. Crossby to Morton ? '
Anna hesitated a moment, then she nodded: 'I suppose so-
that is if you really wish to.'
The drive only took about twenty minutes, for now Stephen
was so nervous that she positively flew. She who had been puffed
up with elation and self-satisfaction was crumbling completely
in spite of her careful new necktie she was crumbling at the
mere thought of Angela Crossby. Arrived at The Grange she felt
over life-size; her hands seemed enormous, all out of proportion,
and she thought that the butler stared at her hands.
'Miss Gordon?' he inquired.
'Yes,' she mumbled, ' Miss Gordon.' Then he coughed as he
did on the telephone, and quite suddenly Stephen felt foolish.
She was shown into a small oak-panelled parlour whose long,
open casements looked on to the herb-garden. A fire of apple
wood burnt on the hearth, in spite of the fact that the weather was
warm, for Angela was always inclined to feel chilly - the result,
so she said, of the English climate. The fire gave off rather a sweet,
pungent odour - the odour of slightly damp logs and dry ashes.
By way of a really propitious beginning, Tony barked until he
nearly burst his stitches, so that Angela, who was lying on the
lounge, had perforce to get up in order to soothe him. An ex-
P
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
153
tremely round bullfinch in an ornate brass cage, was piping a tune
with his wings half extended. The tune sounded something like
'Pop goes the weasel.' At all events it was an impudent tune, and
Stephen felt that she hated that bullfinch. It took all of five
minutes to calm down Tony, during which Stephen stood apolo-
getic but tongue-tied. She hardly knew whether to laugh or to
cry at this
very ridiculous anti-climax.
Then Angela decided the matter by laughing: 'I'm so sorry,
Miss Gordon, he's feeling peevish. It's quite natural, poor lamb,
he had a bad night, he just hates being all sewn up like a bolster.'
Stephen went over and offered him her hand, which Tony
now licked, so that trouble was ended; but in getting up Angela
had torn her dress, and this seemed to distress her - she kept
fingering the tear.
"Can I help? ' inquired Stephen, hoping she'd say no - which
she did, quite firmly, after one look at Stephen.
At last Angela settled down again on the lounge. ' Come and
sit over here,' she suggested, smiling. Then Stephen sat down on
the edge of a chair as though she were sitting in the Prickly
Cradle.
She forgot to inquire about Angela's dog-bite, though the
bandaged hand was placed on a cushion; and she also forgot to
adjust her new necktie, which in her emotion had slipped slightly
crooked. A thousand times in the last few days had she carefully
rehearsed this scene of their meeting, making up long and elab-
orate speeches; assuming, in her mind, many dignified poses;
and yet there she sat on the edge of a chair as though it were the
Prickly Cradle.
And now Angela was speaking in her soft, Southern drawl:
'So you've found your way here at last,' she was saying. And
then, after a pause: 'I'm so glad, Miss Gordon, do you know
that your coming has given me real pleasure?'
Stephen said: Yes - oh, yes - ' Then fell silent again, ap-
parently intent on the carpet.
"Have I dropped my cigarette ash or something?' inquired
her hostess, whose mouth twitched a little.
}
154
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'I don't think so,' murmured Stephen, pretending to look,
then glancing up sideways at the impudent bullfinch.
The bullfinch was now being sentimental; he piped very low
and with great expression. ' O, Tannebaum, O, Tannebaum, wie
grün sind Deine Blätter' he piped, hopping rather heavily from
perch to perch, with one beady black orb fixed on Stephen.
Then Angela said: 'It's a curious thing, but I feel as though
I've known you for ages. I don't want to behave as though we
were strangers – do you think that's very American of me? Ought
I to be formal and stand-offish and British? I will if you say so,
but I don't feel British.' And her voice, although quite steady and
grave, was somehow distinctly suggestive of laughter.
Stephen lifted troubled eyes to her face: 'I want very much
to be your friend if you'll have me,' she said; and then she flushed
deeply.
Angela held out her undamaged hand which Stephen took,
but in great trepidation. Barely had it lain in her own for a mo-
ment, when she clumsily gave it back to its owner. Then Angela
looked at her hand.
Stephen thought: 'Have I done something rude or awk-
ward? And her heart thumped thickly against her side. She
wanted to retrieve the lost hand and stroke it, but unfortunately
it was now stroking Tony. She sighed, and Angela, hearing that
sigh, glanced up, as though in inquiry.
The butler arrived bringing in the tea.
'Sugar?' asked Angela.
C
'No, thanks,' said Stephen; then she suddenly changed her
mind, three lumps, please,' she had always detested tea without
sugar.
The tea was too hot; it burnt her mouth badly. She grew
scarlet and her eyes began to water. To cover her confusion she
swallowed more tea, while Angela looked tactfully out of the
window. But when she considered it safe to turn round, her ex-
pression, although still faintly amused, had something about it
that was tender.
And now she exerted all her subtlety and skill to make this
queer guest of hers talk more freely, and Angela's subtlety was no
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
155
mean thing, neither was her skill if she chose to exert it. Very
gradually the girl became more at her ease; it was up-hill work
but Angela triumphed, so that in the end Stephen talked about
Morton, and a very little about herself also. And somehow, al-
though Stephen appeared to be talking, she found that she was
learning many things about her hostess; for instance, she learnt
that Angela was lonely and very badly in need of her friendship.
Most of Angela's troubles seemed to centre round Ralph, who
was not always kind and seldom agreeable. Remembering Ralph
she could well believe this, and she said:
'I don't think your husband liked me.'
Angela sighed: 'Very probably not. Ralph never likes the
people I do; he objects to my friends on principle I think.'
Then Angela talked more openly of Ralph. Just now he was
staying away with his mother, but next week he would be return-
ing to The Grange, and then he was certain to be disagreeable:
'Whenever he's been with his mother he's that way - she puts
him against me, I never know why - unless, of course, it's be-
cause I'm not English. I'm the stranger within the gates, it may
be that.' And when Stephen protested, 'Oh, yes indeed, I'm quite
often made to feel like a stranger. Take the people round here, do
you think they like me?
Then Stephen, who had not yet learnt to dissemble, stared
hard at her shoes, in embarrassed silence.
Just outside the door a clock boomed seven. Stephen started;
she had been there nearly three hours. 'I must go,' she said, get-
ting abruptly to her feet, 'you look tired, I've been making a
visitation.'
Her hostess made no effort to retain her: 'Well,' she smiled,
come again, please come very often - that is if you won't find it
dull, Miss Gordon; we're terribly quiet here at The Grange.'
3
STEPHEN drove home slowly, for now that it was over she felt like
a machine that had suddenly run down. Her nerves were relaxed,
she was thoroughly tired, yet she rather enjoyed this unusual
I
156
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
sensation. The hot June evening was heavy with thunder. From
somewhere in the distance came the bleating of sheep, and the
melancholy sound seemed to blend and mingle with her mood,
which was now very gently depressed. A gentle but persistent
sense of depression enveloped her whole being like a soft, grey
cloak; and she did not wish to shake off this cloak, but rather to
fold it more closely around her.
At Morton she stopped the car by the lakes and sat staring
through the trees at the glint of water. For a long while she sat
there without knowing why, unless it was that she wished to re-
member. But she found that she could not even be certain of the
kind of dress that Angela had worn-it had been of some soft
stuff, that much she remembered, so soft that it had easily torn,
for the rest her memories of it were vague - though she very much
wanted to remember that dress.
A faint rumble of thunder came out of the west, where the
clouds were banking up ominously purple. Some uncertain and
rather hysterical swallows flew high and then low at the sound
of the thunder. Her sense of depression was now much less gentle,
it increased every moment, turning to sadness. She was sad in
spirit and mind and body - her body felt dejected, she was sad
all over. And now some one was whistling down by the stables,
old Williams, she suspected, for the whistle was tuneless. The
loss of his teeth had disgruntled his whistle; yes, she was sure that
that must be Williams. A horse whinnied as one bucket clanked
against another - sounds came clearly this evening; they were
watering the horses. Anna's young carriage horses would be paw-
ing their straw, impatient because they were feeling thirsty.
Then a gate slammed. That would be the gate of the meadow
where the heifers were pastured - it was yellow with king-cups.
One of the men from the home farm was going his rounds, secur-
ing all gates before sunset. Something dropped on the bonnet of
the car with a ping. Looking up she met the eyes of a squirrel;
he was leaning well forward on his tiny front paws, peering
crossly; he had dropped his nut on the bonnet. She got out of the
car and retrieved his supper, throwing it under his tree while he
J
1
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
157
waited. Like a flash he was down and then back on his tree, de-
vouring the nut with his legs well straddled.
All around were the homely activities of evening, the water-
ing of horses, the care of cattle - pleasant, peaceable things that
preceded the peace and repose of the coming nightfall. And sud-
denly Stephen longed to share them, an immense need to share
them leapt up within her, so that she ached with this urgent long-
ing that was somehow a part of her bodily dejection.
She drove on and left the car at the stables, then walked round
to the house, and when she got there she opened the door of the
study and went in, feeling terribly lonely without her father. Sit-
ting down in the old arm-chair that had survived him, she let
her head rest where his head had rested; and her hands she laid
on the arms of the chair where his hands, as she knew, had lain
times without number. Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize his
face, his kind face that had sometimes looked anxious; but the
picture came slowly and faded at once, for the dead must often
give place to the living. It was Angela Crossby's face that persisted
as Stephen sat in her father's old chair.
4
IN THE small panelled room that gave on to the herb-garden,
Angela yawned as she stared through the window; then she sud-
denly laughed out loud at her thoughts; then she suddenly
frowned and spoke crossly to Tony.
She could not get Stephen out of her mind, and this irritated
while it amused her. Stephen was so large to be tongue-tied and
frightened – a curious creature, not devoid of attraction. In a way
- her own way - she was almost handsome; no, quite handsome;
she had fine eyes and beautiful hair. And her body was supple
like that of an athlete, narrow-hipped and wide shouldered, she
shold fence very well. Angela was anxious to see her fence; she
muertainly try to arrange it somehow.
Mrs Antrim had conveyed a number of things, while actually
saying extremely little; but Angela had no need of her hints, not
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now that she had come to know Stephen Gordon. And because
she was idle, discontented and bored, and certainly not over-
burdened with virtue, she must let her thoughts dwell unduly
on this girl, while her curiosity kept pace with her thoughts.
Tony stretched and whimpered, so Angela kissed him, then
she sat down and wrote quite a short little letter: 'Do come over
to lunch the day after to-morrow and advise me about the garden,'
ran the letter. And it ended – after one or two casual remarks
about gardens - with: ' Tony says please come, Stephen!'
CHAPTER 18
I
O
NA beautiful evening three weeks later, Stephen took
Angela over Morton. They had had tea with Anna and
Puddle, and Anna had been coldly polite to this friend of her
daughter's, but Puddle's manner had been rather resentful - she
deeply mistrusted Angela Crossby. But now Stephen was free to
show Angela Morton, and this she did gravely, as though some-
thing sacred were involved in this first introduction to her home,
as though Morton itself must feel that the coming of this small,
fair-haired woman was in some way momentous. Very gravely,
then, they went over the house- even into Sir Philip's old study.
From the house they made their way to the stables, and still
grave, Stephen told her friend about Raftery. Angela listened,
assuming an interest she was very far from feeling - she was
timid of horses, but she liked to hear the girl's rather gruff voice,
such an earnest young voice, it intrigued her. She was thoroughly
frightened when Raftery sniffed her and then blew through his
nostrils as though disapproving, and she started back with a sharp
exclamation, so that Stephen slapped him on his glossy grey
shoulder: Stop it, Raftery, come up!' And Raftery, disgusted,
went and blew on his oats to express his hurt feelings.
They left him and wandered away through the gardens, and
quite soon poor Raftery was almost forgotten, for the gardens
smelt softly of night-scented stock and of other pale flowers that
smell sweetest at evening, and Stephen was thinking that Angela
Crossby resembled such flowers - very fragrant and pale she was,
so Stephen said to her gently:
You seem to belong to Morton.'
angela smiled a slow, questioning smile: 'You think so,
Stephen?'
And Stephen answered: 'I do, because Morton and I are
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one,' and she scarcely understood the portent of her words, but
Angela, understanding, spoke quickly:
'Oh, I belong nowhere - you forget I'm the stranger.'
'I know that you're you,' said Stephen.
They walked on in silence while the light changed and deep-
ened, growing always more golden and yet more elusive. And
the birds, who loved that strange light, sang singly and then all
together: 'We're happy, Stephen!
And turning to Angela, Stephen answered the birds: 'Your
being here makes me so happy.'
"If that's true, then why are you so shy of my name?'
Angela - ' mumbled Stephen.
M
Then Angela said: 'It's just over three weeks since we met -
how quickly our friendship's happened. I suppose it was meant,
I believe in Kismet. You were awfully scared that first day at The
Grange; why were you so scared?'
Stephen answered slowly: 'I'm frightened now - I'm fright-
ened of you.'
A
'Yet you're stronger than I am - '
'Yes, that's why I'm so frightened, you make me feel strong
do
you want to do that?'
'Well - perhaps you're so very unusual, Stephen.'
'Am I ?
'Of course, don't you know that you are? Why, you're al-
together different from other people.'
<
Stephen trembled a little: Do you mind?' she faltered.
'I know that you're you,' teased Angela, smiling again, but
she reached out and took Stephen's hand.
Something in the queer, vital strength of that hand stirred her
deeply, so that she tightened her fingers: What in the Lord's
name are you?' she murmured.
'I don't know. Go on holding like that to my hand – hold it
tighter - I like the feel of your fingers.'
Stephen, don't be absurd!'
'Go on holding my hand, I like the feel of your fingers.'
'Stephen, you're hurting, you're crushing my rings!'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
161
And now they were under the trees by the lakes, their feet
falling softly on the luminous carpet. Hand in hand they entered
that place of deep stillness, and only their breathing disturbed the
stillness for a moment, then it folded back over their breathing.
'Look,' said Stephen, and she pointed to the swan called
Peter, who had come drifting past on his own white reflection.
'Look,' she said, this is Morton, all beauty and peace – it drifts
like that swan does, on calm, deep water. And all this beauty and
peace is for you, because now you're a part of Morton.'
Angela said: 'I've never known peace, it's not in
don't think I'd find it here, Stephen.' And as she spoke
leased her hand, moving a little away from the girl.
But Stephen continued to talk on gently; her voice sounded
almost like that of a dreamer: 'Lovely, oh, lovely it is, our Mor-
ton. On evenings in winter these lakes are quite frozen, and the
ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come and
stand here in the winter. And as we walk back we can smell the
log fires long before we can see them, and we love that good smell
because it means home, and our home is Morton - and we're
happy, happy - we're utterly contented and at peace, we're filled
with the peace of this place -
"Stephen - don't!'
e-I
he re-
'We're both filled with the old peace of Morton, because
we love each other so deeply - and because we're perfect, a per-
\fect thing, you and I - not two separate people but one. And our
love has lit a great, comforting beacon, so that we need never be
afraid of the dark any more - we can warm ourselves at our love,
we can lie down together, and my arms will be round you
Spodn
>
She broke off abruptly, and they stared at each other.
Do you know what you're saying?' Angela whispered.
And Stephen answered: 'I know that I love you, and that
nothing else matters in the world.'
Ma
Then, perhaps because of that glamorous evening, with its
spirit of queer, unearthly adventure, with its urge to strange,
unendurable sweetness, Angela moved a step nearer to Stephen,
then another, until their hands were touching. And all that she
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
was, and all that she had been and would be again, perhaps even
to-morrow, was fused at that moment into one mighty impulse,
one imperative need, and that need was Stephen. Stephen's need
was now hers, by sheer force of its blind and uncomprehending
will to appeasement.
Then Stephen took Angela into her arms, and she kissed her
full on the lips, as a lover.
CHAPTER 19
I
T
HROUGH the long years of life that followed after, bringing
with them their dreams and disillusions, their joys and sor-
rows, their fulfilments and frustrations, Stephen was never to
forget this summer when she fell quite simply and naturally in
love, in accordance with the dictates of her nature.
To her there seemed nothing strange or unholy in the love
that she felt for Angela Crossby. To her it seemed an inevitable
thing, as much a part of herself as her breathing; and yet it ap-
peared transcendent of self, and she looked up and onward
towards her love - for the eyes of the young are drawn to the
stars, and the spirit of youth is seldom earth-bound.
She loved deeply, far more deeply than many a one who could
fearlessly proclaim himself a lover. Since this is a hard and sad
truth for the telling; those whom nature has sacrificed to her ends
- her mysterious ends that often lie hidden - are sometimes en-
dowed with a vast will to loving, with an endless capacity for
suffering also, which must go hand in hand with their love.
But at first Stephen's eyes were drawn to the stars, and she
saw only gleam upon gleam of glory. Her physical passion for
Angela Crossby had aroused a strange response in her spirit, so
that side by side with every hot impulse that led her at times be-
yond her own understanding, there would come an impulse not
of the body; a fine, selfless thing of great beauty and courage
she would gladly have given her body over to torment, have laid
down her life if need be, for the sake of this woman whom she
loved. And so blinded was she by those gleams of glory which
the stars fling into the eyes of young lovers, that she saw perfec-
tion where none existed; saw a patient endurance that was purely
fictitious, and conceived of a loyalty far beyond the limits of
Angela's nature.
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All that Angela gave seemed the gift of love; all that Angela
withheld seemed withheld out of honour: 'If only I were free,'
she was always saying, 'but I can't deceive Ralph, you know I
can't, Stephen - he's ill.' Then Stephen would feel abashed and
ashamed before so much pity and honour.
She would humble herself to the very dust, as one who was
altogether unworthy: ' I'm a beast, forgive me; I'm all, all wrong
- I'm mad sometimes these days - yes, of course, there's Ralph.'
But the thought of Ralph would be past all bearing, so that
she must reach out for Angela's hand. Then, as likely as not, they
would draw together and start kissing, and Stephen would be
utterly undone by those painful and terribly sterile kisses.
"God!' she would mutter, 'I want to get away!'
At which Angela might weep: 'Don't leave me, Stephen!
I'm so lonely - why can't you understand that I'm only trying to
be decent to Ralph?' So Stephen would stay on for an hour, for
two hours, and the next day would find her once more at The
Grange, because Angela was feeling so lonely.
For Angela could never quite let the girl go. She herself
would be rather bewildered at moments - she did not love.
Stephen, she was quite sure of that, and yet the very strangeness
of it all was an attraction. Stephen was becoming a kind of strong
drug, a kind of anodyne against boredom. And then Angela
knew her own power to subdue; she could play with fire yet re-
main unscathed by it. She had only to cry long and bitterly
enough for Stephen to grow pitiful and consequently gentle.
'Stephen, don't hurt me - I'm awfully frightened when
you're like this - you simply terrify me, Stephen! Is it my fault
that I married Ralph before I met you? Be good to me, Stephen!"
And then would come tears, so that Stephen must hold her as
though she were a child, very tenderly, rocking her backwards
and forwards.
They took to driving as far as the hills, taking Tony with
them; he liked hunting the rabbits - and while he leapt wildly
about in the air to land on nothing more vital than herbage, they
would sit very close to each other and watch him. Stephen knew
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
165
many places where lovers might sit like this, unashamed, among
those charitable hills. There were times when a numbness de-
scended upon her as they sat there, and if Angela kissed her cheek
lightly, she would not respond, would not even look round, but
would just go on staring at Tony. Yet at other times she felt
queerly uplifted, and turning to the woman who leant against her
shoulder, she said suddenly one day:
Nothing matters up here. You and I are so small, we're
smaller than Tony - our love's nothing but a drop in some
vast sea of love - it's rather consoling - don't you think so,
beloved?'
But Angela shook her head: 'No, my Stephen; I'm not fond
of vast seas, I'm of the earth earthy,' and then: Kiss me, Stephen.'
So Stephen must kiss her many times, for the hot blood of youth
stirs quickly, and the mystical sea became Angela's lips that so
eagerly gave and took kisses.
But when they got back to The Grange that evening, Ralph
was there he was hanging about in the hall. He said: 'Had a
nice afternoon, you two women? Been motoring Angela round
the hills, Stephen, or what?'
<td>
He had taken to calling her Stephen, but his voice just now
sounded sharp with suspicion as his rather weak eyes peered at
Angela, so that for her sake Stephen must lie, and lie well - nor
would this be for the first time either.
'Yes, thanks,' she lied calmly, we went over to Tewkesbury
and had another look at the abbey. We had tea in the town. I'm
sorry we're so late, the carburettor choked, I couldn't get it right
at first, my car needs a good overhauling.'
Lies, always lies! She was growing proficient at the glib kind
of lying that pacified Ralph, or at all events left him with nothing
to say, nonplussed and at a distinct disadvantage. She was sud-
denly seized with a kind of horror, she felt physically sick at what
she was doing. Her head swam and she caught the jamb of the
door for support - at that moment she remembered her father.
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2
Two days later as they sat alone in the garden at Morton, Stephen
turned to Angela abruptly: 'I can't go on like this, it's vile some-
how it's beastly, it's soiling us both - can't
you see that?
Angela was startled. 'What on earth do you mean?
"You and me - and then Ralph. I tell
and then Ralph. I tell you it's beastly -- I want
you to leave him and come away with me.'
-
Are you mad?'
'No, I'm sane. It's the only decent thing, it's the only clean
thing; we'll go anywhere you like, to Paris, to Egypt, or back to
the States. For your sake I'm ready to give up my home. Do you
hear? I'm ready to give up even Morton. But I can't go on lying
about you to Ralph, I want him to know how much I adore you
I want the whole world to know how I adore you. Ralph
doesn't understand the first rudiments of loving, he's a nagging,
mean-minded cur of a man, but there's one thing that even he
has a right to, and that's the truth. I'm done with these lies - I
shall tell him the truth and so will you, Angela; and after we've
told him we'll go away, and we'll live quite openly together, you
and I, which is what we owe to ourselves and our love.'
C
Angela stared at her, white and aghast: You are mad,' she
said slowly, 'you're raving mad. Tell him what? Have I let you
become my lover? You know that I've always been faithful to
Ralph; you know perfectly well that there's nothing to tell him,
beyond a few rather schoolgirlish kisses. Can I help it if you're -
what you obviously are? Oh, no, my dear, you're not going to tell
Ralph. You're not going to let all hell loose around me just be-
cause you want to save your own pride by pretending to Ralph
that you've been my lover. If you're willing to give up your home
I'm not willing to sacrifice mine, understand that, please. Ralph's
not much of a man but he's better than nothing, and I've man-
aged him so far without any trouble. The great thing with him is
to blaze a false trail, that distracts his mind, it works like a charm.
He'll follow any trail that I want him to follow - you leave him
to me, I know my own husband a darned sight better than you
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
167
do, Stephen, and I won't have you interfering in my home.' She
was terribly frightened, too frightened to choose her words, to
consider their effect upon Stephen, to consider anyone but Angela
Crossby who stood in such dire and imminent peril. So she said
yet again, only now she spoke loudly: 'I won't have you interfer-
ing in my
home!'
Then Stephen turned on her, white with passion: 'You -
you - ' she stuttered, 'you're unspeakably cruel. You know how
you make me suffer and suffer because I love you the way I do;
and because you like the way I love you, you drag the love out of
me day after day - Can't you understand that I love you so much
that I'd give up Morton? Anything I'd give up - I'd give up the
whole world. Angela, listen; I'd take care of you always. Angela,
I'm rich - I'd take care of you always. Why won't you trust me?
Answer me - why? Don't you think me fit to be trusted?'
She spoke wildly, scarcely knowing what she said; she only
knew that she needed this woman with a need so intense, that
worthy or unworthy, Angela was all that counted at that moment.
And now she stood up, very tall, very strong, yet a little grotesque
in her pitiful passion, so that looking at her Angela trembled -
there was something rather terrible about her. All that was heavy
in her face sprang into view, the strong line of the jaw, the
square,
massive brow, the eyebrows too thick and too wide for beauty;
she was like some curious, primitive thing conceived in a turbulent
age of transition.
Angela, come very far away - anywhere, only come with
me soon-to-morrow.'
Then Angela forced herself to think quickly, and she said just
five words: Could you marry me, Stephen?
She did not look at the girl as she said it - that she could not
do, perhaps out of something that, for her, was the nearest she
would ever come to pity. There ensued a long, almost breathless
silence, while Angela waited with her eyes turned away. A leaf
dropped, and she heard its minute, soft falling, heard the creak
of the branch that had let fall its leaf as a breeze passed over the
garden.
i
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Then the silence was broken by a quiet, dull voice, that
sounded to her like the voice of a stranger: 'No' it said very
slowly, 'no-I couldn't marry you, Angela.' And when Angela
at last gained the courage to look up, she found that she was
sitting there alone.
CHAPTER 20
I
F
<
or three weeks they kept away from each other, neither writ-
ing nor making any effort to meet. Angela's prudence for-
bade her to write: Litera scripta manet - a good motto, and one
to which it was wise to adhere when dealing with a firebrand like
Stephen. Stephen had given her a pretty bad scare, she realized
the necessity for caution; still, thinking over that incredible scene,
she found the memory rather exciting. Deprived of her anodyne
against boredom, she looked upon Ralph with unfriendly eyes;
while he, poor, inadequate, irritable devil, with his vague sus-
picions and his chronic dyspepsia, did little enough to divert his
wife - his days, and a fairly large part of his nights as well, were
now spent in nagging.
He nagged about Tony who, as ill luck would have it, had
decided that the garden was rampant with moles: 'If you can't
keep that bloody dog in order, he goes. I won't have him digging
craters round my roses!' Then would come a long list of Tony's
misdeeds from the time he had left the litter. He nagged about
the large population of green-fly, deploring the existence of their
sexual organs: Nature's a fool! Fancy procreation being ex-
tended to that sort of vermin!' And then he would grow some-
what coarse as he dwelt on the frequent conjugal excesses of
green-fly. But most of all he nagged about Stephen, because this
as he knew, irritated his wife: 'How's your freak getting on? I
haven't seen her just lately; have you quarrelled or what? Damned
good thing if you have. She's appalling; never saw such a girl in
my life; comes swaggering round here with her legs in breeches.
Why can't she ride like an ordinary woman? Good Lord, it's
enough to make any man see red; that sort of thing wants putting
down at birth, I'd like to institute state lethal chambers!
Or perhaps he would take quite another tack and complain
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
J
that recently he had been neglected: ' Late for every damned meal
- running round with that girl - you don't care what happens to
me any more. A lot you care about my indigestion! I've got to eat
any old thing these days from cow-hide to bricks. Well, you
listen to me, that's not what I pay for; get that into your head!
I pay for good meals to be served on time; on time, do you hear?
And I expect my wife to be in her rightful place at my table to
see that the omelette's properly prepared. What's the matter with
you that you can't go along and make it yourself? When we were
first married you always made my omelettes yourself. I won't eat
yellow froth with a few strings of parsley in it - it reminds me of
the dog when he's sick, it's disgusting! And I won't go on talking
about it either, the next time it happens I'll sack the cook. Damn
it all, you were glad enough of my help when I found you prac-
tically starving in New York - but now you're for ever racing off
with that girl. It's all this damned animal's fault that you met
her!' He would kick out sideways at the terrified Tony, who had
lately been made to stand proxy for Stephen.
But worst of all was it when Ralph started weeping, because,
as he said, his wife did not love him any more, and because, as he
did not always say, he felt ill with his painful, chronic dyspepsia.
One day he must make feeble love through his tears: Angela,
come here - put your arms around me come and sit on my
the way you used to. His wet eyes looked dejected yet rather
greedy: Put your arms around me, as though you cared-' He
was always insistent when most ineffectual.
knee
C
Madag
That night he appeared in his best silk pyjamas - the pink
ones that made his complexion look sallow. He climbed into bed
with the sly expression that Angela hated - it was so porno-
graphic. Well, old girl, don't forget that you've got a man about
the house; you haven't forgotten it, have you?' After which
followed one or two flaccid embraces together with much arro-
gant masculine bragging; and Angela, sighing as she lay and en-
dured, quite suddenly thought of Stephen.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
2
17I
PACING restlessly up and down her bedroom, Stephen would be
thinking of Angela Crossby - haunted, tormented by Angela's
words that day in the garden: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?'
and then by those other pitiless words: Can I help it if you're
- what you obviously are?'
She would think with a kind of despair: ' What am I in God's
name -- some kind of abomination?' And this thought would fill
her with very great anguish, because, loving much, her love
seemed to her sacred. She could not endure that the slur of those
words should come anywhere near her love. So now night after
night she must pace up and down, beating her mind against a
blind problem, beating her spirit against a blank wall - the im-
pregnable wall of non-comprehension: Why am I as I am -
and what am I?' Her mind would recoil while her spirit
grew faint. A great darkness would seem to descend on her
spirit there would be no light wherewith to lighten that
darkness.
'
She would think of Martin, for now surely she loved just as
he had loved - it all seemed like madness. She would think of
her father, of his comfortable words: 'Don't be foolish, there's
nothing strange about you.' Oh, but he must have been pitifully
mistaken – he had died still very pitifully mistaken. She would
think yet again of her curious childhood, going over each detail
in an effort to remember. But after a little her thoughts must
plunge forward once more, right into her grievous present. With
a shock she would realize how completely this coming of love had
blinded her vision; she had stared at the glory of it so long that
not until now had she seen its black shadow. Then would come
the most poignant suffering of all, the deepest, the final humilia-
tion. Protection – she could never offer protection to the creature
she loved: 'Could you marry me, Stephen?' She could neither
protect nor defend nor honour by loving; her hands were com-
pletely empty. She who would gladly have given her life, must go
empty-handed to love, like a beggar. She could only debase what
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
she longed to exalt, defile what she longed to keep pure and
untarnished.
The night would gradually change to dawn; and the dawn
would shine in at the open windows, bringing with it the in-
tolerable singing of birds: ' Stephen, look at us, look at us, we're
happy!' Away in the distance there would be a harsh crying, the
wild, harsh crying of swans by the lakes - the swan called Peter
protecting, defending his mate against some unwelcome intruder.
From the chimneys of Williams' comfortable cottage smoke
would rise – very dark - the first smoke of the morning. Home,
that meant home and two people together, respected because of
their honourable living. Two people who had had the right to
love in their youth, and whom old age had not divided. Two
poor and yet infinitely enviable people, without stain, without
shame in the eyes of their fellows. Proud people who could face
the world unafraid, having no need to fear that world's execration.
Stephen would fling herself down on the bed, completely ex-
hausted by the night's bitter vigil.
3
THERE was some one who went every step of the way with
Stephen during those miserable weeks, and this was the faithful
and anxious Puddle, who could have given much wise advice had
Stephen only confided in her. But Stephen hid her trouble in her
heart for the sake of Angela Crossby.
With an ever-increasing presage of disaster, Puddle now stuck
to the girl like a leech, getting little enough in return for her
trouble - Stephen deeply resented this close supervision: 'Can't
you leave me alone? No, of course I'm not ill!' she would say,
with a quick spurt of temper.
But Puddle, divining her illness of spirit together with its
cause, seldom left her alone. She was frightened by something in
Stephen's eyes; an incredulous, questioning, wounded expression,
as though she were trying to understand why it was that she must
be so grievously wounded. Again and again Puddle cursed her
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
173
own folly for having shown such open resentment of Angela
Crossby; the result was that now Stephen never discussed her,
never mentioned her name unless Puddle clumsily dragged it in,
and then Stephen would change the subject. And now more than
ever Puddle loathed and despised the conspiracy of silence that
forbade her to speak frankly. The conspiracy of silence that had
sent the girl forth unprotected, right into the arms of this woman.
A vain, shallow woman in search of excitement, and caring less.
than nothing for Stephen.
There were times when Puddle felt almost desperate, and one
evening she came to a great resolution. She would go to the girl
and say: 'I know. I know all about it, you can trust me, Stephen.'
And then she would counsel and try to give courage: You're
neither unnatural, nor abominable, nor mad; you're as much a
part of what people call nature as anyone else; only you're un-
explained as yet - you've not got your niche in creation. But
some day that will come, and meanwhile don't shrink from your-
self, but just face yourself calmly and bravely. Have courage; do
the best you can with your burden. But above all be honourable.
Cling to your honour for the sake of those others who share the
same burden. For their sakes show the world that people like you
and they can be quite as selfless and fine as the rest of mankind.
Let your life go to prove this - it would be a really great life-work,
Stephen.'
But the resolution waned because of Anna, who would surely
join hands with the conspiracy of silence. She would never con-
done such fearless plain-speaking. If it came to her knowledge she
would turn Puddle out bag and baggage, and that would leave
Stephen alone. No, she dared not speak plainly because of the
girl for whose sake she should now, above all, be outspoken. But
supposing the day should arrive when Stephen herself thought fit
to confide in her friend, then Puddle would take the bull by the
horns: Stephen, I know. You can trust me, Stephen.' If only
that day were not too long in coming
For none knew better than this little
grey woman, the agony
of mind that must be endured when a sensitive, highly organized
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
nature 1: first brought face to face with its own affliction. None
knew better the terrible nerves of the invert, nerves that are al-
ways lying in wait. Super-nerves, whose response is only equalled
by the strain that calls that response into being. Puddle was well
acquainted with these things - that was why she was deeply con-
cerned about Stephen.
But all she could do, at least for the present, was to be
very gentle and very patient: 'Drink this cocoa, Stephen, I
made it myself -' And then with a smile, I put four lumps
of sugar!
Then Stephen was pretty sure to turn contrite: 'Puddle –
I'm a brute - you're so good to me always.'
'Rubbish! I know you like cocoa made sweet, that's why I put
in those four lumps of sugar. Let's go for a really long walk,
shall we, dear? I've been wanting a really long walk now for
weeks.'
Liar - most kind and self-sacrificing liar! Puddle hated long
walks, especially with Stephen who strode as though wearing
seven league boots, and whose only idea of a country walk was
to take her own line across ditches and hedges - yes, indeed, a
most kind and self-sacrificing liar! For Puddle was not quite so
young as she had been; at times her feet would trouble her a little,
and at times she would get a sharp twinge in her knee, which
she shrewdly suspected to be rheumatism. Nevertheless she must
keep close to Stephen because of the fear that tightened her heart
- the fear of that questioning, wounded expression which now
never left the girl's eyes for a moment. So Puddle got out her
most practical shoes - her heaviest shoes which were said to be
damp-proof – and limped along bravely by the side of her charge,
who as often as not ignored her existence.
There was one thing in all this that Puddle found amazing,
and that was Anna's apparent blindness. Anna appeared to notice
no change in Stephen, to feel no anxiety about her. As always,
these two were gravely polite to each other, and as always they
never intruded. Still, it did seem to Puddle an incredible thing
that the girl's own mother should have noticed nothing. And yet
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
175
so it was, for Anna had gradually been growing more silent and
more abstracted. She was letting the tide of life carry her gently
towards that haven on which her thoughts rested. And this blind-
ness of hers troubled Puddle sorely, so that anger must often give
way to pity.
She would think: 'God help her, the sorrowful woman; she
knows nothing - why didn't he tell her? It was cruel!' And then
she would think: Yes, but God help Stephen if the day ever
comes when her mother does know - what will happen on that
day to Stephen?
Kind and loyal Puddle; she felt torn to shreds between those
two, both so worthy of pity. And now in addition she must be
tormented by memories dug out of their graves by Stephen
Stephen, whose pain had called up a dead sorrow that for long
had lain quietly and decently buried. Her youth would come
back and stare into her eyes reproachfully, so that her finest vir-
tues would seem little better than dust and ashes. She would sigh,
remembering the bitter sweetness, the valiant hopelessness of her
youth - and then she would look at Stephen.
But one morning Stephen announced abruptly: 'I'm going
out. Don't wait lunch for me, will you.' And her voice permitted
of no argument or question.
Puddle nodded in silence. She had no need to question, she
knew only too well where Stephen was going.
4
WITH head bowed by her mortification of spirit, Stephen rode
once more to The Grange. And from time to time as she rode she
flushed deeply because of the shame of what she was doing. But
from time to time her eyes filled with tears because of the pain of
her longing.
She left the cob with a man at the stables, then made her way
round to the old herb-garden; and there she found Angela sitting
alone in the shade with a book which she was not reading.
Stephen said: 'I've come back.' And then without waiting:
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'I'll do anything you want, if you'll let me come back.' And
even as she spoke those words her eyes fell.
But Angela answered: ' You had to come back - because I've
been wanting you, Stephen.'
Then Stephen went and knelt down beside her, and she hid
her face against Angela's knee, and the tears that had never so
much as once fallen during all the hard weeks of their separation,
gushed out of her eyes. She cried like a child, with her face against
Angela's knee.
Angela let her cry on for a while, then she lifted the tear-
stained face and kissed it: 'Oh, Stephen, Stephen, get used to the
world - it's a horrible place full of horrible people, but it's all
there is, and we live in it, don't we? So we've just got to do as the
world does, my Stephen.' And because it seemed strange and
rather pathetic that this creature should weep, Angela was stirred
to something very like love for a moment: 'Don't cry any more
- don't cry, honey,' she whispered,' we're together; nothing else
really matters.'
And so it began all over again.
5
STEPHEN stayed on to lunch, for Ralph was in Worcester. He
came home a good two hours before teatime to find them to-
gether among his roses; they had followed the shade when it left
the herb-garden.
'Oh, it's you!' he exclaimed as his eye lit on Stephen; and
his voice was so naïvely disappointed, so full of dismay at her
reappearance, that just for a second she felt sorry for him.
"Yes, it's me' she replied, not quite knowing what to say.
He grunted, and went off for his pruning knife, with which
he was soon amputating roses. But in spite of his mood he re-
mained a good surgeon, cutting dexterously, always above the
leaf-bud, for the man was fond of his roses. And knowing this
Stephen must play on that fondness, since now it was her business.
to cajole him into friendship. A degrading business, but it had to
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
177
be done for Angela's sake, lest she suffer through loving. Un-
thinkable that - Could you marry me, Stephen?'
'Ralph, look here;' she called, 'Mrs. John Laing's got
broken! We may be in time if we bind her with bass.'
'Oh, dear, has she?' He came hurrying up as he spoke, ' Do
go down to the shed and get me some, will you?'
She got him the bass and together they bound her, the pink-
cheeked, full-bosomed Mrs. John Laing.
'There,' he said, as he snipped off the ends of her bandage,
'that ought to set your leg for you, madam!'
Near by grew a handsome Frau Karl Druschki, and Stephen
praised her luminous whiteness, remarking his obvious pleasure
at the praise. He was like a father of beautiful children, always
eager to hear them admired by a stranger, and she made a note of
this in her mind: ' He likes one to praise his roses.'
He wanted to talk about Frau Karl Druschki: She's a beauty!
There's something so wonderfully cool - as you say, it's the white-
ness 'Then before he could stop himself: 'She reminds me of
Angela, somehow.' The moment the words were out he was
frowning, and Stephen stared hard at Frau Karl Druschki.
But as they passed from border to border, his brow cleared:
'I've spent over three hundred,' he said proudly, ' never saw such
a mess as this garden was in when I bought the place - had to
dig in fresh soil for the roses just here, these are all new plants;
I motored half across England to get them. See that hedge of York
and Lancasters there? They didn't cost much because they're out
of fashion. But I like them, they're small but rather distinguished
I think there's something so armorial about them.'
―
―
She agreed: Yes, I'm awfully fond of them too;' and she
listened quite gravely while he explained that they dated as far
back as the Wars of the Roses.
"Historical, that's what I mean,' he explained. 'I like every-
thing old, you know, except women.'
She thought with an inward smile of his newness.
Presently he said in a tone of surprise: 'I never imagined that
you'd care about rose£
178
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
+
'Yes, why not? We've got quite a number at Morton. Why
don't you come over to-morrow and see them?
'Do your William Allen Richardsons do well?' he inquired.
'I think so."
'Mine don't. I can't make it out. This year, of course, they've
been damaged by green-fly. Just come here and look at these
standards, will you? They're being devoured alive by the brutes!'
And then as though he were talking to a friend who would un-
derstand him: ' Roses seem good to me - you know what I mean,
there's virtue about them - the scent and the feel and the way
they grow. I always had some on the desk in my office, they
seemed to brighten up the whole place, no end.'
He started to ink in the names on the labels with a gold
fountain pen which he took from his pocket. 'Yes,' he mur-
mured, as he bent his face over the labels, yes, I always had three
or four on my desk. But Birmingham's a foul sort of place for
roses.
-
And hearing him, Stephen found herself thinking that all
men had something simple about them; something that took
pleasure in the things that were blameless, that longed, as it were,
to contact with Nature. Martin had loved huge, primitive trees;
and even this mean little man loved his roses.
Angela came strolling across the lawn: ' Come, you two,' she
called gaily,' tea's waiting in the hall!'
Stephen flinched: 'Come, you two- ' the words jarred on
and she knew that Angela was thoroughly happy, for when Ralph
was out of earshot for a moment she whispered:
You were clever about his roses!'
At tea Ralph relapsed into sulky silence; he seemed to regret
his erstwhile good humour. And he ate quite a lot, which made
Angela nervous – she dreaded his attacks of indigestion, which
were usually accompanied by attacks of bad temper.
Long after they had all finished tea he lingered, until Angela
said: ‘Oh, Ralph, that lawn mower. Pratt asked me to tell you
that it won't work at all; he thinks it had better go back to the
makers. Will you write about it now before the post goes?'
❤
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
179
'I suppose so- ' he muttered; but he left the room slowly.
Then they looked at each other and drew close together,
guiltily, starting at every sound: ' Stephen - be careful for God's
sake - Ralph -
So Stephen's hands dropped from Angela's shoulders, and she
set her lips hard, for no protest must pass them any more; they
had no right to protest.
CHAPTER 21
I
TH
HAT autumn the Crossbys went up to Scotland, and Stephen
went to Cornwall with her mother. Anna was not well, she
needed a change, and the doctor had told them of Watergate Bay,
that was why they had gone to Cornwall. To Stephen it mattered
very little where she went, since she was not allowed to join An-
gela in Scotland. Angela had put her foot down quite firmly:
No, my dear, it wouldn't do. I know Ralph would make hell. I
can't let you follow us up to Scotland.' So that there, perforce,
the matter had ended.
And now Stephen could sit and gloom over her trouble while
Anna read placidly, asking no questions. She seldom worried her
daughter with questions, seldom even evinced any interest in her
letters.
From time to time Puddle would write from Morton, and
then Anna would say, recognizing the writing: 'Is everything all
right?'
And Stephen would answer: 'Yes, Mother, Puddle says
everything's all right.' As indeed it was - at Morton.
But from Scotland news seemed to come very slowly.
Stephen's letters would quite often go unanswered; and what
answers she received were unsatisfactory, for Angela's caution
was a very strict censor. Stephen herself must write with great
care, she discovered, in order to pacify that censor.
Twice daily she visited the hotel porter, a kind, red-faced man
with a sympathy for lovers.
Any letters for me?' she would ask, trying hard to appear
rather bored at the mere thought of letters.
'No, miss.'
'There's another post in at seven?'
'Yes, miss.'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
181
'Well - thank you.'
<
She would wander away, leaving the porter to think to him-
self: She don't look like a girl as would have a young man, but
you never can tell. Anyhow she seems anxious - I do hope it's all
right for the poor young lady.' He grew to take a real interest in
Stephen, and would sometimes talk to his wife about her: 'Have
you noticed her, Alice? A queer-looking girl, very tall, wears a
collar and tie -- you know, mannish. And she seems just to change
her suit of an evening - puts on a dark one - never wears eve-
ning dress. The mother's still a beautiful woman; but the girl – I
dunno, there's something about her - anyhow I'm surprised she's
got a young man; though she must have, the way she watches the
posts, I sometimes feel sorry for her.'
But her calls at his office were not always fruitless: Any
letters for me?"
'Yes, miss, there's just one.'
He would look at her with a paternal expression, glad enough
to think that her young man had written; and Stephen, divining
his thoughts from his face, would feel embarrassed and angry.
Snatching her letter she would hurry to the beach, where
the rocks provided a merciful shelter, and where no one seemed
likely to look paternal, unless it should be an occasional sea-
gull.
But as she read, her heart would feel empty; something sharp
like a physical pain would go through her: 'Dear Stephen. I'm
sorry I've not written before, but Ralph and I have been fearfully
busy. We're having a positive social orgy up here, I'm so glad he
took this large shoot. ... That was the sort of thing Angela
wrote these days - perhaps because of her caution.
>
However, one morning an unusually long letter arrived, tell-
ing all about Angela's doings: By the way, we've met the Antrim
boy, Roger. He's been staying with some people that Ralph knows
quite well, the Peacocks, they've got a wonderful old castle; I
think I must have told you about them.' Here followed an elabo-
rate description of the castle, together with the ancestral tree of the
Peacocks. Then: Roger has talked quite a lot about you; he says
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
he used to tease you when you were children. He says that you
wanted to fight him one day - that made me laugh awfully, it's
so like
you, Stephen! He's a good-looking person and rather a
nice one. He tells me that his regiment's stationed at Worcester,
so I've asked him to come over to The Grange when he likes. It
must be pretty dreary, I imagine, in Worcester.
Stephen finished the letter and sat staring at the sea for a
moment, after which she got up abruptly. Slipping the letter into
her pocket she buttoned her jacket; she was feeling cold. What
she needed was a walk, a really long walk. She set out briskly in
the direction of Newquay.
2
DURING those long, anxious weeks in Cornwall, it was borne in
on Stephen as never before how wide was the gulf between her
and her mother, how completely they two must always stand
divided. Yet looking at Anna's quiet ageing face, the girl would
be struck afresh by its beauty, a beauty that seemed to have mol-
lified the years, to have risen triumphant over time and grief.
And now as in the days of her childhood, that beauty would fill
her with a kind of wonder; so calm it was, so assured, so com-
plete - then her mother's deep eyes, blue like distant mountains,
and now with that far-away look in their blueness, as though they
were gazing into the distance. Stephen's heart would suddenly
tighten a little; a sense of great loss would descend upon her, to-
gether with the sense of not fully understanding just what she had
lost or why she had lost it - she would stare at Anna as a thirsty
traveller in the desert will stare at a mirage of water.
-
And one evening there came a preposterous impulse – the im-
pulse to confide in this woman within whose most gracious and
perfect body her own anxious body had lain and quickened. She
wanted to speak to that motherhood, to implore, nay, compel its
understanding. To say: ' Mother, I need you. I've lost my way –
give me your hand to hold in the darkness.' But good God, the
folly, the madness of it! The base betrayal of such a confession!
-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
183
Angela delivered over, betrayed – the unthinkable folly, the mad-
ness of it.
Yet sometimes as Anna and she sat together looking out at
the misty Cornish coast-line, hearing the dull, heavy throb of the
sea and the calling of sea-gulls the one to the other - as they sat
there together it would seem to Stephen that her heart was so full
of Angela Crossby, all the bitterness, all the sweetness of her, that
the mother-heart beating close by her own must surely, in its turn,
be stirred to beat faster, for had she not once sheltered under that
heart? And so extreme was her need becoming, that now she must
often find Anna's cool hand and hold it a moment or two in her
own, trying to draw from it some consolation.
But the touch of that cool, pure hand would distress her,
causing her spirit to ache with longing for the simple and up-
right and honourable things that had served many simple and
honourable people. Then all that to some might appear unin-
spiring, would seem to her very fulfilling and perfect. A pair of
lovers walking by arm in arm - just a quiet, engaged couple,
neither comely nor clever nor burdened with riches; just a quiet,
engaged couple - would in her envious eyes be invested with a
glory and pride passing all understanding. For were Angela and
she those fortunate lovers, they could stand before Anna happy
and triumphant. Anna, the mother, would smile and speak
gently, tolerant because of her own days of loving. Wherever they
went older folk would remember, and remembering would smile
on their love and speak gently. To know that the whole world
was glad of your gladness, must surely bring heaven very near
to the world.
One night Anna looked across at her daughter: 'Are you
tired, my dear? You seem a bit fagged.' (sic!
The question was unexpected, for Stephen was supposed not
to know what it meant to feel fagged, her physical health and
strength were proverbial. Was it possible then that her mother
had divined at long last her utter weariness of spirit? Quite sud-
denly Stephen felt shamelessly childish, and she spoke as a child
who wants comforting.
M
184
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'Yes, I'm dreadfully tired.' Her voice shook a little; ‘I'm
tired out - I'm dreadfully tired,' she repeated. With amazement
she heard herself making this weak bid for pity, and yet she
could not resist it. Had Anna held out her arms at that moment,
she might soon have learnt about Angela Crossby.
But instead she yawned: 'It's this air, it's too woolly I'll be
very glad when we get back to Morton. What's the time? I'm
almost asleep already - let's go up to our beds, don't you think
so, Stephen?
It was like a cold douche; and a good thing too for the girl's
self-respect. She pulled herself together: Yes, come on, it's past
ten. I detest this soft air.' And she flushed, remembering that
weak bid for pity.
3
STEPHEN left Cornwall without a regret; everything about it had
seemed to her depressing. Its rather grim beauty which at any
other time would have deeply appealed to her virile nature, had
but added to the gloom of those interminable weeks spent apart
from Angela Crossby. For her perturbation had been growing
apace, she was constantly oppressed by doubts and vague fears;
bewildered, uncertain of her own power to hold; uncertain, too,
of Angela's will to be held by this dangerous yet bloodless loving.
Her defrauded body had been troubling her sorely, so that she
had tramped over beach and headland, cursing the strength of
the youth that was in her, trying to trample down her hot youth
and only succeeding in augmenting its vigour.
But now that the ordeal had come to an end at last, she began
to feel less despondent. In a week's time Angela would get back
from Scotland; then at least the hunger of the eyes could be ap-
peased - a terrible thing that hunger of the eyes for the sight of
the well-loved being. And then Angela's birthday was drawing
near, which would surely provide an excuse for a present. She had
sternly forbidden the giving of presents, even humble keepsakes,
on account of Ralph – still, a birthday was different, and in any
case Stephen was quite determined to risk it. For the impulse to
{
1
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
185
give that is common to all lovers, was in her attaining enormous
proportions, so that she visualized Angela decked in diadems
worthy of Cleopatra; so that she sat and stared at her bank book
with eyes that
that grew angry when they lit on her balance. What was
the good of plenty of money if it could not be spent on the person
one loved? Well, this time it should be so spent, and spent largely;
no limit was going to be set to this present!
An unworthy and tiresome thing money, at best, but it can
at least ease the heart of the lover. When he lightens his purse he
lightens his heart, though this can hardly be accounted a virtue,
for such giving is perhaps the most insidious form of self-
indulgence that is known to mankind.
4
STEPHEN had said quite casually to Anna: ' Suppose we stay three
or four days in London on our way back to Morton? You could
do some shopping.' Anna had agreed, thinking of her house linen
which wanted renewing; but Stephen had been thinking of the
jewellers' shops in Bond Street.
And now here they actually were in London, established at a
quiet and expensive hotel; but the problem of Angela's birthday
present had, it seemed, only just begun for Stephen. She had not
the least idea what she wanted, or what Angela wanted, which
was far more important; and she did not know how to get rid
of her mother, who appeared to dislike going out unaccompanied.
For three days of the four Stephen fretted and fumed; never had
Anna seemed so dependent. At Morton they now led quite sepa-
rate lives, yet here in London they were always together. Scheme
as she might she could find no excuse for a solitary visit to Bond
Street. However, on the morning of the fourth and last day, Anna
succumbed to a devastating headache.
Stephen said: 'I think I'll go and get some air, if you really
don't need me - I'm feeling energetic!'
'Yes, do I don't want you to stay in,' groaned Anna, who
was longing for peace and an aspirin tablet.
Once out on the pavement Stephen hailed the first taxi she
186
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
met; she was quite absurdly elated. 'Drive to the Piccadilly end
of Bond Street,' she ordered, as she jumped in and slammed the
door. Then she put her head quickly out of the window: ' And
when
you get to the corner, please stop. I don't want you to drive
along Bond Street, I'll walk. I want you to stop at the Piccadilly
corner."
But when she was actually standing on the corner - the left-
hand corner - she began to feel doubtful as to which side of Bond
Street she ought to tackle first. Should she try the right side or
keep to the left? She decided to try the right side. Crossing over,
she started to walk along slowly. At every jeweller's shop she
stood still and gazed at the wares displayed in the window. Now
she was worried by quite a new problem, the problem of stones,
there were so many kinds. Emeralds or rubies or perhaps just
plain diamonds? Well, certainly neither emeralds nor rubies
Angela's colouring demanded whiteness. Whiteness - she had it!
Pearls - no, one pearl, one flawless pearl and set as a ring. Angela
had once described such a ring with envy, but alas, it had been
born in Paris.
People stared at the masculine-looking girl who seemed so in-
tent upon feminine adornments. And some one, a man, laughed
and nudged his companion: Look at that! What is it?'
My God! What indeed?
She heard them and suddenly felt less elated as she made her
way into the shop.
She said rather loudly: 'I want a pearl ring.'
A pearl ring? What kind, madam?'
She hesitated, unable now to describe what she did want: 'I
don't quite know - but it must be a large one.'
'For yourself?' And she thought that the man smiled a little.
Of course he did nothing of the kind; but she stammered:
'No - oh, no- it's not for myself, it's for a friend. She's asked me
to choose her a large pearl ring.' To her own ears the words
sounded foolish and flustered.
There was nothing in that shop that fulfilled her require-
ments, so once more she must face the guns of Bond Street. Now
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
187
she quickened her steps and found herself striding; modifying her
pace she found herself dawdling; and always she was conscious of
people who stared, or whom she imagined were staring. She felt
sure that the shop assistants looked doubtful when she asked for
a large and flawless pearl ring; and catching a glimpe of her
reflection in a glass, she decided that naturally they would
look doubtful - her appearance suggested neither pearls nor
their price. She slipped a surreptitious hand into her pocket,
gaining courage from the comforting feel of her cheque
book.
When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted,
she crossed over quickly and made her way back towards her
original corner. By now she was rather depressed and disgruntled.
Supposing that she should not find what she wanted in Bond
Street? She had no idea where else to look - her knowledge of
London was far from extensive. But apparently the gods were
feeling propitious, for a little further on she paused in front of a
small, and as she thought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact
it was anything but humble, hence the bars half-way up its un-
ostentatious window. Then she stared, for there on a white velvet
cushion lay a pearl that looked like a round gleaming marble, a
marble attached to a slender circlet of platinum – some sort of
celestial marble! It was just such a ring as Angela had seen in
Paris, and had since never ceased to envy.
The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old,
and wore glasses with tortoiseshell rims: 'Yes, madam, it's a
very fine specimen indeed. The setting's French, just a thin band
of platinum, there's nothing to detract from the beauty of the
pearl.'
He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen
let it rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against her
skin, which by contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten.
Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glanc-
ing curiously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite
unperturbed, so he said: "Will you try the effect of the ring on
your finger?'
188
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
At this, however, his customer flushed: 'It wouldn't go any
where near my finger!'
'I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.'
'Thanks, but it's not for me - it's for a friend.'
'Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves?
Is her hand large or small do you think?'
Stephen answered promptly: 'It's a very small hand,' then
immediately looked and felt rather self-conscious.
And now the old gentleman was openly staring: 'Excuse
me,' he murmured, ' an extraordinary likeness. .' Then more
boldly: 'Do you happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of
Morton Hall, who died - it must be about two years ago - from
some accident? I believe a tree fell - '
'Oh, yes, I'm his daughter,' said Stephen.
He nodded and smiled: 'Of course, of course, you couldn't
be anything but his daughter.'
"You knew my father?' she inquired, in surprise.
'Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In
those days Sir Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his
first pearl studs while he was at Oxford, and at least four
scarf pins - a bit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at Oxford.
But what may interest you is the fact that I made your
mother's engagement ring for him; a large half-hoop of very
fine diamonds --
'Did you make that ring?
'I did, Miss Gordon. I remember quite well his showing me
a miniature of Lady Anna - I remember his words. He said:
64
She's so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her
finger." You see, he'd known me ever since he was at Eton, that's
why he spoke of your mother to me - I felt deeply honoured. Ah,
yes - dear, dear - your father was young then and very much
in love. . .
She said suddenly: "Is this pearl as pure as those diamonds?
And he answered: 'It's without a blemish.'
Then she found her cheque book and he gave her his pen
with which to write out the very large cheque.
189
Wouldn't you like some reference?' she inquired, as she
glanced at the sum for which he must trust her.
But at this he laughed: 'Your face is your reference, if I may
be allowed to say so, Miss Gordon.'
<
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
They shook hands because he had known her father, and she
left the shop with the ring in her pocket. As she walked down the
street she was lost in thought, so that if people stared she no longer
noticed. In her ears kept sounding those words from the past,
those words of her father's when long, long ago he too had been
a young lover: 'She's so pure that only the purest stones are fit to
touch her finger.'
CHAPTER 22
I
W
HEN they got back to Morton there was Puddle in the hall,
with that warm smile of hers, always just a little mocking
yet pitiful too, that queer composite smile that made her face so
arresting. And the sight of this faithful little grey woman brought
home to Stephen the fact that she had missed her. She had missed
her, she found, out of all proportion to the size of the creature,
which seemed to have diminished. Coming back to it after those
weeks of absence, Puddle's smallness seemed to be even smaller,
and Stephen could not help laughing as she hugged her. Then
she suddenly lifted her right off her feet with as much ease as
though she had been a baby.
Morton smelt good with its log fires burning, and Morton
looked good with the goodness of home. Stephen sighed with
something very like contentment: 'Lord! I'm so glad to be back
again, Puddle. I must have been a cat in my last incarnation; I
hate strange places - especially Cornwall.'
Puddle smiled grimly. She thought that she knew why
Stephen had hated Cornwall.
After tea Stephen wandered about the house, touching first
this, then that, with affectionate fingers. But presently she
went off to the stables with sugar for Collins and carrots for
Raftery; and there in his spacious, hay-scented loose box, Raftery
was waiting for Stephen. He made a queer little sound in his
throat, and his soft Irish eyes said: 'You're home, home,
home. I've grown tired with waiting, and with wishing you.
home.'
And she answered: 'Yes, I've come back to you, Raftery.'
Then she threw her strong arm around his neck, and they
talked together for quite a long while - not in Irish or English
but in a quiet language having very few words but many small
'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
191
sounds and many small movements, that meant much more than
words.
'Since you went I've discovered a wonderful thing,' he told
her, ' I've discovered that for me you are God. It's like that some-
times with us humbler people, we may only know God through
His human image.'
C
'Raftery,' she murmured, oh, Raftery, my dear - I was so
young when you came to Morton. Do you remember that first
day out hunting when you jumped the huge hedge in our big
north paddock? What a jump! It ought to go down to history.
You were splendidly cool and collected about it. Thank the Lord
you were - I was only a kid, all the same it was very foolish of
us, Raftery.'
She gave him a carrot, which he took with contentment from
the hand of his God, and proceeded to munch. And she watched
him munch it, contented in her turn, hoping that the carrot was
succulent and sweet; hoping that his innocent cup of pleasure
might be full to the brim and overflowing. Like God indeed, she
tended his needs, mixing the evening meal in his manger, hold-
ing the water bucket to his lips while he sucked in the cool, clear,
health-giving water. A groom came along with fresh trusses of
straw which he opened and tossed among Raftery's bedding; then
he took off the smart blue and red day clothing, and buckled him
up in a warm night blanket. Beyond in the far loose box by the
window, Sir Philip's young chestnut kicked loudly for supper.
'Woa horse! Get up there! Stop kicking them boards!' And
the groom hurried off to attend to the chestnut.
Collins, who had spat out his two lumps of sugar, was now
busy indulging his morbid passion. His sides were swollen well-
nigh to bursting - blown out like an air balloon was old Collins.
from the evil and dyspeptic effects of the straw, plus his own woe-
ful lack of molars. He stared at Stephen with whitish-blue eyes
that saw nothing, and when she touched him he grunted – a dis-
courteous sound which meant: ' Leave me alone!' So after a mild
reproof she left him to his sins and his indigestion.
،
Last but not least, she strolled down to the home of the two-
A
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
legged creature who had once reigned supreme in those princely
but now depleted stables. And the lamplight streamed out
through uncurtained windows to meet her, so that she walked on
lamplight. A slim streak of gold led right up to the porch of old
Williams' comfortable cottage. She found him sitting with the
Bible on his knees, peering crossly down at the Scriptures through
his glasses. He had taken to reading the Scriptures aloud to him-
self- a melancholy occupation. He was at this now. As Stephen
entered she could hear him mumbling from Revelation: And
the heads of the horses were as the heads of lions; and out of their
mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone.'
He looked up, and hastily twitched off his glasses: Miss
Stephen!'
"Sit still stop where you are, Williams.'
But Williams had the arrogance of the humble. He was proud
of the stern traditions of his service, and his pride forbade him to
sit in her presence, in spite of their long and kind years of friend-
ship. Yet when he spoke he must grumble a little, as though she
were still the very small child who had swaggered round the
stables rubbing her chin, imitating his every expression and
gesture.
You didn't ought to have no 'orses, Miss Stephen, the way
you runs off and leaves them; ' he grumbled,' Raftery's been off
'is feed these last days. I've been talkin' to that Jim what you sets.
such store by! Impudent young blight, 'e answered me back like
as though I'd no right to express me opinion. But I says to 'im:
You just wait, lad," I says, " You wait until I gets 'old of Miss
Stephen!""
66
For Williams could never keep clear of the stables, and could
never refrain from nagging when he got there. Deposed he might
be, but not yet defeated even by old age, as grooms knew to their
cost. The tap of his heavy oak stick in the yard was enough to
send Jim and his underling flying to hide curry-combs and
brushes out of sight. Williams needed no glasses when it came
to disorder.
'Be this place 'ere a stable or be it a pigsty, I wonder?' was
now his habitual greeting.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
193
His wife came bustling in from the kitchen: 'Sit down, Miss
Stephen,' and she dusted a chair.
Stephen sat down and glanced at the Bible where it lay, still
open, on the table.
'Yes,' said Williams dourly, as though she had spoken, ‘I'm
reduced to readin' about 'eavenly 'orses. A nice endin' that for a
man like me, what's been in the service of Sir Philip Gordon,
what's 'ad 'is legs across the best 'unters as ever was seen in this
county or any! And I don't believe in them lion-headed beasts
breathin' fire and brimstone, it's all agin nature. Whoever it was
wrote them Revelations, can't never have been inside of a stable.
I don't believe in no 'eavenly 'orses neither - there won't be no
'orses in 'eaven; and a good thing too, judgin' by the description.'
'I'm surprised at you, Arth-thur, bein' so disrespectful to The
Book!' his wife reproached him gravely.
'Well, it ain't no encyclopaedee to the stable, and that's a sure
thing,' grinned Williams.
Stephen looked from one to the other. They were old, very
old, fast approaching completion. Quite soon their circle would be
complete, and then Williams would be able to tackle Saint John
on the points of those heavenly horses.
Mrs. Williams glanced apologetically at her: Excuse 'im,
Miss Stephen, 'e's gettin' rather childish. 'E won't read no pretty
parts of The Book; all 'e'll read is them parts about chariots and
such like. All what's to do with 'orses 'e reads; and then 'e's so
unbelievin' it's aw-ful!' But she looked at her mate with the
eyes of a mother, very gentle and tolerant eyes.
And Stephen, seeing those two together, could picture them
as they must once have been, in the halcyon days of their youthful
vigour. For she thought that she glimpsed through the dust of
the years, a
faint flicker of the girl who had lingered in the lanes
when the young man Williams and she had been courting. And
looking at Williams as he stood before her twitching and bowed,
she thought that she glimpsed a faint flicker of the youth, very
stalwart and comely, who had bent his head downwards and side-
ways as he walked and whispered and kissed in the lanes. And be-
cause they were old yet undivided, her heart ached; not for
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
them but rather for Stephen. Her youth seemed as dross when
compared to their honourable age; because they were undivided.
She said: 'Make him sit down, I don't want him to stand.'
And she got up and pushed her own chair towards him.
But old Mrs. Williams shook her white head slowly: 'No,
Miss Stephen, 'e wouldn't sit down in your presence. Beggin'
your pardon, it would 'urt Arth-thur's feelin's to be made to sit
down; it would make 'im feel as 'is days of service was really
over.'
'I don't need to sit down,' declared Williams.
So Stephen wished them both a good night, promising to
come again very soon; and Williams hobbled out to the path
which was now quite golden from border to border, for the door
of the cottage was standing wide open and the glow from the
lamp streamed over the path. Once more she found herself walk-
ing on lamplight, while Williams, bareheaded, stood and watched
her departure. Then her feet were caught up and entangled in
shadows again, as she made her way under the trees.
But presently came a familiar fragrance - logs burning on the
wide, friendly hearths of Morton. Logs burning - quite soon the
lakes would be frozen - ' and the ice looks like slabs of gold in
the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in the winter
and as we walk back we can smell the log fires long before
we can see them, and we love that good smell because it means
home, and our home is Morton . because it means home
and our home is Morton.
Oh, intolerable fragrance of log fires burning!
CHAPTER 23
I
A
NGELA did not return in a week, she had decided to remain
another fortnight in Scotland. She was staying now with the
Peacocks, it seemed, and would not get back until after her birth-
day. Stephen looked at the beautiful ring as it gleamed in its little
white velvet box, and her disappointment and chagrin were
childish.
But Violet Antrim, who had also been staying with the Pea-
cocks, had arrived home full of importance. She walked in on
Stephen one afternoon to announce her engagement to young
Alec Peacock. She was so much engaged and so haughty about it
that Stephen, whose nerves were already on edge, was very soon
literally itching to slap her. Violet was now able to look down
on Stephen from the height of her newly gained knowledge of
men - knowing Alec she felt that she knew the whole species.
"It's a terrible pity you dress as you do, my dear,' she re-
marked, with the manner of sixty, a young girl's so much more
attractive when she's soft - don't you think you could soften
your clothes just a little? I mean, you do want to get married,
don't you! No woman's complete until she's married. After all,
no woman can really stand alone, she always needs a man to
protect her.'
Stephen said: 'I'm all right - getting on nicely, thank you!'
'Oh, no, but you can't be!' Violet insisted. 'I was talking to
Alec and Roger about you, and Roger was saying it's an awful
mistake for women to get false ideas into their heads. He thinks
you've got rather a bee in your bonnet; he told Alec that you'd be
quite a womanly woman if you'd only stop trying to ape what
you're not.' Presently she said, staring rather hard: 'That Mrs.
Crossby - do
you really like her? Of course I know you're friends
and all that—But why are you friends? You've got nothing in
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common. She's what Roger calls a thorough man's woman. I
think myself she's a bit of a climber. Do you want to be used as a
scaling ladder for storming the fortifications of the county? The
Peacocks have known old Crossby for years, he's a wonderful shot
for an ironmonger, but they don't care for her very much I
believe - Alec says she's man-mad, whatever that means, anyhow
she seems desperately keen about Roger.'
Stephen said: 'I'd rather we didn't discuss Mrs. Crossby,
because, you see, she's my friend.' And her voice was as icy cold
as her hands.
C
Oh, of course if you're feeling like that about it -' laughed
Violet, no, but honest, she is keen on Roger.'
When Violet had gone, Stephen sprang to her feet, but her
sense of direction seemed to have left her, for she struck her head
a pretty sharp blow against the side of a heavy book-case. She
stood swaying with her hands pressed against her temples. Angela
and Roger Antrim - those two- but it couldn't be, Violet had
been purposely lying. She loved to torment, she was like her
brother, a bully, a devil who loved to torment – it couldn't be –
Violet had been lying.
She steadied herself and leaving the room and the house, went
and fetched her car from the stables. She drove to the telegraph
office at Upton: 'Come back, I must see you at once,' she wired,
taking great care to prepay the reply, lest Angela should find an
excuse for not answering.
The clerk counted the words with her stump of a pencil, then
she looked at Stephen rather strangely.
2
THE NEXT morning came Angela's frigid answer: ' Coming home
Monday fortnight not one day sooner please no more wires Ralph
very much upset.'
Stephen tore the thing into a hundred fragments and then
hurled it away. She was suddenly shaking all over with uncon-
trollable anger.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
197
3
RIGHT up to the moment of Angela's return that hot anger sup-
ported Stephen. It was like a flame that leapt through her veins, a
flame that consumed and yet stimulated, so that she purposely
fanned the fire from a sense of self preservation.
Then came the actual day of arrival. Angela must be in
London by now, she would certainly have travelled by the night
express. She would catch the 12.47 to Malvern and then motor to
Upton - it was nearly twelve. It was afternoon. At 3.17 Angela's
train would arrive at Great Malvern - it had arrived now in
about twenty minutes she would drive past the very gates of Mor-
ton. Half-past four. Angela must have got home; she was probably
having tea in the parlour - in the little oak parlour with its piping
bullfinch whose cage always stood near the casement window.
A long time ago, a lifetime ago, Stephen had blundered into that
parlour, and Tony had barked, and the bullfinch had piped a
sentimental old German tune - but that was surely a lifetime ago.
Five o'clock. Violet Antrim had obviously lied; she had lied on
purpose to torment Stephen - Angela and Roger - it couldn't be;
Violet had lied because she liked to torment. A quarter past five.
What was Angela doing now? She was near, just a few miles.
away – perhaps she was ill, as she had not written; yes, that must
be it, of course Angela was ill. The persistent, aching hunger of
the eyes. Anger, what was it? A folly, a delusion, a weakness that
crumbled before that hunger. And Angela was only a few miles
away.
She went up to her room and unlocked a drawer from which
she took the little white case. Then she slipped the case into her
jacket pocket.
4
SHE found Angela helping her maid to unpack; they appeared
to be all but snowed under by masses of soft, inadequate garments.
The bedroom smelt strongly of Angela's scent, which was heavy
yet slightly pungent.
¦
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
She glanced up from a tumbled heap of silk stockings:
'Hallo, Stephen!' Her greeting was casually friendly.
Stephen said: 'Well, how are you after all these weeks? Did
you have a good journey down from Scotland?'
The maid said: 'Shall I wash your new crèpe de Chine night-
gowns, ma'am? Or ought they to go to the cleaners?'
Then, somehow, they all fell silent.
To break this suggestive and awkward silence, Stephen in-
quired politely after Ralph.
'He's in London on business for a couple of days; he's all
right, thanks,' Angela answered briefly, and she turned once
more to sorting her stockings.
Stephen studied her. Angela was not looking well, her mouth
had a childish droop at the corners; there were quite new
shadows, too, under her eyes, and these shadows accentuated her
pallor. And as though that earnest gaze made her nervous, she
suddenly bundled the stockings together with a little sound of
impatience.
'Come on, let's go down to my room!' And turning to her
maid: 'I'd rather you washed the new nightgowns, please.'
They went down the wide oak stairs without speaking, and
into the little oak panelled parlour. Stephen closed the door; then
they faced each other.
Well, Angela?'
'Well, Stephen?' And after a pause: 'What on earth made
you send that absurd telegram? Ralph got hold of the thing and
began to ask questions. You are such an almighty fool sometimes
- you knew perfectly well that I couldn't come back. Why will
you behave as though you were six, have you no common sense?
What's it all about? Your methods are not only infantile - they're
dangerous.'
<
Then taking Angela firmly by the shoulders, Stephen turned
her so that she faced the light. She put her question with youthful
crudeness: Do you find Roger Antrim physically attractive -
do
you find that he attracts you that way more than I do?' She
waited calmly, it seemed, for her answer.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
199
And because of that distinctly ominous calm, Angela was
scared, so she blustered a little: Of course I don't! I resent such
questions; I won't allow them even from you, Stephen. God
knows where you get your fantastic ideas! Have you been dis-
cussing me with that girl Violet? If you have, I think it's simply
outrageous! She's quite the most evil-minded prig in the county.
It was not very gentlemanly of you, my dear, to discuss affairs
with our neighbours, was it?
my
'I refused to discuss you with Violet Antrim,' Stephen told
her, still speaking quite calmly. But she clung to her point: ' Was
it all a mistake? Is there no one between us except your husband?
Angela, look at me - I will have the truth.'
For answer Angela kissed her.
Stephen's strong but unhappy arms went round her, and
suddenly stretching out her hand, she switched off the little lamp
on the table, so that the room was lit only by firelight. They could
not see each other's faces very clearly any more, because there was
only firelight. And Stephen spoke such words as a lover will speak
when his heart is burdened to breaking; when his doubts must
bow down and be swept away before the unruly flood of his pas-
sion. There in that shadowy, firelit room, she spoke such words as
lovers have spoken ever since the divine, sweet madness of God
flung the thought of love into Creation.
But Angela suddenly pushed her away: Don't, don't - I
can't bear it - it's too much, Stephen. It hurts me - I can't bear
this thing - for
It's all wrong,
you.
I'm not worth it, anyhow it's
all wrong. Stephen, it's making me - can't you understand? It's
too much - 'She could not, she dared not explain. If you were
a man' She stopped abruptly, and burst into uncontrollable
weeping.
C
And somehow this weeping was different from any that had
gone before, so that Stephen trembled. There was something
frightened and desolate about it; it was like the sobbing of a
terrified child. The girl forgot her own desolation in her pity and
the need that she felt to comfort. More strongly than ever before
she felt the need to protect this woman, and to comfort.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
She said, grown suddenly passionless and gentle: 'Tell me -
try to tell me what's wrong, beloved. Don't be afraid of making
me angry – we love each other, and that's all that matters. Try
to tell me what's wrong, and then let me help you; only don't cry
like this I can't endure it.'
<d
But Angela hid her face in her hands: 'No, no, it's nothing;
I'm only so tired. It's been a fearful strain these last months. I'm
just a weak, human creature, Stephen - sometimes I think we've
been worse than mad. I must have been mad to have allowed
you
to love me like this - one day you'll despise and hate me. It's my
fault, but I was so terribly lonely that I let you come into my life,
and now – oh, I can't explain, you wouldn't understand; how
could you understand, Stephen?
And so strangely complex is poor human nature, that Angela
really believed in her feelings. At that moment of sudden fear
and remorse, remembering those guilty weeks in Scotland, she
believed that she felt compassion and regret for this creature who
loved her, and whose ardent loving had paved the way for an-
other. In her weakness she could not part from the girl, not yet -
there was something so strong about her. She seemed to combine
the strength of a man with the gentler and more subtle strength
of a woman. And thinking of the crude young animal Roger,
with his brusque, rather brutal appeal to the senses, she was filled
with a kind of regretful shame, and she hated herself for what
she had done, and for what she well knew she would do again,
because of that urge to passion.
Feeling humble, she groped for the girl's kind hand; then
she tried to speak lightly: 'Would you always forgive this very
miserable sinner, Stephen?
Stephen said, not apprehending her meaning, ‘If our love is
a sin, then heaven must be full of such tender and selfless sinning
as ours.'
They sat down close together. They were weary unto death,
and Angela whispered: 'Put your arms around me again - but
gently, because I'm so tired. You're a kind lover, Stephen – some-
times I think you're almost too kind.'
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
And Stephen answered: 'It's not kindness that makes me
unwilling to force you - I can't conceive of that sort of love.'
Angela Crossby was silent.
-
But now she was longing for the subtle easement of confes-
sion, so dear to the soul of woman. Her self-pity was augmented
by her sense of wrong-doing- she was thoroughly unstrung,
almost ill with self-pity – so that lacking the courage to confess
the present, she let her thoughts dwell on the past. Stephen had
always forborne to question, and therefore that past had never
been discussed, but now Angela felt a great need to discuss it.
She did not analyse her feelings; she only knew that she longed
intensely to humble herself, to plead for compassion, to wring
from the queer, strong, sensitive being who loved her, some hope
of ultimate forgiveness. At that moment, as she lay there in
Stephen's arms, the girl assumed an enormous importance. It
was strange, but the very fact of betrayal appeared to have
strengthened her will to hold her, and Angela stirred, so that
Stephen said softly:
Lie still I thought you were fast asleep.'
And Angela answered: No, I'm not asleep, dearest, I've been
thinking. There are some things I ought to tell you. You've never
asked me about my past life - why haven't you, Stephen?'
Because,' said Stephen, I knew that some day you'd tell
me.'
Then Angela began at the very beginning. She described a
Colonial home in Virginia. A grave, grey house, with a columned
entrance, and a garden that looked down on deep, running water,
and that water had rather a beautiful name - it was called the
Potomac River. Up the side of the house grew magnolia blossoms,
and many old trees gave their shade to its garden. In summer the
fire-flies lit lamps on those trees, shifting lamps that moved
swiftly among the branches. And the hot summer darkness was
splashed with lightning, and the hot summer air was heavy with
sweetness.
She described her mother who had died when Angela was
twelve – a pathetic, inadequate creature; the descendant of women
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
who had owned many slaves to minister to their most trivial re-
quirements: She could hardly put on her own stockings and
shoes,' smiled Angela, as she pictured that mother.
She described her father, George Benjamin Maxwell - a
charming, but quite incorrigible spendthrift. She said: ' He lived
in past glories, Stephen. Because he was a Maxwell - a Maxwell
of Virginia - he wouldn't admit that the Civil War had deprived
us all of the right to spend money. God knows, there was little
enough of it left - the War practically ruined the old Southern
gentry! My grandma could remember those days quite well;
she scraped lint from her sheets for our wounded soldiers. If
Grandma had lived, my life might have been different – but
she died a couple of months after Mother.'
202
She described the eventual cataclysm, when the home had
been sold up with everything in it, and she and her father had
set out for New York - she just seventeen and he broken and
ailing to rebuild his dissipated fortune. And because she was
now painting a picture of real life, untinged by imagination, her
words lived, and her voice grew intensely bitter.
S
'Hell - it was hell! We went under so quickly. There were
days when I hadn't enough to eat. Oh, Stephen, the filth, the un-
speakable squalor - the heat and the cold and the hunger and the
squalor. God, how I hate that great hideous city! It's a monster,
it crushes you down, it devours - even now I couldn't go back to
New York without feeling a kind of unreasoning terror. Stephen,
that damnable city broke my nerve. Father got calmly out of it
all by dying one day - and that was so like him! He'd had about
enough, so he just lay down and died; but I couldn't do that
because I was young – and I didn't want to die, either. I hadn't
the least idea what I could do, but I knew that I was supposed
to be pretty and that good-looking girls had a chance on the
stage, so I started out to look for a job. My God! Shall I ever
forget it!'
And now she described the long, angular streets, miles and
miles of streets; miles and miles of faces all strange and un-
friendly faces like masks. Then the intimate faces of would-be
Ang
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
203
employers, too intimate when they peered into her own - faces
that had suddenly thrown off their masks.
got my first
Stephen, are you listening? I put up a fight, I swear it! I
swear I put up a fight - I was only nineteen when I got my
job - nineteen's not so awfully old, is it, Stephen?
Stephen said: 'Go on,' and her voice sounded husky.
Oh, my
dear - it's so dreadfully hard to tell
you. The
pay
was rotten, not enough to live on - I used to think that they did
it on purpose, lots of the girls used to think that way too - they
never gave us quite enough to live on. You see, I hadn't a vestige
of talent, I could only dress up and try to look pretty. I never
got a real speaking part, I just danced, not well, but I'd got a
good figure.' She paused and tried to look up through the gloom,
but Stephen's face was hidden in shadow.' Well then, darling
Stephen, I want to feel your arms, hold me closer – well then, I
- there was a man who wanted me not as you want me, Ste-
phen, to protect and care for me; God, no, not that way! And
I was so poor and so tired and so frightened; why sometimes my
shoes would let in the slush because they were old and I hadn't
the money to buy myself new ones - try to think of that, darling.
And I'd cry when I washed my hands in the winter because they'd
be bleeding from broken chilblains. Well, I couldn't stay the
course any longer, that's all. . . .
<
M
<
J
The little gilt clock on the desk ticked loudly. Tick, tick!
Tick, tick! An astonishing voice to come from so small and fragile
a body. Somewhere out in the garden a dog barked - Tony, chas-
ing imaginary rabbits through the darkness.
Stephen!'
Yes, my dear?'
'Have you understood me? '
'Yes - oh, yes, I've understood you. Go on.'
'Well then, after a while he turned round and left me, and I
just had to drag along as I had done, and I sort of crocked up -
couldn't sleep at night, couldn't smile and look happy when I
went on to dance - that was how Ralph found me - he saw me
dance and came round to the back, the way some men do. I
204
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
remember thinking that Ralph didn't look like that sort of man;
he looked - well, just like Ralph, not a bit like that sort of man.
Then he started sending me flowers; never presents or anything
like that, just flowers with his card. And we had lunch together
a good few times, and he talked about that other man who'd left
me. He said he'd like to go out with a horse-whip - imagine
Ralph trying to horsewhip a man! They knew each other quite
well, I discovered; you see, they were both in the hardware busi-
ness. Ralph was out after some big contract for his firm, that was
why he happened to be in New York - and one day he asked me
to marry him, Stephen. I suppose he was really in love with me
then, anyhow I thought it was wonderful of him - I thought he
was very broad-minded and noble. Good God! He's had his pound
of flesh since; it gave him the hold over me that he wanted. We
were married before we sailed for Europe. I wasn't in love, but
what could I do? I'd nowhere to turn and my health was crock-
ing; lots of our girls ended up in the hospital wards – I didn't
want to end up that way. Well, so you see why I've got to be
careful how I act; he's terribly and awfully suspicious. He thinks
that because I took a lover when I was literally down and out,
I'm likely to do the same thing now. He doesn't trust me, it's
natural enough, but sometimes he throws it all up in my face, and
when he does that, my God, how I hate him! But oh, Stephen,
I could never go through it all again – I haven't got an ounce of
fight left in me. That's why, although Ralph's no cinch as a hus-
band, I'd be scared to death if he really turned nasty. He knows
that, I think, so he's not afraid to bully - he's bullied me many a
time over you -- but of course you're a woman so he couldn't
divorce me - I expect that's really what makes him so angry. All
the same, when you asked me to leave him for you, I hadn't the
courage to face that either. I couldn't have faced the public scandal
that Ralph would have made; he'd have hounded us down to the
ends of the earth, he'd have branded us, Stephen. I know him,
he's revengeful, he'd stop at nothing, that weak sort of man is
often that way. It's as though what Ralph lacks in virility, he
tries to make up for by being revengeful. My dear, I couldn't go
under again - I couldn't be one of those apologetic people who
GEN
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
205
must always exist just under the surface, only coming up for a
moment, like fish - I've been through that particular hell. I want
life, and yet I'm always afraid. Every time that Ralph looks at me
I feel frightened, because he knows that I hate him most when he
tries to make love - 'She broke off abruptly.
And now she was crying a little to herself, letting the tears
trickle down unheeded. One of them splashed on to Stephen's
coat sleeve and lay there, a small, dark blot on the cloth, while the
patient arms never faltered.
'Stephen, say something - say you don't hate me!'
A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Ste-
phen stared down into Angela's face. It was marred by weeping;
it looked almost ugly, splotched and reddened as it was by her
weeping. And because of that pitiful, blemished face, with the
pitiful weakness that lay behind it, the unworthiness even, Ste-
phen loved her so deeply at that moment, that she found no
adequate words.
Say something - speak to me, Stephen!'
Then Stephen gently released her arm, and she found the
little white box in her pocket: 'Look, Angela, I got you this for
your birthday - Ralph can't bully you about it, it's a birthday
present.'
Stephen - my dear!'
'Yes - I want you to wear it always, so that you'll remember
how much I love you. I think you forgot that just now when you
talked about hating - Angela, give me your hand, the hand that
used to bleed in the winter.'
So the pearl that was pure as her mother's diamonds were
pure, Stephen slipped on to Angela's finger. Then she sat very
still, while Angela gazed at the pearl wide-eyed, because of its
beauty. Presently she lifted her wondering face, and now her lips
were quite close to Stephen's, but Stephen kissed her instead on
the forehead. You must rest,' she said, ' you're simply worn out.
Can't
you sleep if I keep you safe in my arms?'
<
For at moments, such is the blindness and folly yet withal
the redeeming glory of love.
CHAPTER 24
I
RALPER
ALPH said very little about the ring. What could he say? A
present given to his wife by the daughter of a neighbour
an unusually costly present of course - still, after all, what could
he say? He took refuge in sulky silence. But Stephen would see
him staring at the pearl, which Angela wore on her right-hand
third finger, and his weak little eyes would look redder than
usual, perhaps with anger - one could never quite tell from his
eyes whether he was tearful or angry.
And because of those eyes with their constant menace, Ste-
phen must play her conciliatory rôle; and this she must do in spite
of his rudeness, for now he was openly rude and hostile. And he
bullied. It was almost as though he took pleasure in bullying his
wife when Stephen was present; her presence seemed to arouse
in the man everything that was ill-bred, petty and cruel. He
would make thinly-veiled allusions to the past, glancing sideways
at Stephen the while he did so; and one day when she flushed to
the roots of her hair with rage to see Angela humble and fearful,
he laughed loudly: 'I'm just a plain tradesman, you know; if
you don't like my ways, then you'd better not come here.' Catch-
ing Angela's eye, Stephen tried to laugh too.
A soul-sickening business. She would feel degraded; she
would feel herself gradually losing all sense of pride, of common
decency even, so that when she returned in the evening to Morton
she would not want to look the old house in the eyes. She would
not want to face those pictures of Gordons that hung in its hall,
and must turn away, lest they by their very silence rebuke this
descendant of theirs who was so unworthy. Yet sometimes it
seemed to her that she loved more intensely because she had lost
so much - there was nothing left now but Angela Crossby.
G
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
207
2
WATCHING this deadly decay that threatened all that was fine in
her erstwhile pupil, Puddle must sometimes groan loudly in
spirit; she must even argue with God about it. Yes, she must
actually argue with God like Job; and remembering his words in
affliction, she must speak those words on behalf of Stephen:
'Thine hands have made me and fashioned me together round
about; yet Thou dost destroy me.' For now in addition to every-
thing else, she had learnt of the advent of Roger Antrim. Not that
Stephen had confided in her, far from it, but gossip has a way of
travelling quickly. Roger spent most of his leisure at The Grange.
She had heard that he was always going over from Worcester. So
now Puddle, who had not been much given to prayer in the past,
must argue with God, like Job. And perhaps, since God probably
listens to the heart rather than to the lips, He forgave her.
3
STUPID with misery and growing more inept every day, Stephen
found herself no match for Roger. He was calm, self-assured,
insolent and triumphant, and his love of tormenting had not
waned with his manhood. Roger was no fool; he put two and two
together and his masculine instinct deeply resented this creature
who might challenge his right of possession. Moreover, that mas-
culine instinct was outraged. He would stare at Stephen as though
she were a horse whom he strongly suspected of congenital un-
soundness, and then he would let his eyes rest on Angela's face.
They would be the eyes of a lover, possessive, demanding, in-
sistent eyes - if Ralph did not happen to be present. And into
Angela's eyes there would come an expression that Stephen had
seen many times. A mist would slowly cloud over their blueness;
they would dim, as though they were hiding something. Then
Stephen would be seized with a violent trembling, so that she
could not stand any more but must sit with her hands clasped
tightly together, lest those trembling hands betray her to Roger.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
But Roger would have seen already, and would smile his slow,
understanding, masterful smile.
Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly,
and their youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable
thing; the instinctive repulsion of two human bodies, the one for
the other, which neither could help - not now that those bodies
were stirred by a woman. Then into this vortex of secret emotion
would come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen to Roger and
then at his wife, and his eyes would be red - one never knew
whether from tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque
triangle for a moment, those three who must share a common.
desire. But after a little the two male creatures who hated each
other, would be shamefully united in the bond of their deeper
hatred of Stephen; and divining this, she in her turn would hate.
4
IT COULD not go on without some sort of convulsion, and that
Christmas was a time of recriminations. Angela's infatuation was
growing, and she did not always hide this from Stephen. Letters
would arrive in Roger's handwriting, and Stephen, half crazy
with jealousy by now, would demand to see them. She would be
refused, and a scene would ensue.
'That man's your lover! Have I gone starving only for this
- that you should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that
letter!'
'How dare you suggest that Roger's my lover! But if he were
it's no business of yours.'
"Will you show me that letter?
'I will not.'
"It's from Roger.'
'You're intolerable. You can think what you please.'
'
What am I to think?' Then because of her longing, ‘An-
gela, for God's sake don't treat me like this - I can't bear it.
When you loved me it was easier to bear - I endured it for your
sake, but now listen, listen. . . .' Stark naked confessions
-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
209
dragged from lips that grew white the while they confessed:
Angela, listen. . . .
And now the terrible nerves of the invert, those nerves that
are always lying in wait, gripped Stephen. They ran like live
wires through her body, causing a constant and ruthless torment,
so that the sudden closing of a door or the barking of Tony would
fall like a blow on her shrinking flesh. At night in her bed she
must cover her ears from the ticking of the clock, which would
sound like thunder in the darkness.
Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext or
another she must see her dentist; she must fit a new dress.
'Well then, let me come with you.'
Good heavens, why? I'm only going to the dentist!'
'All right, I'll come too.'
"You'll do nothing of the kind.' Then Stephen would know
why Angela was going.
All that day she would be haunted by insufferable pictures.
Whatever she did, wherever she went, she would see them to-
gether, Angela and Roger. . . . She would think: 'I'm going
mad! I can see them as clearly as though they were here before me
in the room.' And then she would cover her eyes with her hands,
but this would only strengthen the pictures.
<
Like some earth-bound spirit she would haunt The Grange
on the pretext of taking Tony for a walk. And there, as likely as
not, would be Ralph wandering about in his bare rose garden.
He would glance up and see her perhaps, and then – most pro-
found shame of all - they would both look guilty, for each would
know the loneliness of the other, and that loneliness would draw
them together for the moment; they would be almost friends in
their hearts.
Angela's gone up to London, Stephen.'
'Yes, I know. She's gone up to fit her new dress.'
Their eyes would drop. Then Ralph might say sharply: 'If
you're after the dog, he's in the kitchen,' and turning his back,
he might make a pretence of examining his standard rose-trees.
Calling Tony, Stephen would walk into Upton, then along
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
the mist-swept bank of the river. She would stand very still staring
down at the water, but the impulse would pass, and whistling the
dog, she would turn and go hurrying back to Upton.
Then one afternoon Roger came with his car to take Angela
for a drive through the hills. The New Year was slipping into the
spring, and the air smelt of sap and much diligent growing. A
warm February had succeeded the winter. Many birds would be
astir on those hills where lovers might sit unashamed - where
Stephen had sat holding Angela clasped in her arms, while she
eagerly took and gave kisses. And remembering these things Ste-
phen turned and left them; unable just then to endure any longer.
Going home, she made her way to the lakes, and there she quite
suddenly started weeping. Her whole body seemed to dissolve
itself in weeping; and she flung herself down on the kind earth of
Morton, shedding tears as of blood. There was no one to witness
those tears except the white swan called Peter.
5
TERRIBLE, heart-breaking months. She grew gaunt with her un-
appeased love for Angela Crossby. And now she would some-
times turn in despair to the thought of her useless and unspent.
money. Thoughts would come that were altogether unworthy,
but nevertheless those thoughts would persist. Roger was not rich;
she was rich already and some day she would be even richer.
She went up to London and chose new clothes at a West End
tailor's; the man in Malvern who had made for her father was
getting old, she would have her suits made in London in future.
She ordered herself a rakish red car; a long-bodied, sixty horse
power Métallurgique. It was one of the fastest cars of its year,
and it certainly cost her a great deal of money. She bought twelve
pairs of gloves, some heavy silk stockings, a square sapphire scarf
pin and a new umbrella. Nor could she resist the lure of pyjamas
made of white crêpe de Chine which she spotted in Bond Street.
The pyjamas led to a man's dressing-gown of brocade - an amaz-
ingly ornate garment. Then she had her nails manicured but not
w
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
polished, and from that shop she carried away toilet water and a
box of soap that smelt of carnations and some cuticle cream for
the care of her nails. And last but not least, she bought a gold bag
with a clasp set in diamonds for Angela.
All told she had spent a considerable sum, and this gave her a
fleeting satisfaction. But on her way back in the train to Malvern,
she gazed out of the window with renewed desolation. Money
could not buy the one thing that she needed in life; it could not
buy Angela's love.
211
6
THAT night she stared at herself in the glass; and even as she did
so she hated her body with its muscular shoulders, its small com-
pact breasts, and its slender flanks of an athlete. All her life she
must drag this body of hers like a monstrous fetter imposed on
her spirit. This strangely ardent yet sterile body that must worship
yet never be worshipped in return by the creature of its adoration.
She longed to maim it, for it made her feel cruel; it was so white,
so strong and so self-sufficient; yet withal so poor and unhappy a
thing that her eyes filled with tears and her hate turned to pity.
She began to grieve over it, touching her breasts with pitiful
fingers, stroking her shoulders, letting her hands slip along her
straight thighs - Oh, poor and most desolate body!
Then she, for whom Puddle was actually praying at that mo-
ment, must now pray also, but blindly; finding few words that
seemed worthy of prayer, few words that seemed to encompass
her meaning for she did not know the meaning of herself. But
she loved, and loving groped for the God who had fashioned her,
even unto this bitter loving.
CHAPTER 25
I
STEP
TEPHEN's troubles had begun to be aggravated by Violet, who
was always driving over to Morton, ostensibly to talk about
Alec, in reality to collect information as to what might be hap-
pening at The Grange. She would stay for hours, very skilfully
pumping while she dropped unwelcome hints anent Roger.
'Father's going to cut down his allowance,' she declared, ‘if
he doesn't stop hanging about that woman. Oh, I'm sorry! I
always forget she's your friend - ' Then looking at Stephen with
inquisitive eyes: But I can't understand that friendship of yours;
for one thing, how can you put up with Crossby?' And Stephen
knew that yet once again, county gossip was rife about her.
Violet was going to be married in September, they would
then live in London, for Alec was a barrister. Their house, it
seemed, was already bespoken: A perfect duck of a house in
Belgravia,' where Violet intended to entertain largely on the
strength of a bountiful parent Peacock. She was in the highest
possible fettle these days, invested with an enormous importance
in her own eyes, as also in those of her neighbours. Oh, yes, the
whole world smiled broadly on Violet and her Alec: ‘Such a
charming young couple,' said the world, and at once proceeded to
shower them with presents. Apostle teaspoons arrived in their
dozens, so did coffee-pots, cream-jugs and large fish slices; to say
nothing of a heavy silver bowl from the Hunt, and a massive
salver from the grateful Scottish tenants.
On the wedding day not a few eyes would be wet at the sight
of so youthful a man and maiden ‘joined together in an honour-
able estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency.'
For such ancient traditions - in spite of the fact that man's in-
nocency could not even survive one bite of an apple shared with
a woman - are none the less apt to be deeply moving. There they
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
213
would kneel, the young newly wed, ardent yet sanctified by a
blessing, so that all, or at least nearly all, they would do, must be
considered both natural and pleasing to a God in the image of
man created. And the fact that this God, in a thoughtless moment,
had created in His turn those pitiful thousands who must stand
for ever outside His blessing, would in no way disturb the large
congregation or their white surpliced pastor, or the couple who
knelt on the gold-braided, red velvet cushions. And afterwards
there would be plentiful champagne to warm the cooling blood
of the elders, and much shaking of hands and congratulating,
and many kind smiles for the bride and her bridegroom. Some
might even murmur a fleeting prayer in their hearts, as the two
departed: 'God bless them!"
So now Stephen must actually learn at first hand how straight
can run the path of true love, in direct contradiction to the time-
honoured proverb. Must realize more clearly than ever, that love
is only permissible to those who are cut in every respect to life's
pattern; must feel like some ill-conditioned pariah, hiding her
sores under lies and pretences. And after those visits of Violet
Antrim's, her spirits would be at a very low ebb, for she had not
yet gained that steel-bright courage which can only be forged in
the furnace of affliction, and which takes many weary years in
the forging.
2
THE SPLENDID new motor arrived from London, to the
great
de-
light and excitement of Burton. The new suits were completed
and worn by their owner, and Angela's costly gold bag was re-
ceived with apparent delight, which seemed rather surprising con-
sidering her erstwhile ban upon presents. Yet could Stephen have
known it, this was not so surprising after all, for the bag in-
furiated Ralph, thereby distracting his facile attention for the mo-
ment, from something that was far more dangerous.
Filled with an ever-increasing need to believe, Stephen lis-
tened to Angela Crossby: You know there's nothing between me
and Roger - if you don't, then you above all people ought to,'
:
214
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
and her blue, childlike eyes would look up at Stephen, who could
never resist the appeal of their blueness.
And as though to bear out the truth of her words, Roger
now came to The Grange much less often; and when he did
come he was quietly friendly, not at all lover-like if Stephen was
present, so that gradually her need to believe had begun to allay
her worst fears. Yet she knew with the true instinct of the lover,
that Angela was secretly unhappy. She might try to appear light-
hearted and flippant, but her smiles and her jests could not deceive
Stephen.
"You're miserable. What is it?
And Angela would answer: Ralph's been vile to me again -
But she would not add that Ralph was daily becoming more sus-
picious and more intolerant of Roger Antrim, so that now her
deadly fear of her husband was always at war with her passion.
Sometimes it seemed to the girl that Angela used her as a
whip wherewith to lash Ralph. She would lead Stephen on to
show signs of affection which would never have been permitted
in the past. Ralph's little red eyes would look deeply resentful,
and getting up he would slouch from the room. They would hear
the front door being closed, and would know that he had gone
for a walk with Tony. Yet when they were alone and in com-
parative safety, there would be something crude, almost cruel in
their kisses; a restless, dissatisfied, hungry thing - their lips would
seem bent on scourging their bodies. Neither would find deliver-
ance nor ease from the ache that was in them, for each would be
kissing with a well-nigh intolerable sense of loss, with a passionate
knowledge of separation. After a little they would sit with bent
heads, not speaking because of what might not be spoken; not
daring to look each other in the eyes nor to touch each other, lest
they should cry out against this preposterous lovemaking.
--
Completely confounded, Stephen racked her brains for any-
thing that might give them both a respite. She suggested that
Angela should see her fence with a celebrated London fencing
master whom she had bribed to come down to Morton. She tried
to arouse an interest in the car, the splendid new car that had cost
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
215
so much money. She tried to find out if Angela had an ungratified
wish that money could fulfil.
Only tell me what I can do,' she pleaded, but apparently
there was nothing.
Angela came several times to Morton and dutifully attended
the fencing lessons. But they did not go well, for Stephen would
glimpse her staring abstractedly out of the window; then the sly,
agile foil with its blunt tipped nose, would slip in under Stephen's
guard and shame her.
-
They would sometimes go far afield in the car,
far afield in the car, and one night
they stopped at an inn and had dinner - Angela ringing up her
husband with the old and now threadbare excuse of a breakdown.
They dined in a quiet little room by themselves; the scents of the
garden came in through the window – warm, significant scents,
for now it was May and many flowers multiplied in that garden.
Never before had they done such a thing as this, they had never
dined all alone at a wayside inn miles away from their homes,
just they two, and Stephen stretched out her hand and covered
Angela's where it rested very white and still on the table. And
Stephen's eyes held an urgent question, for now it was May and
the blood of youth leaps and strains with the sap in early summer.
The air seemed breathless, since neither would speak, afraid of
disturbing the thick, sweet silence - but Angela shook her head
very slowly. Then they could not eat, for each was filled with the
same and yet with a separate longing; so after a while they must
get up and go, both conscious of a sense of painful frustration.
They drove back on a road that was paved with moonlight,
and presently Angela fell fast asleep like an unhappy child - she
had taken her hat off and her head lay limply against Stephen's
shoulder. Seeing her thus, so helpless in sleep, Stephen felt
strangely moved, and she drove very slowly, fearful of waking
the woman who slept like a child with her fair head against her
shoulder. The car climbed the steep hill from Ledbury town, and
presently there lay the wide Wye valley whose beauty had sad-
dened a queer little girl long before she had learnt the pain of all
beauty. And now the valley was bathed in whiteness, while here
216
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
and there gleamed a roof or a window, but whitely, as though all
the good valley folk had extinguished their lamps and retired to
their couches. Far away, like dark clouds coming up out of Wales,
rose range upon range of the old Black Mountains, with the tip
of Gadrfawr peering over the others, and the ridge of Pen-cerrig-
calch sharp against the skyline. A little wind ruffled the bracken
on the hillsides, and Angela's hair blew across her closed eyes so
that she stirred and sighed in her sleep. Stephen bent down and
began to soothe her.
Then from out of that still and unearthly night, there crept
upon Stephen an unearthly longing. A longing that was not any
more of the body but rather of the weary and homesick spirit that
endured the chains of that body. And when she must drive past
the gates of Morton, the longing within her seemed beyond all
bearing, for she wanted to lift the sleeping woman in her arms
and carry her in through those gates; and carry her in through the
heavy white door; and carry her up the wide, shallow staircase,
and lay her down on her own bed, still sleeping, but safe in the
good care of Morton.
Angela suddenly opened her eyes: 'Where am I?' she mut-
tered, stupid with sleep. Then after a moment her eyes filled with
tears, and there she sat all huddled up, crying.
Stephen said gently: 'It's all right, don't cry.'
But Angela went on crying.
CHAPTER 26
I
LIK
IKE a river that has gradually risen to flood, until it sweeps
everything before it, so now events rose and gathered in
strength towards their inevitable conclusion. At the end of May
Ralph must go to his mother, who was said to be dying at her
house in Brighton. With all his faults he had been a good son,
and the redness of his eyes was indeed from real tears as he kissed
his wife good-bye at the station, on his way to his dying mother.
The next morning he wired that his mother was dead, but that
he could not get home for a couple of weeks. As it happened, he
gave the actual day and hour of his return, so that Angela knew it.
The relief of his unexpectedly long absence went to Stephen's
head; she grew much more exacting, suggesting all sorts of in-
timate plans. Supposing they went for a few days to London?
Supposing they motored to Symond's Yat and stayed at the little
hotel by the river? They might even push on to Abergavenny and
from there motor up and explore the Black Mountains - why not?
It was glorious weather.
'Angela, please come away with me, darling - just for a few
days - we've never done it, and I've longed to so often. You can't
refuse, there's nothing on earth to prevent your coming.'
But Angela would not make up her mind, she seemed sud-
denly anxious about her husband: 'Poor devil, he was awfully
fond of his mother. I oughtn't to go, it would look so heartless
with the old woman dead and Ralph so unhappy
<
Stephen said bitterly; ' What about me? Do you think I'm
never unhappy?'
So the time slipped by in heartaches and quarrels, for Ste-
phen's taut nerves were like spurs to her temper, and she stormed
or reproached in her dire disappointment:
"You pretend that you love me and yet you won't come – and
218
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
I've waited so long - oh, my God, how I've waited! But you're
utterly cruel. And I ask for so little, just to have you with me for
a few days and nights - just to sleep with you in my arms; just
to feel you beside me when I wake up in the morning - I want
to open my eyes and see your face, as though we belonged to each
other. Angela, I swear I wouldn't torment you - we'd be just as
we are now, if that's what you're afraid of. You must know, after
all these months, that you can trust me
M
But Angela set her lips and refused: 'No, Stephen, I'm sorry,
but I'd rather not come.'
Then Stephen would feel that life was past bearing, and some-
times she must ride rather wildly for miles - now on Raftery, now
on Sir Philip's young chestnut. All alone she would ride in the
early mornings, getting up from a sleepless night unrefreshed, yet
terribly alive because of those nerves that tortured her luckless
body. She would get back to Morton still unable to rest, and a little
later would order the motor and drive herself across to The
Grange, where Angela would usually be dreading her coming.
Her reception would be cold: 'I'm fairly busy, Stephen - I
must pay off all these bills before Ralph gets home;' or: 'I've got
a foul headache, so don't scold me this morning; I think if you
did that I just couldn't bear it!' Stephen would flinch as though
struck in the face; she might even turn round and go back to
Morton.
Came the last precious day before Ralph's return, and that day
they did spend quite peaceably together, for Angela seemed bent
upon soothing. She went out of her way to be gentle to Stephen,
and Stephen, quick as always to respond, was very gentle in her
turn. But after they had dined in the little herb garden - taking
advantage of the hot, still weather - Angela developed one of her
headaches.
'Oh, my Stephen - oh, darling, my head's too awful. It must
be the thunder - it's been coming on all day. What a perfectly
damnable thing to happen, on our last evening too - but I know
this kind well; I'll just have to give in and go to my bed. I'll take
a cachet and then try to sleep, so don't ring me up when you get
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
219
back to Morton. Come to-morrow - come early. I'm so miserable,
darling, when I think that this is our last peaceful evening -'
'I know. But are you all right to be left?'
‘Yes, of course. All I need is to get some sleep. You won't
worry, will you? Promise, my Stephen!'
Stephen hesitated. Quite suddenly Angela was looking very
ill, and her hands were like ice. 'Swear you'll telephone to me if
can't get to sleep, then I'll come back at once.'
you
hear
'Yes, but don't do that, will you, unless I ring up - I should
of
you, course, and that would wake me and start my head
throbbing.' Then as though impelled, in spite of herself, by the
girl's strange attraction, she lifted her face: Kiss me . . . oh,
God . . . Stephen!'
<
'I love you so much - so much whispered Stephen.
2
<
>
IT WAS past ten o'clock when she got back to Morton: Has
Angela Crossby rung up?' she inquired of Puddle, who appeared
to have been waiting in the hall.
'No, she hasn't!' snapped Puddle, who was getting to the
stage when she hated the mere name of Angela Crossby. Then
she added: You look like nothing on earth; in your place I'd
to bed at once, Stephen.'
go
'You go to bed, Puddle, if you're tired - where's Mother?'
'In her bath. For heaven's sake do come to bed! I can't bear
to see you looking as you do these days.'
'I'm all right.'
'No, you're not, you're all wrong. Go and look at your face.'
'I don't very much want to, it doesn't attract me,' smiled
Stephen.
So Puddle went angrily up to her room, leaving Stephen to
sit with a book in the hall near the telephone bell, in case Angela
should ring. And there, like the faithful creature she was, she
must sit on all through the night, patiently waiting. But when
the first tinges of dawn greyed the window and the panes of the
220
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
semicircular fanlight, she left her chair stiffly, to pace up and
down, filled with a longing to be near this woman, if only to
stand and keep watch in her garden - Snatching up a coat she
went out to her car.
3
SHE left the motor at the gates of The Grange, and walked up
the drive, taking care to tread softly. The air had an indefinable
smell of dew and of very newly born morning. The tall, ornate
Tudor chimneys of the house stood out gauntly against a bright-
ening sky, and as Stephen crept into the small herb garden, one
tentative bird had already begun singing - but his voice was still
rather husky from sleep. She stood there and shivered in her
heavy coat; the long night of vigil had devitalized her. She was
sometimes like this now - she would shiver at the least provoca-
tion, the least sign of fatigue, for her splendid physical strength
was giving, worn out by its own insistence.
pag
She dragged the coat more closely around her, and stared at
the house which was reddening with sunrise. Her heart beat
anxiously, fearfully even, as though in some painful anticipation
of she knew not what - every window was dark except one or two
that were fired by the sunrise. How long she stood there she never
knew, it might have been moments, it might have been a life-
time; and then suddenly there was something that moved – the
little oak door that led into that garden. It moved cautiously,
opening inch by inch, until at last it was standing wide open, and
Stephen saw a man and a woman who turned to clasp as though
neither of them could endure to be parted from the arms of the
other; and as they clung there together and kissed, they swayed
unsteadily - drunk with loving.
Then, as sometimes happens in moments of great anguish,
Stephen could only remember the grotesque. She could only re-
member a plump-bosomed housemaid in the arms of a coarsely
amorous footman, and she laughed and she laughed like a crea-
ture demented - laughed and laughed until she must gasp for
breath and spit blood from her tongue, which had somehow got
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
bitten in her efforts to stop her hysterical laughing; and some of
the blood remained on her chin, jerked there by that agonized
laughter.
Pale as death, Roger Antrim stared out into the garden, and
his tiny moustache looked quite black -- like an ink stain smeared
above his tremulous mouth by some careless, schoolboy finger.
221
And now Angela's voice came to Stephen, but faintly. She
was saying something - what was she saying? It sounded absurdly
as though it were a prayer - Christ!' Then sharply - razor-sharp
it sounded as it cut through the air: You, Stephen!
C
·
The laughter died abruptly away, as Stephen turned and
walked out of the garden and down the short drive that led to the
gates of The Grange, where the motor was waiting. Her face
was a mask, quite without expression. She moved stiffly, yet with
a curious precision; and she swung up the handle and started the
powerful engine without any apparent effort.
She drove at great speed but with accurate judgment, for now
her mind felt as clear as spring water, and yet there were strange
little gaps in her mind - she had not the least idea where she was
going. Every road for miles around Upton was familiar, yet she
had not the least idea where she was going. Nor did she know
how long she drove, nor when she stopped to procure fresh petrol.
The sun rose high and hot in the heavens; it beat down on her
without warming her coldness, for always she had the sense of a
dead thing that lay close against her heart and oppressed it. A
corpse she was carrying a corpse about with her. Was it the
corpse of her love for Angela? If so that love was more terrible
dead - oh, far more terrible dead than living.
The first stars were shining, but as yet very faintly, when she
found herself driving through the gates of Morton. Heard Pud-
dle's voice calling: 'Wait a minute. Stop, Stephen!' Saw Puddle
barring her way in the drive, a tiny yet dauntless figure.
She pulled up with a jerk: 'What's the matter? What is it?'
Where have you been?'
'I - don't know, Puddle.'
But Puddle had clambered in beside her: 'Listen, Stephen,'
222
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
and now she was talking very fast, listen, Stephen - is it - is it
Angela Crossby? It is. I can see the thing in your face. My God,
what's that woman done to you, Stephen?
C
Then Stephen, in spite of the corpse against her heart, or per-
haps because of it, defended the woman: 'She's done nothing at
all - it was all my fault, but you wouldn't understand - I got very
angry and then I laughed and couldn't stop laughing - 'Steady-
go steady! She was telling too much: 'No - it wasn't that exactly.
Oh, you know my vile temper, it always goes off at half cock for
nothing. Well, then I just drove round and round the country
until I cooled down. I'm sorry, Puddle, I ought to have rung up,
of course you've been anxious.'
–
Puddle gripped her arm: Stephen, listen, it's
your mother-
she thinks that you started quite early for Worcester, I lied - I've
been nearly distracted, child. If you hadn't come soon, I'd have
had to tell her that I didn't know where you were. You must
never, never go off without a word like this again - But I do un-
derstand, oh, I do indeed, Stephen.'
But Stephen shook her head: 'No, my dear, you couldn't -
and I'd rather not tell you, Puddle.'
<
Some day you must tell me,' said Puddle, because – well,
because I do understand, Stephen.'
4
THAT night the weight against Stephen's heart, with its icy cold-
ness, melted; and it flowed out in such a torrent of grief that she
could not stand up against that torrent, so that drowning though
she was she found pen and paper, and she wrote to Angela
Crossby.
What a letter! All the pent-up passion of months, all the ter-
rible, rending, destructive frustrations must burst from her heart:
'Love me, only love me the way I love you. Angela, for God's
sake, try to love me a little - don't throw me away, because if
you
do I'm utterly finished. You know how I love you, with
my
soul and my body; if it's wrong, grotesque, unholy - have pity.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
223
I'll be humble. Oh, my darling, I am humble now; I'm just a
poor, heart-broken freak of a creature who loves you and needs.
you much more than its life, because life's worse than death, ten
times worse without you. I'm some awful mistake - God's mis-
take - I don't know if there are any more like me, I pray not for
their sakes, because it's pure hell. But oh, my dear, whatever I am,
I just love you and love you. I thought it was dead, but it wasn't.
It's alive - so terribly alive to-night in my bedroom. . . .' And
so it went on for page after
page.
But never a word about Roger Antrim and what she had seen
that morning in the garden. Some fine instinct of utterly selfless.
protection towards this woman had managed to survive all the
anguish and all the madness of that day. The letter was a ter-
rible indictment against Stephen, a complete vindication of
Angela Crossby.
5
ANGELA went to her husband's study, and she stood before him
utterly shaken, utterly appalled at what she would do, yet utterly
and ruthlessly determined to do it from a primitive instinct of
self-preservation. In her ears she could still hear that terrible
laughter - that uncanny, hysterical, agonized laughter. Stephen
was mad, and God only knew what she might do or say in a mo-
ment of madness, and then - but she dared not look into the
future. Cringing in spirit and trembling in body, she forgot the
girl's faithful and loyal devotion, her will to forgive, her desire to
protect, so clearly set forth in that pitiful letter.
،
She said: ' Ralph, I want to ask your advice. I'm in an awful
mess - it's Stephen Gordon. You think I've been carrying on with
Roger - good Lord, if you only knew what I've endured these
last few months! I have seen a great deal of Roger, I admit - quite
innocently of course - still, all the same, I've seen him - I thought
it would show her that I'm not that I'm not -' For one mo-
ment her voice seemed about to fail her, then she went on quite
firmly: ' that I'm not a pervert; that I'm not that sort of degen-
erate creature.'
224
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
He sprang up: What?' he bellowed.
"Yes, I know, it's too awful. I ought to have asked your advice
about it, but I really did like the girl just at first, and after that,
well I set out to reform her. Oh, I know I've been crazy, worse
than
crazy if you like; it was hopeless right from the very begin-
ning. If I'd only known more about that sort of thing I'd have
come to you at once, but I'd never met it. She was our neighbour
too, which made it more awkward, and not only that her posi-
tion in the county - oh, Ralph, you must help me, I'm com-
pletely bewildered. How on earth does one answer this sort of
thing? It's quite mad - I believe the girl's half mad herself.'
Ma
And she handed him Stephen's letter.
He read it slowly, and as he did so his weak little eyes grew
literally scarlet - puffy and scarlet all over their lids, and when he
had finished reading that letter he turned and spat on the ground.
Then Ralph's language became a thing to forget; every filthy in-
vective learnt in the slums of his youth and later on in the work-
shops, he hurled against Stephen and all her kind. He called down
the wrath of the Lord upon them. He deplored the non-existence
of the stake, and racked his brains for indecent tortures. And
finally: 'I'll answer this letter, yes, by God I will! You leave her
to me, I know how I'm going to answer this letter!'
Angela asked him, and now her voice shook: 'Ralph, what
you do to her - to Stephen?'
will
He laughed loudly: 'I'll hound her out of the county before
I've done and with luck out of England; the same as I'd hound
you out if I thought that there'd ever been anything between you
two women. It's damned lucky for you that she wrote this letter,
damned lucky, otherwise I might have my suspicions. You've got
off this time, but don't try your reforming again - you're not cut
out to be a reformer. If there's any of that Lamb of God stuff
wanted I'll see to it myself and don't you forget it!' He slipped
the letter into his pocket, 'I'll see to it myself next time – with
an axe!'
Angela turned and went out of the study with bowed head.
She was saved through this great betrayal, yet most strangely
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
225
bitter she found her salvation, and most shameful the price she
had paid for her safety. So, greatly daring, she went to her desk
and with trembling fingers took a sheet of paper. Then she wrote
in her large, rather childish handwriting: ' Stephen - when you
know what I've done, forgive me.'
CHAPTER 27
I
T
wo days later Anna Gordon sent for her daughter. Stephen
found her sitting quite still in that vast drawing-room of
hers, which as always smelt faintly of orris-root, beeswax and
violets. Her thin, white hands were folded in her lap, closely
folded over a couple of letters; and it seemed to Stephen that all
of a sudden she saw in her mother a very old woman - a very
old woman with terrible eyes, pitiless, hard and deeply accusing,
so that she could but shrink from their gaze, since they were the
eyes of her mother.
Anna said: Lock the door, then come and stand here.'
In absolute silence Stephen obeyed her. Thus it was that those
two confronted each other, flesh of flesh, blood of blood, they con-
fronted each other across the wide gulf set between them.
Then Anna handed her daughter a letter: 'Read this,' she
said briefly.
And Stephen read:
DEAR LADY ANNA,
With deep repugnance I take up my pen, for certain things
won't bear thinking about, much less being written. But I feel
that I owe you some explanation of my reasons for having come to
the decision that I cannot permit your daughter to enter my house
again, or my wife to visit Morton. I enclose a copy of your daugh-
ter's letter to my wife, which I feel is sufficiently clear to make it
unnecessary for me to write further, except to add that my wife is
returning the two costly presents given her by Miss Gordon.
I remain, Yours very truly,
RALPH CROSSBY.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
227
Stephen stood as though turned to stone for a moment, not
so much as a muscle twitched; then she handed the letter back
to her mother without speaking, and in silence Anna received it.
Stephen - when you know what I've done, forgive me.' The
childish scrawl seemed suddenly on fire, it seemed to scorch
Stephen's fingers as she touched it in her pocket - so this was
what Angela had done. In a blinding flash the girl saw it all; the
miserable weakness, the fear of betrayal, the terror of Ralph and
of what he would do should he learn of that guilty night with
Roger. Oh, but Angela might have spared her this, this last wound
to her loyal and faithful devotion; this last insult to all that was
best and most sacred in her love - Angela had feared betrayal at
the hands of the creature who loved her!
But now her mother was speaking again: ' And this - read
this and tell me if you wrote it, or if that man's lying.' And
Stephen must read her own misery jibing at her from those pages
in Ralph Crossby's stiff and clerical handwriting.
She looked up: 'Yes, Mother, I wrote it.'
C
Then Anna began to speak very slowly as though nothing of
what she would say must be lost; and that slow, quiet voice was
more dreadful than anger: All your life I've felt very strangely
towards you;' she was saying, 'I've felt a kind of physical re-
pulsion, a desire not to touch or to be touched by you – a terrible
thing for a mother to feel - it has often made me deeply unhappy.
I've often felt that I was being unjust, unnatural - but now I
know that my instinct was right; it is you who are unnatural,
not I. . . .
'Mother - stop!'
'It is you who are unnatural, not I. And this thing that you
are is a sin against creation. Above all is this thing a sin against
the father who bred you, the father whom you dare to resemble.
You dare to look like your father, and your face is a living insult
to his memory, Stephen. I shall never be able to look at you now
without thinking of the deadly insult of your face and your body
to the memory of the father who bred you. I can only thank God
that your father died before he was asked to endure this great
228
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
shame. As for you, I would rather see you dead at my feet than
standing before me with this thing upon you - this unspeakable
outrage that you call love in that letter which you don't deny hav-
ing written. In that letter you say things that may only be said
between man and woman, and coming from you they are vile and
filthy words of corruption - against nature, against God who
created nature. My gorge rises; you have made me feel physically
sick - "
you don't know what you're saying - you're my
"Yes, I am your mother, but for all that, you seem to me like
a scourge. I ask myself what I have ever done to be dragged down
into the depths by my daughter. And your father - what had he
ever done? And you have presumed to use the word love in con-
nection with this - with these lusts of your body; these unnatural
cravings of your unbalanced mind and undisciplined body - you
have used that word. I have loved - do you hear? I have loved
your father, and your father loved me. That was love!'
–
'Mother
mother - '
Then, suddenly, Stephen knew that unless she could, indeed,
drop dead at the feet of this woman in whose womb she had
quickened, there was one thing that she dared not let pass un-
challenged, and that was this terrible slur upon her love. And all
that was in her rose up to refute it; to protect her love from such
unbearable soiling. It was part of herself, and unless she could
save it, she could not save herself any more. She must stand or fall
by the courage of that love to proclaim its right to toleration.
She held up her hand, commanding silence; commanding
that slow, quiet voice to cease speaking, and she said: ' As my
father loved you, I loved. As a man loves a woman, that was
how I loved - protectively, like my father. I wanted to give all I
had in me to give. It made me feel terribly strong and
gentle. It was good, good, good - I'd have laid down my life a
thousand times over for Angela Crossby. If I could have, I'd have
married her and brought her home - I wanted to bring her home
here to Morton. If I loved her the way a man loves a woman, it's
because I can't feel that I am a woman. All my life I've never felt
¡
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
229
like a woman, and you know it - you say you've always disliked
me, that you've always felt a strange physical repulsion.
I don't know what I am; no one's ever told me that I'm different
and yet I know that I'm different - that's why, I suppose, you've
felt as you have done. And for that I forgive you, though whatever
it is, it was you and my father who made this body - but what I
will never forgive is your daring to try and make me ashamed of
my love. I'm not ashamed of it, there's no shame in me.' And
now she was stammering a little wildly, 'Good and - and fine it
was,' she stammered, the best part of myself - I gave all and I
asked nothing in return - I just went on hopelessly loving
she broke off, she was shaking from head to foot, and Anna's cold
voice fell like icy water on that angry and sorely tormented spirit.
"You have spoken, Stephen. I don't think there's much more
that needs to be said between us except this, we two cannot live
together at Morton - not now, because I might grow to hate you.
Yes, although you're my child, I might grow to hate
you. The
same roof mustn't shelter us both any more; one of us must go -
which of us shall it be?' And she looked at Stephen and waited.
Morton! They could not both live at Morton. Something
seemed to catch hold of the girl's heart and twist it. She stared
at her mother, aghast for a moment, while Anna stared back-
she was waiting for her answer.
But quite suddenly Stephen found her manhood and she said:
' I understand. I'll leave Morton.'
M
Then Anna made her daughter sit down beside her, while
she talked of how this thing might be accomplished in a way
that would cause the least possible scandal: ' For the sake of your
father's honourable name, I must ask you to help me, Stephen.'
It was better, she said, that Stephen should take Puddle with her,
if Puddle would consent to go. They might live in London or
somewhere abroad, on the pretext that Stephen wished to study.
From time to time Stephen would come back to Morton and visit
her mother, and during those visits, they two would take care to
be seen together for appearances' sake, for the sake of her father.
She could take from Morton whatever she needed, the horses, and
230
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
anything else she wished. Certain of the rent-rolls would be paid
over to her, should her own income prove insufficient. All things
must be done in a way that was seemly - no undue haste, no sus-
picion of a breach between mother and daughter: ' For the sake
of your father I ask this of you, not for your sake or mine, but for
his. Do you consent to this, Stephen?
And Stephen answered: Yes, I consent.'
Then Anna said: 'I'd like you to leave me now - I feel tired
and I want to be alone for a little - but presently I shall send for
Puddle to discuss her living with you in the future.'
So Stephen got up, and she went away, leaving Anna Gordon
alone.
<
2
upon
AS THOUGH drawn there by some strong natal instinct, Stephen
went straight to her father's study; and she sat in the old arm-
chair that had survived him; then she buried her face in her hands.
All the loneliness that had gone before was as nothing to this
new loneliness of spirit. An immense desolation swept down
her, an immense need to cry out and claim understanding for
herself, an immense need to find an answer to the riddle of her
unwanted being. All around her were grey and crumbling ruins,
and under those ruins her love lay bleeding; shamefully wounded
by Angela Crossby, shamefully soiled and defiled by her mother
- a piteous, suffering, defenceless thing, it lay bleeding under the
ruins.
She felt blind when she tried to look into the future, stupefied
when she tried to look back on the past. She must go - she was
going away from Morton: 'From Morton - I'm going away from
Morton,' the words thudded drearily in her brain: 'I'm going
away from Morton.'
The grave, comely house would not know her any more, nor
the garden where she had heard the cuckoo with the dawning
understanding of a child, nor the lakes where she had kissed
Angela Crossby for the first time - full on the lips as a lover. The
good, sweet-smelling meadows with their placid cattle, she was
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
231
going to leave them; and the hills that protected poor, unhappy
lovers - the merciful hills; and the lanes with their sleepy dog-
roses at evening; and the little, old township of Upton-on-Severn
with its battle-scarred church and its yellowish river; that was
where she had first seen Angela Crossby.
The spring would come sweeping across Castle Morton, bring-
ing strong, clean winds to the open common. The spring would
come sweeping across the whole valley, from the Cotswold Hills
right up to the Malverns; bringing daffodils by their hundreds
and thousands, bringing bluebells to the beech wood down by
the lakes, bringing cygnets for Peter the swan to protect; bring-
ing sunshine to warm the old bricks of the house - but she would
not be there any more in the spring. In summer the roses would
not be her roses, nor the luminous carpet of leaves in the autumn,
nor the beautiful winter forms of the beech trees: ' And on eve-
nings in winter these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like
slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here
in the winter. .'No, no, not that memory, it was too much
–‘when and I come and stand here in the winter. . . .
•
you
Getting up, she wandered about the room, touching its kind
and familiar objects; stroking the desk, examining a pen, grown
rusty from long disuse as it lay there; then she opened a little
drawer in the desk and took out the key of her father's locked
book-case. Her mother had told her to take what she pleased –
she would take one or two of her father's books. She had never
examined this special book-case, and she could not have told why
she suddenly did so. As she slipped the key into the lock and
turned it, the action seemed curiously automatic. She began to take
out the volumes slowly and with listless fingers, scarcely glancing
at their titles. It gave her something to do, that was all – she
thought that she was trying to distract her attention. Then she
noticed that on a shelf near the bottom was a row of books stand-
ing behind the others; the next moment she had one of these in
her hand, and was looking at the name of the author: Krafft
Ebing - she had never heard of that author before. All the same
she opened the battered old book, then she looked more closely,
232
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
for there on its margins were notes in her father's small, scholarly
hand and she saw that her own name appeared in those notes -
She began to read, sitting down rather abruptly. For a long time
she read; then went back to the book-case and got out another of
those volumes, and another. . . . The sun was now setting be-
hind the hills; the garden was growing dusky with shadows. In
the study there was little light left to read by, so that she must
take her book to the window and must bend her face closer over
the
page; but still she read on and on in the dusk.
Then suddenly she had got to her feet and was talking aloud
she was talking to her father: 'You knew! All the time you
knew this thing, but because of your pity you wouldn't tell me.
Oh, Father and there are so many of us-- thousands of miser-
--
able, unwanted people, who have no right to love, no right to
compassion because they're maimed, hideously maimed and ugly
God's cruel; He let us get flawed in the making.'
And then, before she knew what she was doing, she had
found her father's old, well-worn Bible. There she stood demand-
ing a sign from heaven nothing less than a sign from heaven she
demanded. The Bible fell open near the beginning. She read:
And the Lord set a mark upon Cain. .
«
Then Stephen hurled the Bible away, and she sank down
completely hopeless and beaten, rocking her body backwards and
forwards with a kind of abrupt yet methodical rhythm: ' And the
Lord set a mark upon Cain, upon Cain. . . .' she was rocking
now in rhythm to those words, ' And the Lord set a mark upon
Cain upon Cain upon Cain. And the Lord set a mark upon
Cain. .
That was how Puddle came in and found her, and Puddle
said: 'Where you go, I go, Stephen. All that you're suffering at
this moment I've suffered. It was when I was very young like you
but I still remember.'
Stephen looked up with bewildered eyes: Would you go
with Cain whom God marked?' she said slowly, for she had not
understood Puddle's meaning, so she asked her once more:
"Would
you go with Cain?'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
233
Puddle put an arm round Stephen's bowed shoulders, and she
said: 'You've got work to do - come and do it! Why, just be-
cause you are what you are, you may actually find that you've
got an advantage. You may write with a curious double insight -
write both men and women from a personal knowledge. Noth-
ing's completely misplaced or wasted, I'm sure of that - and we're
all part of nature. Some day the world will recognize this, but
meanwhile there's plenty of work that's waiting. For the sake of
all the others who are like you, but less strong and less gifted per-
haps, many of them, it's up to you to have the courage to make
good, and I'm here to help you to do it, Stephen.'
BOOK THREE
CHAPTER 28
I
A
PALE glint of sunshine devoid of all warmth lay over the
wide expanse of the river, touching the funnel of a passing
tug that tore at the water like a clumsy harrow; but a field of
water is not for the sowing and the river closed back in the wake
of the tug, deftly obliterating all traces of its noisy and foolish
passing. The trees along the Chelsea Embankment bent and
creaked in a sharp March wind. The wind was urging the sap in
their branches to flow with a more determined purpose, but the
skin of their bodies was blackened and soot clogged so that when
touched it left soot on the fingers, and knowing this they were
always disheartened and therefore a little slow to respond to the
urge of the wind - they were city trees which are always some-
what disheartened. Away to the right against a toneless sky stood
the tall factory chimneys beloved of young artists - especially
those whose skill is not great, for few can go wrong over factory
chimneys - while across the stream Battersea Park still looked
misty as though barely convalescent from fog.
In her large, long, rather low-ceilinged study whose case-
ment windows looked over the river, sat Stephen with her feet
stretched out to the fire and her hands thrust into her jacket
pockets. Her eyelids drooped, she was all but asleep although it
was early afternoon. She had worked through the night, a de-
plorable habit and one of which Puddle quite rightly disapproved,
but when the spirit of work was on her it was useless to argue
with Stephen.
Puddle looked up from her embroidery frame and pushed her
spectacles on to her forehead the better to see the drowsy Stephen,
for Puddle's eyes had grown very long-sighted so that the room
looked blurred through her glasses.
She thought: 'Yes, she's changed a good deal in these two
238
THE WEL OF LONELINESS
years
'then she sighed half in sadness and half in contentment,
All the same she is making good,' thought Puddle, remember-
ing with a quick thrill of pride that the long-limbed creature who
lounged by the fire had suddenly sprung into something like fame
thanks to a fine first novel.
Stephen yawned, and readjusting her spectacles Puddle re-
sumed her wool-work.
It was true that the two long years of exile had left their traces
on Stephen's face; it had grown much thinner and more de-
termined, some might have said that the face had hardened, for
the mouth was less ardent and much less gentle, and the lips
now drooped at the corners. The strong rather massive line of
the jaw looked aggressive these days by reason of its thinness.
Faint furrows had come between the thick brows and faint shad-
ows showed at times under the
eyes; the eyes themselves were
the eyes of a writer, always a little tired in expression. Her com-
plexion was paler than it had been in the past, it had lost the
look of wind and sunshine - the open-air look - and the fingers
of the hand that slowly emerged from her jacket pocket were
heavily stained with nicotine - she was now a voracious smoker.
Her hair was quite short. In a mood of defiance she had suddenly
walked off to the barber's one morning and had made him crop
it close like a man's. And mightily did this fashion become her,
for now the fine shape of her head was unmarred by the stiff
clumpy plait in the nape of her neck. Released from the torment
imposed upon it the thick auburn hair could breathe and wave
freely, and Stephen had grown fond and proud of her hair - a
hundred strokes must it have with the brush every night until it
looked burnished. Sir Philip also had been proud of his hair in the
days of his youthful manhood.
Stephen's life in London had been one long endeavour, for
work to her had become a narcotic. Puddle it was who had found
the flat with the casement windows that looked on the river, and
Puddle it was who now kept the accounts, paid the rent, settled
bills and managed the servants; all these details Stephen calmly
ignored and the faithful Puddle allowed her to do so. Like an age-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
239
ing and anxious Vestal Virgin she tended the holy fire of inspira-
tion, feeding the flame with suitable food - good grilled meat,
light puddings and much fresh fruit, varied by little painstaking
surprises from Jackson's or Fortnum and Mason. For Stephen's
appetite was not what it had been in the vigorous days of Morton;
now there were times when she could not eat, or if she must eat
she did so protesting, fidgeting to go back to her desk. At such
times Puddle would steal into the study with a tin of Brand's
Essence she had even been known to feed the recalcitrant author
piecemeal, until Stephen must laugh and gobble up the jelly for
the sake of getting on with her writing.
Only one duty apart from her work had Stephen never for
a moment neglected, and that was the care and the welfare of
Raftery. The cob had been sold, and her father's chestnut she had
given away to Colonel Antrim, who had sworn not to let the
horse out of his hands for the sake of his life-long friend, Sir
Philip - but Raftery she had brought up to London. She herself
had found and rented his stable with comfortable rooms above
for Jim, the groom she had taken from Morton. Every morning
she rode very early in the Park, which seemed a futile and dreary
business, but now only thus could the horse and his owner con-
trive to be together for a little. Sometimes she fancied that Raftery
sighed as she cantered him round and round the Row, and then
she would stoop down and speak to him softly:
'My Raftery, I know, it's not Castle Morton or the hills or the
big, green Severn Valley - but I love you.'
And because he had understood her he would throw up his
head and begin to prance sideways, pretending that he still felt
very youthful, pretending that he was wild with delight at the
prospect of cantering round the Row. But after a while these two
sorry exiles would droop and move forward without much spirit.
Each in a separate way would divine the ache in the other, the
ache that was Morton, so that Stephen would cease to urge the
beast forward, and Raftery would cease to pretend to Stephen.
But when twice a year at her mother's request, Stephen must go
back to visit her home, then Raftery went too, and his joy was
240
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
immense when he felt the good springy turf beneath him, when
he sighted the red brick stables of Morton, when he rolled in the
straw of his large, airy loosebox. The years would seem to slip
from his shoulders, he grew sleeker, he would look like a five-
year-old – yet to Stephen these visits of theirs were anguish be-
cause of her love for Morton. She would feel like a stranger within
the gates, an unwanted stranger there only on sufferance. It would
seem to her that the old house withdrew itself from her love very
gravely and sadly, that its windows no longer beckoned, invited:
'Come home, come home, come inside quickly, Stephen!' And
she would not dare to proffer her love, which would burden her
heart to breaking.
She must now pay many calls with her mother, must attend
all the formal social functions - this for the sake of appearances,
lest the neighbours should guess the breach between them. She
must keep up the fiction that she found in a city the stimulus
necessary to her work, she who was filled with a hungry longing
for the green of the hills, for the air of wide spaces, for the morn-
ings and the noontides and the evenings of Morton. All these
things she must do for the sake of her father, aye, and for the sake
of Morton.
On her first visit home Anna had said very quietly one day:
"There's something, Stephen, that I think I ought to tell you
perhaps, though it's painful to me to reopen the subject. There
has been no scandal - that man held his tongue - you'll be glad
to know this because of your father. And Stephen - the Crossbys
have sold The Grange and gone to America, I believe - ' she had
stopped abruptly, not looking at Stephen, who had nodded, un-
able to answer.
So now there were quite different folk at The Grange, folk
very much more to the taste of the county - Admiral Carson and
his apple-cheeked wife who, childless herself, adored Mothers'
Meetings. Stephen must sometimes go to The Grange with Anna,
who liked the Carsons. Very grave and aloof had Stephen become;
too reserved, too self-assured, thought her neighbours. They sup-
posed that success had gone to her head, for no one was now al-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
241
lowed to divine the terrible shyness that made social intercourse
such a miserable torment. Life had already taught Stephen one
thing, and that was that never must human beings be allowed
to suspect that a creature fears them. The fear of the one is
a spur to the many, for the primitive hunting instinct dies
hard - it is better to face a hostile world than to turn one's back
for a moment.
But at least she was spared meeting Roger Antrim, and for
this she was most profoundly thankful. Roger had gone with his
regiment to Malta, so that they two did not see each other. Violet
was married and living in London in the: 'perfect duck of a
house in Belgravia.' From time to time she would blow in on
Stephen, but not often, because she was very much married with
one baby already and another on the way. She was somewhat
subdued and much less maternal that she had been when first
she met Alec.
If Anna was proud of her daughter's achievement she said
nothing beyond the very few words that must of necessity be
spoken: 'I'm so glad your book has succeeded, Stephen.'
'Thank you, mother-
Then as always these two fell silent. Those long and eloquent
silences of theirs were now of almost daily occurrence when they
found themselves together. Nor could they look each other in
the eyes any more, their eyes were for ever shifting, and some-
times Anna's pale cheeks would flush very slightly when she was
alone with Stephen - perhaps at her thoughts.
And Stephen would think: 'It's because she can't help
remembering.'
For the most part, however, they shunned all contact by com-
mon consent, except when in public. And this studied avoidance
tore at their nerves; they were now well-nigh obsessed by each
other, for ever secretly laying their plans in order to avoid a meet-
ing. Thus it was that these obligatory visits to Morton were
a pretty bad strain on Stephen. She would get back to London
unable to sleep, unable to eat, unable to write, and with such a
despairing and sickening heartache for the grave old house the
-
242
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moment she had left it, that Puddle would have to be very severe
in order to pull her together.
'I'm ashamed of you, Stephen; what's happened to your
courage? You don't deserve your phenomenal success; if you go
on like this, God help the new book. I suppose you're going to be
a one-book author!'
Scowling darkly, Stephen would go to her desk - she had no
wish to be a one-book author.
2
YET as everything comes as grist to the mill of those who are
destined from birth to be writers - poverty or riches, good or evil,
gladness or sorrow, all grist to the mill - so the pain of Morton
burning down to the spirit in Stephen had kindled a bright, hot
flame, and all that she had written she had written by its light,
seeing exceedingly clearly. As though in a kind of self-preserva-
tion, her mind had turned to quite simple people, humble people
sprung from the soil, from the same kind soil that had nurtured
Morton. None of her own strange emotions had touched them,
and yet they were part of her own emotions; a part of her long-
ing for simplicity and peace, a part of her curious craving for the
normal. And although at this time Stephen did not know it, their
happiness had sprung from her moments of joy; their sorrows
from the sorrow she had known and still knew; their frustrations
from her own bitter emptiness; their fulfilments from her long-
ing to be fulfilled. These people had drawn life and strength from
their creator. Like infants they had sucked at her breasts of in-
spiration, and drawn from them blood, waxing wonderfully
strong; demanding, compelling thereby recognition. For surely
thus only are fine books written, they must somehow partake of
the miracle of blood - the strange and terrible miracle of blood,
the giver of life, the purifier, the great final expiation.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
243
3
BUT one thing there was that Puddle still feared, and this was
the girl's desire for isolation. To her it appeared like a weakness
in Stephen; she divined the bruised humility of spirit that now
underlay this desire for isolation, and she did her best to frustrate
it. It was Puddle who had forced the embarrassed Stephen to let
in the Press photographers, and Puddle it was who had given the
details for the captions that were to appear with the pictures: 'If
you choose to behave like a hermit crab I shall use my own judg-
ment about what I say!
'I don't care a tinker's darn what you say! Now leave me in
peace do, Puddle.'
▬▬▬▬▬
It was Puddle who answered the telephone calls: 'I'm afraid
Miss Gordon will be busy working - what name did you say?
Oh, The Literary Monthly! I see - well suppose you come on
Wednesday.' And on Wednesday morning there was old Puddle
waiting to waylay the anxious young man who had been com-
manded to dig up some copy about the new novelist, Stephen
Gordon. Then Puddle had smiled at the anxious young man and
had shepherded him into her own little sanctum, and had given
him a comfortable chair, and had stirred the fire the better to
warm him. And the young man had noticed her charming smile.
and had thought how kind was this ageing woman, and how
damned hard it was to go tramping the streets in quest of erratic,
unsociable authors.
Puddle had said, still smiling kindly: 'I'd hate you to go back
without your copy, but Miss Gordon's been working overtime
lately, I dare not disturb her, you don't mind, do you? Now if
you
could possibly make shift with me - I really do know a great
deal about her; as a matter of fact I'm her ex-governess, so I really
do know quite a lot about her.'
<
Out had come notebook and copying pencil; it was easy to
talk to this sympathetic woman: Well, if you could give me some
interesting details - say, her taste in books and her recreations,
I'd be awfully grateful. She hunts, I believe?'
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Oh, not now!'
'I see well then, she did hunt. And wasn't her father Sir
Philip Gordon who had a place down in Worcestershire and was
killed by a falling tree or something? What kind of pupil did you
find Miss Gordon? I'll send her my notes when I've worked them
up, but I really would like to see her, you know.' Then being a
fairly sagacious young man: 'I've just read The Furrow, it's a
wonderful book!
—
Puddle talked glibly while the young man scribbled, and
when at last he was just about going she let him out on to the
balcony from which he could look into Stephen's study.
"There she is at her desk! What more could you ask?' she
said triumphantly, pointing to Stephen whose hair was literally
standing on end, as is sometimes the way with youthful authors.
She even managed occasionally, to make Stephen see the journal-
ists herself.
4
STEPHEN got up, stretched, and went to the window. The sun had
retreated behind the clouds; a kind of brown twilight hung over
the Embankment, for the wind had now dropped and a fog
was threatening. The discouragement common to all fine writers.
was upon her, she was hating what she had written. Last night's
work seemed inadequate and unworthy; she decided to put a
blue pencil through it and to rewrite the chapter from start to
finish. She began to give way to a species of panic; her new book
would be a ludicrous failure, she felt it, she would never again
write a novel possessing the quality of The Furrow. The Furrow
had been the result of shock to which she had, strangely enough,
reacted by a kind of unnatural mental vigour. But now she could
not react any more, her brain felt like over-stretched elastic, it
would not spring back, it was limp, unresponsive. And then there
was something else that distracted, something she was longing
to put into words yet that shamed her so that it held her tongue-
tied. She lit a cigarette and when it was finished found another
and kindled it at the stump.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
245
Stop embroidering that curtain, for God's sake, Puddle. I
simply can't stand the sound of your needle; it makes a booming
noise like a drum every time you prod that tightly stretched
linen.'
Puddle looked up: 'You're smoking too much.'
'I dare say I am. I can't write any more.'
'Since when?'
"Ever since I began this new book.'
'Don't be such a fool!'
'But it's God's truth, I tell you - I feel flat, it's a kind of
spiritual dryness. This new book is going to be a failure, some-
times I think I'd better destroy it.' She began to pace up and down
the room, dull-eyed yet tense as a tightly drawn bow string.
This comes of working all night,' Puddle murmured.
<
'I must work when the spirit moves me,' snapped Stephen.
Puddle put aside her wool work embroidery. She was not
much moved by this sudden depression, she had grown quite
accustomed to these literary moods, yet she looked a little more
closely at Stephen and something that she saw in her face
disturbed her.
"You look tired to death; why not lie down and rest?'
'Rot! I want to work.'
You're not fit to work. You look all on edge, somehow.
What's the matter with you?' And then very gently: Stephen,
come here and sit down by me, please, I must know what's the
matter."
<
Stephen obeyed as though once again they two were back in
the old Morton schoolroom, then she suddenly buried her face
in her hands: 'I don't want to tell you - why must I, Puddle?'
Because,' said Puddle, 'I've a right to know; your career's
very dear to me, Stephen.'
Then suddenly Stephen could not resist the blessed relief of
confiding in Puddle once more, of taking this great new trouble
to the faithful and wise little grey-haired woman whose hand
had been stretched out to save in the past. Perhaps yet again that
hand might find the strength that was needful to save her.
¡
246
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Not looking at Puddle, she began to talk quickly: 'There's
something I've been wanting to tell you, Puddle - it's about my
work, there's something wrong with it. I mean that my work
could be much more vital; I feel it, I know it, I'm holding it
back in some way, there's something I'm always missing. Even
in The Furrow I feel I missed something - I know it was fine,
but it wasn't complete because I'm not complete and I never shall
be - can't you understand? I'm not complete. . .' She paused
unable to find the words she wanted, then blundered on again
blindly: 'There's a great chunk of life that I've never known,
and I want to know it, I ought to know it if I'm to become a really
fine writer. There's the greatest thing perhaps in the world, and
I've missed it - that's what's so awful, Puddle, to know that it
exists everywhere, all round me, to be constantly near it yet al-
ways held back - to feel that the poorest people in the streets,
the most ignorant people, know more than I do. And I dare to
take up my pen and write, knowing less than these poor men and
women in the street! Why haven't I got a right to it, Puddle?
Can't you understand that I'm strong and young, so that some-
times this thing that I'm missing torments me, so that I can't con-
centrate on my work any more? Puddle, help me - you were
young yourself once.'
Yes, Stephen - a long time ago I was young.
"But can't you remember back for my sake?' And now her
voice sounded almost angry in her distress: 'It's unfair, it's un-
just. Why should I live in this great isolation of spirit and body -
why should I, why? Why have I been afflicted with a body that
must never be indulged, that must always be repressed until it
grows stronger much than my spirit because of this unnatural
repression? What have I done to be so cursed? And now it's
attacking my holy of holies, my work - I shall never be a great
writer because of my maimed and insufferable body - ' She fell
silent, suddenly shy and ashamed, too much ashamed to go on
speaking.
And there sat Puddle as pale as death and as speechless, hav-
ing no comfort to offer - no comfort, that is, that she dared to
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
247
offer – while all her fine theories about making good for the sake
of those others; being noble, courageous, patient, honourable,
physically pure, enduring because it was right to endure, the
terrible birthright of the invert - all Puddle's fine theories lay
strewn around her like the ruins of some false and flimsy temple,
and she saw at that moment but one thing clearly - true genius
in chains, in the chains of the flesh, a fine spirit subject to physical
bondage. And as once before she had argued with God on behalf
of this sorely afflicted creature, so now she inwardly cried yet
again to the Maker whose will had created Stephen: 'Thine
hands have made me and fashioned me together round about;
yet Thou dost destroy me.' Then into her heart crept a bitterness
very hard to endure: Yet Thou dost destroy me –
Stephen looked up and saw her face: 'Never mind,' she said
sharply, ‘it's all right, Puddle - forget it!'
But Puddle's eyes filled with tears, and seeing this, Stephen
went to her desk. Sitting down she groped for her manuscript:
'I'm going to turn you out now, I must work. Don't wait for
me if I'm late for dinner.'
Very humbly Puddle crept out of the study.
!
CHAPTER 29
I
SOON
OON after the New Year, nine months later, Stephen's second
novel was published. It failed to create the sensation that the
first had created, there was something disappointing about it.
One critic described this as: A lack of grip,' and his criticism,
on the whole, was a fair one. However, the Press was disposed to
be kind, remembering the merits of The Furrow.
But the heart of the Author knoweth its own sorrows and
is seldom responsive to false consolation, so that when Puddle
said: 'Never mind, Stephen, you can't expect every book to be
The Furrow - and this one is full of literary merit,' Stephen
replied as she turned away: 'I was writing a novel, my dear, not
an essay.'
After this they did not discuss it any more, for what was the
use of fruitless discussion? Stephen knew well and Puddle knew
also that this book fell far short of its author's powers. Then
suddenly, that spring, Raftery went very lame, and everything
else was forgotten.
Raftery was aged, he was now eighteen, so that lameness in
him was not easy of healing. His life in a city had tried him
sorely, he had missed the light, airy stables of Morton, and the
cruel-hard bed that lay under the tan of the Row had jarred his
legs badly.
The vet shook his head and looked very grave: 'He's an
aged horse, you know, and of course in his youth you hunted
him pretty freely - it all counts. Every one comes to the end of
their tether, Miss Gordon. Yes, at times I'm afraid it is painful.'
Then seeing Stephen's face: 'I'm awfully sorry not to give a
more cheerful diagnosis.'
Other experts arrived. Every good vet in London was con-
sulted, including Professor Hobday. No cure, no cure, it was
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
249
always the same, and at times, they told Stephen, the old horse
suffered; but this she well knew she had seen the sweat break
out darkly on Raftery's shoulders.
K
So one morning she went into Raftery's loosebox, and she
sent the groom Jim out of the stable, and she laid her cheek
against the beast's neck, while he turned his head and began to
nuzzle. Then they looked at each other very quietly and gravely,
and in Raftery's eyes was a strange, new expression – a kind of
half-anxious, protesting wonder at this thing men call pain:
'What is it, Stephen?'
She answered, forcing back her hot tears: 'Perhaps, for you,
the beginning, Raftery.
After a while she went to his manger and let the fodder
slip through her fingers; but he would not eat, not even to please.
her, so she called the groom back and ordered some gruel. Very
gently she readjusted the clothing that had slipped to one side,
first the under-blanket then the smart blue rug that was braided
in red -- red and blue, the old stable colours of Morton.
The groom Jim, now a thick-set stalwart young man, stared
at her with sorrowful understanding, but he did not speak; he was
almost as dumb as the beasts whom his life had been passed in
tending - even dumber, perhaps, for his language consisted of
words, having no small sounds and small movements such as
Raftery used when he spoke with Stephen, and which meant so
much more than words.
Mod
She said: 'I'm going now to the station to order a horse-
box for to-morrow, I'll let you know the time we start, later. And
wrap him up well; put on plenty of clothing for the journey,
please, he mustn't feel cold."
The man nodded. She had not told him their destination,
but he knew it already; it was Morton. Then the great clumsy
fellow must pretend to be busy with a truss of fresh straw for the
horse's bedding, because his face had turned a deep crimson,
because his coarse lips were actually trembling - and this was not
really so very strange, for those who served Raftery loved him.
250
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
2
RAFTERY stepped quietly into his horse-box and Jim with great
deftness secured the halter, then he touched his cap and hurried
away to his third-class compartment, for Stephen herself would
travel with Raftery on this last journey back to the fields of Mor-
ton. Sitting down on the seat reserved for a groom she opened
the little wooden window into the box, whereupon Raftery's
muzzle came up and his face looked out of the window. She
fondled the soft, grey plush of his muzzle. Presently she took a
carrot from her pocket, but the carrot was rather hard now for
his teeth, so she bit off small pieces and these she gave him in the
palm of her hand; then she watched him eat them uncomfortably,
slowly, because he was old, and this seemed so strange, for old
age and Raftery went very ill together.
Her mind slipped back and back over the years until it re-
captured the coming of Raftery - grey-coated and slender, and
his eyes as soft as an Irish morning, and his courage as bright as
an Irish sunrise, and his heart as young as the wild, eternally
young heart of Ireland. She remembered what they had said to
cach other. Raftery had said: 'I will carry you bravely, I will
serve you all the days of
all the days of my life.' She had answered: 'I will care
for you night and day, Raftery - all the days of your life.' She
remembered their first run with hounds together – she a young-
ster of twelve, he a youngster of five. Great deeds they had done
on that day together, at least they had seemed like great deeds
to them - she had had a kind of fire in her heart as she galloped
astride of Raftery. She remembered her father, his protective
back, so broad, so kind, so patiently protective; and towards the
end it had stooped a little as though out of kindness it carried a
burden. Now she knew whose burden that back had been bearing
so that it stooped a little. He had been very proud of the fine Irish
horse, very proud of his small and courageous rider: Steady,
Stephen!' but his eyes had been bright like Raftery's. 'Steady
on, Stephen, we're coming to a stiff one!' but once they were
over he had turned round and smiled, as he had done in the days
<
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
251
when the impudent Collins had stretched his inadequate legs
to their utmost to keep up with the pace of the hunters.
Long ago, it all seemed a long time ago. A long road it
seemed, leading where? She wondered. Her father had gone
away into its shadows, and now after him, limping a little, went
Raftery; Raftery with hollows above his eyes and down his
grey neck that had once been so firm; Raftery whose splendid
white teeth were now yellowed and too feeble to bite up his
carrot.
The train jogged and swayed so that once the horse stumbled.
Springing up, she stretched out her hand to soothe him. He
seemed glad of her hand: 'Don't be frightened, Raftery. Did
that hurt you?' Raftery acquainted with pain on the road that
led into the shadows.
Presently the hills showed over on the left, but a long way
off, and when they came nearer they were suddenly very near on
the right, so near that she saw the white houses on them. They
looked dark; a kind of still, thoughtful darkness brooded over
the hills and their low white houses. It was always so in the late
afternoons, for the sun moved across to the wide Wye Valley
it would set on the western side of the hills, over the wide Wye
Valley. The smoke from the chimney-stacks bent downwards.
after rising a little and formed a blue haze, for the air was heavy
with spring and dampness. Leaning from the window she could
smell the spring, the time of mating, the time of fruition. When
the train stopped a minute outside the station she fancied that she
heard the singing of birds; very softly it came but the sound was
persistent - yes, surely, that was the singing of birds. . . .
3
THEY took Raftery in an ambulance from Great Malvern in order
to spare him the jar of the roads. That night he slept in his own
spacious loosebox, and the faithful Jim would not leave him
that night; he sat up and watched while Raftery slept in so deep
a bed of yellow-gold straw that it all but reached to his knees
252
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
when standing. A last inarticulate tribute this to the most gallant
horse, the most courteous horse that ever stepped out of stable.
But when the sun came up over Bredon, flooding the breadth
of the Severn Valley, touching the slopes of the Malvern Hills
that stand opposite Bredon across the valley, gilding the old red
bricks of Morton and the weather-vane on its quiet stables, Ste-
phen went into her father's study and she loaded his heavy
revolver.
Then they led Raftery out and into the morning; they led
him with care to the big north paddock and stood him beside
the mighty hedge that had set the seal on his youthful valour.
Very still he stood with the sun on his flanks, the groom, Jim,
holding the bridle.
Stephen said: 'I'm going to send you away, a long way away,
and I've never left you except for a little while since you came
when I was a child and you were quite young - but I'm going
to send you a long way away because of your pain. Raftery, this is
death; and beyond, they say, there's no more suffering.' She
paused, then spoke in a voice so low that the groom could not
hear her: Forgive me, Raftery.'
And Raftery stood there looking at Stephen, and his eyes
were as soft as an Irish morning, yet as brave as the eyes that
looked into his. Then it seemed to Stephen that he had spoken,
that Raftery had said: "Since to me you are God, what have I to
forgive you, Stephen?
She took a step forward and pressed the revolver high up
against Raftery's smooth, grey forehead. She fired, and he dropped
to the ground like a stone, lying perfectly still by the mighty
hedge that had set the seal on his youthful valour.
But now there broke out a great crying and wailing: 'Oh,
me! Oh, me! They've been murderin' Raftery! Shame, shame,
I says, on the 'and what done it, and 'im no common horse but a
Christian. . . .' Then loud sobbing as though some very young
child had fallen down and hurt itself badly. And there in a small,
creaky, wicker bath-chair sat Williams, being bumped along over
the paddock by a youthful niece, who had come to Morton to
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
253
take care of the old and now feeble couple; for Williams had had
his first stroke that Christmas, in addition to which he was almost.
childish. God only knew who had told him this thing; the secret
had been very carefully guarded by Stephen, who, knowing his
love for the horse, had taken every precaution to spare him. Yet
now here he was with his face all twisted by the stroke and the
sobs that kept on rising. He was trying to lift his half-paralysed
hand which kept dropping back on to the arm of the bath-chair;
he was trying to get out of the bath-chair and run to where
Raftery lay stretched out in the sunshine; he was trying to speak
again, but his voice had grown thick so that no one could under-
stand him. Stephen thought that his mind had begun to wander,
for now he was surely not screaming Raftery' any more, but
something that sounded like: Master!' and again, 'Oh, Master,
Master!'
She said: 'Take him home,' for he did not know her; ' take
him home. You'd no business to bring him here at all - it's
against my orders. Who told him about it?
And the young girl answered: 'It seemed 'e just knowed -
it was like as though Raftery told 'im. . . .'
,
eyes.
Williams looked up with his blurred, anxious
'Who
be you?' he inquired. Then he suddenly smiled through his
tears. 'It be good to be seein' you, Master – seems like a long
while. . . . His voice was now clear but exceedingly small,
a small, far away thing. If a doll had spoken, its voice
might have sounded very much as the old man's did at that
moment.
Stephen bent over him. 'Williams, I'm Stephen - don't you
know me? It's Miss Stephen. You must go straight home and get
back to bed - it's still rather cold on these carly spring mornings
- to please me, Williams, you must go straight home. Why, your
hands are frozen!
But Williams shook his head and began to remember. ‘Raf-
tery,' he mumbled, 'something's 'appened to Raftery.' And his
sobs and his tears broke out with fresh vigour, so that his niece,
frightened, tried to stop him.
254
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'Now uncle be qui-et I do be-seech 'e! It's so bad for 'e carry-
in' on in this wise. What will auntie say when she sees 'e all
mucked up with weepin', and yer poor nose all red and dir-ty?
I'll be takin' 'e 'ome as Miss Stephen 'ere says. Now, uncle dear,
do be qui-et!'
She lugged the bath-chair round with a jolt and trundled it,
lurching, towards the cottage. All the way back down the big
north paddock Williams wept and wailed and tried to get out,
but his niece put one hefty young hand on his shoulder; with
the other she guided the lurching bath-chair.
Stephen watched them go, then she turned to the groom.
'Bury him here,' she said briefly.
4
BEFORE she left Morton that same afternoon, she went once more
into the large, bare stables. The stables were now completely
empty, for Anna had moved her carriage horses to new quarters
nearer the coachman's cottage.
Over one loosebox was a warped oak board bearing Collins'
stud-book title, 'Marcus,' in red and blue letters; but the paint
was dulled to a ghostly grey by encroaching mildew, while a
spider had spun a large, purposeful web across one side of Collins'
manger. A cracked, sticky wine bottle lay on the floor; no doubt
used at some time for drenching Collins, who had died in a fit
of violent colic a few months after Stephen herself had left Mor-
ton. On the window-sill of the farthest loosebox stood a curry
comb and a couple of brushes; the comb was being eaten by rust,
the brushes had lost several clumps of bristles. A jam pot of hoof-
polish, now hard as stone, clung tenaciously to a short stick of
firewood which time had petrified into the polish. But Raftery's
loosebox smelt fresh and pleasant with the curious dry, clean
smell of new straw. A deep depression towards the middle showed
where his body had lain in sleep, and seeing this Stephen stooped
down and touched it for a moment. Then she whispered: ' Sleep
peacefully, Raftery.'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
255
She could not weep, for a great desolation too deep for tears
lay over her spirit - the great desolation of things that pass, of
things that pass away in our lifetime. And then of what good,
after all, are our tears, since they cannot hold back this passing
away – no, not for so much as a moment? She looked round her
now at the empty stables, the unwanted, uncared for stables of
Morton. So proud they had been that were now so humbled, even
unto cobwebs and dust were they humbled; and they had the
feeling of all disused places that have once teemed with life, they
felt pitifully lonely. She closed her eyes so as not to see them. Then
the thought came to Stephen that this was the end, the end of
her courage and patient endurance - that this was somehow the
end of Morton. She must not see the place any more; she must,
she would, go a long way away. Raftery had gone a long way
away - she had sent him beyond all hope of recall - but she could
not follow him over that merciful frontier, for her God was more
stern than Raftery's; and yet she must fly from her love for Mor-
ton. Turning, she hurriedly left the stables.
5
ANNA was standing at the foot of the stairs. Are you leaving
now, Stephen?
>
'Yes - I'm going, Mother.'
'A short visit!
'Yes, I must get back to work.'
'I see. . . .' Then after a long, awkward pause: 'Where
would
you like him buried?'
'In the large north paddock where he died - I've told Jim.'
'Very well, I'll see that they carry out your orders.' She
hesitated, as though suddenly shy of Stephen again, as she had
been in the past; but after a moment she went on quickly: 'I
thought - I wondered, would you like a small stone with his
name and some sort of inscription on it, just to mark the place?'
'If you'd care to put one - I shan't need any stone to re-
member.'
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
The carriage was waiting to drive her to Malvern. Good-bye,
Mother.'
"Good-bye - I shall put up that stone.'
'Thanks, it's a very kind thought of yours.'
Anna said: 'I'm so sorry about this, Stephen.'
But Stephen had hurried into the brougham - the door
closed, and she did not hear her mother.
CHAPTER 30
I
Along
T AN old-fashioned, Kensington luncheon party, not very
after Raftery's death, Stephen met and renewed her ac-
quaintance with Jonathan Brockett, the playwright. Her mother
had wished her to go to this luncheon, for the Carringtons were
old family friends, and Anna insisted that from time to time her
daughter should accept their invitations. At their house it was
that Stephen had first seen this young man, rather over a year
ago. Brockett was a connection of the Carringtons; had he not
been Stephen might never have met him, for such gatherings
bored him exceedingly, and therefore it was not his habit to attend
them. But on that occasion he had not been bored, for his sharp,
grey eyes had lit upon Stephen; and as soon as he well could, the
meal being over, he had made his way to her side and had re-
mained there. She had found him exceedingly easy to talk to, as
indeed he had wished her to find him.
This first meeting had led to one or two rides in the Row
together, since they both rode early. Brockett had joined her
quite casually one morning; after which he had called, and had
talked to Puddle as if he had come on purpose to see her and
her only -- he had charming and thoughtful manners towards all
elderly people. Puddle had accepted him while disliking his
clothes, which were always just a trifle too careful; moreover she
had disapproved of his cuff-links - platinum links set with tiny
emeralds. All the same, she had made him feel very welcome,
for to her it had been any port in a storm just then - she would
gladly have welcomed the devil himself, had she thought that
he might rouse Stephen.
But Stephen was never able to decide whether Jonathan
Brockett attracted or repelled her. Brilliant he could be at certain
times, yet curiously foolish and puerile at others; and his hands
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
were as white and soft as a woman's - she would feel a queer little
sense of outrage creeping over her when she looked at his hands.
For those hands of his went so ill with him somehow; he was tall,
broad-shouldered, and of an extreme thinness. His clean-shaven
face was slightly sardonic and almost disconcertingly clever; an
inquisitive face too - one felt that it pried into everyone's secrets
without shame or mercy. It may have been genuine liking on his
part or mere curiosity that had made him persist in thrusting his
friendship on Stephen. But whatever it had been it had taken the
form of ringing her up almost daily at one time; of worrying her
to lunch or dine with him, of inviting himself to her flat in
Chelsea, or what was still worse, of dropping in on her whenever
the spirit moved him. His work never seemed to worry him at
all, and Stephen often wondered when his fine plays got written,
for Brockett very seldom if ever discussed them and apparently
very seldom wrote them; yet they always appeared at the critical
moment when their author had run short of money.
Once, for the sake of peace, she had dined with him in a
species of glorified cellar. He had just then discovered the queer
little place down in Seven Dials, and was very proud of it; indeed,
he was making it rather the fashion among certain literary
people. He had taken a great deal of trouble that evening to
make Stephen feel that she belonged to these people by right of
her talent, and had introduced her as Stephen Gordon, the
author of The Furrow.' But all the while he had secretly watched
her with his sharp and inquisitive grey eyes. She had felt very
much at ease with Brockett as they sat at their little dimly lit
table, perhaps because her instinct divined that this man would
never require of her more than she could give - that the most he
would ask for at any time would be friendship.
T
Then one day he had casually disappeared, and she heard
that he had gone to Paris for some months, as was often his cus-
tom when the climate of London had begun to get on his nerves.
He had drifted away like thistledown, without so much as a word
of warning. He had not said good-bye nor had he written, so that
Stephen felt that she had never known him, so completely did
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
259
he go out of her life during his sojourn in Paris. Later on she
was to learn, when she knew him better, that these discon-
certing lapses of interest, amounting as they did to a breach
of good manners, were highly characteristic of the man, and
must of necessity be accepted by all who accepted Jonathan
Brockett.
And now here he was back again in England, sitting next to
Stephen at the Carringtons' luncheon. And as though they had
met but a few hours ago, he took her up calmly just where he
had left her. May I come in to-morrow?
'Well - I'm awfully busy.'
"But I want to come, please; I can talk to Puddle.'
I'm afraid she'll be out.'
Then I'll just sit and wait until she comes in; I'll be quiet
as a mouse.'
C
Oh, no, Brockett, please don't; I should know you were
there and that would disturb me.'
'I see. A new book?'
C
Well, no- I'm trying to write some short stories; I've got a
commission from The Good Housewife.'
'Sounds thrifty. I hope you're getting well paid.' Then after
a rather long pause: 'How's Raftery?
For a second she did not answer, and Brockett, with quick
intuition, regretted his question. ' Not . . . not. . . .' he stam-
mered.
--
'Yes,' she said slowly, ' Raftery's dead - he went lame. I shot
him.'
He was silent. Then he suddenly took her hand and, still
without speaking, pressed it. Glancing up, she was surprised by
the look in his eyes, so sorrowful it was, and so understanding.
He had liked the old horse, for he liked all dumb creatures. But
Raftery's death could mean nothing to him; yet his sharp, grey
eyes had now softened with pity because she had had to shoot
Raftery.
She thought: What a curious fellow he is. At this moment I
suppose he actually feels something almost like grief- it's my
!
•
260
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
grief he's getting- and to-morrow, of course, he'll forget all
about it.'
Which was true enough. Brockett could compress quite a lot
of emotion into an incredibly short space of time; could squeeze
a kind of emotional beef-tea from all those with whom life
brought him in contact - a strong brew, and one that served to
sustain and revivify his inspiration.
2
FOR ten days Stephen heard nothing more of Brockett; then he
rang up to announce that he was coming to dinner at her flat
that very same evening.
You'll get awfully little to eat,' warned Stephen, who was
tired to death and who did not want him.
<
'Oh, all right, I'll bring some dinner along,' he said blithely,
and with that he hung up the receiver.
At a quarter-past eight he arrived, late for dinner and loaded
like a pack-mule with brown paper parcels. He looked cross; he
had spoilt his new reindeer gloves with mayonnaise that had
oozed through a box containing the lobster salad.
He thrust the box into Stephen's hands. ' Here, you take it -
it's dripping. Can I have a wash rag?' But after a moment he
forgot the new gloves. 'I've raided Fortnum and Mason - such
fun - I do love eating things out of cardboard boxes. Hallo,
Puddle darling! I sent you a plant. Did you get it? A nice
little plant with brown bobbles. It smells good, and it's got a
ridiculous name like an old Italian dowager or something. Wait
a minute - what's it called? Oh, yes, a baronia - it's so humble
to have such a pompous name! Stephen, do be careful - don't
rock the lobster about like that. I told you the thing was
dripping!'
He dumped his parcels on to the hall table.
'I'll take them along to the kitchen,' smiled Puddle.
C
'No, I will,' said Brockett, collecting them again, I'll do
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
261
the whole thing; you leave it to me. I adore other people's
kitchens.'
He was in his most foolish and tiresome mood - the mood
when his white hands made odd little gestures, when his laugh
was too high and his movements too small for the size of his
broad-shouldered, rather gaunt body. Stephen had grown to
dread him in this mood; there was something almost aggressive
about it; it would seem to her that he thrust it upon her, showing
off like a child at a Christmas party.
She said sharply: 'If you'll wait, I'll ring for the maid.' But
Brockett had already invaded the kitchen.
She followed, to find the cook looking offended.
'I want lots and lots of dishes,' he announced. Then unfor-
tunately he happened to notice the parlourmaid's washing, just
back from the laundry.
'Brockett, what on earth are you doing?'
C
He had put on the girl's ornate frilled cap, and was busily
tying on her small apron. He paused for a moment. How do
I look? What a perfect duck of an apron!'
The parlourmaid giggled and Stephen laughed. That was
the worst of Jonathan Brockett, he could make you laugh in
spite of yourself - when you most disapproved you found your-
self laughing.
The food he had brought was the oddest assortment: lobster,
caramels, pâté de foies gras, olives, a tin of rich-mixed biscuits
and a Camembert cheese that was smelling loudly. There was also
a bottle of Rose's lime-juice and another of ready-made cocktails.
He began to unpack the things one by one, clamouring for plates
and entrée dishes. In the process he made a great mess on the table
by upsetting most of the lobster salad.
He swore roundly. 'Damn the thing, it's too utterly bloody!
It's ruined my gloves, and now look at the table!' In grim
silence the cook repaired the damage.
This mishap appeared to have damped his ardour, for he
sighed and removed his cap and apron. ‘Can anyone open this
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
bottle of olives? And the cocktails? Here, Stephen, you can tackle
the cheese; it seems rather shy, it won't leave its kennel.' In the
end it was Stephen and the cook who must do all the work, while
Brockett sat down on the floor and gave them ridiculous orders.
3
BROCKETT it was who ate most of the dinner, for Stephen was too
over-tired to feel hungry; while Puddle, whose digestion was not
what it had been, was forced to content herself with a cutlet. But
Brockett ate largely, and as he did so he praised' himself and
his food between mouthfuls.
'Clever of me to have discovered this pâté - I'm so sorry for
the geese though, aren't you, Stephen? The awful thing is that
it's simply delicious - I wish I knew the esoteric meaning of these
mixed emotions!' And he dug with a spoon at the side that
appeared to contain the most truffles.
From time to time he paused to inhale the gross little
cigarettes he affected. Their tobacco was black, their paper was
yellow, and they came from an unpropitious island where, as
Brockett declared, the inhabitants died in shoals every year of
some tropical fever. He drank a good deal of the Rose's lime-
juice, for this strong, rough tobacco always made him thirsty.
Whiskey went to his head and wine to his liver, so that on
the whole he was forced to be temperate; but when he got
home he would brew himself coffee as viciously black as his
tobacco.
Presently he said with a sigh of repletion: 'Well, you two,
I've finished - let's go into the study.'
As they left the table he seized the mixed biscuits and the
caramel creams, for he dearly loved sweet things. He would
often go out and buy himself sweets in Bond Street, for solitary
consumption.
j
In the study he sank down on to the divan. ' Puddle dear, do
you mind if I put my feet up? It's my new boot-maker, he's
given me a corn on my right little toe. It's too heart-breaking. It
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
263
}
was such a beautiful toe,' he murmured; 'quite perfect – the
one toe without a blemish!'
After this he seemed disinclined to talk. He had made him-
self a nest with the cushions, and was smoking, and nibbling
rich-mixed biscuits, routing about in the tin for his favourites.
But his eyes kept straying across to Stephen with a puzzled and
rather anxious expression.
At last she said: 'What's the matter, Brockett? Is my neck-
tie crooked?'
'No - it's not your necktie; it's something else.' He sat up
abruptly. As I came here to say it, I'll get the thing over!
'Fire away, Brockett.'
'Do you think you'll hate me if I'm frank?
6
Of course not. Why should I hate you?
Very well then, listen.' And now his voice was so grave that
Puddle put down her embroidery. 'You listen to me, you, Ste-
phen Gordon. Your last book was quite inexcusably bad. It was
no more like what we all expected, had a right to expect of you
after The Furrow, than that plant I sent Puddle is like an oak
tree - I won't even compare it to that little plant, for the plant's
alive; your book isn't. Oh, I don't mean to say that it's not well
written; it's well written because you're just a born writer - you
feel words, you've a perfect ear for balance, and a very good
all-round knowledge of English. But that's not enough, not
nearly enough; all that's a mere suitable dress for a body. And
this time you've hung the dress on a dummy - a dummy can't stir
our emotions, Stephen. I was talking to Ogilvy only last night. He
gave you a good review, he told me, because he's
such a respect
got such
for your talent that he didn't want to put on the damper. He's
like that - too merciful I always think - they've all been too
merciful to you, my dear. They ought to have literally skinned
you alive - that might have helped to show you your danger. My
God! and you wrote a thing like The Furrow! What's happened?
What's undermining your work? Because whatever it is, it's
deadly! it must be some kind of horrid dry rot. Ah, no, it's too
bad and it mustn't go on - we've got to do something, quickly.'
1
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
He paused, and she stared at him in amazement. Until now
she had never seen this side of Brockett, the side of the man that
belonged to his art, to all art - the one thing in life he respected.
She said: 'Do you really mean what you're saying?
'I mean every word,' he told her.
Then she asked him quite humbly: 'What must I do to save
my work?' for she realized that he had been speaking the stark,
bitter truth; that indeed she had needed no one to tell her that her
last book had been altogether unworthy - a poor, lifeless thing,
having no health in it.
He considered. 'It's a difficult question, Stephen. Your own
temperament is so much against you. You're so strong in some
ways and yet so timid - such a mixture - and you're terribly
frightened of life. Now why? You must try to stop being
frightened, to stop hiding your head. You need life, you need
people. People are the food that we writers live on; get out and
devour them, squeeze them dry, Stephen!'
J
My father once told me something like that - not quite in
those words - but something very like it.'
'Then your father must have been a sensible man,' smiled
Brockett. ' Now I had a perfect beast of a father. Well, Stephen,
I'll give you my advice for what it's worth - you want a real
change. Why not go abroad somewhere? Get right away for a
bit from your England. You'll probably write it a damned sight
better when you're far enough off to see the perspective. Start
with Paris - it's an excellent jumping-off place. Then you might
go across to Italy or Spain - go anywhere, only do get a move on!
No wonder you're atrophied here in London. I can put you wise
about people in Paris. You ought to know Valérie Seymour, for
instance. She's very good fun and a perfect darling; I'm sure
you'd like her, every one does. Her parties are a kind of human
bran-pie – you just plunge in your fist and see what happens.
You may draw a prize or you may draw blank, but it's always
worth while to go to her parties. Oh, but good Lord, there are so
many things that stimulate one in Paris.'
He talked on about Paris for a little while longer, then he
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
265
got up to go. Well, good-bye, my dears, I'm off. I've given
myself indigestion. And do look at Puddle, she's blind with fury;
I believe she's going to refuse to shake hands! Don't be angry,
Puddle - I'm very well-meaning.'
"Yes, of course,' answered Puddle, but her voice sounded
cold.
4
AFTER he had gone they stared at each other, then Stephen said:
'What a queer revelation. Who would have thought that Brock-
ett could get so worked up? His moods are kaleidoscopic.' She
was purposely forcing herself to speak lightly.
But Puddle was angry, bitterly angry. Her pride was wounded
to the quick for Stephen. 'The man's a perfect fool!' she said
gruffly.' And I didn't agree with one word he said. I expect he's
jealous of your work, they all are. They're a mean-minded lot,
these writing people.'
And looking at her Stephen thought sadly, 'She's tired-
I'm wearing her out in my service. A few years ago she'd never
have tried to deceive me like this - she's losing courage.' Aloud
she said: 'Don't be cross with Brockett, he meant to be friendly,
I'm quite sure of that. My work will buck up - I've been feeling
slack lately, and it's told on my writing - I suppose it was bound
to.' Then the merciful lie,' But I'm not a bit frightened!'
5
STEPHEN rested her head on her hand as she sat at her desk - it
was well past midnight. She was heartsick as only a writer can
be whose day has been spent in useless labour. All that she had
written that day she would destroy, and now it was well past
midnight. She turned, looking wearily round the study, and it
came upon her with a slight sense of shock that she was seeing this
room for the very first time, and that everything in it was ab-
normally ugly. The flat had been furnished when her mind had
been too much afflicted to care in the least what she bought, and
266
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
now all her possessions seemed clumsy or puerile, from the small,
foolish chairs to the large, roll-top desk; there was nothing
personal about any of them. How had she endured this room for
so long? Had she really written a fine book in it? Had she sat in
it evening after evening and come back to it morning after morn-
ing? Then she must have been blind indeed - what a place for
any author to work in! She had taken nothing with her from
Morton but the hidden books found in her father's study; these
she had taken, as though in a way they were hers by some in-
tolerable birthright; for the rest she had shrunk from depriving
the house of its ancient and honoured possessions.
Morton - so quietly perfect a thing, yet the thing of all
others that she must fly from, that she must forget; but she could
not forget it in these surroundings; they reminded by contrast.
Curious what Brockett had said that evening about putting the
sea between herself and England. . . . In view of her own half-
formed plan to do so, his words had come as a kind of echo of
her thoughts; it was almost as though he had peeped through a
secret keyhole into her mind, had been spying upon her trouble.
By what right did this curious man spy upon her - this man with
the soft, white hands of a woman, with the movements befitting
those soft, white hands, yet so ill-befitting the rest of his body?
By no right; and how much had the creature found out when his
eye had been pressed to that secret keyhole? Clever - Brockett
was fiendishly clever - all his whims and his foibles could not
disguise it. His face gave him away, a hard, clever face with sharp
eyes that were glued to other people's keyholes. That was why
Brockett wrote such fine plays, such cruel plays; he fed his
genius on live flesh and blood. Carnivorous genius. Moloch, fed
upon live flesh and blood! But she, Stephen, had tried to feed her
inspiration upon herbage, the kind, green herbage of Morton.
For a little while such food had sufficed, but now her talent had
sickened, was dying perhaps - or had she too fed it on blood,
her heart's blood when she had written The Furrow? If so, her
heart would not bleed any more - perhaps it could not -- perhaps
it was dry. A dry, withered thing; for she did not feel love these
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
267
days when she thought of Angela Crossby - that must mean that
her heart had died within her. A gruesome companion to have,
a dead heart.
Angela Crossby - and yet there were times when she longed
intensely to see this woman, to hear her speak, to stretch out her
arms and clasp them around the woman's body - not gently,
not patiently as in the past, but roughly, brutally even. Beastly-
it was beastly! She felt degraded. She had no love to offer Angela
Crossby, not now, only something that lay like a stain on the
beauty of what had once been love. Even this memory was marred
and defiled, by herself even more than by Angela Crossby.
Came the thought of that unforgettable scene with her
nother. I would rather see you dead at my feet.' Oh, yes – very
easy to talk about death, but not so easy to manage the dying.
'We two cannot live together at Morton..
One of us must
go, which of us shall it be?' The subtlety, the craftiness of that
question which in common decency could have but one answer!
Oh, well, she had gone and would go even farther. Raftery was
dead, there was nothing to hold her, she was free – what a terrible
thing could be freedom. Trees were free when they were uprooted
by the wind; ships were free when they were torn from their
moorings; men were free when they were cast out of their homes
- free to starve, free to perish of cold and hunger.
At Morton there lived an ageing woman with sorrowful eyes
now a little dim from gazing for so long into the distance. Only
once, since her gaze had been fixed on the dead, had this woman
turned it full on her daughter; and then her eyes had been
changed into something accusing, ruthless, abominably cruel.
Through looking upon what had seemed abominable to them,
they themselves had become an abomination. Horrible! And
yet how dared they accuse? What right had a mother to abomi-
nate the child that had sprung from her own secret moments of
passion? She the honoured, the fulfilled, the fruitful, the loving
and loved, had despised the fruit of her love. Its fruit? No,
rather its victim.
She thought of her mother's protected life that had never had
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
to face this terrible freedom. Like a vine that clings to a warm
southern wall it had clung to her father - it still clung to Morton.
In the spring had come gentle and nurturing rains, in the summer
the strong and health-giving sunshine, in the winter a deep, soft
covering of snow - cold yet protecting the delicate tendrils. All,
all she had had. She had never gone empty of love in the days
of her youthful ardour; had never known longing, shame, degra-
dation, but rather great joy and great pride in her loving. Her
love had been pure in the eyes of the world, for she had been
able to indulge it with honour. Still with honour, she had borne
a child to her mate- but a child who, unlike her, must go un-
fulfilled all her days, or else live in abject dishonour. Oh, but a
hard and pitiless woman this mother must be for all her soft
beauty; shamelessly finding shame in her offspring. 'I would
rather see you dead at my feet. ... Too late, too late, your
love gave me life. Here am I the creature you made through
your loving; by your passion you created the thing that I am.
Who are you to deny me the right to love? But for you I need
never have known existence.'
6
And now there crept into Stephen's brain the worst torment
of all, a doubt of her father. He had known and knowing he had
not told her; he had pitied and pitying had not protected; he
had feared and fearing had saved only himself. Had she had a
coward for a father? She sprang up and began to pace the room.
Not this she could not face this new torment. She had stained
her love, the love of the lover - she dared not stain this one thing
that remained, the love of the child for the father. If this light
went out the engulfing darkness would consume her, destroying
her entirely. Man could not live by darkness alone, one point
of light he must have for salvation - one point of light. The most
perfect Being of all had cried out for light in His darkness – even
He, the most perfect Being of all. And then as though in answer
to prayer, to some prayer that her trembling lips had not uttered,
came the memory of a patient, protective back, bowed as though
bearing another's burden. Came the memory of horrible, soul-
sickening pain: 'No- not that something urgent - I want -
N
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
269
to say.
No drugs - I know I'm - dying - Evans.' And again an
heroic and tortured effort: ' Anna - it's Stephen - listen.' Stephen
suddenly held out her arms to this man who, though dead, was
still her father.
But even in this blessed moment of easement, her heart
hardened again at the thought of her mother. A fresh wave of
bitterness flooded her soul so that the light seemed all but ex-
tinguished; very faintly it gleamed like the little lantern on a
buoy that is tossed by tempest. Sitting down at her desk she
found pen and paper.
She wrote: 'Mother, I am going abroad quite soon, but I
shall not see you to say good-bye, because I don't want to come
back to Morton. These visits of mine have always been painful,
and now my work is beginning to suffer - that I can not allow;
I live only for my work and so I intend to guard it in future.
There can now be no question of gossip or scandal, for every one
knows that I am a writer and as such may have occasion to travel.
But in any case I care very little these days for the gossip of
neighbours. For nearly three years I have borne your yoke - I
have tried to be patient and understanding. I have tried to think
that
your yoke was a just one, a just punishment, perhaps, for my
being what I am, the creature whom you and my father created;
but now I am going to bear it no longer. If my father had lived
he would have shown pity, whereas you showed me none, and
yet you were my mother. In my hour of great need
you utterly
failed me; you turned me away like some unclean thing that was
unfit to live any longer at Morton. You insulted what to me.
seemed both natural and sacred. I went, but now I shall not
come back any more to you or to Morton. Puddle will be with
me because she loves me; if I'm saved at all it is she who has
saved me, and so for as long as she wishes to throw in her lot
with mine I shall let her. Only one thing more; she will send
you our address from time to time, but don't write to me,
Mother, I am going away in order to forget, and your letters
would only remind me of Morton.'
She read over what she had written, three times, finding
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
nothing at all that she wished to add, no word of tenderness,
or of regret. She felt numb and then unbelievably lonely, but
she wrote the address in her firm handwriting: The Lady
Anna Gordon,' she wrote, 'Morton Hall. Near Upton-on-
Severn.' And when she wept, as she presently must do, covering
her face with her large, brown hands, her spirit felt unrefreshed
by this weeping, for the hot, angry tears seemed to scorch her
spirit. Thus was Anna Gordon baptized through her child as
by fire, unto the loss of their mutual salvation.
CHAPTER 31
I
I
T WAS Jonathan Brockett who had recommended the little
hotel in the Rue St. Roch, and when Stephen and Puddle
arrived one evening that June, feeling rather tired and dejected,
they found their sitting-room bright with roses - roses for Puddle
- and on the table two boxes of Turkish cigarettes for Stephen.
Brockett, they learnt, had ordered these things by writing spe-
cially from London.
Barely had they been in Paris a week, when Jonathan Brock-
ett turned up in person: 'Hallo, my dears, I've come over to see
you. Everything all right? Are you being looked after?' He
sat down in the only comfortable chair and proceeded to make
himself charming to Puddle. It seemed that his flat in Paris
being let, he had tried to get rooms at their hotel but had failed,
so had gone instead to the Meurice. But I'm not going to take
you to lunch there,' he told them, 'the weather's too fine, we'll
go to Versailles. Stephen, ring up and order your car, there's a
darling! By the way, how is Burton getting on? Does he remem-
ber to keep to the right and to pass on the left?' His voice sounded
anxious. Stephen reassured him good-humouredly, she knew
that he was apt to be nervous in motors.
They lunched at the Hotel des Reservoirs, Brockett taking
great pains to order special dishes. The waiters were zealous,
they evidently knew him: Oui, monsieur, tout de suite à
l'instant, monsieur!' Other clients were kept waiting while
Brockett was served, and Stephen could see that this pleased
him. All through the meal he talked about Paris with ardour,
as a lover might talk of a mistress.
<
Stephen, I'm not going back for ages. I'm going to make
you simply adore her. You'll see, I'll make you adore her so
much that you'll find yourself writing like a heaven-born genius.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
There's nothing so stimulating as love - you've got to have an
affair with Paris!' Then looking at Stephen rather intently,
'I suppose you're capable of falling in love?'
She shrugged her shoulders, ignoring his question, but she
thought: 'He's putting his eye to the keyhole. His curiosity's
positively childish at times,' for she saw that his face had fallen.
Oh, well, if you don't want to tell me 'he grumbled.
'Don't be silly! There's nothing to tell,' smiled Stephen. But
she made a mental note to be careful. Brockett's curiosity was
always most dangerous when apparently merely childish.
With quick tact he dropped the personal note. No good
trying to force her to confide, he decided, she was too damn clever
to give herself away, especially before the watchful old Puddle.
He sent for the bill and when it arrived, went over it item by
item, frowning.
6
'Maître d'hotel!
Oui monsieur?"
'You've made a mistake; only one liqueur brandy - and
here's another mistake, I ordered two portions of potatoes, not
three; I do wish to God you'd be careful!' When Brockett felt.
cross he always felt mean. ' Correct this at once, it's disgusting!'
he said rudely. Stephen sighed, and hearing her Brockett looked
up unabashed: 'Well, why pay for what we've not ordered?
Then he suddenly found his temper again and left a very large
tip for the waiter.
2
THERE is nothing more difficult to attain to than the art of being
a perfect guide. Such an art, indeed, requires a real artist, one
who has a keen perception for contrasts, and an eye for the large
effects rather than for details, above all one possessed of imagina-
tion; and Brockett, when he chose, could be such a guide.
Having waved the professional guides to one side, he him-
self took them through a part of the palace, and his mind re-
peopled the place for Stephen so that she seemed to see the glory
of the dancers led by the youthful Roi Soleil; seemed to hear the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
273
rhythm of the throbbing violins, and the throb of the rhythmic
dancing feet as they beat down the length of the Galerie des
Glaces; seemed to see those other mysterious dancers who fol-
lowed step by step, in the long line of mirrors. But most skilfully
of all did he recreate for her the image of the luckless queen
who
came after; as though for some reason this unhappy woman must
appeal in a personal way to Stephen. And true it was that the
small, humble rooms which the queen had chosen out of all that
vast palace, moved Stephen profoundly -
- so desolate they seemed,
so full of unhappy thoughts and emotions that were even now
only half forgotten.
Brockett pointed to the simple garniture on the mantel-
piece of the little salon, then he looked at Stephen: 'Madame
de Lamballe gave those to the queen,' he murmured softly.
She nodded, only vaguely apprehending his meaning.
Presently they followed him out into the gardens and stood
looking across the Tapis Vert that stretches its quarter mile of
greenness towards a straight, lovely line of water.
Brockett said, very low, so that Puddle should not hear
him: Those two would often come here at sunset. Sometimes
they were rowed along the canal in the sunset - can't you
imagine it, Stephen? They must often have felt pretty miser-
able, poor souls; sick to death of the subterfuge and pretences.
Don't you ever get tired of that sort of thing? My God, I do!'
But she did not answer, for now there was no mistaking his
meaning.
Last of all he took them to the Temple d'Amour, where it
rests amid the great silence of the years that have long lain
upon the dead hearts of its lovers; and from there to the Hameau,
built by the queen for a whim - the tactless and foolish whim
of a tactless and foolish but loving woman - by the queen who
must play at being a peasant, at a time when her downtrodden
peasants were starving. The cottages were badly in need of repair;
a melancholy spot it looked, this Hameau, in spite of the birds
that sang in its trees and the golden glint of the afternoon
sunshine.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
On the drive back to Paris they were all very silent. Puddle
was feeling too tired to talk, and Stephen was oppressed by a
sense of sadness - the vast and rather beautiful sadness that
may come to us when we have looked upon beauty, the sadness
that aches in the heart of Versailles. Brockett was content to sit
opposite Stephen on the hard little let-down seat of her motor.
He might have been comfortable next to the driver, but instead
he preferred to sit opposite Stephen, and he too was silent,
surreptitiously watching the expression of her face in the gather-
ing twilight.
When he left them he said with his cold little smile: To-
morrow, before you've forgotten Versailles, I want you to come.
to the Conciergerie. It's very enlightening - cause and effect.'
At that moment Stephen disliked him intensely. All the same
he had stirred her imagination.
3
IN THE Weeks that followed, Brockett showed Stephen just as
much of Paris as he wished her to see, and this principally con-
sisted of the tourist's Paris. Into less simple pastures he would
guide her later on, always provided that his interest lasted. For
the present, however, he considered it wiser to tread delicately
like Agag. The thought of this girl had begun to obsess him to a
very unusual extent. He who had prided himself on his skill in
ferreting out other people's secrets, was completely baffled by this
youthful abnormal. That she was abnormal he had no doubt
whatever, but what he was keenly anxious to find out was just
how her own abnormality struck her - he felt pretty sure that
she worried about it. And he genuinely liked her. Unscrupulous
he might be in his vivisection of men and women; cynical too
when it came to his pleasures, himself an invert, secretly hating
the world which he knew hated him in secret; and yet in his
way he felt sorry for Stephen, and this amazed him, for Jonathan
Brockett had long ago, as he thought, done with pity. But his
pity was a very poor thing at best, it would never defend and
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
275
never protect her; it would always go down before any new
whim, and his whim at the moment was to keep her in Paris.
All unwittingly Stephen played into his hands, while having
no illusions about him. He represented a welcome distraction
that helped her to keep her thoughts off England. And because
under Brockett's skilful guidance she developed a fondness for the
beautiful city, she felt very tolerant of him at moments, almost
grateful she felt, grateful too towards Paris. And Puddle also
felt grateful.
The strain of the sudden complete rupture with Morton
had told on the faithful little grey woman. She would scarcely
have known how to counsel Stephen had the girl come to her
and asked for her counsel. Sometimes she would lie awake now
at nights thinking of that ageing and unhappy mother in the
great silent house, and then would come pity, the old pity that
had come in the past for Anna - she would pity until she remem-
bered Stephen. Then Puddle would try to think very calmly,
to keep the brave heart that had never failed her, to keep her
strong faith in Stephen's future - only now there were days
when she felt almost old, when she realized that indeed she was
ageing. When Anna would write her a calm, friendly letter,
but with never so much as a mention of Stephen, she would feel
afraid, yes, afraid of this woman, and at moments almost afraid
of Stephen. For none might know from those guarded letters.
what emotions lay in the heart of their writer; and none might
know from Stephen's set face when she recognized the writing,
what lay in her heart. She would turn away, asking no questions
about Morton.
Oh, yes, Puddle felt old and actually frightened, both of
which sensations she deeply resented; so being what she was, an
indomitable fighter, she thrust out her chin and ordered a tonic.
She struggled along through the labyrinths of Paris beside the un-
tiring Stephen and Brockett; through the galleries of the Luxem-
bourg and the Louvre; up the Eiffel Tower - in a lift, thank
heaven; down the Rue de la Paix, up the hill to Montmartre -
sometimes in the car but quite often on foot, for Brockett
276
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
!
wished Stephen to learn her Paris - and as likely as not, ending
up with rich food that disagreed badly with the tired Puddle.
In the restaurants people would stare at Stephen, and although
the girl would pretend not to notice, Puddle would know that
in spite of her calm, Stephen was inwardly feeling resentful,
was inwardly feeling embarrassed and awkward. And then be-
cause she was tired, Puddle too would feel awkward when she
noticed those people staring.
Sometimes Puddle must really give up and rest, in spite of
the aggressive chin and the tonic. Then all alone in the Paris
hotel, she would suddenly grow very homesick for England -
absurd of course and yet there it was, she would feel the sharp
tug of England. At such moments she would long for ridiculous.
things; a penny bun in the train at Dover; the good red faces
of English porters - the old ones with little stubby side-whiskers;
Harrods Stores; a properly upholstered armchair; becon and
eggs; the sea front at Brighton. All alone and via these ridiculous
things, Puddle would feel the sharp tug of England.
८
And one evening her weary mind must switch back to the
carliest days of her friendship with Stephen. What a lifetime ago
it seemed since the days when a lanky colt of a girl of fourteen
had been licked into shape in the schoolroom at Morton. She
could hear her own words: 'You've forgotten something,
Stephen; the books can't walk to the bookcase, but you can, so
suppose that
you take them with you,' and then: ' Even my brain
won't stand your complete lack of method.' Stephen fourteen
that was twelve years ago. In those years she, Puddle, had grown
very tired, tired with trying to see some way out, some way of
escape, of fulfilment for Stephen. And always they seemed to be
toiling, they two, down an endless road that had no turning;
she an ageing woman herself unfulfilled; Stephen still young
and as yet still courageous - but the day would come when her
youth would fail, and her courage, because of that endless
toiling.
M
She thought of Brockett, Jonathan Brockett, surely an un-
worthy companion for Stephen; a thoroughly vicious and cyni-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
277
cal man, a dangerous one too because he was brilliant. Yet she,
Puddle, was actually grateful to this man; so dire were their
straits that she was grateful to Brockett. Then came the remem-
brance of that other man, of Martin Hallam – she had had such
high hopes. He had been very simple and honest and good –
Puddle felt that there was much to be said for goodness. But for
such as Stephen men like Martin Hallam could seldom exist;
as friends they would fail her, while she in her turn would fail
them as lover. Then what remained? Jonathan Brockett? Like
to like. No, no, an intolerable thought! Such a thought as that
was an outrage on Stephen. Stephen was honourable and coura-
geous; she was steadfast in friendship and selfless in loving;
intolerable to think that her only companions must be men and
women like Jonathan Brockett - and yet - after all what else?
What remained? Loneliness, or worse still, far worse because it
so deeply degraded the spirit, a life of perpetual subterfuge, of
guarded opinions and guarded actions, of lies of omission if not
of speech, of becoming an accomplice in the world's injustice
by maintaining at all times a judicious silence, making and keep-
ing the friends one respected, on false pretences, because if they
knew they would turn aside, even the friends one respected.
Puddle abruptly controlled her thoughts; this was no way
to be helpful to Stephen. Sufficient unto the day was the evil
thereof. Getting up she went into her bedroom where she bathed
her face and tidied her hair.
'I look scarcely human,' she thought ruefully, as she stared
at her own reflection in the glass; and indeed at that moment
she looked more than her age.
4
IT WAS not until nearly the middle of July that Brockett took
Stephen to Valérie Seymour's. Valérie had been away for some
time, and was even now only passing through Paris en route
for her villa at St. Tropez.
As they drove to her apartment on the Quai Voltaire, Brockett
278
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
began to extol their hostess, praising her wit, her literary talent.
She wrote delicate satires and charming sketches of Greek
mœurs — the latter were very outspoken, but then Valérie's life
was very outspoken - she was, said Brockett, a kind of pioneer
who would probably go down to history. Most of her sketches.
were written in French, for among other things Valérie was bi-
lingual; she was also quite rich, an American uncle had had the
foresight to leave her his fortune; she was also quite young,
being just over thirty, and according to Brockett, good-looking.
She lived her life in great calmness of spirit, for nothing worried
and few things distressed her. She was firmly convinced that in
this ugly age one should strive to the top of one's bent after
beauty. But Stephen might find her a bit of a free lance, she was
libre penseuse when it came to the heart; her love affairs would fill
quite three volumes, even after they had been expurgated. Great
men had loved her, great writers had written about her, one had
died, it was said, because she refused him, but Valérie was not
attracted to men - yet as Stephen would see if she went to her
parties, she had many devoted friends among men. In this re-
spect she was almost unique, being what she was, for men did not
resent her. But then of course all intelligent people realized that
she was a creature apart, as would Stephen the moment she
met her.
<
Brockett babbled away, and as he did so his voice took on
the effeminate timbre that Stephen always hated and dreaded:
Oh, my dear!' he exclaimed with a high little laugh, 'I'm so
excited about this meeting of yours, I've a feeling it may
be
momentous. What fun!' And his soft, white hands grew restless,
making their foolish gestures.
She looked at him coldly, wondering the while how she
could tolerate this young man - why indeed, she chose to endure
him.
6
THE FIRST thing that struck Stephen about Valérie's flat was its
large and rather splendid disorder. There was something bliss-
THE WELL
WELL OF LONELINESS
279
fully unkempt about it, as though its mistress were too much
engrossed in other affairs to control its behaviour. Nothing was
quite where it ought to have been, and much was where it ought
not to have been, while over the whole lay a faint layer of dust -
even over the spacious salon. The odour of somebody's Oriental
scent was mingling with the odour of tuberoses in a sixteenth cen-
tury chalice. On a divan, whose truly regal proportions occupied
the best part of a shadowy alcove, lay a box of Fuller's peppermint
creams and a lute, but the strings of the lute were broken.
Valérie came forward with a smile of welcome. She was not
beautiful nor was she imposing, but her limbs were very per-
fectly proportioned, which gave her a fictitious look of tallness.
She moved well, with the quiet and unconscious grace that sprang
from those perfect proportions. Her face was humorous, placid
and worldly; her eyes very kind, very blue, very lustrous. She
was dressed all in white, and a large white fox skin was clasped
round her slender and shapely shoulders. For the rest she had
masses of thick fair hair, which was busily ridding itself of its
hairpins; one could see at a glance that it hated restraint, like the
flat it was in rather splendid disorder.
She said: 'I'm so delighted to meet you at last, Miss Gordon,
do come and sit down. And please smoke if you want to,' she
added quickly, glancing at Stephen's tell-tale fingers.
Brockett said: 'Positively, this is too splendid! I feel that
you're going to be wonderful friends.'
Stephen thought: 'So this is Valérie Seymour.'
No sooner were they seated than Brockett began to ply their
hostess with personal questions. The mood that had incubated
in the motor was now becoming extremely aggressive, so that
he fidgeted about on his chair, making his little inadequate ges-
tures. ‘Darling, you're looking perfectly lovely! But do tell me,
what have you done with Polinska? Have you drowned her in
the blue grotto at Capri? I hope so, my dear, she was such a bore
and so dirty! Do tell me about Polinska. How did she behave
when you got her to Capri? Did she bite anybody before you
drowned her? I always felt frightened; I loathe being bitten!'
280
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Valérie frowned: 'I believe she's quite well.'
'Then you have drowned her, darling!' shrilled Brockett.
And now he was launched on a torrent of gossip about people
of whom Stephen had never even heard: 'Pat's been deserted -
have you heard that, darling? Do you think she'll take the veil
or cocaine or something? One never quite knows what may
happen next with such an emotional temperament, does one?
Arabella's skipped off to the Lido with Jane Grigg. The Grigg's
just come into pots and pots of money, so I hope they'll be de-
liriously happy and silly while it lasts - I mean the money.
Oh, and have you heard about Rachel Morris? They say.
He flowed on and on like a brook in spring flood, while
Valérie yawned and looked bored, making monosyllabic
answers.
And Stephen as she sat there and smoked in silence, thought
grimly: This is all being said because of me. Brockett wants
to let me see that he knows what I am, and he wants to let Valérie
Seymour know too - I suppose this is making me welcome.' She
hardly knew whether to feel outraged or relieved that here, at
least, was no need for pretences.
But after a while she began to fancy that Valérie's eyes had
become appraising. They were weighing her up and secretly
approving the result, she fancied. A slow anger possessed her.
Valérie Seymour was secretly approving, not because her guest
was a decent human being with a will to work, with a well-
trained brain, with what might some day become a fine talent,
but rather because she was seeing before her all the outward
stigmata of the abnormal – verily the wounds of One nailed to
a cross-that was why Valérie sat there approving.
And then, as though these bitter thoughts had reached her,
Valérie suddenly smiled at Stephen. Turning her back on the
chattering Brockett, she started to talk to her guest quite gravely
about her work, about books in general, about life in general;
and as she did so Stephen began to understand better the charm
that many had found in this woman; a charm that lay less in
physical attraction than in a great courtesy and understanding,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
281
a great will to please, a great impulse towards beauty in all its
forms - yes, therein lay her charm. And as they talked on it
dawned upon Stephen that here was no mere libertine in love's
garden, but rather a creature born out of her epoch, a pagan
chained to an age that was Christian, one who would surely say
with Pierre Louys: 'Le monde moderne succombe sous un en-
vahissement de laideur.' And she thought that she discerned in
those luminous eyes, the pale yet ardent light of the fanatic.
Presently Valérie Seymour asked her how long she would
be remaining in Paris.
And Stephen answered: 'I'm going to live here,' feeling
surprised at the words as she said them, for not until now had
she made this decision.
Valérie seemed pleased: ' If you want a house, I know of one
in the Rue Jacob; it's a tumbledown place, but it's got a fine
garden. Why not go and see it? You might go to-morrow. Of
course you'll have to live on this side, the Rive Gauche is the
only possible Paris.
'I should like to see the old house,' said Stephen.
So Valérie went to the telephone there and then and pro-
ceeded to call up the landlord. The appointment was made for
eleven the next morning. 'It's rather a sad old house,' she warned,
' no one has troubled to make it a home for some time, but you'll
alter all that if you take it, because I suppose you'll make it
your
home.'
Stephen flushed: 'My home's in England,' she said quickly,
for her thoughts had instantly flown back to Morton.
But Valérie answered: "One may have two homes - many
homes. Be courteous to our lovely Paris and give it the privi-
lege of being your second home - it will feel very honoured,
Miss Gordon.' She sometimes made little ceremonious speeches
like this, and coming from her, they sounded strangely old-
fashioned.
Brockett, rather subdued and distinctly pensive as sometimes
happened if Valérie had snubbed him, complained of a pain above
his right eye: 'I must take some phenacetin,' he said sadly, ‘I'm
282
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
always getting this curious pain above my right eye - do you
think it's the sinus?' He was very intolerant of all pain.
C
His hostess sent for the phenacetin, and Brockett gulped
down a couple of tablets: ´ Valérie doesn't love me any more,' he
sighed, with a woebegone look at Stephen. I do call it hard, but
it's always what happens when I introduce my best friends to
each other - they foregather at once and leave me in the cold;
but then, thank heaven, I'm very forgiving.'
They laughed and Valérie made him get on to the divan
where he promptly lay down on the lute.
'Oh God!' he moaned, ' now I've injured my spine - I'm so
badly upholstered.' Then he started to strum on the one sound
string of the lute.
Valérie went over to her untidy desk and began to write out
a list of addresses: 'These may be useful to you, Miss Gordon.'
'Stephen!' exclaimed Brockett, Call the poor woman
Stephen!
2
May I?
Stephen acquiesced: Yes, please do.'
Very well then, I'm Valérie. Is that a bargain?'
<
<
"The bargain is sealed,' announced Brockett. With extraor-
dinary skill he was managing to strum 'O Sole Mio' on the
single string, when he suddenly stopped: 'I knew there was
something - your fencing, Stephen, you've forgotten your fenc-
ing. We meant to ask Valérie for Buisson's address; they say he's
the finest master in Europe.'
Valérie looked up: 'Does Stephen fence, then?'
'Does she fence! She's a marvellous, champion fencer.'
'He's never seen me fence,' explained Stephen, and I'm
never likely to be a champion.'
'Don't you believe her, she's trying to be modest. I've heard
that she fences quite as finely as she writes,' he insisted. And
somehow Stephen felt touched, Brockett was trying to show off
her talents.
Presently she offered him a lift in the car, but he shook his
head: 'No, thank you, dear one, I'm staying.' So she wished them
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
283
good-bye; but as she left them she heard Brockett murmuring to
Valérie Seymour, and she felt pretty sure that she caught her
own name.
6
WELL, what did you think of Miss Seymour? ' inquired Puddle,
when Stephen got back about twenty minutes later.
Stephen hesitated: 'I'm not perfectly certain. She was very
friendly, but I couldn't help feeling that she liked me because
she thought me – oh, well, because she thought me what I am,
Puddle. But I may have been wrong - she was awfully friendly.
Brockett was at his very worst though, poor devil! His environ-
ment seemed to go to his head.' She sank down wearily on to a
chair: 'Oh, Puddle, Puddle, it's a hell of a business.'
Puddle nodded.
Then Stephen said rather abruptly: 'All the same, we're
going to live here in Paris. We're going to look at a house to-
morrow, an old house with a garden in the Rue Jacob.'
For a moment Puddle hesitated, then she said: 'There's only
one thing against it. Do you think you'll ever be happy in a city?
You're so fond of the life that belongs to the country.'
Stephen shook her head: 'That's all past now, my dear;
there's no country for me away from Morton. But in Paris I
might make some sort of a home, I could work here - and then
of course there are people..
Something started to hammer in Puddle's brain: Like to
like! Like to like! Like to like!' it hammered.
CHAPTER 32
I
ST
TEPHEN bought the house in the Rue Jacob, because as she
walked through the dim, grey archway that led from the
street to the cobbled courtyard, and saw the deserted house stand-
ing before her, she knew at once that there she would live. This
will happen sometimes, we instinctively feel in sympathy with
certain dwellings.
The courtyard was sunny and surrounded by walls. On the
right of this courtyard some iron gates led into the spacious,
untidy garden, and woefully neglected though this garden had
been, the trees that it still possessed were fine ones. A marble
fountain long since choked with weeds, stood in the centre of
what had been a lawn. In the farthest corner of the garden some
hand had erected a semicircular temple, but that had been a long
time ago, and now the temple was all but ruined.
The house itself would need endless repairs, but its rooms.
were of careful and restful proportions. A fine room with a win-
dow that opened on the garden, would be Stephen's study; she
could write there in quiet; on the other side of the stone-paved
hall was a smaller but comfortable salle à manger; while
past the
stone staircase a little round room in a turret would be Puddle's
particular sanctum. Above there were bedrooms enough and to
spare; there was also the space for a couple of bathrooms. The
day after Stephen had seen this house, she had written agreeing
to purchase.
Valérie rang up before leaving Paris to inquire how Stephen
had liked the old house, and when she heard that she had actu-
ally bought it, she expressed herself as being delighted.
'We'll be quite close neighbours now,' she remarked, 'but
I'm not going to bother you until you evince, not even when I
get back in the autumn. I know you'll be literally snowed under
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
285
with workmen for months, you poor dear, I feel sorry for you.
But when you can, do let me come and see you - meanwhile if
I can help you at all. . . . And she gave her address at St.
Tropez.
>
And now for the first time since leaving Morton, Stephen'
turned her mind to the making of a home. Through Brockett
she found a young architect who seemed anxious to carry out all
her instructions. He was one of those very rare architects who
refrain from thrusting their views on their clients. So into the
ancient, deserted house in the Rue Jacob streamed an army of
workmen, and they hammered and scraped and raised clouds of
dust from early morning, all day until evening - smoking harsh
caporal as they joked or quarrelled or idled or spat or hummed
snatches of song. And amazingly soon, wherever one trod one
seemed to be treading on wet cement or on dry, gritty heaps of
brick dust and rubble, so that Puddle would complain that she
spoilt all her shoes, while Stephen would emerge with her neat
blue serge shoulders quite grey, and with even her hair thickly
powdered.
Sometimes the architect would come to the hotel in the
evening and then would ensue long discussions. Bending over
the little mahogany table, he and Stephen would study the plans
intently, for she wished to preserve the spirit of the place intact,
despite alterations. She decided to have an Empire study with
grey walls and curtains of Empire green, for she loved the great
roomy writing tables that had come into being with the first
Napoleon. The walls of the salle à manger should be white and
the curtains brown, while Puddle's round sanctum in its turret
should have walls and paintwork of yellow, to give the illusion of
sunshine. And so absorbed did Stephen become in these things,
that she scarcely had time to notice Jonathan Brockett's abrupt
departure for a mountain top in the Austrian Tyrol. Having
suddenly come to the end of his finances, he must hasten to
write a couple of plays that could be produced in London that
winter. He sent her three or four picture postcards of glaciers,
after which she heard nothing more from him.
M
286
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
At the end of August, when the work was well under way,
she and Puddle fared forth in the motor to visit divers villages
and towns, in quest of old furniture, and Stephen was surprised
to find how much she enjoyed it. She would catch herself whis-
tling as she drove her car, and when they got back to some
humble auberge in the evening, she would want to eat a large
supper. Every morning she diligently swung her dumb-bells; she
was getting into condition for fencing. She had not fenced at all
since leaving Morton, having been too much engrossed in her
work while in London; but now she was going to fence before
Buisson, so she diligently swung her dumb-bells. During these
two months of holiday-making she grew fond of the wide-eyed,
fruitful French country, even as she had grown fond of Paris. She
would never love it as she loved the hills and the stretching val-
leys surrounding Morton, for that love was somehow a part of her
being, but she gave to this France, that would give her a home,
a quiet and very sincere affection. Her heart grew more grateful
with every mile, for hers was above all a grateful nature.
They returned to Paris at the end of October. And now came
the selecting of carpets and curtains; of fascinating blankets from
the Magasin de Blanc - blankets craftily dyed to match any bed-
room; of fine linen, and other expensive things, including the
copper batterie de cuisine, which latter, however, was left to
Puddle. At last the army of workmen departed, its place being
taken by a Breton ménage - brown-faced folk, strong-limbed
and capable looking - a mother, father and daughter. Pierre,
the butler, had been a fisherman once, but the sea with its hard-
ships had prematurely aged him. He had now been in service.
for several years, having contracted rheumatic fever which had
weakened his heart and made him unfit for the strenuous life of
a fisher. Pauline, his wife, was considerably younger, and she it
was who would reign in the kitchen, while their daughter Adèle,
a girl of eighteen, would help both her parents and look after the
housework.
Adèle was as happy as a blackbird in springtime; she would
often seem just on the verge of chirping. But Pauline had stood
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
287
and watched the great storms gather over the sea while her men
were out fishing; her father had lost his life through the sea as
had also a brother, so Pauline smiled seldom. Dour she was,
with a predilection for dwelling in detail on people's misfortunes.
As for Pierre, he was stolid, kind and pious, with the eyes of a
man who has looked on vast spaces. His grey stubbly hair was
cut short to his head en brosse, and he had an ungainly figure.
When he walked he straddled a little as though he could never
believe in a house without motion. He liked Stephen at once,
which was very propitious, for one cannot buy the good-will of
a Breton.
Thus gradually chaos gave place to order, and on the morn-
ing of her twenty-seventh birthday, on Christmas Eve, Stephen
moved into her home in the Rue Jacob on the old Rive Gauche,
there to start her new life in Paris.
2
ALL ALONE in the brown and white salle à manger, Stephen and
Puddle ate their Christmas dinner. And Puddle had bought a
small Christmas tree and had trimmed it, then hung it with
coloured candles. A little wax Christ-child bent downwards and
sideways from His branch, as though He were looking for Hist
presents - only now there were not any presents. Rather clumsily
Stephen lit the candles as soon as the daylight had almost faded.
Then she and Puddle stood and stared at the tree, but in silence,
because they must both remember. But Pierre, who like all who
have known the sea, was a child at heart, broke into loud ex-
clamations. ‘Oh, comme c'est beau, l'arbre de Noël!' he ex-
claimed, and he fetched the dour Pauline along from the kitchen,
and she too exclaimed; then they both fetched Adèle and they
all three exclaimed: 'Comme c'est beau, l'arbre de Noël!' So,
that after all the little wax Christ-child did not very much miss
His presents.
That evening Pauline's two brothers arrived - they were
Poilus stationed just outside Paris - and they brought along with
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
them another young man, one Jean, who was ardently courting
Adèle. Very soon came the sound of singing and laughter from
the kitchen, and when Stephen went up to her bedroom to look
for a book, there was Adèle quite flushed and with very bright
eyes because of this Jean - in great haste she turned down the
bed and then flew on the wings of love back to the kitchen.
But Stephen went slowly downstairs to her study where
Puddle was sitting in front of the fire, and she thought that
Puddle sat there as though tired; her hands were quite idle, and
after a moment Stephen noticed that she was dozing. Very quietly
Stephen opened her book, unwilling to rouse the little grey
woman who looked so small in the huge leather chair, and whose
head kept guiltily nodding. But the book seemed scarcely worth
troubling to read, so that presently Stephen laid it aside and sat
staring into the flickering logs that hummed and burnt blue be-
cause it was frosty. On the Malvern Hills there would probably
be snow; deep snow might be capping the Worcestershire Beacon.
The air up at British Camp would be sweet with the smell of
winter and open spaces - little lights would be glinting far down
in the valley. At Morton the lakes would be still and frozen, so
Peter the swan would be feeling friendly - in winter he had
always fed from her hand - he must be old now, the swan called
Peter. Coup! C-o-u-p! and Peter waddling towards her. He, who
was all gliding grace on the water, would come awkwardly wad-
dling towards her hand for the chunk of dry bread that she held
in her fingers. Jean with his Adèle along in the kitchen - a
nice-looking boy he was, Stephen had seen him - they were
young, and both were exceedingly happy, for their parents ap-
proved, so some day they would marry. Then children would
come, too many, no doubt, for Jean's slender
purse, and
yet in
this life one must pay for one's pleasures - they would pay with
their children, and this appeared perfectly fair to Stephen. She
thought that it seemed a long time ago since she herself had been
a small child, romping about on the floor with her father, bother-
ing Williams down at the stables, dressing up as young Nelson
and posing for Collins who had sometimes been cross to young
289
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Nelson. She was nearly thirty, and what had she done? Written
one good novel and one very bad one, with few mediocre short
stories thrown in. Oh, well, she was going to start writing again
quite soon she had an idea for a novel. But she sighed, and
Puddle woke up with a start.
'Is that you, my dear? Have I been asleep?'
<
Only for a very few minutes, Puddle.'
Puddle glanced at the new gold watch on her wrist; it had
been a Christmas present from Stephen. 'It's past ten o'clock -
I think I'll turn in.'
po
'Do. Why not? I hope Adèle's filled your hot water bottle;
she's rather light-headed over her Jean.'
'Never mind, I can fill it myself,' smiled Puddle.
She went, and Stephen sat on by the fire with her
eyes half
closed and her lips set firmly. She must put away all these thoughts
of the past and compel herself to think of the future. This brood-
ing over things that were past was all wrong; it was futile, weak-
kneed and morbid. She had her work, work that cried out to be
done, but no more unworthy books must be written. She must
show that being the thing she was, she could climb to success
over all opposition, could climb to success in spite of a world that
was trying its best to get her under. Her mouth grew hard; her
sensitive lips that belonged by rights to the dreamer, the lover,
took on a resentful and bitter line which changed her whole face
and made it less comely. At that moment the striking likeness
of her father appeared to have faded out of her face.
Yes, it was trying to get her under, this world with its mighty
self-satisfaction, with its smug rules of conduct, all made to be
broken by those who strutted and preened themselves on being
what they considered normal. They trod on the necks of those
thousands of others who, for God knew what reason, were not
made as they were; they prided themselves on their indignation,
on what they proclaimed as their righteous judgments. They
sinned grossly; even vilely at times, like lustful beasts – but yet
they were normal! And the vilest of them could point a finger of
scorn at her, and be loudly applauded.
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THE WELL OF LONELINES
'God damn them to hell!' she muttered.
Along in the kitchen there was singing again. The young
men's voices rose tuneful and happy, and with them blended
Adèle's young voice, very sexless as yet, like the voice of a choir-
boy. Stephen got up and opened the door, then she stood quite
still and listened intently. The singing soothed her over-strained
nerves as it flowed from the hearts of these simple people. For
she did not begrudge them their happiness; she did not resent
young Jean with his Adèle, or Pierre who had done a man's work
in his time, or Pauline who was often aggressively female. Bitter
she had grown in these years since Morton, but not bitter enough
to resent the simple. And then as she listened they suddenly
stopped for a little before they resumed their singing, and when
they resumed it the tune was sad with the sadness that dwells
in the souls of most men, above all in the patient soul of the
peasant.
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué?
She could hear the soft Breton words quite clearly.
'Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
>
Pour nous dire la Messe?
'Quand la nuit sera bien tombée
Je tiendrai ma promesse.'
'Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Sans nappe de fine toile?
'Notre Doux Seigneur poserai
Sur un morceau de voile.'
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
291
Sans chandelle et sans cierge?'
'Les astres seront allumés
Par Madame la Vierge.'
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Sans orgue résonnante?'
'Jésus touchera le clavier
Des vagues mugissantes.'
'Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Ma Doué,
Mais comment ferez vous, l'Abbé,
Si l'Ennemi nous trouble?'
'Une seule fois je vous bénirai,
Les Bleus bénirai double!'
Closing the study door behind her, Stephen thoughtfully climbed
the stairs to her bedroom.
CHAPTER 33
I
W
ITH the New Year came flowers from Valérie Seymour,
and a little letter of New Year's greeting. Then she paid
a rather ceremonious call and was entertained by Puddle and
Stephen. Before leaving she invited them both to luncheon, but
Stephen refused on the plea of her work.
'I'm hard at it again.'
At this Valérie smiled. ' Very well then, à bientôt. You know
where to find me, ring up when you're free, which I hope will
be soon.' After which she took her departure.
But Stephen was not to see her again for a very considerable
time, as it happened. Valérie was also a busy woman - there
are other affairs beside the writing of novels.
Brockett was in London on account of his plays. He wrote
seldom, though when he did so he was cordial, affectionate even;
but now he was busy with success, and with gathering in the
shekels. He had not lost interest in Stephen again, only just at
the moment she did not fit in with his brilliant and affluent
scheme of existence.
So once more she and Puddle settled down together to a life
that was strangely devoid of people, a life of almost complete
isolation, and Puddle could not make up her mind whether she
felt relieved or regretful. For herself she cared nothing, her
anxious thoughts were as always centred in Stephen. However,
Stephen appeared quite contented she was launched on her
book and was pleased with her writing. Paris inspired her to
do good work, and as recreation she now had her fencing - twice
every week she now fenced with Buisson, that severe but in-
comparable master.
Buisson had been very rude at first: 'Hideous, affreux, hor-
riblement English!' he had shouted, quite outraged by Stephen's
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
293
style. All the same he took a great interest in her. 'You write
books; what a pity! I could make you a fine fencer. You have
the man's muscles, and the long, graceful lunge when you do not
remember that you are a Briton and become - what you say?
ah, mais oui, self-conscious. I wish that I had find you out sooner
- however, your muscles are young still, pliant.' And one day
he said: 'Let me feel the muscles,' then proceeded to pass his
hand down her thighs and across her strong loins: 'Tiens, tiens!'
he murmured.
After this he would sometimes look at her gravely with a
puzzled expression; but she did not resent him, nor his rudeness,
nor his technical interest in her muscles. Indeed, she liked the
cross little man with his bristling black beard and his peppery
temper, and when he remarked à propos of nothing: 'We are
all great imbeciles about nature. We make our own rules and
call them la nature; we say she do this, she do that - imbeciles!
She do what she please and then make the long nose.' Stephen
felt neither shy nor resentful.
These lessons were a great relaxation from work, and thanks
to them her health grew much better. Her body, accustomed to
severe exercise, had resented the sedentary life in London. Now,
however, she began to take care of her health, walking for a
couple of hours in the Bois every day, or exploring the tall, narrow
streets that lay near her home in the Quarter. The sky would
look bright at the end of such streets by contrast, as though it
were seen through a tunnel. Sometimes she would stand gazing
into the shops of the wider and more prosperous Rue des Saints.
Pères; the old furniture shops; the crucifix shop with its dozens
of crucified Christs in the window - so many crucified ivory
Christs! She would think that one must surely exist for every
sin committed in Paris. Or perhaps she would make her way
over the river, crossing by the Pont des Arts. And one morning,
arrived at the Rue des Petits Champs, what must she suddenly
do but discover the Passage Choiseul, by just stepping inside for
shelter, because it had started raining.
Oh, the lure of the Passage Choiseul, the queer, rather gawky
294
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
C
attraction of it. Surely the most hideous place in all Paris, with
its roof of stark wooden ribs and glass panes - the roof that looks
like the vertebral column of some prehistoric monster. The
chocolate smell of the patisserie - the big one where people go
who have money. The humbler, student smell of Lavrut, where
one's grey rubber bands are sold by the gramme and are known
as: Bracelets de caoutchouc.' Where one buys première qualité
blotting paper of a deep ruddy tint and the stiffness of cardboard,
and thin but inspiring manuscript books bound in black, with
mottled, shiny blue borders. Where pencils and pens are found in
their legions, of all makes, all shapes, all colours, all prices;
while outside on the trustful trays in the Passage, lives Gomme
Onyx, masquerading as marble, and as likely to rub a hole in your
paper. For those who prefer the reading of books to the writing
of them, there is always Lemerre with his splendid display of
yellow bindings. And for those undisturbed by imagination, the
taxidermist's shop is quite near the corner - they can stare at a
sad and moth-eaten flamingo, two squirrels, three parrots and a
dusty canary. Some are tempted by the cheap corduroy at the
draper's, where it stands in great rolls as though it were carpet.
Some pass on to the little stamp merchant, while a few dauntless
souls even enter the chemist's - that shamelessly anatomical
chemist's, whose wares do not figure in school manuals on the
practical uses of rubber.
And up and down this Passage Choiseul, pass innumerable
idle or busy people, bringing in mud and rain in the winter,
bringing in dust and heat in the summer, bringing in God
knows how many thoughts, some part of which cannot escape
with their owners. The very air of the Passage seems heavy with
all these imprisoned thoughts.
Stephen's thoughts got themselves entrapped with the others,
but hers, at the moment, were those of a schoolgirl, for her eye
had suddenly lit on Lavrut, drawn thereto by the trays of ornate
india-rubber. And once inside, she could not resist the Brace-
lets de caoutchouc,' or the blotting paper as red as a rose, or
the manuscript books with the mottled blue borders. Growing
“
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
295
reckless, she gave an enormous order for the simple reason
that these things looked different. In the end she actually
carried away one of those inspiring manuscript books, and
then got herself driven home by a taxi, in order the sooner to
fill it.
2
THAT spring, in the foyer of the Comédie Française, Stephen
stumbled across a link with the past in the person of a middle-
aged woman. The woman was stout and wore pince-nez; her
sparse brown hair was already greying; her face, which was
long, had a double chin, and that face seemed vaguely familiar
to Stephen. Then suddenly Stephen's two hands were seized and
held fast in those of the middle-aged woman, while a voice grown
loud with delight and emotion was saying:
'Mais oui, c'est ma petite Stévenne!'
Back came a picture of the schoolroom at Morton, with a
battered red book on its ink-stained table - the Bibliothèque
Rose Les Petites Filles Modèles,' 'Les Bons Enfants,' and
Mademoiselle Duphot.
Stephen said: To think - after all these years!
'Ah, quelle joie! Quelle joie!' babbled Mademoiselle Duphot.
And now Stephen was being embraced on both cheeks, then
held at arm's length for a better inspection. But how tall, how
strong you are, ma petite Stévenne. You remember what I say,
that we meet in Paris? I say
when I go, "But
you come to Paris
when you grow up bigger, my poor little baby!" I keep looking
and looking, but I knowed you at once. I say, "Qui certaine-
ment, that is ma petite Stévenne, no one 'ave such another face
what I love, it could only belong to Stévenne," I say. And now
voilà! I am correct and I find you.'
Stephen released herself firmly but gently, replying in French
to calm Mademoiselle, whose linguistic struggles increased every
moment.
'I'm living in Paris altogether,' she told her; you must come
296
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
and see me come to dinner to-morrow; 35, Rue Jacob.' Then
she introduced Puddle who had been an amused spectator.
The two ex-guardians of Stephen's young mind shook hands
with each other very politely, and they made such a strangely
contrasted couple that Stephen must smile to see them together.
The one was so small, so quiet and so English; the other so portly,
so tearful, so French in her generous, if somewhat embarrassing
emotion.
As Mademoiselle regained her composure, Stephen was able
to observe her more closely, and she saw that her face was ex-
cessively childish – a fact which she, when a child, had not
noticed. It was more the face of a foal than a horse - an inno-
cent, new-born foal.
Mademoiselle said rather wistfully: 'I will dine with much
pleasure to-morrow evening, but when will you come and see
me in my home? It is in the Avenue de la Grande Armée, a small
apartment, very small but so pretty – it is pleasant to have one's
treasures around one. The bon Dieu has been very good to me,
Stévenne, for my Aunt Clothilde left me a little money when
she died; it has proved a great consolation.'
'I'll come very soon,' promised Stephen.
Then Mademoiselle spoke at great length of her aunt, and
of Maman who had also passed on into glory; Maman, who had
had her chicken on Sunday right up to the very last moment, Dieu
merci! Even when her teeth had grown loose in the
gums, Maman
had asked for her chicken on Sunday. But alas, the poor sister
who once made little bags out of beads for the shops in the Rue de
la Paix, and who had such a cruel and improvident husband -
the poor sister had now become totally blind, and therefore
dependent on Mademoiselle Duphot. So after all Mademoiselle
Duphot still worked, giving lessons in French to the resident
English; and sometimes she taught the American children who
were visiting Paris with their parents. But then it was really far
better to work; one might grow too fat if one remained idle.
She beamed at Stephen with her gentle brown eyes. 'They
are not as you were, ma chère petite Stévenne, not clever and
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
297
full of intelligence, no; and at times I almost despair of their
accent. However, I am not at all to be pitied, thanks to Aunt
Clothilde and the good little saints who surely inspired her to
leave me that money.'
When Stephen and Puddle returned to their stalls, Made-
moiselle climbed to a humbler seat somewhere under the roof,
and as she departed she waved her plump hand at Stephen.
Stephen said: She's so changed that I didn't know her just at
first, or else perhaps I'd forgotten. I felt terribly guilty, because
after you came I don't think I ever answered her letters. It's
thirteen years since she left.
""
Puddle nodded. 'Yes, it's thirteen years since I took her
place and forced you to tidy that abominable schoolroom!' And
she laughed. All the same, I like her,' said Puddle.
(
3
MADEMOISELLE DUPHOT admired the house in the Rue Jacob,
and she ate very largely of the rich and excellent dinner. Quite
regardless of her increasing proportions, she seemed drawn to all
those things that were fattening.
'I cannot resist,' she remarked with a smile, as she reached
for her fifth marron glacé.
They talked of Paris, of its beauty, its charm. Then Made-
moiselle spoke yet again of her Maman and of Aunt Clothilde who
had left them the money, and of Julie, her blind sister.
But after the meal she quite suddenly blushed. ‘Oh, Sté-
venne, I have never inquired for your parents! What must you
think of such great impoliteness? I lose my head the moment
I see you and grow selfish - I want you to know about me and
my Maman; I babble about my affairs. What must you think
of such great impoliteness? How is that kind and handsome Sir
Philip? And your mother,
mother, my dear, how is Lady Anna?'
And now it was Stephen's turn to grow red. 'My father
died. . . .' She hesitated, then finished abruptly, 'I don't live
with my mother any more, I don't live at Morton.'
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Mademoiselle gasped. 'You no longer live . . .' she began,
then something in Stephen's face warned her kind but bewildered
guest not to question. 'I am deeply grieved to hear of
father's death, my dear,' she said very gently.
your
Stephen answered: 'Yes - I shall always miss him.'
There ensued a long, rather painful silence, during which
Mademoiselle Duphot felt awkward. What had happened be-
tween the mother and daughter? It was all very strange, very
disconcerting. And Stephen, why was she exiled from Morton?
But Mademoiselle could not cope with these problems, she knew
only that she wanted Stephen to be happy, and her kind brown
eyes grew anxious, for she did not feel certain that Stephen was
happy. Yet she dared not ask for an explanation, so instead she
clumsily changed the subject.
"When will you both come to tea with me, Stévenne?'
We'll come to-morrow if you like.' Stephen told her.
Mademoiselle Duphot left rather early; and all the way home
to her apartment her mind felt exercised about Stephen.
<
She thought: She was always a strange little child, but
so dear. I remember her when she was little, riding her pony
astride like a boy; and how proud he would seem, that hand-
some Sir Philip - they would look more like father and son,
those two. And now - is she not still a little bit strange?
But these thoughts led her nowhere, for Mademoiselle Duphot
was quite unacquainted with the bypaths of nature. Her inno-
cent mind was untutored and trustful; she believed in the legend
of Adam and Eve, and no careless mistakes had been made in
their garden!
<
4
THE APARTMENT in the Avenue de la Grande Armée was as
tidy as Valérie's had been untidy. From the miniature kitchen
to the miniature salon, everything shone as though recently
polished, for here in spite of restricted finances, no dust was
allowed to harbour.
Mademoiselle Duphot beamed on her guests as she herself
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
299
opened the door to admit them. For me this is very real joy,'
she declared. Then she introduced them to her sister Julie, whose
eyes were hidden behind dark glasses.
The salon was literally stuffed with what Mademoiselle had
described as her treasures.' On its tables were innumerable
useless objects which appeared for the most part, to be me-
mentoes. Coloured prints of Bouguereaus hung on the walls,
while the chairs were upholstered in a species of velvet so hard
as to be rather slippery to sit on, yet that when it was touched felt
rough to the fingers. The woodwork of these inhospitable chairs
had been coated with varnish until it looked sticky. Over the little
inadequate fireplace smiled a portrait of Maman when she was
quite young. Maman, dressed in tartan for some strange reason,
but in tartan that had never hob-nobbed with the Highlands — a
present this portrait had been from a cousin who had wished to
become an artist.
Julie extended a white, groping hand. She was like her sister
only very much thinner, and her face had the closed rather blank
expression that is sometimes associated with blindness.
'Which is Stévenne?' she inquired in an anxious voice; 'I
have heard so much about Stévenne!'
Stephen said: Here I am,' and she grasped the hand, pitiful
of this woman's affliction.
But Julie smiled broadly. Yes, I know it is you from the feel,'
'
- she had started to stroke Stephen's coat-sleeve my eyes have
gone into my fingers these days. It is strange, but I seem to
see through my fingers.' Then she turned and found Puddle
whom she also stroked. And now I know both of you,' declared
Julie.
C
-
The tea when it came was that straw-coloured liquid which
may even now be met with in Paris.
English tea bought especially for you, my Stévenne,' re-
marked Mademoiselle proudly. We drink only coffee, but I
said to my sister, Stévenne likes the good tea, and so, no doubt,
does Mademoiselle Puddle. At four o'clock they will not want
coffee - you observe how well I remember your England!'
८
300
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
However, the cakes proved worthy of France, and Made-
moiselle ate them as though she enjoyed them. Julie ate very
little and did not talk much. She just sat there and listened, quietly
smiling; and while she listened she crocheted lace as though, as
she said, she could see through her fingers. Then Mademoiselle
Duphot explained how it was that those delicate hands had be-
come so skilful, replacing the eyes which their ceaseless labour
had robbed of the blessed privilege of sight - explained so simply
yet with such conviction, that Stephen must marvel to hear her.
It is all our little Thérèse,' she told Stephen. You have
heard of her? No? Ah, but what a pity! Our Thérèse was a nun at
the Carmel at Lisieux, and she said: "I will let fall a shower,
of roses when I die." She died not so long ago, but already her
Cause has been presented at Rome by the Very Reverend Father
Rodrigo! That is very wonderful, is it not, Stévenne? But she does
not wait to become a saint; ah, but no, she is young and there-
fore impatient. She cannot wait, she has started already to do
miracles for all those who ask her. I asked that Julie should not
be unhappy through the loss of her eyes - for when she is idle
she is always unhappy - so our little Thérèse has put a pair of
new eyes in her fingers.'
Julie nodded. 'It is true,' she said very gravely; ' before that
I was stupid because of my blindness. Everything felt very
strange, and I stumbled about like an old blind horse. I was
terribly stupid, far more so than many. Then one night Véro-
nique asked Thérèse to help me, and the next day I could find my
way round our room. From then on my fingers saw what they
touched, and now I can even make lace quite well because of this
sight in my fingers.' Then turning to the smiling Mademoiselle
Duphot: But why do you not show her picture to Stévenne?
<
So Mademoiselle Duphot went and fetched the small picture
of Thérèse, which Stephen duly examined, and the face that she
saw was ridiculously youthful - round with youth it still was,
and yet very determined. Sœur Thérèse looked as though if she
really intended to become a saint, the devil himself would be
hard put to it to stop her. Then Puddle must also examine the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
301
picture, while Stephen was shown some relics, a piece of the habit
and other things such as collect in the wake of sainthood.
When they left, Julie asked them to come again; she said:
Come often, it will give us such pleasure.' Then she thrust on
her guests twelve yards of coarse lace which neither of them
liked to offer to pay for.
Mademoiselle murmured: Our home is so humble for
Stévenne; we have very little to offer.' She was thinking of the
house in the Rue Jacob, a grand house, and then too she remem-
bered Morton.
(
(
But Julie, with the strange insight of the blind, or perhaps
because of those eyes in her fingers, answered quickly: ' She will
not care, Véronique, I cannot feel that sort of pride in your
Stévenne.'
5
AFTER their first visit they went very often to Mademoiselle's
modest little apartment. Mademoiselle Duphot and her quiet
blind sister were indeed their only friends now in Paris, for Brock-
ett was in America on business, and Stephen had not rung up
Valérie Seymour.
Sometimes when Stephen was busy with her work, Puddle
would make her way there all alone. Then she and Mademoiselle
would get talking about Stephen's childhood, about her future,
but guardedly, for Puddle must be careful to give nothing away
to the kind, simple woman. As for Mademoiselle, she too must
be careful to accept all and ask no questions. Yet in spite of the
inevitable gaps and restraints, a real sympathy sprang up between
them, for each sensed in the other a valuable ally who would fight
a good fight on behalf of Stephen. And now Stephen would quite
often send her car to take the blind Julie for a drive beyond
Paris. Julie would sniff the air and tell Burton that through smell-
ing their greenness she could see the trees; he would listen to her
broken and halting English with a smile - they were a queer lot
these French. Or perhaps he would drive the other Mademoiselle
up to Montmartre for early Mass on a Sunday. She belonged to
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something to do with a heart; it all seemed rather uncanny to
Burton. He thought of the Vicar who had played such fine
cricket, and suddenly felt very homesick for Morton. Fruit would
find its way to the little apartment, together with cakes and
large marrons glacés. Then Mademoiselle Duphot would be-
come frankly greedy, eating sweets in bed while she studied
her booklets on the holy and very austere Thérèse, who had
certainly not eaten marrons glacés.
Thus the spring, that gentle yet fateful spring of 1914, slipped
into the summer. With the budding of flowers and the singing
of birds it slipped quietly on towards great disaster; while
Stephen, whose book was now nearing completion, worked
harder than ever in Paris.
CHAPTER 34
I
Wi
AR. The incredible yet long predicted had come to pass.
People woke in the mornings with a sense of disaster, but
these were the old who, having known war, remembered. The
young men of France, of Germany, of Russia, of the whole world,
looked round them amazed and bewildered; yet with something
that stung as it leapt in their veins, filling them with a strange
excitement - the bitter and ruthless potion of war that spurred
and lashed at their manhood.
They hurried through the streets of Paris, these young men;
they collected in bars and cafés; they stood gaping at the ominous
government placards summoning their youth and strength to
the colours.
They talked fast, very fast, they gesticulated: 'C'est la
guerre! C'est la guerre!' they kept repeating.
Then they answered each other: 'Oui, c'est la guerre.'
And true to her traditions the beautiful city sought to hide
stark ugliness under beauty, and she decked herself as though
for a wedding; her flags streamed out on the breeze in their
thousands. With the paraphernalia and pageantry of glory she
sought to disguise the true meaning of war.
But where children had been playing a few days before,
troops were now encamped along the Champs Elysées. Their
horses nibbled the bark from the trees and pawed at the earth,
making little hollows; they neighed to each other in the watches
of the night, as though in some fearful anticipation. In by-streets
the unreasoning spirit of war broke loose in angry and futile
actions; shops were raided because of their German names and
their wares hurled out to lie in the gutters. Around every street
corner some imaginary spy must be lurking, until people tilted
at shadows.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
6
'C'est la guerre,' murmured women, thinking of their sons.
Then they answered each other: 'Oui, c'est la guerre.'
Pierre said to Stephen: They will not take me because of my
heart!' And his voice shook with anger, and the anger brought
tears which actually splashed the jaunty stripes of his livery
waistcoat.
Pauline said: 'I gave my father to the sea and my eldest
brother. I have still two young brothers, they alone are left and I
give them to France. Bon Dieu! It is terrible being a woman,
one gives all!' But Stephen knew from her voice that Pauline felt
proud of being a woman.
Adèle said: 'Jean is certain to get promotion, he says so, he
will not long remain a Poilu. When he comes back he may be a
captain - that will be fine, I shall marry a captain! War, he says,
is better than piano-tuning, though I tell him he has a fine ear
for music. But Mademoiselle should just see him now in his
uniform! We all think he looks splendid.'
Puddle said: 'Of course England was bound to come in, and
thank God we didn't take too long about it!'
Stephen said: 'All the young men from Morton will go -
every decent man in the country will go.' Then she put away her
unfinished novel and sat staring dumbly at Puddle.
2
O
ENGLAND, the land of bountiful pastures, of peace, of mother-
ing hills, of home. England was fighting for her right to ex-
istence. Face to face with dreadful reality at last, England was
pouring her men into battle, her army was even now marching
across France. Tramp, tramp; tramp, tramp; the tread of Eng-
land whose men would defend her right to existence.
Anna wrote from Morton. She wrote to Puddle, but now
Stephen took those letters and read them. The agent had enlisted
and so had the bailiff. Old Mr. Percival, agent in Sir Philip's
lifetime, had come back to help with Morton. Jim the groom,
who had stayed on under the coachman after Raftery's death.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
305
-
was now talking of going; he wanted to get into the cavalry, of
course, and Anna was using her influence for him. Six of the
gardeners had joined up already, but Hopkins was past the pre-
scribed age limit; he must do his small bit by looking after his
grape vines the grapes would be sent to the wounded in Lon-
don. There were now no men-servants left in the house, and the
home farm was short of a couple of hands. Anna wrote that she
was proud of her people, and intended to pay those who had
enlisted half wages. They would fight for England, but she could
not help feeling that in a way they would be fighting for Morton.
She had offered Morton to the Red Cross at once, and they had
promised to send her convalescent cases. It was rather isolated for
a hospital, it seemed, but would be just the place for convalescents.
The Vicar was going as an army chaplain; Violet's husband,
Alec, had joined the Flying Corps; Roger Antrim was somewhere
in France already; Colonel Antrim had a job at the barracks in
Worcester.
Came an angry scrawl from Jonathan Brockett, who had
rushed back to England post-haste from the States: ‘Did you
ever know anything quite so stupid as this war? It's upset my
apple-cart completely - can't write jingo plays about St. George
and the dragon, and I'm sick to death of "Business as usual!
Ain't going to be no business, my dear, except killing, and blood
always makes me feel faint.' Then the postscript: 'I've just been
and
gone and done it! Please send me tuck-boxes when I'm sitting
in a trench; I like caramel creams and of course mixed biscuits.
Yes, even Jonathan Brockett would go - it was fine in a way
that he should have enlisted.
""
Morton was pouring out its young men, who in their turn
might pour out their life-blood for Morton. The agent, the bailiff,
in training already. Jim the groom, inarticulate, rather stupid,
but wanting to join the cavalry - Jim who had been at Morton
since boyhood. The gardeners, kindly men smelling of soil, men
of peace with a peaceful occupation; six of these gardeners had
gone already, together with a couple of lads from the home farm.
There were no men servants left in the house. It seemed that the
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
old traditions still held, the traditions of England, the traditions
of Morton.
The Vicar would soon play a sterner game than cricket, while
Alec must put away his law books and take unto himself a pair
of wings - funny to associate wings with Alec. Colonel Antrim
had hastily got into khaki and was cursing and swearing, no
doubt, at the barracks. And Roger - Roger was somewhere in
France already, justifying his manhood. Roger Antrim, who
had been so intolerably proud of that manhood - well, now he
would get a chance to prove it!
But Jonathan Brockett, with the soft white hands, and the
foolish gestures, and the high little laugh - even he could justify
his existence, for they had not refused him when he went to enlist.
Stephen had never thought to feel envious of a man like Jona-
than Brockett.
She sat smoking, with his letter spread out before her on the
desk, his absurd yet courageous letter, and somehow it humbled
her pride to the dust, for she could not so justify her existence.
Every instinct handed down by the men of her race, every decent
instinct of courage, now rose to mock her so that all that was
male in her make-up seemed to grow more aggressive, aggressive
perhaps as never before, because of this new frustration. She felt
appalled at the realization of her own grotesqueness; she was
nothing but a freak abandoned on a kind of no-man's-land at
this moment of splendid national endeavour. England was call-
ing her men into battle, her women to the bedsides of the
wounded and dying, and between these two chivalrous, surging
forces she, Stephen, might well be crushed out of existence - of
less use to her country, she was, than Brockett. She stared at her
bony masculine hands, they had never been skilful when it came
to illness; strong they might be, but rather inept; not hands where-
with to succour the wounded. No, assuredly her job, if job she
could find, would not lie at the bedsides of the wounded. And
yet, good God, one must do something!
Going to the door she called in the servants: 'I'm leaving
for England in a few days,' she told them, and while I'm
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
307
away you'll take care of this house. I have absolute confidence
in you.
C
Pierre said: All things shall be done as you would wish,
Mademoiselle.' And she knew that it would be so.
That evening she told Puddle of her decision, and Puddle's
face brightened: 'I'm so glad, my dear, when war comes one
ought to stand by one's country.'
'I'm afraid they won't want my sort . . .' Stephen muttered.
Puddle put a firm little hand over hers: 'I wouldn't be too
sure of that, this war may give your sort of woman her chance. I
think you may find that they'll need you, Stephen.'
3
THERE were no farewells to be said in Paris except those to Buis-
sion and Mademoiselle Duphot.
Mademoiselle Duphot shed a few tears: 'I find you only to
lose you, Stévenne. Ah, but how many friends will be parted,
perhaps for ever, by this terrible war - and yet what else could
we do? We are blameless!'
In Berlin people were also saying: 'What else could we do?
We are blameless!"
Julie's hand lingered on Stephen's arm: ' You feel so strong,'
she said, sighing a little, it is good to be strong and courageous.
these days, and to have one's eyes - alas, I am quite useless.'
'No one is useless who can pray, my sister,' reproved Made-
moiselle almost sternly.
And indeed there were many who thought as she did, the
churches were crowded all over France. A great wave of piety
swept through Paris, filling the dark confessional boxes, so that
the priests had now some ado to cope with such shoals of penitent
people - the more so as every priest fit to fight had been sum-
moned to join the army. Up at Montmartre the church of the
Sacré Coeur echoed and re-echoed with the prayers of the faithful,
while those prayers that were whispered with tears in secret,
hung like invisible clouds round its altars.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'Save us, most Sacred Heart of Jesus. Have pity upon us,
have pity upon France. Save us, oh, Heart of Jesus!
So all day long must the priests sit and hear the time-honoured
sins of body and spirit; a monotonous hearing because of its
sameness, since nothing is really new under the sun, least of all
our manner of sinning. Men who had not been to Mass for years,
now began to remember their first Communion; thus it was that
many a hardy blasphemer, grown suddenly tongue-tied and
rather sheepish, clumped up to the altar in his new army boots,
having made an embarrassed confession.
Young clericals changed into uniform and marched side by
side with the roughest Poilus, to share in their hardships, their
hopes, their terrors, their deeds of supremest valour. Old men
bowed their heads and gave of the strength which no longer
animated their bodies, gave of that strength through the bodies
of their sons who would charge into battle shouting and singing.
Women of all ages knelt down and prayed, since prayer has
long been the refuge of women. No one is useless who can pray,
my sister.' The women of France had spoken through the lips of
the humble Mademoiselle Duphot.
Stephen and Puddle said good-bye to the sisters, then went
on to Buisson's Academy of Fencing, where they found him en-
gaged upon greasing his foils.
C
He looked up, Ah, it's you. I must go on greasing. God
knows when I shall use these again, to-morrow I join my regi-
ment.' But he wiped his hands on a stained overall and sat down,
after clearing a chair for Puddle. An ungentlemanly war it
will be,' he grumbled. ' Will I lead my men with a sword? Ah,
but no! I will lead my men with a dirty revolver in my hand.
Parbleu! Such is modern warfare! A machine could do the
whole cursed thing better - we shall all be nothing but machines
in this war. However, I pray that we may kill many Germans.'
Stephen lit a cigarette while the master glared, he was evi-
dently in a very vile temper: 'Go on, go on, smoke your heart
to the devil, then come here and ask me to teach you fencing!
You smoke in lighting one from the other, you remind me of
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
309
your horrible Birmingham chimneys - but of course a woman
exaggerates always,' he concluded, with an evident wish to annoy
her.
Then he made a few really enlightening remarks about Ger-
mans in general, their appearance, their morals, above all their
personal habits which remarks were more seemly in French
than they would be in English. For, like Valérie Seymour, this
man was filled with a loathing for the ugliness of his epoch, an
ugliness to which he felt the Germans were just now doing
their best to contribute. Buisson's heart was not buried in Mity-
lene, but rather in the glories of a bygone Paris, where a gentle-
man lived by the skill of his rapier and the graceful courage that
lay behind it.
C
‘In the old days we killed very beautifully,' sighed Buisson,
now we merely slaughter or else do not kill at all, no matter how
gross the insult.'
However, when they got up to go, he relented: 'War is
surely a very necessary evil, it thins down the imbecile popula-
tions who have murdered their most efficacious microbes. People
will not die, very well, here comes war to mow them down in
their tens of thousands. At least for those of us who survive,
there will be more breathing space, thanks to the Germans –
perhaps they too are a necessary evil.'
Arrived at the door Stephen turned to look back. Buisson
was once more greasing his foils, and his fingers moved slowly
yet with great precision - he might almost have been a beauty
doctor engaged upon massaging ladies' faces.
Preparations for departure did not take very long, and in less
than a week's time Stephen and Puddle had shaken hands with
their Breton servants, and were driving at top speed en route for
Havre, from whence they would cross to England.
4
PUDDLE's prophecy proved to have been correct, work was very
soon forthcoming for Stephen. She joined The London Ambu-
310
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
lance Column, which was well under way by that autumn; and
presently Puddle herself got a job in one of the Government
departments. She and Stephen had taken a small service flat in
Victoria, and here they would meet when released from their
hours of duty. But Stephen was obsessed by her one idea, which
was, willy-nilly, to get out to the front, and many and varied
were the plans and discussions that were listened to by the sym-
pathetic Puddle. An ambulance had managed to slip over to
Belgium for a while and had done some very fine service. Stephen
had hit on a similar idea, but in her case the influence required
had been lacking. In vain did she offer to form a Unit at her
own expense; the reply was polite but always the same, a monot-
onous reply: England did not send women to the front line
trenches. She disliked the idea of joining the throng who tor-
mented the patient passport officials with demands to be sent out
to France at once, on no matter how insufficient a pretext. What
was the use of her going to France unless she could find there
the work that she wanted? She preferred to stick to her job in
England.
And now quite often while she waited at the stations for the
wounded, she would see unmistakable figures - unmistakable to
her they would be at first sight, she would single them out of the
crowd as by instinct. For as though gaining courage from the
terror that is war, many a one who was even as Stephen, had crept
out of her hole and come into the daylight, come into the day-
light and faced her country: Well, here I am, will you take me
or leave me?' And England had taken her, asking no questions
– she was strong and efficient, she could fill a man's place, she
could organize too, given scope for her talent. England had said:
'Thank you very much. You're just what we happen to want
at the moment.'
So, side by side with more fortunate women, worked Miss
Smith who had been breeding dogs in the country; or Miss Oli-
phant who had been breeding nothing since birth but a litter of
hefty complexes; or Miss Tring who had lived with a very dear
friend in the humbler purlieus of Chelsea. One great weakness
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
311
they all had, it must be admitted, and this was for uniforms – yet
why not? The good workman is worthy of his Sam Browne belt.
And then too, their nerves were not at all weak, their pulses beat
placidly through the worst air raids, for bombs do not trouble.
the nerves of the invert, but rather that terrible silent bombard-
ment from the batteries of God's good people.
Yet now even really nice women with hairpins often found
their less orthodox sisters quite useful. It would be: ' Miss Smith,
do just start up my motor - the engine's so cold I can't get the
thing going;' or: 'Miss Oliphant, do glance through these ac-
counts, I've got such a rotten bad head for figures;' or: 'Miss
Tring, may I borrow your British Warm? The office is simply
arctic this morning!'
Not that those purely feminine women were less worthy of
praise, perhaps they were more so, giving as they did of their
best without stint - for they had no stigma to live down in the
war, no need to defend their right to respect. They rallied to the
call of their country superbly, and may it not be forgotten by Eng-
land. But the others - since they too gave of their best, may they
also not be forgotten. They might look a bit odd, indeed some of
them did, and yet in the streets they were seldom stared at, though
they strode a little, perhaps from shyness, or perhaps from a
slightly self-conscious desire to show off, which is often the same
thing as shyness. They were part of the universal convulsion and
were being accepted as such, on their merits. And although their
Sam Browne belts remained swordless, their hats and their caps
without regimental badges, a battalion was formed in those
terrible years that would never again be completely disbanded.
War and death had given them a right to life, and life tasted
sweet, very sweet to their palates. Later on would come bitterness,
disillusion, but never again would such women submit to being
driven back to their holes and corners. They had found themselves
thus the whirligig of war brings in its abrupt revenges.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
5
TIME passed; the first year of hostilities became the second while
Stephen still hoped, though no nearer to her ambition. Try
as she might she could not get to the front; no work at the
actual front seemed to be forthcoming for women.
Brockett wrote wonderfully cheerful letters. In every letter
was a neat little list telling Stephen what he wished her to send
him; but the sweets he loved were getting quite scarce, they
were no longer always so easy to come by. And now he was asking
for Houbigant soap to be included in his tuck-box.
'Don't let it get near the coffee fondants or it may make
them taste like it smells,' he cautioned, and do try to send me
two bottles of hair-wash, "Eau Athénienne," I used to buy it
at Truefitt's.' He was on a perfectly damnable front, they had
sent him to Mesopotamia.
Violet Peacock, who was now a V.A.D. with a very imposing
Red Cross on her apron, occasionally managed to catch Stephen
at home, and then would come reams of tiresome gossip. Some-
times she would bring her over-fed children along, she was stuff-
ing them up like capons. By fair means or foul Violet always
managed to obtain illicit cream for her nursery - she was one
of those mothers who reacted to the war by wishing to kill off the
useless agèd.
"What's the good of them? Eating up the food of the nation!
she would say, 'I'm going all out on the young, they'll be needed
to breed from.' She was very extreme, her perspective had been
upset by the air raids.
Raids frightened her as did the thought of starvation, and
when frightened she was apt to grow rather sadistic, so that now
she would want to rush off and inspect every ruin left by the
German marauders. She had also been the first to applaud the
dreadful descent of a burning Zeppelin.
She bored Stephen intensely with her ceaseless prattle about
Alec, who was one of London's defenders, about Roger, who had
got the Military Cross and was just on the eve of becoming a
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
313
major, about the wounded whose faces she sponged every morn-
ing, and who seemed so pathetically grateful.
From Morton came occasional letters for Puddle; they were
more in the nature of reports now these letters. Anna had such
and such a number of cases; the gardeners had been replaced by
young women; Mr. Percival was proving very devoted, he and
Anna were holding the estate well together; Williams had been
seriously ill with pneumonia. Then a long list of humble names.
from the farms, from among Anna's staff or from cottage home-
steads, together with those from such houses as Morton - for the
rich and the poor were in death united. Stephen would read that
long list of names, so many of which she had known since her
childhood, and would realize that the stark arm of war had struck
deep at the quiet heart of the Midlands.
BOOK FOUR
CHAPTER 35
I
A
STUMP of candle in the neck of a bottle flickered once or
twice and threatened to go out. Getting up, Stephen found
a fresh candle and lit it, then she returned to her packing-case
upon which had been placed the remnants of a chair minus its
legs and arms.
The room had once been the much prized salon of a large
and prosperous villa in Compiègne, but now the glass was gone
from its windows; there remained only battered and splintered
shutters which creaked eerily in the bitter wind of a March night
in 1918. The walls of the salon had fared little better than its
windows, their brocade was detached and hanging, while a re-
cent rainstorm had lashed through the roof making ugly splotches
on the delicate fabric - a dark stain on the ceiling was perpetu-
ally dripping. The remnants of what had once been a home, little
broken tables, an old photograph in a tarnished frame, a child's
wooden horse, added to the infinite desolation of this villa that
now housed the Breakspeare Unit - a Unit composed of English-
women, that had been serving in France just over six months,
attached to the French Army Ambulance Corps.
The place seemed full of grotesquely large shadows cast by
figures that sat or sprawled on the floor. Miss Peel in her Jaeger
sleeping-bag snored loudly, then choked because of her cold.
Miss Delmé-Howard was gravely engaged upon making the best
of a difficult toilet - she was brushing out her magnificent hair
which gleamed in the light of the candle. Miss Bless was sewing
a button on her tunic; Miss Thurloe was peering at a half-finished
letter; but most of the women who were herded together in this,
the safest place in the villa and none too safe at that be it said, were
apparently sleeping quite soundly. An uncanny stillness had de-
scended on the town; after many hours of intensive bombard-
!
318
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
ment, the Germans were having a breathing space before training
their batteries once more upon Compiègne.
Stephen stared down at the girl who lay curled up at her feet
in an army blanket. The girl slept the sleep of complete exhaus-
tion, breathing heavily with her head on her arm; her pale and
rather triangular face was that of some one who was still very
young, not much more than nineteen or twenty. The pallor of
her skin was accentuated by the short black lashes which curled
back abruptly, by the black arched eyebrows and dark brown
hair - sleek hair which grew to a peak on the forehead, and had
recently been bobbed for the sake of convenience. For the rest
her nose was slightly tip-tilted, and her mouth resolute consider-
ing her youth; the lips were well-modelled and fine in texture,
having deeply indented corners. For more than a minute Stephen
considered the immature figure of Mary Llewellyn. This latest
recruit to the Breakspeare Unit had joined it only five weeks ago,
replacing a member who was suffering from shell-shock. Mrs.
Breakspeare had shaken her head over Mary, but in these har-
assed days of the German offensive she could not afford to remain
short-handed, so in spite of many misgivings she had kept her.
T
Still shaking her head she had said to Stephen: ' Needs must
when the Boches get busy, Miss Gordon! Have an eye to her, will
you? She may stick it all right, but between you and me I very
much doubt it. You might try her out as your second driver.'
And so far Mary Llewellyn had stuck it.
Stephen looked away again, closing her eyes, and after a
while forgot about Mary. The events that had preceded her own
coming to France, began to pass through her brain in procession.
Her chief in The London Ambulance Column, through whom
she had first met Mrs. Claude Breakspeare - a good sort, the
chief, she had been a staunch friend. The great news that she,
Stephen, had been accepted and would go to the front as an
ambulance driver. Then Puddle's grave face: 'I must write to
your mother, this means that you will be in real danger.' Her
mother's brief letter: 'Before you leave I should very much like
you to come and see me,' the rest of the letter mere polite empty
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
319
phrases. The impulse to resist, the longing to go, culminating in
that hurried visit to Morton. Morton so changed and yet so
changeless. Changed because of those blue-clad figures, the lame,
the halt and the partially blinded who had sought its peace and its
kindly protection. Changeless because that protection and peace
belonged to the very spirit of Morton. Mrs. Williams a widow;
her niece melancholic ever since the groom Jim had been wounded
and missing - they had married while he had been home on
leave, and quite soon the poor soul was expecting a baby. Williams
now dead of his third and last stroke, after having survived pneu-
monia. The swan called Peter no longer gliding across the lake
on his white reflection, and in his stead an unmannerly offspring
who struck out with his wings and tried to bite Stephen. The
family vault where her father lay buried – the vault was in urgent
need of repair - No men left, Miss Stephen, we're that short
of stonemasons; her ladyship's bin complainin' already, but it
don't be no use complainin' these times.' Raftery's grave - a slab
of rough granite: ' In memory of a gentle and courageous friend,
whose name was Raftery, after the poet.' Moss on the granite
half effacing the words; the thick hedge growing wild for the
want of clipping. And her mother - a woman with snow-white
hair and a face that was worn almost down to the spirit; a
woman of quiet but uncertain movements, with a new trick of
twisting the rings on her fingers. 'It was good of you to come.
'You sent for me, Mother.' Long silences filled with the realiza-
tion that all they dared hope for was peace between them-
too late to go back - they could not retrace their steps even
though there was now peace between them. Then those last
poignant moments in the study together - memory, the old room
was haunted by it - a man dying with love in his eyes that was
deathless - a woman holding him in her arms, speaking words
such as lovers will speak to each other. Memory - they're the
one perfect thing about me. Stephen, promise to write when
you're out in France, I shall want to hear from you.' ' I promise,
Mother.' The return to London; Puddle's anxious voice: 'Well,
how was she?' 'Very frail, you must go to Morton.' Puddle's
320
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
sudden and almost fierce rebellion: 'I would rather not go, I've
made my choice, Stephen.'' But I ask this for my sake, I'm wor-
ried about her -- even if I weren't going away, I couldn't go back
now and live at Morton - our living together would make us
remember.' 'I remember too, Stephen, and what I remember
is hard to forgive. It's hard to forgive an injury done to some
one one loves. . .' Puddle's face, very white, very stern
strange to hear such words as these on the kind lips of Puddle.
'I know, I know, but she's terribly alone, and I can't forget
that my father loved her.' A long silence, and then: 'I've never
yet failed you - and you're right - I must go to Morton.'
M
Stephen's thoughts stopped abruptly. Some one had come
in and was stumping down the room in squeaky trench boots.
It was Blakeney holding the time-sheet in her hand - funny
old monosyllabic Blakeney, with her curly white hair cropped as
close as an Uhlan's, and her face that suggested a sensitive
monkey.
Service, Gordon; wake the kid! Howard - Thurloe –
ready?'
They got up and hustled into their trench coats, found their
gas masks and finally put on their helmets.
Then Stephen shook Mary Llewellyn very gently: 'It's
time.'
Mary opened her clear, grey eyes: Who? What?' she
stammered.
'It's time. Get up, Mary.'
The girl staggered to her feet, still stupid with fatigue.
Through the cracks in the shutters the dawn showed faintly.
2
THE GREY of a bitter, starved-looking morning. The town like a
mortally wounded creature, torn by shells, gashed open by
bombs. Dead streets - streets of death - death in streets and
their houses; yet people still able to sleep and still sleeping.
'Stephen.'
C
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Yes, Mary?'
'How far is the Poste?
'I think about thirty kilometres; why?'
'Oh, nothing I only wondered.
The long stretch of an open country road. On either side
of the road wire netting hung with pieces of crudely painted
rag – a camouflage this to represent leaves. A road bordered by
rag leaves on tall wire hedges. Every few yards or so a deep shell-
hole.
321
"Are they following, Mary? Is Howard all right?'
The girl glanced back: 'Yes, it's all right, she's coming.'
They drove on in silence for a couple of miles. The morning
was terribly cold; Mary shivered. 'What's that?' It was rather
a foolish question for she knew what it was, knew only too well!
'They're at it again,' Stephen muttered.
A shell burst in a paddock, uprooting some trees. All right,
Mary?'
'Yes - look out! We're coming to a crater!' They skimmed
it by less than an inch and dashed on, Mary suddenly moving
nearer to Stephen.
C
'Don't joggle my arm, for the Lord's sake, child!'
Did I? I'm sorry.'
'Yes - don't do it again,' and once more they drove forward
in silence.
Farther down the road they were blocked by a farm cart:
'Militaires! Militaires! Militaires!' Stephen shouted.
Rather languidly the farmer got down and went to the heads
of his thin, stumbling horses. Il faut vivre,' he explained, as he
pointed to the cart, which appeared to be full of potatoes.
In a field on the right worked three very old women; they
were hoeing with a diligent and fatalistic patience. At any mo-
ment a stray shell might burst and then, presto! little left of the
very old women. But what will you? There is war there has
been war so long - one must eat, even under the noses of the
Germans; the bon Dieu knows this, He alone can protect
so meanwhile one just goes on diligently hoeing. A blackbird
M
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
was singing to himself in a tree, the tree was horribly maimed
and blasted; all the same he had known it the previous spring and
so now, in spite of its wounds, he had found it. Came a sudden
lull when they heard him distinctly.
And Mary saw him: 'Look,' she said, ' there's a blackbird!'
Just for a moment she forgot about war.
Yet Stephen could now very seldom forget, and this was
because of the girl at her side. A queer, tight feeling would come
round her heart, she would know the fear that can go hand
in hand with personal courage, the fear for another.
But now she looked down for a moment and smiled: ' Bless
that blackbird for letting you see him, Mary.' She knew that
Mary loved little, wild birds, that indeed she loved all the
humbler creatures.
They turned into a lane and were comparatively safe, but
the roar of the guns had grown much more insistent. They
must be nearing the Poste de Secours, so they spoke very little
because of those guns, and after a while because of the wounded.
3
THE POSTE DE SECOURS was a ruined auberge at the cross-roads,
about fifty yards behind the trenches. From what had once been
its spacious cellar, they were hurriedly carrying up the wounded,
maimed and mangled creatures who, a few hours ago, had been
young and vigorous men. None too gently the stretchers were
lowered to the ground beside the two waiting ambulances -
none too gently because there were so many of them, and because
there must come a time in all wars when custom stales even
compassion.
The wounded were patient and fatalistic, like the very old
women back in the field. The only difference between them
being that the men had themselves become as a field laid bare
to a ruthless and bloody hoeing. Some of them had not even
a blanket to protect them from the biting cold of the wind. A
Poilu with a mighty wound in the belly, must lie with the blood
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
323
congealing on the bandage. Next to him lay a man with his face
half blown away, who, God alone knew why, remained con-
scious. The abdominal case was the first to be handled, Stephen
herself helped to lift his stretcher. He was probably dying, but
he did not complain except inasmuch as he wanted his mother.
The voice that emerged from his coarse, bearded throat was the
voice of a child demanding its mother. The man with the terrible
face tried to speak, but when he did so the sound was not human.
His bandage had slipped a little to one side, so that Stephen
must step between him and Mary, and hastily readjust the
bandage.
Get back to the ambulance! I shall want you to drive.'
In silence Mary obeyed her.
And now began the first of those endless journeys from the
Poste de Secours to the Field Hospital. For twenty-four hours
they would ply back and forth with their light Ford ambulances.
Driving quickly because the lives of the wounded might depend
on their speed, yet with every nerve taut to avoid, as far as might
be, the jarring of the hazardous roads full of ruts and shell-holes.
The man with the shattered face started again, they could
hear him above the throb of the motor. For a moment they
stopped while Stephen listened, but his lips were not there
an intolerable sound.
•
'Faster, drive faster, Mary!'
Pale, but with firmly set, resolute mouth, Mary Llewellyn
drove faster.
When at last they reached the Field Hospital, the bearded
Poilu with the wound in his belly was lying very placidly on
his stretcher; his hairy chin pointing slightly upward. He had
ceased to speak as a little child – perhaps, after all, he had found
his mother.
The day went on and the sun shone out brightly, dazzling
the tired eyes of the drivers. Dusk fell, and the roads grew
treacherous and vague. Night came - they dared not risk having
lights, so that they must just stare and stare into the darkness.
In the distance the sky turned ominously red, some stray shells
324
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
might well have set fire to a village, that tall column of flame was
probably the church; and the Boches were punishing Compiègne
again, to judge from the heavy sounds of bombardment. Yet by
now there was nothing real in the world but that thick and almost
impenetrable darkness, and the ache of the eyes that must stare
and stare, and the dreadful, patient pain of the wounded - there
had never been anything else in the world but black night shot
through with the pain of the wounded.
4
ON THE following morning the two ambulances crept back to
their base at the villa in Compiègne. It had been a tough job,
long hours of strain, and to make matters worse the reliefs had
been late, one of them having had a breakdown. Moving stiffly,
and with red rimmed and watering eyes, the four women
swallowed large cups of coffee; then just as they were they lay
down on the floor, wrapped in their trench coats and army
blankets. In less than a quarter of an hour they slept, though
the villa shook and rocked with the bombardment.
CHAPTER 36
I
T
HERE is something that mankind can never destroy in spite
of an unreasoning will to destruction, and this is its own
idealism, that integral part of its very being. The ageing and the
cynical may make wars, but the young and the idealistic must
fight them, and thus there are bound to come quick reactions,
blind impulses not always comprehended. Men will curse as they
kill, yet accomplish deeds of self-sacrifice, giving their lives for
others; poets will write with their pens dipped in blood, yet will
write not of death but of life eternal; strong and courteous friend-
ships will be born, to endure in the face of enmity and destruc-
tion. And so persistent is this urge to the ideal, above all in the
presence of great disaster, that mankind, the wilful destroyer of
beauty, must immediately strive to create new beauties, lest it
perish from a sense of its own desolation; and this urge touched
the Celtic soul of Mary.
For the Celtic soul is the stronghold of dreams, of longings
come down the dim paths of the ages; and within it there dwells
a vague discontent, so that it must for ever go questing. And now
as though drawn by some hidden attraction, as though stirred by
some irresistible impulse, quite beyond the realms of her own un-
derstanding, Mary turned in all faith and all innocence to Stephen.
Who can pretend to interpret fate, either his own fate or that of
another? Why should this girl have crossed Stephen's path, or
indeed Stephen hers, if it came to that matter? Was not the world
large enough for them both? Perhaps not - or perhaps the event
of their meeting had already been written upon tablets of stone
by some wise if relentless recording finger.
An orphan from the days of her earliest childhood, Mary had
lived with a married cousin in the wilds of Wales; an unwanted
member of a none too prosperous household. She had little educa-
326
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
tion beyond that obtained from a small private school in a neigh-
bouring village. She knew nothing of life or of men and women;
and even less did she know of herself, of her ardent, courageous,
impulsive nature. Thanks to the fact that her cousin was a doctor,
forced to motor over a widely spread practice, she had learnt to
drive and look after his car by filling the post of an unpaid chauf-
feur - she was, in her small way, a good mechanic. But the war
had made her much less contented with her narrow life, and al-
though at its outbreak Mary had been not quite eighteen, she had
felt a great longing to be independent, in which she had met with
no opposition. However, a Welsh village is no field for endeavour,
and thus nothing had happened until by a fluke she had suddenly
heard of the Breakspeare Unit via the local parson, an old friend
of its founder - he himself had written to recommend Mary. And
so, straight from the quiet seclusion of Wales, this girl had man-
aged the complicated journey that had finally got her over
to France, then across a war-ravaged, dislocated country. Mary
was neither so frail nor so timid as Mrs. Breakspeare had thought
her.
Stephen had felt rather bored just at first at the
prospect of
teaching the new member her duties, but after a while it came to
pass that she missed the girl when she was not with her. And
after a while she would find herself observing the way Mary's hair
grew, low on the forehead, the wide setting of her slightly oblique
grey eyes, the abrupt sweep back of their heavy lashes; and these
things would move Stephen, so that she must touch the girl's hair
for a moment with her fingers. Fate was throwing them con-
tinually together, in moments of rest as in moments of danger;
they could not have escaped this even had they wished to, and
indeed they did not wish to escape it. They were pawns in the
ruthless and complicated game of existence, moved hither and
thither on the board by an unseen hand, yet moved side by side,
so that they grew to expect each other.
"Mary, are you there?"
A superfluous question - the reply would be always the same.
'I'm here, Stephen.'
(
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
327
Sometimes Mary would talk of her plans for the future while
Stephen listened, smiling as she did so.
'I'll go into an office, I want to be free.'
'You're so little, you'd get mislaid in an office.'
'I'm five foot five!'
،
Are you really, Mary? You feel little, somehow.'
"That's because you're so tall. I do wish I could grow a bit!'
'No, don't wish that, you're all right as you are - it's you,
Mary.'
Mary would want to be told about Morton, she was never
tired of hearing about Morton. She would make Stephen get out
the photographs of her father, of her mother whom Mary thought
lovely, of Puddle, and above all of Raftery. Then Stephen must
tell her of the life in London, and afterwards of the new house in
Paris; must talk of her own career and ambitions, though Mary
had not read either of her novels - there had never been a library
subscription.
But at moments Stephen's face would grow clouded because
of the things that she could not tell her; because of the little un-
truths and evasions that must fill up the gaps in her strange life-
history. Looking down into Mary's clear, grey eyes, she would
suddenly flush through her tan, and feel guilty; and that feeling
would reach the girl and disturb her, so that she must hold
Stephen's hand for a moment.
One day she said suddenly: ' Are you unhappy?'
C
Why on earth should I be unhappy?' smiled Stephen.
All the same there were nights now when Stephen lay awake
even after her arduous hours of service, hearing the guns that
were coming nearer, yet not thinking of them, but always of
Mary. A great gentleness would gradually engulf her like a soft
sea mist, veiling reef and headland. She would seem to be drifting
quietly, serenely towards some blessèd and peaceful harbour.
Stretching out a hand she would stroke the girl's shoulder where
she lay, but carefully in case she should wake her. Then the mist
would lift: 'Good God! What am I doing?' She would sit up
abruptly, disturbing the sleeper.
328
'Is that you, Stephen?'
'Yes, my dear, go to sleep.'
Then a cross, aggrieved voice: 'Do shut up, you two. It's
rotten of you, I was just getting off! Why must you always persist
in talking!'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
I
Stephen would lie down again and would think: 'I'm a fool,
go out of
my way to find trouble. Of course I've grown fond of
the child, she's so plucky, almost anyone would grow fond of
Mary. Why shouldn't I have affection and friendship? Why
shouldn't I have a real human interest? I can help her to find her
feet after the war if we both come through - I might buy her a
business.' That gentle mist, hiding both reef and headland; it
would gather again blurring all perception, robbing the past of
its crude, ugly outlines. ´ After all, what harm can it do the child
to be fond of me?' It was so good a thing to have won the affec-
tion of this young creature.
2
THE GERMANS got perilously near to Compiègne, and the Break-
speare Unit was ordered to retire. Its base was now at a ruined
château on the outskirts of an insignificant village, yet not so very
insignificant either - it was stuffed to the neck with ammuni-
tion. Nearly all the hours that were spent off duty must be passed
in the gloomy, damp-smelling dug-outs which consisted of cel-
lars, partly destroyed but protected by sandbags on heavy timbers.
Like foxes creeping out of their holes, the members of the Unit
would creep into the daylight, their uniforms covered with mould
and rubble, their eyes blinking, their hands cold and numb from
the dampness - so cold and so numb that the starting up of motors
would often present a real problem.
At this time there occurred one or two small mishaps; Bless
broke her wrist while cranking her engine; Blakeney and three
others at a Poste de Secours, were met by a truly terrific bombard-
ment and took cover in what had once been a brick-field, crawling
into the disused furnace. There they squatted for something over
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
329
eight hours, while the German gunners played hit as hit can with
the tall and conspicuous chimney. When at last they emerged,
half stifled by brick-dust, Blakeney had got something into her
eye, which she rubbed; the result was acute inflammation.
Howard had begun to be irritating, with her passion for tend-
ing her beautiful hair. She would sit in the corner of her dug-out
as calmly as though she were sitting at a Bond Street hairdresser's;
and having completed the ritual brushing, she would gaze at her-
self in a pocket mirror. With a bandage over her unfortunate eye,
Blakeney looked more like a monkey than ever, a sick monkey,
and her strictly curtailed conversation was not calculated to en-
liven the Unit. She seemed almost entirely bereft of speech these
days, as though reverting to species. Her one comment on life
was: 'Oh, I dunno. always said with a jaunty, rising in-
flexion. It meant everything or nothing as you chose to take it, and
had long been her panacea for the ills of what she considered a
stupid Creation. ‘Oh, I dunno. And indeed she did not;
poor, old, sensitive, monosyllabic Blakeney. The Poilu who served
out the Unit's rations - cold meat, sardines, bread and sour red
Pinard – was discovered by Stephen in the very act of attempting
to unload an aerial bomb. He explained with a smile that the
Germans were sly in their methods of loading: 'I cannot discover
just how it is done.' Then he showed his left hand – it was minus
one of the fingers: 'That,' he told her, still smiling,' was caused
by a shell, a quite little shell, which I was also unloading.' And
when she remonstrated none too gently, he sulked: ' But I wish
to give this one to Maman!'
,
Every one had begun to feel the nerve strain, except perhaps
Blakeney, who had done with all feeling. Shorthanded by two,
the remaining members of the Unit must now work like veritable
niggers - on one occasion Stephen and Mary worked for seventy
hours with scarcely a respite. Strained nerves are invariably fol-
lowed by strained tempers, and sudden, hot quarrels would break
out over nothing. Bless and Howard loathed each other for two
days, then palled up again, because of a grievance that had recently
been evolved against Stephen. For every one knew that Stephen
330
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
and Blakeney were by far the best drivers in the Breakspeare Unit,
and as such should be shared by all the members in turn; but poor
Blakeney was nursing a very sore eye, while Stephen still con-
tinued to drive only with Mary. They were splendidly courageous
and great-hearted women, every one of them, glad enough as
a rule to help one another to shoulder burdens, to be tolerant and
kind when it came to friendships. They petted and admired their
youngest recruit, and most of them liked and respected Stephen,
all the same they had now grown childishly jealous, and this
jealousy reached the sharp ears of Mrs. Breakspeare.
Mrs. Breakspeare sent for Stephen one morning; she was sit-
ting at a Louis Quinze writing-table which had somehow survived
the wreck of the château and was now in her gloomy, official dug-
out. Her right hand reposed on an ordnance map, she looked like
a very maternal general. The widow of an officer killed in the
war, and the mother of two large sons and three daughters, she
had led the narrow, conventional life that is common to women in
military stations. Yet all the while she must been filling her sub-
conscious reservoir with knowledge, for she suddenly blossomed
forth as leader with a fine understanding of human nature. So
now she looked over her ample bosom not unkindly, but rather
thoughtfully at Stephen.
Sit down, Miss Gordon. It's about Llewellyn, whom I asked
you to take on as second driver. I think the time has now arrived
when she ought to stand more on her own in the Unit. She must
take her chance like every one else, and not cling quite so close –
don't misunderstand me, I'm most grateful for all you've done for
the girl - but of course you are one of our finest drivers, and fine
driving counts for a great deal these days, it may mean life or
death, as you yourself know. And - well - it seems scarcely fair
to the others that Mary should always go out with you. No, it cer-
tainly is not quite fair to the others.'
B
Stephen said: 'Do you mean that she's to go out with every
one in turn - with Thurloe for instance?' And do what she
would to appear indifferent, she could not quite keep her voice
from trembling.
I
C
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
331
Mrs. Breakspeare nodded: 'That's what I do mean.' Then
she said rather slowly: These are strenuous times, and such times
are apt to breed many emotions which are purely fictitious, purely
mushroom growths that spring up in a night and have no roots at
all, except in our imaginations. But I'm sure you'll agree with
me, Miss Gordon, in thinking it our duty to discourage any-
thing in the nature of an emotional friendship, such as I
fancy Mary Llewellyn is on the verge of feeling for you.
quite natural of course, a kind of reaction, but not wise - no,
I cannot think it wise. It savours a little too much of the
schoolroom and might lead to ridicule in the Unit. Your position
is far too important for that; I look upon you as my second in
command.'
It's
Stephen said quietly: 'I quite understand. I'll go at once and
speak to Blakeney about altering Mary Llewellyn's time-sheet.'
'Yes, do, if you will,' agreed Mrs. Breakspeare; then she
stooped and studied her ordnance map, without looking again at
Stephen.
3
IF STEPHEN had been fearful for Mary's safety before, she was
now ten times more so. The front was in a condition of flux and
the Postes de Secours were continually shifting. An Allied am-
bulance driver had been fired on by the Germans, after having
arrived at the spot where his Poste had been only the previous
evening. There was very close fighting on every sector; it seemed
truly amazing that no grave casualties had so far occurred in the
Unit. For now the Allies had begun to creep forward, yard by
yard, mile by mile, very slowly but surely; refreshed by a splendid
transfusion of blood from the youthful veins of a great child-
nation.
Of all the anxieties on Mary's account that now beset Stephen,
Thurloe was the gravest; for Thurloe was one of those irritating
drivers who stake all on their own inadequate judgment. She was
brave to a fault, but inclined to show off when it came to a matter
of actual danger. For long hours Stephen would not know what
332
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
had happened, and must often leave the base before Mary had re-
turned, still in doubt regarding her safety.
Grimly, yet with unfailing courage and devotion, Stephen
now went about her duties. Every day the risks that they all took
grew graver, for the enemy, nearing the verge of defeat, was less
than ever a respecter of persons. Stephen's only moments of com-
parative peace would be when she herself drove Mary. And as
though the girl missed some vitalizing force, some strength that
had hitherto been hers to draw on, she flagged, and Stephen
would watch her flagging during their brief spells together off
duty, and would know that nothing but her Celtic pluck kept
Mary Llewellyn from a break-down. And now, because they were
so often parted, even chance meetings became of importance.
They might meet while preparing their cars in the morning, and
if this should happen they would draw close together for a mo-
ment, as though finding comfort in nearness.
Letters from home would arrive for Stephen, and these she
would want to read to Mary. In addition to writing, Puddle sent
food, even luxuries sometimes, of a pre-war nature. To obtain
them she must have used bribery and corruption, for food of all
kinds had grown scarce in England. Puddle, it seemed, had a
mammoth war map into which she stuck pins with gay little
pennants. Every time the lines moved by so much as a yard, out
would come Puddle's pins to go in at fresh places; for since
Stephen had left her to go to the front, the war had become very
personal to Puddle.
Anna also wrote, and from her Stephen learnt of the death of
Roger Antrim. He had been shot down while winning his V.C.
through saving the life of a wounded captain. All alone he had
gone over to no-man's-land and had rescued his friend where he
lay unconscious, receiving a bullet through the head at the mo-
ment of flinging the wounded man into safety. Roger - so lack-
ing in understanding, so crude, so cruel and remorseless a bully -
Roger had been changed in the twinkling of an eye into some-
thing superb because utterly selfless. Thus it was that the undying
urge
of mankind towards the ideal had come upon Roger. And
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
333
Stephen as she sat there and read of his passing, suddenly knew
that she wished him well, that his courage had wiped one great
bitterness out of her heart and her life for ever. And so by dying
as he had died, Roger, all unknowing, had fulfilled the law that
must be extended to enemy and friend alike - the immutable law
of service.
4
EVENTS gathered momentum. By the June of that year 700,000
United States soldiers, strong and comely men plucked from their
native prairies, from their fields of tall corn, from their farms and
their cities, were giving their lives in defence of freedom on the
blood-soaked battlefields of France. They had little to gain and
much to lose; it was not their war, yet they helped to fight it be-
cause they were young and their nation was young, and the ideals
of youth are eternally hopeful.
In July came the Allied counter-offensive, and now in her
moment of approaching triumph France knew to the full her
great desolation, as it lay revealed by the retreating armies. For
not only had there been a holocaust of homesteads, but the country
was strewn with murdered trees, cut down in their hour of most
perfect leafing; orchards struck to the ground, an orgy of destruc-
tion, as the mighty forces rolled back like a tide, to recoil on them-
selves - incredulous, amazed, maddened by the outrage of com-
ing disaster. For mad they must surely have been, since no man
is a more faithful lover of trees than the German.
C
Stephen as she drove through that devastated country would
find herself thinking of Martin Hallam - Martin who had
touched the old thorns on the hills with such respectful and pitiful
fingers: Have you ever thought about the enormous courage of
trees? I have and it seems to me amazing. The Lord dumps them
down and they've just got to stick it, no matter what happens
that must need some courage.' Martin had believed in a heaven
for trees, a forest heaven for all the faithful; and looking at those
pitiful, leafy corpses, Stephen would want to believe in that
heaven. Until lately she had not thought of Martin for years,
he
Sp
334
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
belonged to a past that was better forgotten, but now she would
sometimes wonder about him. Perhaps he was dead, smitten
down where he stood, for many had perished where they stood,
like the orchards. It was strange to think that he might have been
here in France, have been fighting and have died quite near her.
But perhaps he had not been killed after all - she had never told
Mary about Martin Hallam.
All roads of thought seemed to lead back to Mary; and these
days, in addition to fears for her safety, came a growing distress
at what she must see - far more terrible sights than the patient
wounded. For everywhere now lay the wreckage of war, sea-
wrack spued up by a poisonous ocean - putrefying, festering in
the sun; breeding corruption to man's seed of folly. Twice lately,
while they had been driving together, they had come upon sights
that Stephen would have spared her. There had been that shat-
tered German gun-carriage with its stiff, dead horses and its three
dead gunners - horrible death, the men's faces had been black
like the faces of negroes, black and swollen from gas, or was it
from putrefaction? There had been the deserted and wounded
charger with its fore-leg hanging as though by a rag. Near by had
been lying a dead young Uhlan, and Stephen had shot the beast
with his revolver, but Mary had suddenly started sobbing: 'Oh,
God! Oh, God! It was dumb - it couldn't speak. It's so awful
somehow to see a thing suffer when it can't ask you why!' She
had sobbed a long time, and Stephen had not known how to
console her.
And now the Unit was creeping forward in the wake of the
steadily advancing Allies. Billets would be changed as the base
was moved on slowly from devastated village to village. There
seldom seemed to be a house left with a roof, or with anything
much beyond its four walls, and quite often they must lie staring
up at the stars, which would stare back again, aloof and un-
troubled. At about this time they grew very short of water, for
most of the wells were said to have been poisoned; and this short-
age of water was a very real torment, since it strictly curtailed the
luxury of washing. Then what must Bless do but get herself hit
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
335
while locating the position of a Poste de Secours which had most
inconsiderately vanished. Like the Allied ambulance driver she
was shot at, but in her case she happened to stop a bullet - it was
only a flesh wound high up in the arm, yet enough to render her
useless for the moment. She had had to be sent back to hospital,
so once again the Unit was short-handed.
It turned hot, and in place of the dampness and the cold,
came days and nights that seemed almost breathless; days when
the wounded must lie out in the sun, tormented by flies as they
waited their turn to be lifted into the ambulances. And as though
misfortunes attracted each other, as though indeed they were
hunting in couples, Stephen's face was struck by a splinter of shell,
and her right cheek cut open rather badly. It was neatly stitched
up by the little French doctor at the Poste de Secours, and when
he had finished with his needle and dressings, he bowed very
gravely: 'Mademoiselle will carry an honourable scar as a mark
of her courage,' and he bowed yet again, so that in the end Stephen
must also bow gravely. Fortunately, however, she could still do
her job, which was all to the good for the short-handed Unit.
5
ON AN autumn afternoon of blue sky and sunshine, Stephen had
the Croix de Guerre pinned on her breast by a white-haired and
white-moustached general. First came the motherly Mrs. Claude
Breakspeare, whose tunic looked much too tight for her bosom,
then Stephen and one or two other members of that valiant and
untiring Unit. The general kissed each one in turn on both cheeks,
while overhead hovered a fleet of Aces; troops presented arms,
veteran troops tried in battle, and having the set look of war in
their eyes - for the French have a very nice taste in such matters.
And presently Stephen's bronze Croix de Guerre would carry
three miniature stars on its ribbon, and each star would stand for
a mention in despatches.
That evening she and Mary walked over the fields to a little
town not very far from their billets. They paused for a moment
336
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
to watch the sunset, and Mary stroked the new Croix de Guerre;
then she looked straight up into Stephen's eyes, her mouth shook,
and Stephen saw that she was crying. After this they must walk
hand in hand for a while. Why not? There was no one just then
to see them.
'
Mary said: All my life I've been waiting for something.'
'What was it, my dear? 'Stephen asked her gently.
And Mary answered: 'I've been waiting for you, and it's
seemed such a dreadful long time, Stephen.'
The barely healed wound across Stephen's cheek flushed
darkly, for what could she find to answer?
"For me?' she stammered.
Mary nodded gravely: 'Yes, for you. I've always been waiting
for
you; and after the war you'll send me away.' Then she sud-
denly caught hold of Stephen's sleeve: 'Let me come with you -
don't send me away, I want to be near you. . . . I can't explain
. but I only want to be near you, Stephen. Stephen - say you
won't send me away.
,
Stephen's hand closed over the Croix de Guerre, but the metal
of valour felt cold to her fingers; dead and cold it felt at that
moment, as the courage that had set it upon her breast. She stared
straight ahead of her into the sunset, trembling because of what
she would answer.
Then she said very slowly: ' After the war - no, I won't send
you away from me, Mary.'
CHAPTER 37
I
T
HE MOST stupendous and heartbreaking folly of our times.
drew towards its abrupt conclusion. By November the Unit
was stationed at St. Quentin in a little hotel, which although very
humble, seemed like paradise after the dug-outs.
A morning came when a handful of the members were to-
gether in the coffee-room, huddled round a fire that was prin-
cipally composed of damp brushwood. At one moment the guns
could be heard distinctly, the next, something almost unnatural
had happened – there was silence, as though death had turned
on himself, smiting his own power of destruction. No one spoke,
they just sat and stared at each other with faces entirely devoid of
emotion; their faces looked blank, like so many masks from
which had been sponged every trace of expression - and they
waited - listening to that silence.
The door opened and in walked an untidy Poilu; his manner
was casual, his voice apathetic: Eh bien, mesdames, c'est l' Armis-
tice.' But his shining brown eyes were not at all apathetic. ‘Oui,
c'est l'Armistice,' he repeated coolly; then he shrugged, as a man
might do who would say: What is all this to me?' After which
he grinned broadly in spite of himself, he was still very young, and
turning on his heel he departed.
Stephen said: 'So it's over,' and she looked at Mary, who had
jumped up, and was looking in her turn at Stephen.
<
Mary said: This means . . .' but she stopped abruptly.
Bless said: Got a match, anyone? Oh thanks!' And she
groped for her white metal cigarette case.
Howard said: 'Well, the first thing I'm going to do is to get
my hair
hair properly shampooed in Paris.'
Thurloe laughed shrilly, then she started to whistle, kicking
the recalcitrant fire as she did so.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
But funny, old, monosyllabic Blakeney with her curly white
hair cropped as close as an Uhlan's - Blakeney who had long ago
done with emotions - quite suddenly laid her arms on the table
and her head on her arms, and she wept, and she wept.
2
STEPHEN stayed with the Unit right up to the eve of its depar-
ture for Germany, then she left it, taking Mary Llewellyn with
her. Their work was over; remained only the honour of join-
ing the army's triumphal progress, but Mary Llewellyn was
completely worn out, and Stephen had no thought except for
Mary.
They said farewell to Mrs. Claude Breakspeare, to Howard
and Blakeney and the rest of their comrades. And Stephen knew,
as indeed did they also, that a mighty event had slipped into the
past, had gone from them into the realms of history - something
terrible yet splendid, a oneness with life in its titanic struggle
against death. Not a woman of them all but felt vaguely regretful
in spite of the infinite blessing of peace, for none could know what
the future might hold of trivial days filled with trivial actions.
Great wars will be followed by great discontents - the pruning
knife has been laid to the tree, and the urge to grow throbs
through its mutilated branches.
3
THE HOUSE in the Rue Jacob was en fête in honour of Stephen's
arrival. Pierre had rigged up an imposing flagstaff, from which
waved a brand new tricolour commandeered by Pauline from the
neighbouring baker; flowers had been placed in the study vases,
while Adèle had contrived to produce the word 'welcome
in immortelles, as the pièce de resistance, and had hung it above
the doorway.
Stephen shook hands with them all in turn, and she intro-
duced Mary, who also shook hands. Then Adèle must start to
gabble about Jean, who was quite safe although not a captain;
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
339
and Pauline must interrupt her to tell of the neighbouring baker
who had lost his four sons, and of one of her brothers who had
lost his right leg - her face very dour and her voice very cheerful,
as was always the way when she told of misfortunes. And pres-
ently she must also deplore the long straight scar upon Stephen's
cheek: 'Oh, la pauvre! Pour une dame c'est un vrai désastre!'
But Pierre must point to the green and red ribbon in Stephen's
lapel: C'est la Croix de Guerre!' so that in the end they all
gathered round to admire that half-inch of honour and glory.
Oh, yes,
this home-coming was as friendly and happy as good
will and warm Breton hearts could make it. Yet Stephen was
oppressed by a sense of restraint when she took Mary up to
the charming bedroom overlooking the garden, and she spoke
abruptly.
This will be your room.'
"It's beautiful, Stephen.'
After that they were silent, perhaps because there was so much
that might not be spoken between them.
The dinner was served by a beaming Pierre, an excellent
dinner, more than worthy of Pauline; but neither of them man-
aged to eat very much - they were far too acutely conscious of
each other. When the meal was over they went into the study
where, in spite of the abnormal shortage of fuel, Adèle had man-
aged to build a huge fire which blazed recklessly half up the
chimney. The room smelt slightly of hothouse flowers, of leather,
of old wood and vanished years, and after a while of cigarette
smoke.
Then Stephen forced herself to speak lightly: 'Come and sit
over here by the fire,' she said, smiling.
So Mary obeyed, sitting down beside her, and she laid a hand
upon Stephen's knee; but Stephen appeared not to notice that
hand, for she just let it lie there and went on talking.
'I've been thinking, Mary, hatching all sorts of schemes. I'd
like to get you right away for a bit, the weather seems pretty awful
in Paris. Puddle once told me about Teneriffe, she went there
ages ago with a pupil. She stayed at a place called Orotava; it's
340
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
lovely, I believe - do you think you'd enjoy it? I might manage to
hear of a villa with a garden, and then you could just slack about
in the sunshine.'
Mary said, very conscious of the unnoticed hand: 'Do you
really want to go away, Stephen? Wouldn't it interfere with
your
writing?' Her voice, Stephen thought, sounded strained and
unhappy.
'Of course I want to go,' Stephen reassured her, ' I'll work all
the better for a holiday. Anyhow, I must see you looking more
fit,' and she suddenly laid her hand over Mary's.
The strange sympathy which sometimes exists between two
human bodies, so that a touch will stir many secret and perilous
emotions, closed down on them both at that moment of contact,
and they sat unnaturally still by the fire, feeling that in their still-
ness lay safety. But presently Stephen went on talking, and now
she talked of purely practical matters. Mary must go for a fort-
night to her cousins, she had better go almost at once, and remain
there while Stephen herself went to Morton. Eventually they
would meet in London and from there motor straight away to
Southampton, for Stephen would have taken their passages and
if possible found a furnished villa, before she went down to Mor-
ton. She talked on and on, and as she did so her fingers tightened
and relaxed abruptly on the hand that she had continued to hold,
so that Mary imprisoned those nervous fingers in her own, and
Stephen made no resistance.
Then Mary, like many another before her, grew as happy as
she had been downhearted; for the merest trifles are often enough
to change the trend of mercurial emotions such as beset the heart
in its youth; and she looked at Stephen with gratitude in her eyes,
and with something far more fundamental of which she herself
was unconscious. And now she began to talk in her turn. She
could type fairly well, was a very good speller; she would type
Stephen's books, take care of her papers, answer her letters, look
after the house, even beard the lugubrious Pauline in her kitchen.
Next autumn she would write to Holland for bulbs - they must
have lots of bulbs in their city garden, and in summer they ought
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
341
to manage some roses - Paris was less cruel to flowers than Lon-
don. Oh, and might she have pigeons with wide, white tails? They
would go so well with the old marble fountain.
Stephen listened, nodding from time to time. Yes, of course
she could have her white fan-tailed pigeons, and her bulbs, and
her roses, could have anything she pleased, if only she would get
quite well and be happy.
-
At this Mary laughed: 'Oh, Stephen, my dear – don't you
know that I'm really terribly happy?
Pierre came in with the evening letters; there was one from
Anna and another from Puddle. There was also a lengthy epistle
from Brockett who was praying, it seemed, for demobilization.
Once released, he must go for a few weeks to England, but after
that he was coming to Paris.
He wrote: 'I'm longing to see you again and Valérie Sey-
mour. By the way, how goes it? Valérie writes that
it? Valérie writes that you never rang
her up. It's a pity you're so unsociable, Stephen; unwholesome, I
call it, you'll be bagging a shell like a hermit crab, or growing
hairs on your chin, or a wart on your nose, or worse still a com-
plex. You might even take to a few nasty habits towards middle
life – better read Ferenczi! Why were you so beastly to Valérie, I
wonder? She is such a darling and she likes you so much, only
the other day she wrote: "When you see Stephen Gordon give her
my love, and tell her that nearly all streets in Paris lead sooner or
later to Valérie Seymour." You might write her a line, and you
might write to me - already I'm finding your silence suspicious.
Are you in love? I'm just crazy to know, so why deny me that
innocent pleasure? After all, we're told to rejoice with those
who rejoice - may I send my congratulations? Vague but exciting
rumours have reached me. And by the
Valérie's very
way,
for-
giving, so don't feel shy about telephoning to her. She's one of
those highly developed souls who bob up serenely after a snub-
bing, as do I, your devoted Brockett.'
Stephen glanced at Mary as she folded the letter: 'Isn't it time
you went off to bed?
'Don't send me away.
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'I must, you're so tired. Come on, there's a good child, you
look tired and sleepy.'
'I'm not a bit sleepy!
'All the same it's high time. . .
'Are you coming?
'Not yet, I must answer some letters.'
Mary got up, and just for a moment their eyes met, then
Stephen looked away quickly: 'Good night, Mary.'
'Stephen won't you kiss me good night? It's our first
night together here in your home. Stephen, do you know that
you've never kissed me?'
The clock chimed ten; a rose on the desk fell apart, its over-
blown petals disturbed by that almost imperceptible vibration.
Stephen's heart beat thickly.
'Do you want me to kiss you?
More than anything else in the world,' said Mary.
Then Stephen suddenly came to her senses, and she managed
to smile: ' Very well, my dear.' She kissed the girl quietly on her
cheek, ' And now you really must go to bed, Mary.'
After Mary had gone she tried to write letters; a few lines to
Anna, announcing her visit; a few lines to Puddle and to Made-
moiselle Duphot- the latter she felt that she had shamefully
neglected. But in none of these letters did she mention Mary.
Brockett's effusion she left unanswered. Then she took her un-
finished novel from its drawer, but it seemed very dreary and
unimportant, so she laid it aside again with a sigh, and locking the
drawer put the key in her pocket.
And now she could no longer keep it at bay, the great joy, the
great pain in her heart that was Mary. She had only to call and
Mary would come, bringing all her faith, her youth and her
ardour. Yes, she had only to call, and yet - would she ever be cruel
enough to call Mary? Her mind recoiled at that word; why cruel?
She and Mary loved and needed each other. She could give the
girl luxury, make her secure so that she need never fight for her
living; she should have every comfort that money could buy.
Mary was not strong enough to fight for her living. And then
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
343
she, Stephen, was no longer a child to be frightened and hum-
bled by this situation. There was many another exactly like her in
this very city, in every city; and they did not all live out crucified
lives, denying their bodies, stultifying their brains, becoming the
victims of their own frustrations. On the contrary, they lived
natural lives – lives that to them were perfectly natural. They had
their passions like every one else, and why not? They were surely
entitled to their passions? They attracted too, that was the irony
of it, she herself had attracted Mary Llewellyn - the girl was quite
simply and openly in love. All my life I've been waiting for
something. 'Mary had said that, she had said: ' All my life
I've been waiting for something. . . . I've been waiting for you.'
Men - they were selfish, arrogant, possessive. What could they
do for Mary Llewellyn? What could a man give that she could
not? A child? But she would give Mary such a love as would be
complete in itself without children. Mary would have no room
in her heart, in her life, for a child, if she came to Stephen. All
things they would be the one to the other, should they stand in
that limitless relationship; father, mother, friend, and lover, all
things - the amazing completeness of it; and Mary, the child, the
friend, the beloved. With the terrible bonds of her dual nature,
she could bind Mary fast, and the pain would be sweetness, so
that the girl would cry out for that sweetness, hugging her chains
always closer to her. The world would condemn but they would
rejoice; glorious outcasts, unashamed, triumphant!
She began to pace restlessly up and down the room, as had
ever been her wont in moments of emotion. Her face grew
ominous, heavy and brooding; the fine line of her mouth was a
little marred; her eyes were less clear, less the servants of her spirit
than the slaves of her anxious and passionate body; the red scar
on her cheek stood out like a wound. Then quite suddenly she
had opened the door, and was staring at the dimly lighted stair-
case. She took a step forward and then stopped; appalled, dumb-
founded at herself, at this thing she was doing. And as she stood
there as though turned to stone, she remembered another and
spacious study, she remembered a lanky colt of a girl whose glance
344
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
had kept straying towards the windows; she remembered a man
who had held out his hand: ' Stephen, come here. . . . What is
honour, my daughter?'
Honour, good God! Was this her honour? Mary, whose
nerves had been strained to breaking! A dastardly thing it would
be to drag her through the maze of passion, with no word of
warning. Was she to know nothing of what lay before her, of the
price she would have to pay for such love? She was young and
completely ignorant of life; she knew only that she loved, and
the young were ardent. She would give all that Stephen might
ask of her and more, for the young were not only ardent but
generous. And through giving all she would be left defenceless,
neither forewarned nor forearmed against a world that would
turn like a merciless beast and rend her. It was horrible. No, Mary
must not give until she had counted the cost of that gift, until she
was restored in body and mind, and was able to form a considered
judgment.
Then Stephen must tell her the cruel truth, she must say:
'I am one of those whom God marked on the forehead. Like
Cain, I am marked and blemished. If you come to me, Mary, the
world will abhor you, will persecute you, will call you unclean.
Our love may be faithful even unto death and beyond - yet the
world will call it unclean. We may harm no living creature by
our love; we may grow more perfect in understanding and in
charity because of our loving; but all this will not save you from
the scourge
of a world that will turn away its eyes from your
noblest actions, finding only corruption and vileness in you. You
will see men and women defiling each other, laying the burden
of their sins upon their children. You will see unfaithfulness, lies
and deceit among those whom the world views with approbation.
You will find that many have grown hard of heart, have grown
greedy, selfish, cruel and lustful; and then you will turn to me
and will say: "You and I are more worthy of respect than these
people. Why does the world persecute us, Stephen? "And I shall
answer: "Because in this world there is only toleration for the so-
called normal." And when you come to me for protection, I shall
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
345
'
say: I cannot protect you, Mary, the world has deprived me of
my right to protect; I am utterly helpless, I can only love you."
And now Stephen was trembling. In spite of her strength and
her splendid physique, she must stand there and tremble. She felt
deathly cold, her teeth chattered with cold, and when she moved
her steps were unsteady. She must climb the wide stairs with in-
finite care, in case she should inadvertently stumble; must lift her
feet slowly, and with infinite care, because if she stumbled she
might wake Mary.
4
TEN days later Stephen was saying to her mother: 'I've been
needing a change for a very long time. It's rather lucky that a girl
I met in the Unit is free and able to go with me. We've taken a
villa at Orotava, it's supposed to be furnished and they're leaving
the servants, but heaven only knows what the house will be like,
it belongs to a Spaniard; however, there'll be sunshine.'
'I believe Orotava's delightful,' said Anna.
But Puddle, who was looking at Stephen, said nothing.
That night Stephen knocked at Puddle's door: May I
come in?"
"Yes, come in do, my dear. Come and sit by the fire - shall I
make you some cocoa?'
'No, thanks.'
A long pause while Puddle slipped into her dressing-gown of
soft, grey Viyella. Then she also drew a chair up to the fire, and
after a little: 'It's good to see you - your old teacher's been miss-
ing you rather badly.'
Not more than I've been missing her, Puddle.' Was that
quite true? Stephen suddenly flushed, and both of them grew very
silent.
Puddle knew quite well that Stephen was unhappy. They had
not lived side by side all these years, for Puddle to fail now in
intuition; she felt certain that something grave had happened, and
her instinct warned her of what this might be, so that she secretly
trembled a little. For no young and inexperienced girl sat beside
346
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
her, but a woman of nearly thirty-two, who was far beyond the
reach of her guidance. This woman would settle her problems for
herself and in her own way - had indeed always done so. Puddle
must try to be tactful in her questions.
She said gently: 'Tell me about your new friend. You met
her in the Unit?
'Yes we met in the Unit, as I told you this evening - her
name's Mary Llewellyn.'
'How old is she, Stephen?'
'Not quite twenty-two.'
Puddle said: ‘Very young - not yet twenty-two
not yet twenty-two . . .' then
she glanced at Stephen, and fell silent.
M
But now Stephen went on talking more quickly: 'I'm glad
you asked me about her, Puddle, because I intend to give her a
home. She's got no one except some distant cousins, and as far
as I can see they don't want her. I shall let her have a try at typing
my work, as she's asked to, it will make her feel independent;
otherwise, of course, she'll be perfectly free - if it's not a success
she can always leave me - but I rather hope it will be a success.
She's companionable, we like the same things, anyhow she'll
give me an interest in life.
Puddle thought: 'She's not going to tell me.'
Stephen took out her cigarette case from which she produced
a clear little snapshot: 'It's not very good, it was done at the
front.'
But Puddle was gazing at Mary Llewellyn. Then she looked
up abruptly and saw Stephen's eyes - without a word she handed
back the snapshot.
Stephen said: Now I want to talk about you. Will you go
to Paris at once, or stay here until we come home from Orotava?
It's just as you like, the house is quite ready, you've only got to
send Pauline a postcard; they're expecting you there at any mo-
ment.' And she waited for Puddle's answer.
<
Then Puddle, that small but indomitable fighter, stood forth
all alone to do battle with herself, to strike down a sudden hot
jealousy, a sudden and almost fierce resentment. And she saw
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
347
that self as a tired old woman, a woman grown dull and tired
with long service; a woman who had outlived her reason for
living, whose companionship was now useless to Stephen. A
woman who suffered from rheumatism in the winter and from
lassitude in the summer; a woman who when young had never
known youth, except as a scourge to a sensitive conscience. And
now she was old and what had life left her? Not even the privi-
lege of guarding her friend - for Puddle knew well that her
presence in Paris would only embarrass while unable to hinder.
Nothing could stay fate if the hour had struck; and yet, from
the very bottom of her soul, she was fearing that hour for Ste-
phen. And - who shall presume to accuse or condemn? - she
actually found it in her to pray that Stephen might be granted
some measure of fulfilment, some palliative for the wound of
existence: Not like me - don't let her grow old as I've done."
Then she suddenly remembered that Stephen was waiting.
'
She said quietly: 'Listen, my dear, I've been thinking; I
don't feel that I ought to leave your mother, her heart's not very
strong nothing serious, of course - still, she oughtn't to live
all alone at Morton; and quite apart from the question of health,
living alone's a melancholy business. There's another thing too.
I've grown tired and lazy, and I don't want to pull up my roots
if I can help it. When one's getting on in years, one gets set in
one's ways, and my ways fit in very well with Morton. I didn't
want to come here, Stephen, as I told you, but I was all wrong,
for
your mother needs me - she needs me more now than during
the war, because during the war she had occupation. Oh, but good
heavens! I'm a silly old woman - did you know that I used to
get homesick for England? I used to get homesick for penny
buns. Imagine it, and I was living in Paris! Only -' And now her
voice broke a little: 'Only, if ever you should feel that you need
me, if ever you should feel that you want my advice or my help,
you'd send for me, wouldn't you, my dear? Because old as I am,
I'd be able to run if I thought that you really needed me,
Stephen.'
Stephen held out her hand and Puddle grasped it. There
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
are some things I can't express,' Stephen said slowly; 'I can't
express my gratitude to you for all you've done - I can't find
words. But I want you to know that I'm trying to play
any
straight.'
G
"You'd always play straight in the end,' said Puddle.
And so, after nearly eighteen years of life together, these two
staunch friends and companions had now virtually parted.
CHAPTER 38
I
T
HE VILLA DEL CIPRES at Orotava was built on a headland
above the Puerto. It had taken its name from its fine cypress
trees, of which there were many in the spacious garden. At the
Puerto there were laughter, shouting and singing as the oxen
wagons with their crates of bananas came grating and stumbling
down to the wharf. At the Puerto one might almost have said
there was commerce, for beyond the pier waited the dirty fruit
steamers; but the Villa del Ciprés stood proudly aloof like a
Spanish grandee who had seen better days - one felt that it
literally hated commerce.
The villa was older than the streets of the Puerto, though
much grass grew between their venerable cobbles. It was older
than the oldest villas on the hill, the hill that was known as old
Orotava, though their green latticed shutters were bleached by
the suns of innumerable semi-tropical summers. It was so old
indeed, that no peasant could have told you precisely when it
had come into being; the records were lost, if they had ever
existed for its history one had to apply to its owner. But then
its owner was always in Spain, and his agent who kept the place
in repair, was too lazy to bother himself over trifles. What could
it matter when the first stone was laid, or who laid it? The villa
was always well let - he would yawn, roll a cigarette in his
fingers, lick the with the thick, red tip of his tongue, and
paper
finally go to sleep in the sunshine to dream only of satisfactory
commissions.
The Villa del Ciprés was a low stone house that had once
been tinted a lemon yellow. Its shutters were greener than those
on the hill, for every ten years or so they were painted. All its
principal windows looked over the sea that lay at the foot of the
little headland. There were large, dim rooms with rough mosaic
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
floors and walls that were covered by ancient frescoes. Some of
these frescoes were primitive but holy, others were primitive but
distinctly less holy; however, they were all so badly defaced, that
the tenants were spared what might otherwise have been rather
a shock at the contrast. The furniture, although very good of its
kind, was sombre, and moreover it was terribly scanty, for its
owner was far too busy in Seville to attend to his villa in Orotava.
But one glory the old house did certainly possess; its garden, a
veritable Eden of a garden, obsessed by a kind of primitive urge
towards all manner of procreation. It was hot with sunshine and
the flowing of sap, so that even its shade held a warmth in its
greenness, while the virile growth of its flowers and its trees gave
off a strangely disturbing fragrance. These trees had long been
a haven for birds, from the crested hoopoes to the wild canaries
who kept up a chorus of song in the branches.
2
STEPHEN and Mary arrived at the Villa del Ciprés, not very long
after Christmas. They had spent their Christmas Day aboard
ship, and on landing had stayed for a week at Santa Cruz before
taking the long, rough drive to Orotava. And as though the fates
were being propitious, or unpropitious perhaps - who shall say?
- the garden was looking its loveliest, almost melodramatic it
looked in the sunset. Mary gazed round her wide-eyed with
pleasure; but after a while her eyes must turn, as they always
did now, to rest upon Stephen; while Stephen's uncertain and
melancholy eyes must look back with great love in their depths
for Mary.
Together they made the tour of the villa, and when this
was over Stephen laughed a little; 'Not much of anything, is
there, Mary?'
'No, but quite enough. Who wants tables and chairs? '
'Well, if you're contented, I am,' Stephen told her. And
indeed, so far as the Villa del Ciprés went, they were both very
well contented.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
35I
They discovered that the indoor staff would consist of two
peasants; a plump, smiling woman called Concha, who adhered
to the ancient tradition of the island and tied her head up in a
white linen kerchief, and a girl whose black hair was elaborately
dressed, and whose cheeks were very obviously powdered -
Concha's niece she was, by name Esmeralda. Esmeralda looked
cross, but this may have been because she squinted so badly.
In the garden worked a handsome person called Ramon,
together with Pedro, a youth of sixteen. Pedro was light-hearted,
precocious and spotty. He hated his simple work in the garden;
what he liked was driving his father's mules for the tourists,
according to Ramon. Ramon spoke English passably well; he
had picked it up from the numerous tenants and was proud of
this fact, so while bringing in the luggage he paused now and
then to impart information. It was better to hire mules and
donkeys from the father of Pedro - he had very fine mules and
donkeys. It was better to take Pedro and none other as your guide,
for thus would be saved any little ill-feeling. It was better to let
Concha do all the shopping – she was honest and wise as the
Blessed Virgin. It was better never to scold Esmeralda, who was
sensitive on account of her squint and therefore inclined to be
easily wounded. If you wounded the heart of Esmeralda, she
walked out of the house and Concha walked with her. The island
women were often like this; you upset them and per Dios, your
dinner could burn! They would not even wait to attend to your
dinner.
You come home,' smiled Ramon, ‘and you say, "What
burns? Is my villa on fire?" Then you call and you call. No
answer. . . all gone!' And he spread out his hands with a
wide and distressingly empty gesture.
Ramon said that it was better to buy flowers from him: 'I
cut fresh from the garden when you want,' he coaxed gently.
He spoke even his broken English with the soft, rather sing-
song drawl of the local peasants.
C
But aren't they our flowers?' inquired Mary, surprised.
Ramon shook his head: 'Yours to see, yours to touch, but
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
not yours to take, only mine to take - I sell them as part of my
little payment. But to you I sell very cheap, Señorita, because
you resemble the santa noche that makes our gardens smell
sweet at night. I will show you our beautiful santa noche.' He
was thin as a lath and as brown as a chestnut, and his shirt was
quite incredibly dirty; but when he walked he moved like a
king on his rough bare feet with their broken toe-nails. This
evening I make you a present of my flowers; I bring you a very
big bunch of tabachero,' he remarked.
<
Oh, you mustn't do that,' protested Mary, getting out her
purse.
But Ramon looked offended: 'I have said it. I give you the
tabachero.'
3
THEIR dinner consisted of a local fish fried in oil - the fish had
a very strange figure, and the oil, Stephen thought, tasted slightly
rancid; there was also a small though muscular chicken. But
Concha had provided large baskets of fruit; loquats still warm
from the tree that bred them, the full flavoured little indigenous
bananas, oranges sweet as though dripping honey, custard apples
and guavas had Concha provided, together with a bottle of the
soft yellow wine so dearly beloved of the island Spaniards.
Outside in the garden there was luminous darkness. The
night had a quality of glory about it, the blue glory peculiar to
Africa and seen seldom or never in our more placid climate. A
warm breeze stirred the eucalyptus trees and their crude, harsh
smell was persistently mingled with the thick scents of heliotrope
and datura, with the sweet but melancholy scent of jasmine, with
the faint, unmistakable odour of cypress.
<
Stephen lit a cigarette: Shall we go out, Mary?'
They stood for a minute looking up at the stars, so much
larger and brighter than stars seen in England. From a pond on
the farther side of the villa, came the queer, hoarse chirping of
innumerable frogs singing their prehistoric love songs. A star
fell, shooting swiftly earthward through the darkness.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
353
Then the sweetness that was Mary seemed to stir and mingle
with the very urgent sweetness of that garden; with the dim,
blue glory of the African night, and with all the stars in their
endless courses, so that Stephen could have wept aloud as she
stood there, because of the words that must not be spoken. For
now that this girl was returning to health, her youth was becom-
ing even more apparent, and something in the quality of Mary's
youth, something terrible and ruthless as an unsheathed sword,
would leap out at such moments and stand between them.
Mary slipped a small, cool hand into Stephen's, and they
walked on towards the edge of the headland. For a long time
they gazed out over the sea, while their thoughts were always of
one another. But Mary's thoughts were not very coherent, and
because she was filled with a vague discontent, she sighed and
moved even nearer to Stephen, who suddenly put an arm round
her shoulder.
Stephen said: Are you tired, you little child?' And her
husky voice was infinitely gentle, so that Mary's eyes filled with
sudden tears.
<
She answered: 'I've waited a long, long time, all my life
and now that I've found you at last, I can't get near you. Why
is it? Tell me.'
'Aren't you near? It seems to me you're quite near!' And
Stephen must smile in spite of herself.
Yes, but you feel such a long way away.'
"That's because you're not only tired out but foolish!'
Yet they lingered; for when they returned to the villa they
would part, and they dreaded these moments of parting. Some-
times they would suddenly remember the night before it had
fallen, and when this happened each would be conscious of a
very great sadness which their hearts would divine, the one from
the other.
But presently Stephen took Mary's arm: 'I believe that big
star's moved over more than six inches! It's late - we must have
been out here for ages.' And she led the girl slowly back to the
villa.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
4
THE DAYS slipped by, days of splendid sunshine that gave bodily
health and strength to Mary. Her pale skin was tanned to a
healthful brown, and her eyes no longer looked heavy with
fatigue - only now their expression was seldom happy.
She and Stephen would ride far afield on their mules; they
would often ride right up into the mountains, climbing the hill
to old Orotava where the women sat at their green postigos
through the long, quiet hours of their indolent day and right on
into the evening. The walls of the town would be covered with
flowers, jasmine, plumbago and bougainvillea. But they would
not linger in old Orotava; pressing on they would climb always
up
and up to the region of health and trailing arbutus, and be-
yond that again to the higher slopes that had once been the home
of a mighty forest. Now, only a few Spanish chestnut trees re-
mained to mark the decline of that forest.
Sometimes they took their luncheon along, and when they did
this
young Pedro went with them, for he it was who must drive
the mule that carried Concha's ample lunch-basket. Pedro adored
these impromptu excursions, they made an excuse for neglecting
the garden. He would saunter along chewing blades of grass,
or the stem of some flower he had torn from a wall; or perhaps
he would sing softly under his breath, for he knew many songs
of his native island. But if the mule Celestino should stumble,
or presume, in his turn, to tear flowers from a wall, then Pedro
would suddenly cease his soft singing and shout guttural remarks
to old Celestino: ' Vaya, burro! Celestino, arre! Arre – boo!' he
would shout with a slap, so that Celestino must swallow his
flowers in one angry gulp, before having a sly kick at Pedro.
The lunch would be eaten in the cool upland air, while the
beasts stood near at hand, placidly grazing. Against a sky of
incredible blueness the Peak would gleam as though powdered
with crystal - Teide, mighty mountain of snow with the heart of
fire and the brow of crystal. Down the winding tracks would
come goats with their herds, the tinkle of goat-bells breaking the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
355
stillness. And as all such things have seemed wonderful to lovers
throughout the ages, even so now they seemed very wonderful
to Mary and Stephen.
There were days when, leaving the uplands for the vale, they
would ride past the big banana plantations and the glowing acres
of ripe tomatoes. Geraniums and agaves would be growing side
by side in the black volcanic dust of the roadway. From the
stretching Valley of Orotava they would see the rugged line of
the mountains. The mountains would look blue, like the African
nights, all save Teide, clothed in her crystalline whiteness.
And now while they sat together in the garden at evening,
there would sometimes come beggars, singing; ragged fellows
who played deftly on their guitars and sang songs whose old
melodies hailed from Spain, but whose words sprang straight
from the heart of the island:
'A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace,
But now I am tormented because I have seen thee.
Take
away mine
eyes oh, enemy! Oh, belovèd!
Take away mine eyes, for they have turned me to fire.
My blood is as the fire in the heart of Teide.
A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace.'
The strange minor music with its restless rhythms, possessed
a very potent enchantment, so that the heart beat faster to hear it,
and the mind grew mazed with forbidden thoughts, and the soul
grew heavy with the infinite sadness of fulfilled desire; but the
body knew only the urge towards a complete fulfilment.
A-a-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace.'
They would not understand the soft Spanish words, and yet
as they sat there they could but divine their meaning, for love
is no slave of mere language. Mary would want Stephen to take
her in her arms, so must rest her cheek against Stephen's shoulder,
as though they two had a right to such music, had a right to their
share in the love songs of the world. But Stephen would always
move away quickly.
356
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Let's go in,' she would mutter; and her voice would sound
rough, for that bright sword of youth would have leapt out
between them.
5
THERE came days when they purposely avoided each other, trying
to find peace in separation. Stephen would go for long rides
alone, leaving Mary to idle about the villa; and when she got
back Mary would not speak, but would wander away by herself
to the garden. For Stephen had grown almost harsh at times,
possessed as she now was by something like terror, since it seemed
to her that what she must say to this creature she loved would
come as a death-blow, that all youth and all joy would be slain
in Mary.
Tormented in body and mind and spirit, she would push the
girl away from her roughly: 'Leave me alone, I can't bear any
more!"
Stephen - I don't understand. Do you hate me?'
'Hate you? Of course you don't understand - only, I tell
you I simply can't bear it.'
They would stare at each other pale-faced and shaken.
The long nights became even harder to endure, for now they
would feel so terribly divided. Their days would be heavy with
misunderstandings, their nights filled with doubts, apprehensions
and longings. They would often have parted as enemies, and
therein would lie the great loneliness of it.
As time went on they grew deeply despondent, their de-
spondency robbing the sun of its brightness, robbing the little
goat-bells of their music, robbing the dark of its luminous glory.
The songs of the beggars who sang in the garden at the hour
when the santa noche smelt sweetest, those songs would seem
full of a cruel jibing: ' A-a-a-y! Before I saw thee I was at peace,
but now I am tormented because I have seen thee.'
Thus were all things becoming less good in their sight, less
perfect because of their own frustration,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
357
6
BUT Mary Llewellyn was no coward and no weakling, and one
night, at long last, pride came to her rescue. She said: 'I want to
speak to you, Stephen.'
Not now, it's so late - to-morrow morning.'
'No, now.' And she followed Stephen into her bedroom.
For a moment they avoided each other's eyes, then Mary
began to talk rather fast: 'I can't stay. It's all been a heart-break-
ing mistake. I thought you wanted me because you cared. I
thought - oh, I don't know what I thought - but I won't accept
your charity, Stephen, not now that you've grown to hate me like
this - I'm going back home to England. I forced myself on you,
I asked you to take me. I must have been mad; you just took me
you
out of pity; you thought that I was ill and felt
for me.
sorry
Well, now I'm not ill and not mad any more, and I'm going.
Every time I come near you you shrink or push me away as though
' Her
I repelled you. But I want us to part quickly because.
voice broke: because it torments me to be always with you and
to feel that you've literally grown to hate me. I can't stand it;
I'd rather not see you, Stephen.'
Stephen stared at her, white and aghast. Then all in a mo-
ment the restraint of years was shattered as though by some
mighty convulsion. She remembered nothing, was conscious of
nothing except that the creature she loved was going.
C
'You child,' she gasped, you don't understand, you can't
understand - God help me, I love you!' And now she had the
girl in her arms and was kissing her eyes and her mouth: ' Mary
Mary..
They stood there lost to all sense of time, to all sense of
reason, to all things save each other, in the grip of what can be
one of the most relentless of all the human emotions.
Then Stephen's arms suddenly fell to her sides: 'Stop, stop
for God's sake - you've got to listen.'
Oh, but now she must pay to the uttermost farthing for the
madness that had left those words unspoken - even as her father
358
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
had paid before her. With Mary's kisses still hot on her lips, she
must pay
pay and
pay unto the uttermost farthing. And because of
an anguish that seemed past endurance, she spoke roughly; the
words when they came were cruel. She spared neither the girl
who must listen to them, nor herself who must force her to stand
there and listen.
'Have you understood? Do you realize now what it's going
to mean if you give yourself to me?' Then she stopped abruptly
Mary was crying.
Stephen said, and her voice had grown quite toneless: 'It's
too much to ask – you're right, it's too much. I had to tell you
forgive me, Mary.'
C
But Mary turned on her with very bright eyes: 'You can
say that you, who talk about loving! What do I care for all
you've told me? What do I care for the world's opinion? What
do I care for anything but you, and you just as you are — as you
are, I love you! Do you think I'm crying because of what you've
told me? I'm crying because of your dear, scarred face . . . the
misery on it. . . . Can't you understand that all that I am
belongs to you, Stephen?'
Stephen bent down and kissed Mary's hands very humbly,
for now she could find no words any more
and that night
they were not divided.
C
CHAPTER 39
I
A
STRANGE, though to them a very natural thing it seemed,
this new and ardent fulfilment; having something fine and
urgent about it that lay almost beyond the range of their wills.
Something primitive and age-old as Nature herself, did their
love appear to Mary and Stephen. For now they were in the grip
of Creation, of Creation's terrific urge to create; the urge that
will sometimes sweep forward blindly alike into fruitful and
sterile channels. That wellnigh intolerable life force would grip
them, making them a part of its own existence; so that they who
might never create a new life, were yet one at such moments with
the fountain of living. . Oh, great and incomprehensible
unreason!
But beyond the bounds of this turbulent river would lie gentle
and most placid harbours of refuge; harbours in which the body
could repose with contentment, while the lips spoke slow, in-
dolent words, and the eyes beheld a dim, golden haze that blinded
the while it revealed all beauty. Then Stephen would stretch out
her hand and touch Mary where she lay, happy only to feel her
nearness. The hours would slip by towards dawn or sunset;
flowers would open and close in the bountiful garden; and per-
haps, if it should chance to be evening, beggars would come
to that garden, singing; ragged fellows who played deftly on
their guitars and sang songs whose old melodies hailed from
Spain, but whose words sprang straight from the heart of the
island:
Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small and guileless;
Thy lips are as cool as the sea at moonrise.
But after the moon there cometh the sun;
After the evening there cometh the morning.
360
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
The sea is warmed by the kiss of the sun,
Even so shall my kisses bring warmth to thy lips.
Oh, thou whom I love, thou art small and guileless.'
And now Mary need no longer sigh with unrest, need no
longer lay her cheek against Stephen's shoulder; for her rightful
place was in Stephen's arms and there she would be, overwhelmed
by the peace that comes at such times to all happy lovers. They
would sit together in a little arbour that looked out over miles
upon miles of ocean. The water would flush with the after-glow,
then change to a soft, indefinite purple; then, fired anew by the
African night, would gleam with that curious, deep blue glory
for a space before the swift rising of the moon. 'Thy lips are as
cool as the sea at moonrise; but after the moon there cometh
the sun.'
And Stephen as she held the girl in her arms, would feel
that indeed she was all things to Mary; father, mother, friend and
lover, all things; and Mary all things to her - the child, the
friend, the belovèd, all things. But Mary, because she was perfect
woman, would rest without thought, without exultation, with-
out question; finding no need to question since for her there was
now only one thing - Stephen.
2
TIME, that most ruthless enemy of lovers, strode callously for-
ward into the spring. It was March, so that down at the noisy
Puerto the bougainvilleas were in their full glory, while up in the
old town of Orotava bloomed great laden bushes of white camel-
lias. In the garden of the villa the orange trees flowered, and the
little arbour that looked over the sea was covered by an ancient
wisteria vine whose mighty trunk was as thick as three saplings.
But in spite of a haunting shadow of regret at the thought of
leaving Orotava, Stephen was deeply and thankfully happy. A
happiness such as she had never conceived could be hers, now
possessed her body and soul - and Mary also was happy.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
361
Stephen would ask her: 'Do I content you? Tell me, is there
anything you want in the world?'
Mary's answer was always the same; she would say very
gravely: Only you, Stephen."
Ramon had begun to speculate about them, these two English-
women who were so devoted. He would shrug his shoulders -
Dios! What did it matter? They were courteous to him and ex-
ceedingly generous. If the elder one had an ugly red scar down
her cheek, the younger one seemed not to mind it. The younger
one was beautiful though, as beautiful as the santa noche.
some day she would get a real man to love her.
As for Concha and the cross-eyed Esmeralda, their tongues
were muted by their ill-gotten gains. They grew rich thanks to
Stephen's complete indifference to the price of such trifles as sugar
and candles.
Esmeralda's afflicted eyes were quite sharp, yet she said to
Concha: 'I see less than nothing.'
And Concha answered: 'I also see nothing; it is better to
suppose that there is nothing to see. They are wealthy and the
big one is very careless - she trusts me completely and I do my
utmost. She is so taken up with the amighita that I really believe
I could easily rob her! Quien sabe? They are certainly queer those
two - however, I am blind, it is better so; and in any case they
are only the English!"
But Pedro was very sorely afflicted, for Pedro had fallen in
love with Mary, and now he must stay at home in the garden
when she and Stephen rode up to the mountains. Now they
wished to be all alone it seemed, and what food they took would
be stuffed into a pocket. It was spring and Pedro was deeply
enamoured, so that he sighed as he tended the roses, sighed and
stubbed the hard earth with his toes, and made insolent faces.
at the good-tempered Ramon, and killed flies with a kind of
grim desperation, and sang songs of longing under his breath:
A-a-a-y! Thou art to me as the mountain. Would I could melt
thy virginal snows.
'Would I could kick thy behind!' grinned Ramon.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
One evening Mary asked Pedro to sing, speaking to him
in her halting Spanish. So Pedro went off and got his guitar;
but when he must stand there and sing before Mary he could
only stammer a childish old song having in it nothing of passion
and longing:
'I was born on a reef that is washed by the sea;
It is a part of Spain that is called Teneriffe.
I was born on a reef.
sang the unhappy Pedro.
Stephen felt sorry for the lanky boy with the lovesick eyes,
and so to console him she offered him money, ten pesetas –
for she knew that these people set much store by money. But
Pedro seemed to have grown very tall as he gently but firmly
refused consolation. Then he suddenly burst into tears and fled,
leaving his little guitar behind him.
3
THE DAYS were too short, as were now the nights - those spring
nights of soft heat and incredible moonlight. And because they
both felt that something was passing, they would turn their
minds to thoughts of the future. The future was drawing very
near to the present; in less than three weeks they must start for
Paris.
Mary would suddenly cling to Stephen: 'Say that you'll
never leave me, beloved!'
'How could I leave you and go on living?'
Thus their talk of the future would often drift into talk of
love, that is always timeless. On their lips, as in their hearts,
would be words such as countless other lovers had spoken, for
love is the sweetest monotony that was ever conceived of by the
Creator.
'Promise you'll never stop loving me, Stephen.'
'Never. You know that I couldn't Mary.'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
363
Even to themselves their vows would sound foolish, because
so inadequate to compass their meaning. Language is surely too
small a vessel to contain those emotions of mind and body that
have somehow awakened a response in the spirit.
And now when they climbed the long hill to the town of old
Orotava on their way to the mountains, they would pause to
examine certain flowers minutely, or to stare down the narrow,
shadowy bystreets. And when they had reached the cool upland
places, and their mules were loosed and placidly grazing, they
would sit hand in hand looking out at the Peak, trying to impress
such pictures on their minds, because all things pass and they
wished to remember. The goat-bells would break the lovely
stillness, together with the greater stillness of their dreaming. But
the sound of the bells would be lovely also, a part of their dream-
ing, a part of the stillness; for all things would seem to be welded
together, to be one, even as they two were now one.
They no longer felt desolate, hungry outcasts; unloved and
unwanted, despised of the world. They were lovers who walked
in the vineyard of life, plucking the warm, sweet fruits of that
vineyard. Love had lifted them up as on wings of fire, had made
them courageous, invincible, enduring. Nothing could be lack-
ing to those who loved - the very earth gave of her fullest bounty.
The earth seemed to come alive in response to the touch of their
healthful and eager bodies - nothing could be lacking to those
who loved.
And thus in a cloud of illusion and glory, sped the last
enchanted days at Orotava.
BOOK FIVE
CHAPTER 40
I
EP
ARLY in April Stephen and Mary returned to the house in
Paris. This second home-coming seemed wonderfully sweet
by reason of its peaceful and happy completeness, so that they
turned to smile at each other as they passed through the door,
and Stephen said very softly:
"Welcome home, Mary.'
And now for the first time the old house was home. Mary
went quickly from room to room humming a little tune as she
did so, feeling that she saw with a new understanding the
inanimate objects which filled those rooms - were they not
Stephen's? Every now and again she must pause to touch them
because they were Stephen's. Then she turned and went into
Stephen's bedroom; not timidly, dreading to be unwelcome, but
quite without fear or restraint or shyness, and this gave her a
warm little glow of pleasure.
Stephen was busily grooming her hair with a couple of
brushes that had been dipped in water. The water had darkened
her hair in patches, but had deepened the wide wave above her
forehead. Seeing Mary in the glass she did not turn round, but
just smiled for a moment at their two reflections. Mary sat down
in an arm-chair and watched her, noticing the strong, thin line
of her thighs; noticing too the curve of her breasts – slight
and compact, of a certain beauty. She had taken off her jacket
and looked very tall in her soft silk shirt and her skirt of dark
serge.
'Tired?' she inquired, glancing down at the girl.
'No, not a bit tired,' smiled Mary.
Stephen walked over to the stationary basin and proceeded
to wash her hands under the tap, spotting her white silk cuffs
in the process. Going to the cupboard she got out a clean shirt,
368
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
slipped in a pair of simple gold cuff-links, and changed; after
which she put on a new neck-tie.
Mary said: 'Who's been looking after your clothes - sewing
on buttons and that sort of thing?
'I don't know exactly – Puddle or Adèle. Why?
'Because I'm going to do it in future. You'll find that I've
got one very real talent, and that's darning. When I darn the
place looks like a basket, criss-cross. And I know how to pick up
a ladder as well as the Invisible Mending people! It's very
important that the darns should be smooth, otherwise when you
fence they might give you a blister.'
Stephen's lips twitched a little, but she said quite gravely:
Thanks awfully, darling, we'll go over my stockings.'
From the dressing-room next door came a series of thuds;
Pierre was depositing Stephen's luggage. Getting up, Mary
opened the wardrobe, revealing a long, neat line of suits hanging
from heavy mahogany shoulders - she examined each suit in
turn with great interest. Presently she made her way to the
cupboard in the wall; it was fitted with sliding shelves, and
these she pulled out one by one with precaution. On the shelves
there were orderly piles of shirts, crêpe de Chine pyjamas -
quite a goodly assortment, and the heavy silk masculine under-
wear that for several years now had been worn by Stephen.
Finally she discovered the stockings where they lay by themselves.
in the one long drawer, and these she proceeded to unfurl deftly,
with a quick and slightly important movement. Thrusting a fist
into toes and heels she looked for the holes that were non-
existent.
"You must have paid a lot for these stockings, they're hand
knitted silk;' murmured Mary gravely.
'I forget what I paid – Puddle got them from England.'
<
Who did she order them from; do you know?'
'I can't remember; some woman or other.'
But Mary persisted: 'I shall want her address."
Stephen smiled: 'Why? Are you going to order my stock-
ings?'
4
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
369
:
'Darling! Do you think I'll let you go barefoot? Of course
I'm going to order your stockings.'
Stephen rested her elbow on the mantelpiece and stood
gazing at Mary with her chin on her hand. As she did so she was
struck once again by the look of youth that was characteristic of
Mary. She looked much less than her twenty-two years in her
simple dress with its leather belt – she looked indeed little more
than a schoolgirl. And yet there was something quite new in her
face, a soft, wise expression that Stephen had put there, so that
she suddenly felt pitiful to see her so young yet so full of this
wisdom; for sometimes the coming of passion to youth, in spite of
its glory, will be strangely pathetic.
Mary rolled up the stockings with a sigh of regret; alas,
they would not require darning. She was at the stage of being in
love when she longed to do womanly tasks for Stephen. But
all Stephen's clothes were discouragingly neat; Mary thought
that she must be very well served, which was true - she was
served, as are certain men, with a great deal of nicety and care.
by the servants.
And now Stephen was filling her cigarette case from the big
box that lived on her dressing table; and now she was strap-
ping on her gold wrist watch; and now she was brushing some
dust from her coat; and now she was frowning at herself in the
glass for a second as she twitched her immaculate neck-tie. Mary
had seen her do all this before, many times, but to-day somehow
it was different; for to-day they were in their own home together,
so that these little intimate things seemed more dear than they
had done at Orotava. The bedroom could only have belonged
to Stephen; a large, airy room, very simply furnished - white
walls, old oak, and a wide, bricked hearth on which some large,
friendly logs were burning. The bed could only have been
Stephen's bed; it was heavy and rather austere in pattern. It
looked solemn as Mary had seen Stephen look, and was covered
by a bedspread of old blue brocade, otherwise it remained quite
guiltless of trimmings. The chairs could only have been Stephen's
chairs; a little reserved, not conducive to lounging. The dressing
370
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
table could only have been hers, with its tall silver mirror and
ivory brushes. And all these things had drawn into themselves
a species of life derived from their owner, until they seemed to be
thinking of Stephen with a dumbness that made their thoughts
more insistent, and their thoughts gathered strength and mingled
with Mary's so that she heard herself cry out: 'Stephen!' in a
voice that was not very far from tears, because of the joy she
felt in that name.
And Stephen answered her: Mary-
Then they stood very still, grown abruptly silent. And each
of them felt a little afraid, for the realization of great mutual
love can at times be so overwhelming a thing, that even the
bravest of hearts may grow fearful. And although they could not
have put it into words, could not have explained it to themselves
or to each other, they seemed at that moment to be looking be-
yond the turbulent flood of earthly passion; to be looking straight
into the eyes of a love that was changed - a love made perfect,
discarnate.
But the moment passed and they drew together.
2
THE SPRING they had left behind in Orotava overtook them
quite soon, and one day there it was blowing softly along the
old streets of the Quarter - the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints
Pères, the Rue Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who
can resist the first spring days in Paris? Brighter than ever
looked the patches of sky when glimpsed between rows of tall,
flat-bosomed houses. From the Pont des Arts could be seen a
river that was one wide, ingratiating smile of sunshine; while
beyond in the Rue des Petits Champs, spring ran up and down
the Passage Choiseul, striking gleams of gold from its dirty glass
roof - the roof that looks like the vertebral column of some
prehistoric monster.
All over the Bois there was bursting of buds - a positive orgy
of growth and greenness. The miniature waterfall lifted its voice
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
371
in an effort to roar as loud as Niagara. Birds sang. Dogs yapped
or barked or bayed according to their size and the tastes of their
owners. Children appeared in the Champs Elysées with bright
coloured balloons which tried to escape and which, given the
ghost of a chance, always did so. In the Tuileries Gardens boys
with brown legs and innocent socks were hiring toy boats from
the man who provided Bateaux de Location. The fountains tossed
clouds of spray into the air, and just for fun made an occasional
rainbow; then the Arc de Triomphe would be seen through an
arc that was, thanks to the sun, even more triumphal. As for
the very old lady in her kiosk - the one who sells bocks, groseille,
limonade, and such simple food-stuffs as brioches and croissants.
-as for her, she appeared in a new frilled bonnet and a fine
worsted shawl on one memorable Sunday. Smiling she was too,
from ear to ear, in spite of the fact that her mouth was toothless,
for this fact she only remembered in winter when the east wind
started her empty gums aching.
Under the quiet, grey wings of the Madeleine the flower-
stalls were bright with the glory of God - anemones, jonquils,
daffodils, tulips; mimosa that left gold dust on the fingers, and
the faintly perfumed ascetic white lilac that had come in the
train from the Riviera. There were also hyacinths, pink, red and
blue, and many small trees of sturdy azalea.
Oh, but the spring was shouting through Paris! It was in
the hearts and the eyes of the people. The very dray-horses jangled
their bells more loudly because of the spring in their drivers. The
debauched old taxis tooted their horns and spun round the cor-
ners as though on a race track. Even such glacial things as the
diamonds in the Rue de la Paix, were kindled to fire as the sun
pierced their facets right through to their entrails; while the
sapphires glowed as those African nights had glowed in the
garden at Orotava.
Was it likely that Stephen could finish her book - she who
had Paris in springtime with Mary? Was it likely that Mary
could urge her to do so she who had Paris in springtime with
Stephen? There was so much to see, so much to show Mary, so
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
many new things to discover together. And now Stephen felt
grateful to Jonathan Brockett who had gone to such pains to
teach her her Paris.
Idle she was, let it not be denied, idle and happy and utterly
carefree. A lover, who, like many another before her, was under
the spell of the loved one's existence. She would wake in the
mornings to find Mary beside her, and all through the day she
would keep beside Mary, and at night they would lie in each
other's arms - God alone knows who shall dare judge of such
matters; in any case Stephen was too much bewitched to be
troubled just then by hair-splitting problems.
Life had become a new revelation. The most mundane
things were invested with glory; shopping with Mary who needed
quite a number of dresses. And then there was food that was
eaten together – the careful perusal of wine-card and menu. They
would lunch or have dinner at Lapérouse; surely still the most.
epicurean restaurant in the whole of an epicurean city. So humble
it looks with its modest entrance on the Quai des Grands Augus-
tins; so humble that a stranger might well pass it by unnoticed,
but not so Stephen, who had been there with Brockett.
Mary loved Prunier's in the Rue Duphot, because of its galaxy
of sea-monsters. A whole counter there was of incredible crea-
tures - Oursins, black armoured and covered with prickles;
Bigorneaux; serpent-like Anguilles Fumées; and many other ex-
citing things that Stephen mistrusted for English stomachs. They
would sit at their own particular table, one of the tables upstairs
by the window, for the manager came very quickly to know
them and would smile and bow grandly: 'Bon jour, mesdames.'
When they left, the attendant who kept the flower-basket would
give Mary a neat little bouquet of roses: Au revoir, mesdames.
Merci bien à bientôt!' For every one had pretty manners at
Prunier's.
A few people might stare at the tall, scarred woman in her
well-tailored clothes and black slouch hat. They would stare
first at her and then at her companion: Mais regardez moi ça!
Elle est belle, la petite; comme c'est rigolo!' There would be a
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
373
few smiles, but on the whole they would attract little notice - ils
en ont vu bien d'autres - it was post-war Paris.
Sometimes, having dined, they would saunter towards home
through streets that were crowded with others who sauntered
men and women, a couple of women together - always twos -
the fine nights seemed prolific of couples. In the air there would
be the inconsequent feeling that belongs to the night life of most
great cities, above all to the careless night life of Paris, where
problems are apt to vanish with sunset. The lure of the brightly
lighted boulevards, the lure of the dim and mysterious bystreets
would grip them so that they would not turn homeward for
quite a long while, but would just go on walking. The moon,
less clear than at Orotava, less innocent doubtless, yet scarcely
less lovely, would come sailing over the Place de la Concorde,
staring down at the dozens of other white moons that had man-
aged to get themselves caught by the standards. In the cafés would
be crowds of indolent people, for the French who work hard
know well how to idle; and these cafés would smell of hot coffee
and sawdust, of rough, strong tobacco, of men and women. Be-
neath the arcades there would be the shop windows, illuminated
and bright with temptation. But Mary would usually stare into
Sulka's, picking out scarves or neck-ties for Stephen.
'That one! We'll come and buy it to-morrow. Oh, Stephen,
do wait - look at that dressing-gown!'
-
And Stephen might laugh and pretend to be bored, though
she secretly nurtured a weakness for Sulka's.
Down the Rue de Rivoli they would walk arm in arm, until
turning at last, they would pass the old church of St. Germain-
the church from whose Gothic tower had been rung the first
call to a most bloody slaying. But now that tower would be grim
with silence, dreaming the composite dreams of Paris - dreams
that were heavy with blood and beauty, with innocence and lust,
with joy and despair, with life and death, with heaven and hell;
all the curious composite dreams of Paris.
Then crossing the river they would reach the Quarter and
their house, where Stephen would slip her latchkey into the door
S
374
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
and would know the warm feeling that can come of a union be-
tween door and latchkey. With a sigh of contentment they
would find themselves at home once again in the quiet old Rue
Jacob.
3
THEY went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visit
seemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost
like awe at the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen.
'Oh, but yes,' smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, I teached her.
She was terribly naughty over her dictée; she would write re-
marks about the poor Henri – très impertinente she would be
-
about Henri! Stévenne was a queer little child and naughty
but so dear, so dear - I could never scold her. With me she done
everything her own way.'
'Please tell me about that time,' coaxed Mary.
So Mademoiselle Duphot sat down beside Mary and patted
her hand: ‘Like me, you love her. Well now let me recall --
She would sometimes get angry, very angry, and then she would
go to the stables and talk to her horse. But when she fence it
was marvellous – she fence like a man, and she only a baby but
extrémement strong. And then.. . .' The memories went on
and on, such a store she possessed, the kind Mademoiselle Duphot.
As she talked her heart went out to the girl, for she felt a
great tenderness towards young things: 'I am glad that
you come
to live with our Stévenne now that Mademoiselle Puddle is at
Morton. Stévenne would be desolate in the big house. It is charm-
ing for both of you this new arrangement. While she work you
look after the ménage; is it not so? You take care of Stévenne,
she take care of you. Oui, oui, I am glad you have come to Paris.'
Julie stroked Mary's smooth young cheek, then her arm,
for she wished to observe through her fingers. She smiled: ' Very
young, also very kind. I like so much the feel of your kindness -
it gives me a warm and so happy sensation, because with all kind-
ness there must be much good.'
Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie?,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
375
And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her
eyes
that could see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very
profound expression in their depths - at that moment they were
calmly thoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life
one might almost have said the eyes of a mother.
A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it
all through the evening.
CHAPTER 41
I
URTON, who had enlisted in the Worcesters soon after Stephen
had found work in London, Burton was now back again in
Paris, loudly demanding a brand-new motor.
B
The car looks awful! Snub-nosed she looks- peculiar - all
tucked up in the bonnet; ' he declared.
So Stephen bought a touring Renault and a smart little
landaulette for Mary. The choosing of the cars was the greatest
fun; Mary climbed in and out of hers at least six times while
it stood in the showroom.
'Is it comfortable?' Stephen must keep on asking, 'Do you
want them to pad it out more at the back? Are you perfectly
sure you like the grey whip-cord? Because if you don't it can be
re-upholstered.'
Mary laughed: 'I'm climbing in and out from sheer swank,
just to show that it's mine. Will they send it soon?'
'Almost at once, I hope,' smiled Stephen.
Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because
of what money could do for Mary; in the shops they must
sometimes behave like two children, having endless things
dragged out for inspection. They drove to Versailles in the new
touring car and wandered for hours through the lovely gardens.
The Hameau no longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and
she brought love back to the Hameau. Then they drove to the
forest of Fontainebleau, and wherever they went there was sing-
ing of birds - challenging, jubilant, provocative singing: 'Look
at us, look at us! We're happy, Stephen!' And Stephen's heart
shouted back: 'So are we. Look at us, look at us, look at us!
We're happy!'
When they were not driving into the country, or amusing
themselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
377
herself fit - would fence as never before with Buisson, so that
Buisson would sometimes say with a grin:
Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it
almost appears that you wish to kill me!'
The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning:
She fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so
strong and so graceful.' Which considering all things was gen-
erous of Buisson.
But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: 'More than
seventy francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon
Dieu! Is this winning the war? We starve, we go short of our
butter and chickens, and before it is better it is surely much worse.
We are all imbeciles, we kind-hearted French; we starve ourselves
to fatten the Germans. Are they grateful? Sacré Nom! Mais
oui, they are grateful - they love us so much that they spit
in our faces!' And quite often this mood would be vented on
Stephen.
To Mary, however, he was usually polite: You like our
Paris? I am glad – that is good. You make the home with
Mademoiselle Gordon; I hope you prevent her injurious
smoking.'
And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of
his interest in Stephen's fencing.
2
ONE evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked
in serenely: 'Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I've turned up again
not that I love you, I positively hate you. I've been keeping away
for weeks and weeks. Why did you never answer my letters?
Not so much as a line on a picture postcard! There's something
in this more than meets the eye. And where's Puddle? She used
to be kind to me once - I shall lay my head down on her bosom
and weep.
.' He stopped abruptly, seeing Mary Llewellyn,
who got up from her deep arm-chair in the corner.
C
Stephen said: Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett – an old
S
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
friend of mine; we're fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary
Llewellyn.'
Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen's direction, then he
bowed and gravely shook hands with Mary.
And now Stephen was to see yet another side of this strange
and unexpected creature. With infinite courtesy and tact he
went out of his way to make himself charming. Never by so
much as a word or a look did he once allow it to be inferred
that his quick mind had seized on the situation. Brockett's
manner suggested an innocence that he was very far from pos-
sessing.
Stephen began to study him with interest; they two had not
met since before the war. He had thickened, his figure was more
robust, there was muscle and flesh on his wide, straight shoul-
ders. And she thought that his face had certainly aged; little bags
were showing under his eyes, and rather deep lines at the sides
of his mouth - the war had left its mark upon Brockett. Only
his hands remained unchanged; those white and soft skinned
hands of a woman.
He was saying: 'So you two were in the same Unit. That
was a great stroke of luck for Stephen; I mean she'd be feeling
horribly lonely now that old Puddle's gone back to England.
Stephen's distinguished herself I see - Croix de Guerre and a very
becoming scar. Don't protest, my dear Stephen, you know it's
becoming. All that happened to me was a badly sprained ankle;'
he laughed, fancy going out to Mesopotamia to slip on a bit of
orange peel! I might have done better than that here in Paris.
By the way, I'm in my own flat again now; I hope you'll bring
Miss Llewellyn to luncheon.'
He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leave sug-
gestively early; he got up to go at just the right moment. But
when Mary went out of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenly
put his arm through Stephen's.
'Good luck, my dear, you deserve it; ' he murmured, and his
sharp grey eyes had grown almost gentle: 'I hope you'll be very,
very happy.'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
379
I
Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise:
'Happy? Thank you, Brockett,' she smiled, as she lighted a
cigarette.
3
THEY Could not tear themselves away from their home, and
that summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many
things to do, Mary's bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance -
she had Puddle's old room overlooking the garden. When the
city seemed to be growing too airless, they motored off happily
into the country, spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for
France abounds in green, pleasant places. Once or twice they
lunched with Jonathan Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor
Hugo, a beautiful flat since his taste was perfect, and he dined
with them before leaving for Deauville - his manner continued
to be studiously guarded. The Duphots had gone for their holiday
and Buisson was away in Spain for a month - but what did they
want that summer with people? On those evenings when they
did not go out, Stephen would now read aloud to Mary, lead-
ing the girl's adaptable mind into new and hitherto un-
explored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in books,
even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had
read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed prac-
tically endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that
immortal classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary
said:
Stephen - if we were ever parted, do you think that you
and I could dream true?'
And Stephen answered: 'I often wonder whether we're not
dreaming true all the time - whether the only truth isn't in
dreaming.' Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things
as dreams, which will seem very concrete to lovers.
Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she
wanted the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that
fascinating language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did
she seek to fill the more obvious gaps in Mary's none too com-
380
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
plete education. And Mary, listening to Stephen's voice, rather
deep and always a little husky, would think that words were
more tuneful than music and more inspiring, when spoken by
Stephen.
At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bear
witness to Mary's presence. There were flowers in the quiet old
garden for instance, and some large red carp in the fountain's
basin, and two married couples of white fan-tail pigeons who
lived in a house on a tall wooden leg and kept up a convivial
cooing. These pigeons lacked all respect for Stephen; by August
they were flying in at her window and landing with soft, heavy
thuds on her desk where they strutted until she fed them with
maize. And because they were Mary's and Mary loved them,
Stephen would laugh, as unruffled as they were, and would pa-
tiently coax them back into the garden with bribes for their
plump little circular crops. In the turret room that had been
Puddle's sanctum, there were now three cagefuls of Mary's
rescues - tiny bright coloured birds with dejected plumage, and
eyes that had filmed from a lack of sunshine. Mary was always
bringing them home from the terrible bird shops along the river,
for her love of such helpless and suffering things was so great.
that she in her turn must suffer. An ill-treated creature would
haunt her for days, so that Stephen would often exclaim half in
earnest:
'Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris . . . anything,
darling, only don't look unhappy!
The tiny bright coloured birds would revive to some extent,
thanks to Mary's skilled treatment; but since she always bought
the most ailing, not a few of them left this disheartening world
for what we must hope was a warm, wild heaven – there were
several small graves already in the garden.
Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because
Stephen had letters to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one
more desolate creature who followed her home to the Rue Jacob,
and right into Stephen's immaculate study. It was large, ungainly
and appallingly thin; it was coated with mud which had dried on
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
381
its nose, its back, its legs and all over its stomach. Its paws were
heavy, its ears were long, and its tail, like the tail of a rat, looked
hairless, but curved up to a point in a miniature sickle. Its face was
as smooth as though made out of plush, and its luminous eyes
were the colour of amber.
Mary said: 'Oh, Stephen - he wanted to come. He's got a
sore paw; look at him, he's limping!'
Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stood
there gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious,
dishevelled head: 'I suppose this means that we're going to keep
him.'
Darling, I'm dreadfully afraid it does - he
to be such a mongrel.'
<
he's
says
sorry
He needn't apologize,' Stephen smiled, ' he's all right, he's
an Irish water-spaniel, though what he's doing out here the
Lord knows; I've never seen one before in Paris.'
They fed him, and later that afternoon they gave him a bath
in Stephen's bathroom. The result of that bath, which was dis-
concerting as far as the room went, they left to Adèle. The room
was a bog, but Mary's rescue had emerged a mass of chocolate
ringlets, all save his charming plush-covered face, and his curious
tail, which was curved like a sickle. Then they bound the sore
pad and took him downstairs; after which Mary wanted to know
all about him, so Stephen unearthed an illustrated dog book from
a cupboard under the study bookcase.
Oh, look!' exclaimed Mary, reading over her shoulder,
'He's not Irish at all, he's really a Welshman: "We find in the
Welsh laws of Howell Dda the first reference to this intelligent
spaniel. The Iberians brought the breed to Ireland. . . .’
" Of
course, that's why he followed me home; he knew I was Welsh
the moment he saw me!'
Stephen laughed: Yes, his hair grows up from a peak like
yours – it must be a national failing. Well, what shall we call
him? His name's important; it ought to be quite short.'
'David,' said Mary.
The dog looked gravely from one to the other for a moment,
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
then he lay down at Mary's feet, dropping his chin on his
bandaged paw, and closing his eyes with a grunt of contentment.
And so it had suddenly come to pass that they who had lately
been two, were now three. There were Stephen and Mary-
there was also David.
Mag
CHAPTER 42
I
TH
HAT October there arose the first dark cloud. It drifted over to
Paris from England, for Anna wrote asking Stephen to Mor-
ton but with never a mention of Mary Llewellyn. Not that she
ever did mention their friendship in her letters, indeed she com-
pletely ignored it; yet this invitation which excluded the girl
seemed to Stephen an intentional slight upon Mary. A hot flush
of anger spread up to her brow as she read and re-read her
mother's brief letter:
'I want to discuss some important points regarding the man-
agement of the estate. As the place will eventually come to you,
I think we should try to keep more in touch. . . .' Then a list
of the points Anna wished to discuss; they seemed very trifling
indeed to Stephen.
She put the letter away in a drawer and sat staring darkly out
of the window. In the garden Mary was talking to David, per-
suading him not to retrieve the pigeons.
'If mother had invited her ten times over I'd never have
my
taken her to Morton,' Stephen muttered.
Oh, but she knew, and only too well, what it would mean
should they be there together; the lies, the despicable subter-
fuges, as though they were little less than criminals. It would
be: 'Mary, don't hang about my bedroom - be careful . . . of
course while we're here at Morton . . . it's my mother, she
can't understand these things; to her they would seem an out-
rage, an insult. . . .' And then the guard set upon eyes and
lips; the feeling of guilt at so much as a hand-touch; the pretence
of a careless, quite usual friendship – ' Mary, don't look at me
as though you cared! you did this evening - remember my
mother.
Intolerable quagmire of lies and deceit! The degrading of all
384
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
<
that to them was sacred a very gross degrading of love, and
through love a gross degrading of Mary. Mary. so loyal
and as yet so gallant, but so pitifully untried in the war of ex-
istence. Warned only by words, the words of a lover, and what
were mere words when it came to actions? And the ageing
woman with the far-away eyes, eyes that could yet be so cruel, so
accusing - they might turn and rest with repugnance on Mary,
even as once they had rested on Stephen: 'I would rather see you
dead at my feet. . . .' A fearful saying, and yet she had meant it,
that ageing woman with the far-away eyes - she had uttered
it knowing herself to be a mother. But that at least should be
hidden from Mary.
S
She began to consider the ageing woman who had scourged
her but whom she had so deeply wounded, and as she did so the
depth of that wound made her shrink in spite of her bitter anger,
so that gradually the anger gave way to a slow and almost reluc-
tant pity. Poor, ignorant, blind, unreasoning woman; herself
a victim, having given her body for Nature's most inexplicable
whim. Yes, there had been two victims already - must there now
be a third – and that one Mary? She trembled. At that moment
she could not face it, she was weak, she was utterly undone by
loving. Greedy she had grown for happiness, for the joys and the
peace that their union had brought her. She would try to mini-
mize the whole thing; she would say: 'It will only be for ten
days; I must just run over about this business,' then Mary would
probably think it quite natural that she had not been invited to
Morton and would ask no questions - she never asked questions.
But would Mary think such a slight was quite natural? Fear
possessed her; she sat there terribly afraid of this cloud that had
suddenly risen to menace - afraid yet determined not to submit,
not to let it gain power through her own acquiescence.
There was only one weapon to keep it at bay. Getting up she
opened the window: 'Mary!'
All unconscious the girl hurried in with David: 'Did you
call? '
'Yes - come close. Closer . . . closer, sweetheart.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
385
•
2
SHAKEN and very greatly humbled, Mary had let Stephen go
from her to Morton. She had not been deceived by Stephen's
glib words, and had now no illusions regarding Anna Gordon.
Lady Anna, suspecting the truth about them, had not wished
to meet her. It was all quite clear, cruelly clear if it came to that
matter -- but these thoughts she had mercifully hidden from
Stephen.
She had seen Stephen off at the station with a smile: 'I'll
write every day. Do put on your coat, darling; you don't want
to arrive at Morton with a chill. And mind
wire when you
you
get to Dover.'
Yet now as she sat in the empty study, she must bury her
face and cry a little because she was here and Stephen in England
and then of course, this was their first real parting.
David sat watching with luminous eyes in which were re-
flected her secret troubles; then he got up and planted a paw on
the book, for he thought it high time to have done with this
reading. He lacked the language that Raftery had known - the
language of many small sounds and small movements – a clumsy
and inarticulate fellow he was, but unrestrainedly loving. He
nearly broke his own heart between love and the deep gratitude
which he felt for Mary. At the moment he wanted to lay back
his ears and howl with despair to see her unhappy. He wanted
to make an enormous noise, the kind of noise wild folk make
in the jungle - lions and tigers and other wild folk that David
had heard about from his mother - his mother had been in Africa
once a long time ago, with an old French colonel. But instead he
abruptly licked Mary's cheek – it tasted peculiar, he thought, like
sea water.
'Do you want a walk, David?' she asked him gently.
And as well as he could, David nodded his head by wagging
his tail which was shaped like a sickle. Then he capered, thump-
ing the ground with his paws; after which he barked twice in
an effort to amuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
in the past, although now she appeared not to notice his capers.
However, she had put on her hat and coat; so, still barking, he
followed her through the courtyard.
They wandered along the Quai Voltaire, Mary pausing to
look at the misty river.
'Shall I dive in and bring you a rat?' inquired David by
lunging wildly backwards and forwards.
She shook her head. 'Do stop, David; be good!' Then she
sighed again and stared at the river; so David stared too, but he
stared at Mary.
Quite suddenly Paris had lost its charm for her. After all,
what was it? Just a big, foreign city - a city that belonged to a
stranger people who cared nothing for Stephen and nothing for
Mary. They were exiles. She turned the word over in her mind -
exiles; it sounded unwanted, lonely. But why had Stephen be-
come an exile? Why had she exiled herself from Morton? Strange
that she, Mary, had never asked her - had never wanted to until
this moment.
She walked on not caring very much where she went. It grew
dusk, and the dusk brought with it great longing - the long-
ing to see, to hear, to touch - almost a physical pain it was,
this longing to feel the nearness of Stephen. But Stephen had
left her to go to Morton . . . Morton, that was surely Ste-
phen's real home, and in that real home there was no place for
Mary.
She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world,
or herself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with prob-
lems, to demand either justice or explanation; she only knew that
her heart felt bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her.
It hurt her to think of Stephen surrounded by objects that she
had never seen - tables, chairs, pictures, all old friends of
Stephen's, all dear and familiar, yet strangers to Mary. It hurt
her to think of the unknown bedroom in which Stephen had
slept since the days of her childhood; of the unknown schoolroom
where Stephen had worked; of the stables, the lakes and the
gardens of Morton. It hurt her to think of the two unknown
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
387
women who must now be awaiting Stephen's arrival – Puddle,
whom Stephen loved and respected; Lady Anna, of whom she
spoke very seldom, and who, Mary felt, could never have loved
her. And it came upon Mary with a little shock that a long span
of Stephen's life was hidden; years and years of that life had
come and gone before they two had finally found each other.
How could she hope to link up with a past that belonged to a
home which she might not enter? Then, being a woman, she
suddenly ached for the quiet, pleasant things that a home will
stand for - security, peace, respect and honour, the kindness
of parents, the goodwill of neighbours; happiness that can be
shared with friends, love that is proud to proclaim its existence.
All that Stephen most craved for the creature she loved, that crea-
ture must now quite suddenly ache for.
And as though some mysterious cord stretched between them,
Stephen's heart was troubled at that very moment; intolerably
troubled because of Morton, the real home which might not be
shared with Mary. Ashamed because of shame laid on another,
compassionate and suffering because of her compassion, she was
thinking of the girl left alone in Paris - the girl who should
have come with her to England, who should have been welcomed
and honoured at Morton. Then she suddenly remembered some
words from the past, very terrible words: Could you marry me,
Stephen?'
Mary turned and walked back to the Rue Jacob. Disheart-
ened and anxious, David lagged beside her. He had done all he
could to distract her mind from whatever it was that lay heavy
upon it. He had made a pretence of chasing a pigeon, he had
barked himself hoarse at a terrified beggar, he had brought her
a stick and implored her to throw it, he had caught at her skirt
and tugged it politely; in the end he had nearly got run over
by a taxi in his desperate efforts to gain her attention. This last
attempt had certainly roused her: she had put on his lead - poor,
misunderstood David.
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
3
MARY went into Stephen's study and sat down at the spacious
writing-table, for now all of a sudden she had only one ache, and
that was the ache of her love for Stephen. And because of her
love she wished to comfort, since in every fond woman there is
much of the mother. That letter was full of many things which a
less privileged pen had best left unwritten - loyalty, faith, conso-
lation, devotion; all this and much more she wrote to Stephen.
As she sat there, her heart seemed to swell within her as though
in response to some mighty challenge.
Thus it was that Mary met and defeated the world's first
tentative onslaught upon them.
CHAPTER 43
I
T
HERE comes a time in all passionate attachments when life,
real life, must be faced once again with its varied and endless
obligations, when the lover knows in his innermost heart that
the halcyon days are over. He may well regret this prosaic intru-
sion, yet to him it will usually seem quite natural, so that
while loving not one whit the less, he will bend his neck to the
yoke of existence. But the woman, for whom love is an end in
itself, finds it harder to submit thus calmly. To every devoted
and ardent woman there comes this moment of poignant re-
gretting; and struggle she must to hold it at bay. ‘Not yet, not
yet – just a little longer '; until Nature, abhorring her idleness,
forces on her the labour of procreation.
But in such relationships as Mary's and Stephen's, Nature
must pay for experimenting; she may even have to pay very dearly
- it largely depends on the sexual mixture. A drop too little of
the male in the lover, and mighty indeed will be the wastage.
And yet there are cases and Stephen's was one - in which the
male will emerge triumphant; in which passion combined with
a real devotion will become a spur rather than a deterrent; in
which love and endeavour will fight side by side in a desperate
struggle to find some solution.
—
1
Thus it was that when Stephen returned from Morton, Mary
divined, as it were by instinct, that the time of dreaming was
over and past; and she clung very close, kissing many times --
'Do you love me as much as before you went? Do you love
me?' The woman's eternal question.
And Stephen, who, if possible, loved her more, answered
almost brusquely: 'Of course I love you.' For her thoughts were
still heavy with the bitterness that had come of that visit of hers
to Morton, and which at all costs must be hidden from Mary.
390
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
There had been no marked change in her mother's manner.
Anna had been very quiet and courteous. Together they had
interviewed bailiff and agent, scheming as always for the welfare
of Morton; but one topic there had been which Anna had ignored,
had refused to discuss, and that topic was Mary. With a sudden-
ness born of exasperation, Stephen had spoken of her one evening.
'I want Mary Llewellyn to know my real home; some day I
must bring her to Morton with me.' She had stopped, seeing
Anna's warning face - expressionless, closed; while as for her
answer, it had been more eloquent far than words - a disconcert-
ing, unequivocal silence. And Stephen, had she ever entertained
any doubt, must have known at that moment past all hope of
doubting, that her mother's omission to invite the girl had indeed
been meant as a slight upon Mary. Getting up, she had gone to
her father's study.
Puddle, who had held her peace at the time, had spoken just
before Stephen's departure. My dear, I know it's all terribly
hard about Morton – about . . .' She had hesitated.
And Stephen had thought with renewed bitterness: Even
she jibs, it seems, at mentioning Mary.' She had answered: If
you're speaking of Mary Llewellyn, I shall certainly never bring
her to Morton, that is as long as my mother lives - I don't allow
her to be insulted.'
Then Puddle had looked at Stephen gravely. 'You're not
working, and yet work's your only weapon. Make the world
respect you, as you can do through your work; it's the surest
harbour of refuge for your friend, the only harbour - remember
that - and it's up to you to provide it, Stephen.'
Stephen had been too sore at heart to reply; but throughout
the long journey from Morton to Paris, Puddle's words had kept
hammering in her brain: 'You're not working, and yet work's
your only weapon.'
So while Mary lay sleeping in Stephen's arms on that first
blessèd night of their reunion, her lover lay wide-eyed with
sleeplessness, planning the work she must do on the morrow,
cursing her own indolence and folly, her illusion of safety where
none existed.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
391
»
2
THEY SOon settled down to their more prosaic days very much as
quite ordinary people will do. Each of them now had her sep-
arate tasks - Stephen her writing, and Mary the household, the
paying of bills, the filing of receipts, the answering of unimpor-
tant letters. But for her there were long hours of idleness, since
Pauline and Pierre were almost too perfect - they would smile
and manage the house their own way, which it must be admitted
was better than Mary's. As for the letters, there were not very
many; and as for the bills, there was plenty of money-being
spared the struggle to make two ends meet, she was also de-
prived of the innocent pleasure of scheming to provide little
happy surprises, little extra comforts for the person she loved,
which in youth can add a real zest to existence. Then Stephen had
found her typing too slow, so was sending the work to a woman
in Passy; obsessed by a longing to finish her book, she would
tolerate neither let nor hindrance. And because of their curious.
isolation, there were times when Mary would feel very lonely.
For whom did she know? She had no friends in Paris except the
kind Mademoiselle Duphot and Julie. Once a week, it is true,
she could go and see Buisson, for Stephen continued to keep up
her fencing; and occasionally Brockett would come strolling in,
but his interest was centred entirely in Stephen; if she should be
working, as was often the case, he would not waste very much.
time over Mary.
C
Stephen often called her into the study, comforted by the
girl's loving presence. Come and sit with me, sweetheart, I like
you in here.' But quite soon she would seem to forget all about
her. What . . . what?' she would mutter, frowning a little.
'Don't speak to me just for a minute, Mary. Go and have your
luncheon, there's a good child; I'll come when I've finished this
bit - you go on!' But Mary's meal might be eaten alone; for
meals had become an annoyance to Stephen.
Of course there was David, the grateful, the devoted. Mary
could always talk to David, but since he could never answer her
392
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
back the conversation was very one-sided. Then too, he was mak-
ing it obvious that he, in his turn, was missing Stephen; he would
hang around looking discontented when she failed to go out after
frequent suggestions. For although his heart was faithful to Mary,
the gentle dispenser of all salvation, yet the instinct that has dwelt
in the soul of the male, perhaps ever since Adam left the Garden
of Eden, the instinct that displays itself in club windows and in
other such places of male segregation, would make him long for
the companionable walks that had sometimes been taken apart
from Mary. Above all would it make him long intensely
for Stephen's strong hands and purposeful ways; for that
queer, intangible something about her that appealed to the
canine manhood in him. She always allowed him to look
after himself, without fussing; in a word, she seemed restful to
David.
Mary, slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper:
'We'll go to the Tuileries Gardens.'
But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of
course a dog must not dive after goldfish – David understood this;
there were goldfish at home - he must not start splashing about
in ponds that had tiresome stone rims and ridiculous fountains.
He and Mary would wander along gravel paths, among people
who stared at and made fun of David: ' Quel drôle de chien, mais
regardez sa queue!' They were like that, these French; they had
laughed at his mother. She had told him never so much as to say:
Wouf!' For what did they matter? Still, it was disconcerting.
And although he had lived in France all his life - having indeed
known no other country - as he walked in the stately Tuileries
Gardens, the Celt in his blood would conjure up visions: great
beetling mountains with winding courses down which the tor-
rents went roaring in winter; the earth smell, the dew smell, the
smell of wild things which a dog might hunt and yet remain law-
ful - for of all this and more had his old mother told him. These
visions it was that had led him astray, that had treacherously led
him half starving to Paris; and that, sometimes, even in these
placid days, would come back as he walked in the Tuileries Gar-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
393
- a captive he was
dens. But now his heart must thrust them aside
now, through love of Mary.
But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a gar-
den at Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled
with the restless rhythm of singing.
3
THE AUTUMN passed, giving place to the winter, with its short,
dreary days of mist and rain. There was now little beauty left in
Paris. A grey sky hung above the old streets of the Quarter, a sky
which no longer looked bright by contrast, as though seen at the
end of a tunnel. Stephen was working like some one possessed, en-
tirely re-writing her pre-war novel. Good it had been, but not
good enough, for she now saw life from a much wider angle;
and moreover, she was writing this book for Mary. Remembering
Mary, remembering Morton, her pen covered sheet after sheet of
•paper; she wrote with the speed of true inspiration, and at times
her work brushed the hem of greatness. She did not entirely
neglect the girl for whose sake she was making this mighty effort
- that she could not have done even had she wished to, since love
was the actual source of her effort. But quite soon there were days
when she would not go out, or if she did go, when she seemed
abstracted, so that Mary must ask her the same question twice -
then as likely as not get a nebulous answer. And soon there were
days when all that she did apart from her writing was done with
an effort, with an obvious effort to be considerate.
'Would you like to go to a play one night, Mary?'
If Mary said yes, and procured the tickets, they were usually
late, because of Stephen who had worked right up to the very last
minute.
Sometimes there were poignant if small disappointments,
when Stephen had failed to keep a promise. Listen, Mary darling
- will you ever forgive me if I don't come with you about those
furs? I've a bit of work here I simply must finish. You do
understand?'
394
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
"Yes, of course I do.' But Mary, left to choose her new furs
alone, had quite suddenly felt that she did not want them.
And this sort of thing happened fairly often.
If only Stephen had confided in her, had said: 'I'm trying
to build you a refuge; remember what I told you in Orotava!'
But no, she shrank from reminding the girl of the gloom that
surrounded their small patch of sunshine. If only she had shown
a little more patience with Mary's careful if rather slow typing,
and so given her a real occupation - but no, she must send the
work off to Passy, because the sooner this book was finished the
better it would be for Mary's future. And thus, blinded by love
and her desire to protect the woman she loved, she erred towards
Mary.
When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequently
read it aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that the
writing was fine, yet her thoughts would stray from the book to
Stephen. The deep, husky voice would read on and on, having
in it something urgent, appealing, so that Mary must suddenly
kiss Stephen's hand, or the scar on her cheek, because of that voice
far more than because of what it was reading.
And now there were times when, serving two masters, her
passion for this girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be
torn by conflicting desires, by opposing mental and physical emo-
tions. She would want to save herself for her work; she would
want to give herself wholly to Mary.
Yet quite often she would work far into the night. 'I'm go-
ing to be late – you go to bed, sweetheart.'
And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she would
steal like a thief past Mary's bedroom, although Mary would
nearly always hear her.
"Is that you, Stephen?'
"Yes. Why aren't you asleep? Do you realize that it's three in
the morning?
'Is it? You're not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking of
you alone in the study. Come here and say you're not angry with
me, even if it is three o'clock in the morning!
>
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
395
Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would
fling herself down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do
more than take the girl in her arms, and let her lie there with her
head on her shoulder.
But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she
found so deeply appealing in Stephen – the scar on her cheek, the
expression in her eyes, the strength and the queer, shy gentleness
of her the strength which at moments could not be gentle. And
as they lay there Stephen might sleep, worn out by the strain of
those long hours of writing. But Mary would not sleep, or if she
slept it would be when the dawn was paling the windows.
Mag
4
ONE morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. Come here.
You're not well! What's the matter? Tell me.' For she thought
that the girl was unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped
a little at the corners; and a sudden fear contracted her heart.
'Tell me at once what's the matter with you!' Her voice was
rough with anxiety, and she laid an imperative hand over Mary's.
Mary protested. Don't be absurd; there's nothing the matter,
I'm perfectly well - you're imagining things.' For what could be
the matter? Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyes
filled with tears, and she turned away quickly to hide them,
ashamed of her own unreason.
Stephen stuck to her point. 'You don't look a bit well. We
shouldn't have stayed in Paris last summer.' Then because her
own nerves were on edge that day, she frowned. 'It's this business
of your not eating whenever I can't get in to a meal. I know you
don't eat - Pierre's told me about it. You mustn't behave like a
baby, Mary! I shan't be able to write a line if I feel you're ill be-
cause you're not eating.' Her fear was making her lose her temper.
'I shall send for a doctor,' she finished brusquely.
Mary refused point-blank to see a doctor. What was she to tell
him? She hadn't any symptoms. Pierre exaggerated. She ate quite
enough - she had never been a very large eater. Stephen had
396
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
better get on with her work and stop upsetting herself over
nothing.
But try as she might, Stephen could not get on - all the rest
of the day her work went badly.
After this she would often leave her desk and go wandering
off in search of Mary. ' Darling, where are you?
"
Upstairs in my bedroom!'
Well, come down; I want you here in the study.' And when
Mary had settled herself by the fire: 'Now tell me exactly how
<
you feel – all right?
And Mary would answer, smiling: 'Yes, I'm quite all right;
I swear I am, Stephen!'
It was not an ideal atmosphere for work, but the book was by
now so well advanced that nothing short of a disaster could have
stopped it - it was one of those books that intend to get born, and
that go on maturing in spite of their authors. Nor was there any-
thing really alarming about the condition of Mary's health. She
did not look very well, that was all; and at times she seemed a
little downhearted, so that Stephen must snatch a few hours from
her work in order that they might go out together. Perhaps they
would lunch at a restaurant; or drive into the country, to the
rapture of David; or just wander about the streets arm in arm as
they had done when first they had returned to Paris. And Mary,
because she would be feeling happy, would revive for these few
hours as though by magic. Yet when she must once more find
herself lonely, with nowhere to go and no one to talk to, because
Stephen was back again at her desk, why then she would wilt,
which was not unnatural considering her youth and her situation.
5
ON CHRISTMAS EVE Brockett arrived, bringing flowers. Mary had
gone for a walk with David, so Stephen must leave her desk with
a sigh. Come in, Brockett. I say! What wonderful lilac!'
He sat down, lighting a cigarette. Yes, isn't it fine? I brought
it for Mary. How is she?
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
397
Stephen hesitated a moment. Not awfully well . . . I've
been worried about her.'
Brockett frowned, and stared thoughtfully into the fire. There
was something that he wanted to say to Stephen, a warning that
he was longing to give, but he did not feel certain how she would
take it - no wonder that wretched girl was not fit, forced to lead
such a deadly dull existence! If Stephen would let him he wanted
to advise, to admonish, to be brutally frank if need be. He had
once been brutally frank about her work, but that had been a less
delicate matter.
He began to fidget with his soft, white hands, drumming on
the arms of the chair with his fingers. ' Stephen, I've been mean-
ing to speak about Mary. She struck me as looking thoroughly
depressed the last time I saw her - when was it? Monday. Yes, she
struck me as looking thoroughly depressed.'
Oh, but surely you were wrong . . .' interrupted Stephen.
'No, I'm perfectly sure I was right,' he insisted. Then he said:
'I'm going to take a big risk - I'm going to take the risk of losing
your frendship.'
His voice was so genuinely regretful, that Stephen must ask
him: 'Well - what is it, Brockett?'
'You, my dear. You're not playing fair with that girl; the life
she's leading would depress a mother abbess. It's enough to give
anybody the hump, and it's going to give Mary neurasthenia!
What on earth do
you mean? ›
'Don't get ratty and I'll tell you. Look here, I'm not going to
pretend any more. Of course we all know that you two are lovers.
You're gradually becoming a kind of legend - all's well lost for
love, and that sort of thing. But Mary's too young to become
a legend; and so are you, my dear, for that matter. But you've got
your work, whereas Mary's got nothing not a soul does that
miserable kid know in Paris. Don't please interrupt, I've not
nearly finished; I positively must and will have my say out! You
and she have decided to make a ménage - as far as I can see it's
as bad as marriage! But if you were a man it would be rather
different; you'd have dozens of friends as a matter of course. Mary
398
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
might even be going to have an infant. Oh, for God's sake,
Stephen, do stop looking shocked. Mary's a perfectly normal
young woman; she can't live by love alone, that's all rot - espe-
cially as I shrewdly suspect that when you're working the diet's
pretty meagre. For heaven's sake let her go about a bit! Why on
earth don't you take her to Valérie Seymour's? At Valérie's place
she'd meet lots of people; and I ask you, what harm could it pos-
sibly do? You shun your own ilk as though they were the devil!
Mary needs friends awfully badly, and she needs a certain amount
of amusement. But be a bit careful of the so-called normal.' And
now Brockett's voice grew aggressive and bitter. 'I wouldn't go.
trying to force them to be friends - I'm not thinking so much of
you now as of Mary; she's young and the young are easily
bruised.
He was perfectly sincere. He was trying to be helpful, spurred
on by his curious affection for Stephen. At the moment he felt
very friendly and anxious; there was nothing of the cynic left in
him - at the moment. He was honestly advising according to his
lights - perhaps the only lights that the world had left him.
And Stephen could find very little to say. She was sick of de-
nials and subterfuges, sick of tacit lies which outraged her own
instincts and which seemed like insults thrust upon Mary; so she
left Brockett's bolder statements unchallenged. As for the rest,
she hedged a little, still vaguely mistrustful of Valérie Seymour.
Yet she knew quite well that Brockett had been right – life these
days must often be lonely for Mary. Why had she never thought
of this before? She cursed herself for her lack of perception.
Then Brockett tactfully changed the subject; he was far too
wise not to know when to stop. So now he told her about his new
play, which for him was a very unusual proceeding. And as he
talked on there came over Stephen a queer sense of relief at the
thought that he knew. . . . Yes, she actually felt a sense of relief
because this man knew of her relations with Mary; because there
was no longer any need to behave as if those relations were shame-
ful - at all events in the presence of Brockett. The world had at
last found a chink in her armour.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
399
'WE MUST go and see Valérie Seymour one day,' Stephen re-
marked quite casually that evening. 'She's a very well-known
woman in Paris. I believe she gives rather jolly parties. I think it's
about time you had a few friends.'
<
6
'Oh, what fun! Yes, do let's - I'd love it!' exclaimed Mary.
Stephen thought that her voice sounded pleased and excited,
and in spite of herself she sighed a little. But after all nothing
really mattered except that Mary should keep well and happy.
She would certainly take her to Valérie Seymour's - why not? She
had probably been very foolish. Selfish too, sacrificing the girl to
her cranks -
Darling, of course we'll go,' she said quickly. ' I expect we'll
find it awfully amusing.'
•
7
THREE days later, Valérie, having seen Brockett, wrote a short but
cordial invitation: Do come in on Wednesday if you possibly
can - I mean both of you, of course. Brockett's promised to come,
and one or two other interesting people. I'm so looking forward
to renewing our acquaintance after all this long time, and to meet-
ing Miss Llewellyn. But why have you never been to see me?
I don't think that was very friendly of you! However, you can
make up for past neglect by coming to my little party on
Wednesday.
>
Stephen tossed the letter across to Mary. There you are!'
"How ripping - but will you go?'
"Do you want to?
Yes, of course. Only what about your
It will keep all right for one afternoon.'
"Are you sure?'
Stephen smiled. 'Yes, I'm quite sure, darling.'
work?'
CHAPTER 44
I
V
ALÉRIE's rooms were already crowded when Stephen and
Mary arrived at her reception, so crowded that at first they
could not see their hostess and must stand rather awkwardly near
the door - they had not been announced; one never was for some
reason, when one went to Valérie Seymour's. People looked at
Stephen curiously; her height, her clothes, the scar on her face,
had immediately riveted their attention.
'Quel type!' murmured Dupont the sculptor to his neigh-
bour, and promptly decided that he wished to model Stephen.
"It's a wonderful head; I adore the strong throat. And the mouth
- is it chaste, is it ardent? I wonder. How would one model that
intriguing mouth? 'Then being Dupont, to whom all things were
allowed for the sake of his art, he moved a step nearer and stared
with embarrassing admiration, combing his greyish beard with
his fingers.
His neighbour, who was also his latest mistress, a small fair-
haired girl of a doll-like beauty, shrugged her shoulders. ‘I am
not very pleased with you, Dupont, your taste is becoming pe-
culiar, mon ami - and yet you are still sufficiently virile.
He laughed. Be tranquil, my little hen, I am not proposing
to give you a rival.' Then he started to tease. But what about
you? I dislike the small horns that are covered with moss, even
although they are no bigger than thimbles. They are irritating,
those mossy horns, and exceedingly painful when they start to
grow - like wisdom teeth, only even more foolish. Ah, yes, I too
have my
recollections. What is sauce for the gander is sauce for
the goose, as the English say - such a practical people!'
"You are dreaming, mon pauvre bougre,' snapped the lady.
And now Valérie was making her way to the door. 'Miss
Gordon! I'm most awfully glad to see you and Miss Llewellyn.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
401
Have you had any tea? No, of course not, I'm an abominable
hostess! Come along to the table - where's that useless Brockett?
Oh, here he is. Brockett, please be a man and get Miss Llewellyn
and Miss Gordon some tea.'
Brockett sighed. 'You go first then, Stephen darling, you're
so much more efficient than I am.' And he laid a soft, white hand
on her shoulder, thrusting her gently but firmly forward. When
they reached the buffet, he calmly stood still. 'Do get me an ice –
vanilla?' he murmured.
Every one seemed to know every one else, the atmosphere
was familiar and easy. People hailed each other like intimate
friends, and quite soon they were being charming to Stephen, and
equally charming and kind to Mary.
Valérie was introducing her new guests with tactful allusions
to Stephen's talent: This is Stephen Gordon - you know, the
author; and Miss Llewellyn.'
Her manner was natural, and yet Stephen could not get rid
of the feeling that every one knew about her and Mary, or that
if they did not actually know, they guessed, and were eager to
show themselves friendly.
She thought: Well, why not? I'm sick of lying.'
The erstwhile resentment that she had felt towards Valérie
Seymour was fading completely. So pleasant it was to be made
to feel welcome by all these clever and interesting people – and
clever they were there was no denying; in Valérie's salon the per-
centage of brains was generally well above the average. For to-
gether with those who themselves being normal, had long put
intellects above bodies, were writers, painters, musicians and
scholars, men and women who, set apart from their birth, had
determined to hack out a niche in existence. Many of them had
already arrived, while some were still rather painfully hacking;
not a few would fall by the way, it is true, but as they fell others
would take their places. Over the bodies of prostrate comrades
those others must fall in their turn or go on hacking - for them
there was no compromise with life, they were lashed by the whip
of self-preservation. There was Pat who had lost her Arabella to
<
402
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
the golden charms of Grigg and the Lido. Pat, who, originally
hailing from Boston, still vaguely suggested a new England
schoolmarm. Pat, whose libido apart from the flesh, flowed into
entomological channels - one had to look twice to discern that
her ankles were too strong and too heavy for those of a female.
There was Jamie, very much more pronounced; Jamie who
had come to Paris from the Highlands; a trifle unhinged be-
cause of the music that besieged her soul and fought for expres-
sion through her stiff and scholarly compositions. Loose limbed,
raw boned and short sighted she was; and since she could seldom
afford new glasses, her eyes were red-rimmed and strained in ex-
pression, and she poked her head badly, for ever peering. Her tow-
coloured mop was bobbed by her friend, the fringe being only too
often uneven.
Budd
There was Wanda, the struggling Polish painter; dark for a
Pole with her short, stiff black hair, and her dusky skin, and her
colourless lips; yet withal not unattractive, this Wanda. She had
wonderful eyes that held fire in their depths, hell-fire at times, if
she had been drinking; but at other times a more gentle flame,
although never one that it was safe to play with. Wanda saw
largely. All that she envisaged was immense, her pictures, her
passions, her remorses. She craved with a wellnigh insatiable
craving, she feared with a wellnigh intolerable terror - not the
devil, she was brave with him when in her cups, but God in the
person of Christ the Redeemer. Like a whipped cur she crawled
to the foot of the Cross, without courage, without faith, without
hope of mercy. Outraged by her body she must ruthlessly
scourge it no good, the lust of the eye would betray her.
Seeing she desired and desiring she drank, seeking to drown
one lust in another. And then she would stand up before her tall
casel, swaying a little but with hand always steady. The brandy
went into her legs, not her hands; her hands would remain dis-
concertingly steady. She would start some gigantic and heart-
broken daub, struggling to lose herself in her picture, struggling
to ease the ache of her passion by smearing the placid white face
of the canvas with ungainly yet strangely arresting forms – accord-
depleted
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
403
ing to Dupont, Wanda had genius. Neither eating nor sleeping
she would grow very thin, so that everybody would know what
had happened. They had seen it before, oh, but many times, and
therefore for them the tragedy was lessened.
'Wanda's off again!' some one might say with a grin. She
was tight this morning; who is it this time?
>
But Valérie, who hated drink like the plague, would grow
angry; outraged she would feel by this Wanda.
There was Hortense, Comtesse de Kerguelen; dignified and
reserved, a very great lady, of a calm and rather old-fashioned
beauty. When Valérie introduced her to Stephen, Stephen quite
suddenly thought of Morton. And yet she had left all for Valérie
Seymour; husband, children and home had she left; facing scan-
dal, opprobrium, persecution. Greater than all these most vital
things had been this woman's love for Valérie Seymour. An
enigma she seemed, much in need of explaining. And now in the
place of that outlawed love had come friendship; they were close
friends, these one-time lovers.
There was Margaret Roland, the poetess, a woman whose
work was alive with talent. The staunchest of allies, the most
fickle of lovers, she seemed likely enough to end up in the work-
house, with her generous financial apologies which at moments.
made pretty large holes in her savings. It was almost impossible
not to like her, since her only fault lay in being too earnest; every
fresh love affair was the last while it lasted, though of course this
was apt to be rather misleading. A costly business in money and
tears; she genuinely suffered in heart as in pocket. There was
nothing arresting in Margaret's appearance, sometimes she dressed
well, sometimes she dressed badly, according to the influence of
the moment. But she always wore ultra feminine shoes, and fre-
quently bought model gowns when in Paris. One might have said
quite a womanly woman, unless the trained ear had been rendered
suspicious by her voice which had something peculiar about it.
It was like a boy's voice on the verge of breaking.
And then there was Brockett with his soft, white hands; and
several others there were, very like him. There was also Adolphe
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Blanc, the designer - a master of colour whose primitive tints had
practically revolutionized taste, bringing back to the eye the joy
of the simple. Blanc stood in a little niche by himself, which at
times must surely have been very lonely. A quiet, tawny man with
the eyes of the Hebrew, in his youth he had been very deeply
afflicted. He had spent his days going from doctor to doctor:
'What am I?' They had told him, pocketing their fees; not a
few had unctuously set out to cure him. Cure him, good God!
There was no cure for Blanc, he was, of all men, the most normal
abnormal. He had known revolt, renouncing his God; he had
known despair, the despair of the godless; he had known wild
moments of dissipation; he had known long months of acute self-
abasement. And then he had suddenly found his soul, and that
finding had brought with it resignation, so that now he could
stand in a niche by himself, a pitiful spectator of what, to him,
often seemed a bewildering scheme of creation. For a living he de-
signed many beautiful things - furniture, costumes and scenery
for ballets, even women's gowns if the mood was upon him, but
this he did for a physical living. To keep life in his desolate, long-
suffering soul, he had stored his mind with much profound learn-
ing. So now many poor devils went to him for advice, which he
never refused though he gave it sadly. It was always the same:
'Do the best you can, no man can do more
but never stop fight-
ing. For us there is no sin so great as despair, and perhaps no
virtue so vital as courage.' Yes, indeed, to this gentle and learned
Jew went many a poor baptized Christian devil.
And such people frequented Valérie Seymour's, men and
women who must carry God's mark on their foreheads. For
Valérie, placid and self-assured, created an atmosphere of courage;
every one felt very normal and brave when they gathered together
at Valérie Seymour's. There she was, this charming and cultured
woman, a kind of lighthouse in a storm-swept ocean. The waves
had lashed round her feet in vain; winds had howled; clouds had
spued forth their hail and their lightning; torrents had deluged
but had not destroyed her. The storms, gathering force, broke and
drifted away, leaving behind them the shipwrecked, the drown-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
405
ing. But when they looked up, the poor spluttering victims, why
what should they see but Valérie Seymour! Then a few would
strike boldly out for the shore, at the sight of this indestructible
creature.
She did nothing, and at all times said very little, feeling
no urge towards philanthropy. But this much she gave to her
brethren, the freedom of her salon, the protection of her friend-
ship; if it eased them to come to her monthly gatherings they
were always welcome provided they were sober. Drink and drugs
she abhorred because they were ugly - one drank tea, iced coffee,
sirops and orangeade in that celebrated flat on the Quai Voltaire.
Oh, yes, a very strange company indeed if one analysed it for
this or that stigma. Why, the grades were so numerous and so fine
that they often defied the most careful observation. The timbre of
a voice, the build of an ankle, the texture of a hand, a movement,
a gesture - since few were as pronounced as Stephen Gordon, un-
less it were Wanda, the Polish painter. She, poor soul, never knew
how to dress for the best. If she dressed like a woman she looked
like a man, if she dressed like a man she looked like a woman!
2
AND their love affairs, how strange, how bewildering - how dif-
ficult to classify degrees of attraction. For not always would they
attract their own kind, very often they attracted quite ordinary
people. Thus Pat's Arabella had suddenly married, having wearied
of Grigg as of her predecessor. Rumour had it that she was now
blatantly happy at the prospect of shortly becoming a mother.
And then there was Jamie's friend Barbara, a wisp of a girl very
faithful and loving, but all woman as far as one could detect, with
a woman's clinging dependence on Jamie.
These two had been lovers from the days of their childhood,
from the days when away in their Highland village the stronger
child had protected the weaker at school or at play with their
boisterous companions. They had grown up together like two
wind-swept saplings on their bleak Scottish hill-side so starved of
406
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
sunshine. For warmth and protection they had leaned to each
other, until with the spring, at the time of mating, their branches
had quietly intertwined. That was how it had been, the entwining
of saplings, very simple, and to them very dear, having nothing
mysterious or strange about it except inasmuch as all love is
mysterious.
To themselves they had seemed like the other lovers for whom
dawns were brighter and twilights more tender. Hand in hand
they had strolled down the village street, pausing to listen to the
piper at evening. And something in that sorrowful, outlandish
music would arouse the musical soul in Jamie, so that great chords
would surge up through her brain, very different indeed from
the wails of the piper, yet born of the same mystic Highland
nature.
Happy days; happy evenings when the glow of the summer
lingered for hours above the grim hills, lingered on long after the
flickering lamps had been lit in the cottage windows of Beedles.
The piper would at last decide to go home, but they two would
wander away to the moorland, there to lie down for a space side
by side among the short, springy turf and the heather.
Children they had been, having small skill in words, or in life,
or in love itself for that matter. Barbara, fragile and barely nine-
teen; the angular Jamie not yet quite twenty. They had talked be-
cause words will ease the full spirit; talked in abrupt, rather shy
broken phrases. They had loved because love had come naturally
to them up there on the soft, springy turf and the heather. But
after a while their dreams had been shattered, for such dreams as
theirs had seemed strange to the village. Daft, the folk had thought
them, mouching round by themselves for hours, like a couple of
lovers.
Barbara's grand-dame, an austere old woman with whom
she had lived since her earliest childhood - Barbara's grand-dame
had mistrusted this friendship. 'I dinna richtly unnerstan' it,'
she had frowned; her and that Jamie's unco throng. It's no
richt for lass-bairns, an' it's no proaper!'
And since she spoke with authority, having for years been the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
407
village post-mistress, her neighbours had wagged their heads and
agreed.' It's no richt; ye hae said it, Mrs. MacDonald!'
The gossip had reached the minister, Jamie's white-haired and
gentle old father. He had looked at the girl with bewildered eyes
– he had always been bewildered by his daughter. A poor house-
wife she was, and very untidy; if she cooked she mucked up the
pots and the kitchen, and her hands were strangely unskilled with
the needle; this he knew, since his heels suffered much from her
darning. Remembering her mother he had shaken his head and
sighed many times as he looked at Jamie. For her mother
had been a soft, timorous woman, and he himself was very
retiring, but their Jamie loved striding over the hills in the teeth
of a gale, an uncouth, boyish creature. As a child she had gone
rabbit stalking with ferrets; had ridden a neighbour's farm-
horse astride on a sack, without stirrup, saddle or bridle; had
done all manner of outlandish things. And he, poor lonely,
bewildered man, still mourning his wife, had been no match
for her.
Yet even as a child she had sat at the piano and picked out
little tunes of her own inventing. He had done his best; she had
been taught to play by Miss Morrison of the next-door village,
since music alone seemed able to tame her. And as Jamie had
grown so her tunes had grown with her, gathering purpose and
strength with her body. She would improvise for hours on the
winter evenings, if Barbara would sit in their parlour and listen.
He had always made Barbara welcome at the manse; they had
been so inseparable, those two, since childhood - and now? He
had frowned, remembering the gossip.
Rather timidly he had spoken to Jamie. Listen, my dear,
when you're always together, the lads don't get a chance to come
courting, and Barbara's grandmother wants the lass married. Let
her walk with a lad on Sabbath afternoons - there's that young
MacGregor, he's a fine, steady fellow, and they say he's in love
with the little lass.
<
Jamie had stared at him, scowling darkly. She doesn't want
to walk out with MacGregor!'
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
The minister had shaken his head yet again. In the hands of
his child he was utterly helpless.
Then Jamie had gone to Inverness in order the better to study
music, but every week-end she had spent at the manse, there had
been no real break in her friendship with Barbara; indeed they
had seemed more devoted than ever, no doubt because of these
forced separations. Two years later the minister had suddenly
died, leaving his little all to Jamie. She had had to turn out of the
old, grey manse, and had taken a room in the village near Barbara.
But antagonism, no longer restrained through respect for the
gentle and child-like pastor, had made itself very acutely felt -
hostile they had been, those good people, to Jamie.
Barbara had wept. 'Jamie, let's go away they hate us.
Let's go where nobody knows us. I'm twenty-one now, I can go
where I like, they can't stop me. Take me away from them,
Jamie!'
Miserable, angry, and sorely bewildered, Jamie had put her
arm round the girl. ' Where can I take you, you poor little crea-
ture? You're not strong, and I'm terribly poor, remember.'
But Barbara had continued to plead. 'I'll work, I'll scrub
floors, I'll do anything, Jamie, only let's get away where nobody
knows us!'
So Jamie had turned to her music master in Inverness, and
had begged him to help her. What could she do to earn her liv-
ing? And because this man believed in her talent, he had helped
her with advice and a small loan of money, urging her to go to
Paris and study to complete her training in composition.
You're really too good for me,' he had told her; ‘and out
there you could live considerably cheaper. For one thing the ex-
change would be in your favour. I'll write to the head of the Con-
servatoire this evening.'
That had been shortly after the Armistice, and now here they
were together in Paris.
As for Pat, she collected her moths and her beetles, and when
fate was propitious an occasional woman. But fate was so seldom
propitious to Pat - Arabella had put this down to the beetles. Poor
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
409
6
Pat, having recently grown rather gloomy, had taken to quoting
American history, speaking darkly of blood-tracks left on
the snow by what she had christened: The miserable army.'
Then too she seemed haunted by General Custer, that gallant
and very unfortunate hero. 'It's Custer's last ride, all the time,
she would say. No good talking, the whole darned world's out
to scalp us!
As for Margaret Roland, she was never attracted to anyone
and whole-hearted and free - she was, in fact, a congenital
young
poacher.
While as for Wanda, her loves were so varied that no rule
could be discovered by which to judge them. She loved wildly,
without either chart or compass. A rudderless bark it was,
Wanda's emotion, beaten now this way now that by the gale,
veering first to the normal, then to the abnormal; a thing of torn
sails and stricken masts, that never came within sight of a harbour.
3
THESE, then, were the people to whom Stephen turned at last in
her fear of isolation for Mary; to her own kind she turned and
was made very welcome, for no bond is more binding than that
of affliction. But her vision stretched beyond to the day when
happier folk would also accept her, and through her this girl for
whose happiness she and she alone would have to answer; to the
day when through sheer force of tireless endeavour she would
have built that harbour of refuge for Mary.
So now they were launched upon the stream that flows silent.
and deep through all great cities, gliding on between precipitous
borders, away and away into no-man's-land - the most desolate
country in all creation. Yet when they got home they felt no mis-
givings, even Stephen's doubts had been drugged for the moment,
since just at first this curious stream will possess the balm of the
waters of Lethe.
She said to Mary: 'It was quite a good party; don't you
think so?'
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THE WELL OF LONELINESS
And Mary answered naïvely: ' I loved it because they were so
nice to you. Brockett told me they think you're the coming writer.
He said you were Valérie Seymour's lion; I was bursting with
pride – it made me so happy!'
For answer, Stephen stooped down and kissed her.
CHAPTER 45
I
B
Y FEBRUARY Stephen's book was rewritten and in the hands
of her publisher in England. This gave her the peaceful, yet
exhilarated feeling that comes when a writer has given of his best
and knows that that best is not unworthy. With a sigh of relief
she metaphorically stretched, rubbed her eyes and started to look
about her. She was in the mood that comes as a reaction from
strain, and was glad enough of amusement; moreover the spring
was again in the air, the year had turned, there were sud-
den bright days when the sun brought a few hours of warmth to
Paris.
They were now no longer devoid of friends, no longer solely
dependent upon Brockett on the one hand, and Mademoiselle Du-
phot on the other; Stephen's telephone would ring pretty often.
There was now always somewhere for Mary to go; always peo-
ple who were anxious to see her and Stephen, people with whom
one got intimate quickly and was thus saved a lot of unnecessary
trouble. Of them all, however, it was Barbara and Jamie for
whom Mary developed a real affection; she and Barbara had
formed a harmless alliance which at times was even a little pa-
thetic. The one talking of Jamie, the other of Stephen, they would
put their young heads together very gravely. Do you find Jamic
goes off her food when she's working?' 'Do you find that
Stephen sleeps badly? Is she careless of her health? Jamie's aw-
fully worrying sometimes."
C
Or perhaps they would be in a more flippant mood and would
sit and whisper together, laughing; making tender fun of the
creatures they loved, as women have been much inclined to do
ever since that rib was demanded of Adam. Then Jamie and
Stephen would pretend to feel aggrieved, would pretend that
they also must hang together, must be on their guard against
412
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
feminine intrigues. Oh, yes, the whole business was rather
pathetic.
Jamie and her Barbara were starvation-poor, so poor that a
square meal came as a godsend. Stephen would feel ashamed to
be rich, and, like Mary, was always anxious to feed them. Being
idle at the moment, Stephen would insist upon frequently taking
them out to dinner, and then she would order expensive viands –
copper-green oysters straight from the Marennes, caviare and other
such costly things, to be followed by even more sumptuous dishes
- and since they went short on most days in the week, these sto-
machic debauches would frequently upset them. Two glasses of
wine would cause Jamie to flush, for her head had never been of
the strongest, nor was it accustomed to such golden nectar. Her
principal beverage was crème-de-menthe because it kept out the
cold in the winter, and because, being pepperminty and sweet, it
reminded her of the bull's-eyes at Beedles.
They were not very easy to help, these two, for Jamie, pride-
galled, was exceedingly touchy. She would never accept gifts of
money or clothes, and was struggling to pay off the debt to her
master. Even food gave offence unless it was shared by the donors,
which though very praiseworthy was foolish. However, there it
was, one just had to take her or leave her, there was no compromis-
ing with Jamie.
After dinner they would drift back to Jamie's abode, a studio
in the old Rue Visconti. They would climb innumerable dirty
stone stairs to the top of what had once been a fine house but was
now let off to such poor rats as Jamie. The concierge, an unsym-
pathetic woman, long soured by the empty pockets of students,
would peer out at them from her dark ground floor kennel, with
sceptical eyes.
'Bon soir, Madame Lambert."
Bon soir, mesdames,' she would growl impolitely.
Jamie's studio was large, bare, and swept by draughts. The
stove was too small and at times it smelt vilely. The distempered
grey walls were a mass of stains, for whenever it hailed or rained
or snowed the windows and skylight would always start dripping.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
413
The furniture consisted of a few shaky chairs, a table, a divan and a
hired grand piano. Nearly every one seated themselves on the floor,
robbing the divan of its moth-eaten cushions. From the studio
there led off a tiny room with an eye-shaped window that would
not open. In this room had been placed a narrow camp-bed to
which Jamie retired when she felt extra sleepless. For the rest,
there was a sink with a leaky tap; a cupboard in which they kept
crème-de-menthe, what remnants of food they possessed at the
moment, Jamie's carpet slippers and blue jean jacket - minus
which she could never compose a note - and the pail, cloths and
brushes with which Barbara endeavoured to keep down the ac-
cumulating dirt and confusion. For Jamie with her tow-coloured
head in the clouds, was not only short-sighted but intensely un-
tidy. Dust meant little to her since she seldom saw it, while neat-
ness was completely left out of her make-up; considering how
limited were her possessions, the chaos they produced was truly
amazing. Barbara would sigh and would quite often scold – when
she scolded she reminded one of a wren who was struggling to
discipline a large cuckoo.
Jamie, your dirty shirt, give it to me - leaving it there on
the piano, whatever!' Or, ‘Jamie, come here and look at your
hair-brush; if you haven't gone and put it next-door to the butter!'
Then Jamie would peer with her strained, red-rimmed eyes
and would grumble: 'Oh, leave me in peace, do, lassie!'
But when Barbara laughed, as she must do quite often at the
outrageous habits of the great loose-limbed creature, why then
these days she would usually cough, and when Barbara started to
cough she coughed badly. They had seen a doctor who had spoken
about lungs and had shaken his head; not strong, he had told
them. But neither of them had quite understood, for their French
had remained very embryonic, and they could not afford the
smart English doctor. All the same when Barbara coughed Jamie
sweated, and her fear would produce an acute irritation.
'Here, drink this water! Don't sit there doing nothing but
rack yourself to bits, it gets on my nerves. Go and order another
bottle of that mixture. God, how can I work if you will
go on
414
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
coughing!' She would slouch to the piano and play mighty
chords, pressing down the loud pedal to drown that coughing.
But when it had subsided she would feel deep remorse. Oh, Bar-
bara, you're so little - forgive me. It's all my fault for bringing
you out here, you're not strong enough for this damnable life, you
don't get the right food, or anything proper.'
In the end it would be Barbara who must console. 'We'll be
rich some day when you've finished your opera - anyhow my
cough isn't dangerous, Jamie.'
Sometimes Jamie's music would go all wrong, the opera
would blankly refuse to get written. At the Conservatoire she
would be very stupid, and when she got home she would be very
silent, pushing her supper away with a frown, because coming
upstairs she had heard that cough. Then Barbara would feel even
more tired and weak than before, but would hide her weakness
from Jamie. After supper they would undress in front of the stove
if the weather was cold, would undress without speaking. Barbara
could get out of her clothes quite neatly in no time, but Jamie
must always dawdle, dropping first this and then that on the floor,
or pausing to fill her little black pipe and to light it before putting
on her pyjamas.
Barbara would fall on her knees by the divan and would start
to say prayers like a child, very simply. 'Our Father,' she would
say, and other
prayers too, which always ended in: 'Please God,
bless Jamie.' For believing in Jamie she must needs believe in God,
and because she loved Jamie she must love God also - it had long
been like this, ever since they were children. But sometimes she
would shiver in her prim cotton nightgown, so that Jamie, grown
anxious, would speak to her sharply:
'Oh, stop praying, do. You and all your prayers! Are you daft
to kneel there when the room's fairly freezing? That's how you
catch cold; now to-night you'll cough!'
But Barbara would not so much as turn round; she would
calmly and earnestly go on with her praying. Her neck would
look thin against the thick plait which hung neatly down between
her bent shoulders; and the hands that covered her face would
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
415
look thin- thin and transparent like the hands of a consumptive.
Fuming inwardly, Jamie would stump off to bed in the tiny room
with its eye-shaped window, and there she herself must mutter a
prayer, especially if she heard Barbara coughing.
At times Jamie gave way to deep depression, hating the beau-
tiful city of her exile. Homesick unto death she would suddenly
feel for the dour little Highland village of Beedles. More even
than for its dull bricks and mortar would she long for its dull
and respectable spirit, for the sense of security common to Sab-
baths, for the kirk with its dull and respectable people. She would
think with a tenderness bred by forced absence of the green-
grocer's shop that stood on the corner, where they sold, side by
side with the cabbages and onions, little neatly tied bunches of
Scottish heather, little earthenware jars of opaque heather honey.
She would think of the vast, stretching, windy moorlands; of
the smell of the soil after rain in summer; of the piper with his
weather-stained, agile fingers, of the wail of his sorrowful, out-
landish music; of Barbara as she had been in the days when they
strolled side by side down the narrow high street. And then she
would sit with her head in her hands, hating the sound and the
smell of Paris, hating the sceptical eyes of the concierge, hating
the bare and unhomely studio. Tears would well up from heaven
alone knew what abyss of half-understood desolation, and would
go splashing down upon her tweed skirt, or trickling back along
her red wrists until they had wetted her frayed flannel wristbands.
Coming home with their evening meal in a bag, this was how
Barbara must sometimes find her.
2
JAMIE was not always so full of desolation; there were days when
she seemed to be in excellent spirits, and on one such occasion
she rang Stephen up, asking her to bring Mary round after dinner.
Every one was coming, Wanda and Pat, Brockett, and even
Valérie Seymour; for she, Jamie, had persuaded a couple of
negroes who were studying at the Conservatoire to come in and
*
416
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
sing for them that evening - they had promised to sing Negro
Spirituals, old slavery songs of the Southern plantations. They
were very nice negroes, their name was Jones - Lincoln and
Henry Jones, they were brothers. Lincoln and Jamie had become
great friends; he was very interested in her opera. And Wanda
would bring her mandolin – but the evening would be spoilt
without Mary and Stephen.
Mary promptly put on her hat; she must go and order them
in some supper. As she and Stephen would be there to share it,
Jamie's sensitive pride would be appeased. She would send them
a very great deal of food so that they could go on eating and eating.
Stephen nodded: Yes, send them in tons of supper!'
3
AT TEN o'clock they arrived at the studio; at ten thirty Wanda
came in with Brockett, then Blanc together with Valérie Seymour,
then Pat wearing serviceable goloshes over her house shoes because
it was raining, then three or four fellow students of Jamie's, and
finally the two negro brothers.
They were very unlike each other, these negroes; Lincoln, the
elder, was paler in colour. He was short and inclined to be rather
thick-set with a heavy but intellectual face - a strong face, much
lined for a man of thirty. His eyes had the patient, questioning
expression common to the eyes of most animals and to those of
all slowly evolving races. He shook hands very quietly with
Stephen and Mary. Henry was tall and as black as a coal; a fine,
upstanding, but coarse-lipped young negro, with a roving glance
and a self-assured manner.
He remarked: 'Glad to meet you, Miss Gordon - Miss Llew-
ellyn,' and plumped himself down at Mary's side, where he
started to make conversation, too glibly.
Valérie Seymour was soon talking to Lincoln with a friendli-
ness that put him at his ease – just at first he had seemed a little
self-conscious. But Pat was much more reserved in her manner,
having hailed from abolitionist Boston.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
417
Wanda said abruptly: ' Can I have a drink, Jamie?' Brockett
poured her out a stiff brandy and soda.
Adolphe Blanc sat on the floor hugging his knees; and pres-
ently Dupont the sculptor strolled in - being minus his mistress
he migrated to Stephen.
Then Lincoln seated himself at the piano, touching the keys
with firm, expert fingers, while Henry stood beside him very
straight and long and lifted up his voice which was velvet smooth,
yet as clear and insistent as the call of a clarion:
Deep, river, my home is over Jordan.
Deep river - Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground,
Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground,
Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground,
Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.
And all the hope of the utterly hopeless of this world, who
must live by their ultimate salvation, all the terrible, aching,
homesick hope that is born of the infinite pain of the spirit, seemed
to break from this man and shake those who listened, so that they
sat with bent heads and clasped hands - they who were also
among the hopeless sat with bent heads and clasped hands as they
listened. . . . Even Valérie Seymour forgot to be pagan.
He was not an exemplary young negro; indeed he could be
the reverse very often. A crude animal Henry could be at times,
with a taste for liquor and a lust for women - just a primitive
force rendered dangerous by drink, rendered offensive by civili-
zation. Yet as he sang his sins seemed to drop from him, leaving
him pure, unashamed, triumphant. He sang to his God, to the
God of his soul, Who would some day blot out all the sins of the
world, and make vast reparation for every injustice: 'My home
is over Jordan, Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.'
Lincoln's deep bass voice kept up a low sobbing. From time
to time only did he break into words; but as he played on he
rocked his body: 'Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.
Lord, I want to cross over into camp ground.'
418
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Once started they seemed unable to stop; carried away they
were by their music, drunk with that desperate hope of the hope-
less - far drunker than Henry would get on neat whisky. They
went from one spiritual into another, while their listeners sat
motionless, scarcely breathing. While Jamie's eyes ached from un-
shed tears quite as much as from her unsuitable glasses; while
Adolphe Blanc, the gentle, the learned, grasped his knees and
pondered many things deeply; while Pat remembered her Ara-
bella and found but small consolation in beetles; while Brockett
thought of certain brave deeds that he, even he had done out
in Mespot - deeds that were not recorded in dispatches, unless in
those of the recording angel; while Wanda evolved an enormous
canvas depicting the wrongs of all mankind; while Stephen sud-
denly found Mary's hand and held it in hers with a painful pres-
sure; while Barbara's tired and childish brown eyes turned to rest
rather anxiously on her Jamie. Not one of them all but was stirred
to the depths by that queer, half defiant, half supplicating music."
And now there rang out a kind of challenge; imperious, loud,
almost terrifying. They sang it together, those two black brethren,
and their voices suggested a multitude shouting. They seemed to
be shouting a challenge to the world on behalf of themselves and
of all the afflicted:
'Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel,
Daniel, Daniel!
Didn't my Lord deliver Daniel,
Then why not every man?'
The eternal question, as yet unanswered for those who sat
there spellbound and listened. 'Didn't my Lord deliver
Why not?
Daniel, then why not every man?
. . Yes, but how long, O Lord, how long?
Lincoln got up from the piano abruptly, and he made a small
bow which seemed strangely foolish, murmuring some stilted
words of thanks on behalf of himself and his brother Henry: 'We
are greatly obliged to you for your patience; we trust that we have
satisfied you;' he murmured.
›
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
419
It was over. They were just two men with black skins and
foreheads beaded with perspiration. Henry sidled away to the
whisky, while Lincoln rubbed his pinkish palms on an elegant
white silk handkerchief. Every one started to talk at once, to light
cigarettes, to move about the studio.
Jamie said: 'Come on, people, it's time for supper,' and she
swallowed a small glass of crème-de-menthe; but Wanda poured
herself out some more brandy.
Quite suddenly they had all become merry, laughing at noth-
ing, teasing each other; even Valérie unbent more than was her
wont and did not look bored when Brockett chaffed her. The air
grew heavy and stinging with smoke; the stove went out, but they
scarcely noticed.
Henry Jones lost his head and pinched Pat's bony shoulder,
then he rolled his eyes: 'Oh, boy! What a gang! Say, folks, aren't
of
any
we having the hell of an evening? When
folk decide to
you
come over to my little old New York, why, I'll show around.
Some burg!' and he gulped a large mouthful of whisky.
you
After supper Jamie played the overture to her opera, and they
loudly applauded the rather dull music - so scholarly, so dry, so
painfully stiff, so utterly inexpressive of Jamie. Then Wanda pro-
duced her mandolin and insisted upon singing them Polish love
songs; this she did in a heavy contralto voice which was rendered
distinctly unstable by brandy. She handled the tinkling instru-
ment with skill, evolving some quite respectable chords, but her
eyes were fierce as was also her touch, so that presently a wire
snapped with a ping, which appeared completely to upset her
balance. She fell back and lay sprawled out upon the floor to be
hauled up again by Dupont and Brockett.
Barbara had one of her bad fits of coughing: 'It's noth-
ing .' she gasped, 'I swallowed the wrong way; don't fuss,
Jamie darling I tell you it's . nothing.'
Jamie, flushed already, drank more crème-de-menthe. This
time she poured it into a tumbler, tossing it off with a dash of
soda. But Adolphe Blanc looked at Barbara gravely.
The party did not disperse until morning; not until four
420
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
o'clock could they decide to go home. Everybody had stayed to
the very last moment, everybody, that is, except Valérie Seymour
she had left immediately after supper. Brockett, as usual, was
cynically sober, but Jamic was blinking her eyes like an owl,
while Pat stumbled over her own goloshes. As for Henry Jones,
he started to sing at the top of his lungs in a high falsetto:
C
'Oh, my, help, help, ain't I nobody's baby?
Oh, my, what a shame, I ain't nobody's baby.'
6
Shut your noise, you poor mutt!' commanded his brother,
but Henry still continued to bawl: 'Oh, my, what a shame, I ain't
nobody's baby.'
C
They left Wanda asleep on a heap of cushions - she would
probably not wake up before mid-day.
=
CHAPTER 46
I
TEPHEN's book, which made its appearance that May, met
with a very sensational success in England and in the United
States, an even more marked success than The Furrow. Its sales
were unexpectedly large considering its outstanding literary
merit; the critics of two countries were loud in their praises,
and old photographs of Stephen could be seen in the papers, to-
gether with very flattering captions. In a word, she woke up
in Paris one morning to find herself, for the moment, quite
famous.
Valérie, Brockett, indeed all her friends were whole-hearted
in their congratulations; and David's tail kept up a great wagging.
He knew well that something pleasant had happened: the whole
atmosphere of the house was enough to inform a sagacious person
like David. Even Mary's little bright-coloured birds scemed to take
a firmer hold on existence; while out in the garden there was
much ado on the part of the proudly parental pigeons - fledglings
with huge heads and bleary eyes had arrived to contribute to the
general celebration. Adèle went singing about her work, for Jean
had recently been promised promotion, which meant that his
savings, perhaps in a year, might have grown large enough for
them to marry.
Pierre bragged to his friend, the neighbouring baker, anent
Stephen's great eminence as a writer, and even Pauline cheered
up a little.
When Mary impressively ordered the meals, ordered this or
that delicacy for Stephen, Pauline would actually say with a smile:
'Mais oui, un grand génie doit nourrir le cerveau!'
Mademoiselle Duphot gained a passing importance in the cycs
of her pupils through having taught Stephen. She would nod her
head and remark very wisely: 'I always declare she become a
422
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
great author.' Then because she was truthful she would hastily
add: 'I mean that I knowed she was someone unusual.'
Buisson admitted that perhaps, after all, it was well that
Stephen had stuck to her writing. The book had been bought for
translation into French, a fact which had deeply impressed Mon-
sieur Buisson.
From Puddle came a long and triumphant letter: 'What did
I tell you? I knew you'd do it! . . .
Anna also wrote at some length to her daughter. And won-
der of wonders, from Violet Peacock there arrived an embar-
rassingly gushing epistle. She would look Stephen up when next
she was in Paris; she was longing, so she said, to renew their old
friendship – after all, they two had been children together.
Gazing at Mary with very bright eyes, Stephen's thoughts
must rush forward into the future. Puddle had been right, it was
work that counted – clever, hard-headed, understanding old
Puddle!
Then putting an arm round Mary's shoulder: 'Nothing shall
ever hurt you,' she would promise, feeling wonderfully self-
sufficient and strong, wonderfully capable of protecting.
2
THAT summer they drove into Italy with David sitting up proudly
beside Burton. David barked at the peasants and challenged the
dogs and generally assumed a grand air of importance. They de-
cided to spend two months on Lake Como, and went to the Hotel
Florence at Bellagio. The hotel gardens ran down to the lake -
it was all very sunny and soothing and peaceful. Their days were
passed in making excursions, their evenings in drifting about on
the water in a little boat with a gaily striped awning, which latter
seemed a strange form of pleasure to David. Many of the guests
at the Florence were English, and not a few scraped an acquaint-
ance with Stephen, since nothing appears to succeed like success
in a world that is principally made up of failure. The sight of her
book left about in the lounge, or being devoured by some en-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
423
grossed reader, would make Stephen feel almost childishly happy;
she would point the phenomenon out to Mary.
'Look,' she would whisper,' that man's reading my book!'
For the child is never far to seek in the author.
Some of their acquaintances were country folk and she found
that she was in sympathy with them. Their quiet and painstaking
outlook on life, their love of the soil, their care for their homes,
their traditions were after all a part of herself, bequeathed to her
by the founders of Morton. It gave her a very deep sense of pleas-
ure to see Mary accepted and made to feel welcome by these grey-
haired women and gentlemanly men; very seemly and fitting it
appeared to Stephen.
And now, since to each of us come moments of respite when
the mind refuses to face its problems, she resolutely thrust aside
her misgivings, those misgivings that whispered: Supposing they
knew - do you think they'd be so friendly to Mary?
<
Of all those who sought them out that summer, the most
cordial were Lady Massey and her daughter. Lady Massey was
a delicate, elderly woman who, in spite of poor health and en-
croaching years, was untiring in her search for amusement - it
amused her to make friends with celebrated people. She was rest-
less, self-indulgent and not over sincere, a creature of whims and
ephemeral fancies; yet for Stephen and Mary she appeared to
evince a liking which was more than just on the surface. She
would ask them up to her sitting-room, would want them to sit
with her in the garden, and would sometimes insist upon com-
munal meals, inviting them to dine at her table. Agnes, the daugh-
ter, a jolly, red-haired girl, had taken an immediate fancy to Mary,
and their friendship ripened with celerity, as is often the way dur-
ing idle summers. As for Lady Massey she petted Mary, and moth-
ered her as though she were a child, and soon she was mothering
Stephen also.
She would say: 'I seem to have found two new children,' and
Stephen, who was in the mood to feel touched, grew quite at-
tached to this ageing woman. Agnes was engaged to a Colonel
Fitzmaurice who would probably join them that autumn in Paris.
424
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
If he did so they must all foregather at once, she insisted - he
greatly admired Stephen's book and had written that he was
longing to meet her. But Lady Massey went further than this in
her enthusiastic proffers of friendship - Stephen and Mary must
stay with her in Cheshire; she was going to give a house party at
Branscombe Court for Christmas; they must certainly come to her
for Christmas.
Mary, who seemed elated at the prospect, was for ever dis-
cussing this visit with Stephen: What sort of clothes shall I need,
do you think? Agnes says it's going to be quite a big party. I sup-
pose I'll want a few new evening dresses?' And one day she in-
quired: Stephen, when you were younger, did you ever go to
Ascot or Goodwood?
'
Ascot and Goodwood, just names to Stephen; names that she
had despised in her youth, yet which now seemed not devoid of
importance since they stood for something beyond themselves –
something that ought to belong to Mary. She would pick up a
copy of The Tatler or The Sketch, which Lady Massey received
from England, and turning the pages would stare at the pictures.
of securely established, self-satisfied people - Miss this or that sit-
ting on a shooting stick, and beside her the man she would shortly
marry; Lady so-and-so with her latest offspring; or perhaps some
group at a country house. And quite suddenly Stephen would
feel less assured because in her heart she must envy these people.
Must envy these commonplace men and women with their rather
ridiculous shooting sticks; their smiling fiancés; their husbands;
their wives; their estates, and their well cared for, placid children.
Mary would sometimes look over her shoulder with a new
and perhaps rather wistful interest. Then Stephen would close the
paper abruptly: 'Let's go for a row on the lake,' she might say,
it's no good wasting this glorious evening.'
But then she would remember the invitation to spend Christ-
mas with Lady Massey in Cheshire, and would suddenly start to
build castles in the air; supposing that she herself bought a small
place near Branscombe Court - near these kind new friends who
seemed to have grown so fond of Mary? Mary would also have
padmava
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
425
her thoughts, would be thinking of girls like Agnes Massey for
whom life was tranquil, easy and secure; girls to whom the world
must seem blessedly friendly. And then, with a little stab of pain,
she would suddenly remember her own exile from Morton. After
such thoughts as these she must hold Stephen's hand, must al-
ways sit very close to Stephen.
3
THAT autumn they saw a good deal of the Masseys, who had taken
their usual suite at the Ritz, and who often asked Mary and
Stephen to luncheon. Lady Massey, Agnes and Colonel Fitz-
maurice, a pleasant enough man, came and dined several times.
at the quiet old house in the Rue Jacob, and those evenings
were always exceedingly friendly, Stephen talking of books with
Colonel Fitzmaurice, while Lady Massey enlarged upon Brans-
combe and her plans for the coming Christmas party. Sometimes
Stephen and Mary sent flowers to the Ritz, hot-house plants or a
large box of special roses - Lady Massey liked to have her rooms
full of flowers sent by friends, it increased her sense of importance.
By return would come loving letters of thanks; she would write:
'I do thank my two very dear children.'
In November she and Agnes returned to England, but the
friendship was kept up by correspondence, for Lady Massey was
prolific with her pen, indeed she was never more happy than
when writing. And now Mary bought the new evening dresses,
and she dragged Stephen off to choose some new ties. As the
visit to Branscombe Court drew near it was seldom out of their
thoughts for a moment to Stephen it appeared like the first
fruits of toil; to Mary like the gateway into an existence that must
be very safe and reassuring.
M
4
STEPHEN never knew what enemy had prepared the blow that
was struck by Lady Massey. Perhaps it had been Colonel Fitz-
426
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
maurice who might all the time have been hiding his suspicions;
he must certainly have known a good deal about Stephen – he had
friends who lived in the vicinity of Morton. Perhaps it had merely
been unkind gossip connected with Brockett or Valérie Seymour,
with the people whom Mary and Stephen knew, although, as it
happened, Lady Massey had not met them. But after all, it mat-
tered so little; what did it matter how the thing had come about?
By comparison with the insult itself, its origin seemed very un-
important.
It was in December that the letter arrived, just a week be-
fore they were leaving for England. A long, rambling, piti-
fully tactless letter, full of awkward and deeply wounding
excuses:
'If I hadn't grown so fond of you both,' wrote Lady Massey,
this would be much less painful – as it is the whole thing has
made me quite ill, but I must consider my position in the county.
You see, the county looks to me for a lead - above all I must
consider my daughter. The rumours that have reached me about
you and Mary – certain things that I don't want to enter into –
have simply forced me to break off our friendship and to say that
I must ask you not to come here for Christmas. Of course a
woman of my position with all eyes upon her has to be extra
careful. It's too terribly upsetting and sad for me; if I hadn't been
so fond of you both - but you know how attached I had grown
to Mary .' and so it went on; a kind of wail full of self-
importance combined with self-pity.
As Stephen read she went white to the lips, and Mary sprang
'What's that letter you're reading?
up.
'It's from Lady Massey. It's about . . . it's about . . .
Her voice failed.
'Show it to me,' persisted Mary.
Stephen shook her head: 'No - I'd rather not.'
Then Mary asked: 'Is it about our visit?'
Stephen nodded: 'We're not going to spend Christmas at
Branscombe. Darling, it's all right- don't look like that
•
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
427
'But I want to know why we're not going to Branscombe.'
And Mary reached out and snatched the letter.
She read it through to the very last word, then she sat down
abruptly and burst out crying. She cried with the long, doleful
sobs of a child whom some one has struck without rhyme or
reason: 'Oh . . . and I thought they were fond of us .
she sobbed, 'I thought that perhaps. they understood,
Stephen.'
Then it seemed to Stephen that all the pain that had so far
been thrust upon her by existence, was as nothing to the un-
endurable pain which she must now bear to hear that sobbing,
to see Mary thus wounded and utterly crushed, thus shamed
and humbled for the sake of her love, thus bereft of all dignity
and protection.
She felt strangely helpless: 'Don't - don't,' she implored;
while tears of pity blurred her own eyes and went trickling slowly
down her scarred face. She had lost for the moment all sense of
proportion, of perspective, seeing in a vain, tactless woman a
kind of gigantic destroying angel; a kind of scourge laid upon
her and Mary. Surely never before had Lady Massey loomed so
large as she did in that hour to Stephen.
Mary's sobs gradually died away. She lay back in her chair, a
small, desolate figure, catching her breath from time to time,
until Stephen went to her and found her hand which she stroked
with cold and trembling fingers - but she could not find words
of consolation.
5
THAT night Stephen took the girl roughly in her arms.
'I love you - I love you so much ' she stammered; and
she kissed Mary many times on the mouth, but cruelly so that
her kisses were pain - the pain in her heart leapt out through her
lips: God! It's too terrible to love like this - it's hell - there are
times when I can't endure it!"
She was in the grip of strong nervous excitation; nothing
•
428
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
seemed able any more to appease her. She seemed to be striving
to obliterate, not only herself, but the whole hostile world through
some strange and agonized merging with Mary. It was terrible
indeed, very like unto death, and it left them both completely
exhausted.
The world had achieved its first real victory.
CHAPTER 47
I
T
HEIR Christmas was naturally overshadowed, and so, as it
were by a common impulse, they turned to such people as
Barbara and Jamie, people who would neither despise nor insult
them. It was Mary who suggested that Barbara and Jamie should
be asked to share their Christmas dinner, while Stephen who must
suddenly pity Wanda for a misjudged and very unfortunate
genius, invited her also after all why not? Wanda was more
sinned against than sinning. She drank, oh, yes, Wanda drowned
her sorrows; everybody knew that, and like Valérie Seymour,
Stephen hated drink like the plague - but all the same she
invited Wanda.
An ill wind it is that blows no one any good. Barbara and
Jamie accepted with rapture; but for Mary's most timely invita-
tion, their funds being low at the end of the year, they two must
have gone without Christmas dinner. Wanda also seemed glad
enough to come, to leave her enormous, turbulent canvas for the
orderly peace of the well-warmed house with its comfortable
rooms and its friendly servants. All three of them arrived a good
hour before dinner, which on this occasion would be in the
evening.
Wanda had been up to Midnight Mass at the Sacré Cœur,
she informed them gravely; and Stephen, reminded of Made-
moiselle Duphot, regretted that she had not offered her the motor.
No doubt she too had gone up to Montmartre for Midnight Mass
- how queer, she and Wanda. Wanda was quiet, depressed and
quite sober; she was wearing a straight-cut, simple black dress
that somehow suggested a species of cassock. And as often hap-
pened when Wanda was sober, she repeated herself more than
when she was drunk.
430
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
*
'I have been to the Sacré Cœur,' she repeated,' for the Messe
de Minuit; it was very lovely.'
But she did not reveal the tragic fact that her fear had sud-
denly laid hold upon her at the moment of approaching the
altar rails, so that she had scuttled back to her seat, terrified of
receiving the Christmas Communion. Even a painfully detailed
confession of intemperance, of the lusts of the eyes and the mind,
of the very occasional sins of the body; even the absolution ac-
corded by a white-haired old priest who had spoken gently and
pitifully to his penitent, directing her prayers to the Sacred Heart
from which his own heart had derived its compassion - even
these things had failed to give Wanda courage when it came
to the Christmas Communion. And now as she sat at Stephen's
table she ate little and drank but three glasses of wine; nor did
she ask for a cognac brandy when later they went to the study
for coffee, but must talk of the mighty temple of her faith that
watched day and night, night and day over Paris.
She said in her very perfect English: 'Is it not a great thing
that France has done? From every town and village in France
has come money to build that church at Montmartre. Many
people have purchased the stones of the church, and their names
are carved on those stones for ever. I am very much too hard
up to do that - and yet I would like to own a small stone. I
would just say: " From Wanda," because of course one need not
bother about the surname; mine is so long and so difficult to spell
- yes, I would ask them to say: "From Wanda."
"""
Jamie and Barbara listened politely, yet without sympathy
and without comprehension; while Mary must even smile a
little at what seemed to her like mere superstition. But Stephen's
imagination was touched, and she questioned Wanda about her
religion. Then Wanda turned grateful eyes upon Stephen and
suddenly wanted to win her friendship - she looked so reassuring
and calm sitting there in her peaceful, book-lined study. A great
writer she was, did not every one say so? And yet she was surely
even as Wanda . . . Oh, but Stephen had got the better of her
fate, had wrestled with her fate so that now it must serve her;
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
43I
that was fine, that was surely true courage, true greatness! For
that Christmas none save Mary might know of the bitterness.
that was in Stephen's heart, least of all the impulsive, erratic
Wanda.
Wanda needed no second invitation to talk, and very soon her
eyes were aglow with the fire of the born religious fanatic as she
told of the little town in Poland, with its churches, its bells that
were always chiming - the Mass bells beginning at early dawn,
the Angelus bells, the Vesper bells - always calling, calling they
were, said Wanda. Through the years of persecution and strife, of
wars and the endless rumours of wars that had ravaged her most
unhappy country, her people had clung to their ancient faith like
true children of Mother Church, said Wanda. She herself had
three brothers, and all of them priests; her parents had been very
pious people, they were both dead now, had been dead for some
years; and Wanda signed her breast with the Cross, having regard
for the souls of her parents. Then she tried to explain the mean-
ing of her faith, but this she did exceedingly badly, finding that
words are not always easy when they must encompass the things
of the spirit, the things that she herself knew by instinct; and then,
too, these days her brain was not clear, thanks to brandy, even
when she was quite sober. The details of her coming to Paris
she omitted, but Stephen thought she could easily guess them, for
Wanda declared with a curious pride that her brothers were men
of stone and of iron. Saints they all were, according to Wanda,
uncompromising, fierce and relentless, seeing only the straight
and narrow path on each side of which yawned the fiery chasm.
'I was not as they were, ah, no!' she declared, Nor was I
as my father and mother; I was - I was . . . 'She stopped speak-
ing abruptly, gazing at Stephen with her burning eyes which
said quite plainly: 'You know what I was, you understand.'
And Stephen nodded, divining the reason of Wanda's exile.
،
But suddenly Mary began to grow restless, putting an end
to this dissertation by starting the large, new gramophone which
Stephen had given her for Christmas. The gramophone blared
out the latest foxtrot, and jumping up Barbara and Jamie started
432
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
dancing, while Stephen and Wanda moved chairs and tables,
rolled back rugs and explained to the barking David that he could
not join in, but might, if he chose, sit and watch them dance from
the divan. Then Wanda slipped an arm around Mary and they
glided off, an incongruous couple, the one clad as sombrely as any
priest, the other in her soft evening dress of blue chiffon. Mary
lay gently against Wanda's arm, and she seemed to Stephen a very
perfect dancer-lighting a cigarette, she watched them. The
dance over, Mary put on a new record; she was flushed and her
eyes were considerably brighter.
Why did you never tell me?' Stephen murmured.
Tell you what?'
Why, that
<
you danced so well.'
Mary hesitated, then she murmured back: 'You didn't dance,
so what was the good?
'Wanda, you must teach me to foxtrot,' smiled Stephen.
Jamie was blundering round the room with Barbara clasped
to her untidy bosom; then she and Barbara started to sing the
harmless, but foolish words of the foxtrot - if the servants were
singing their old Breton hymns along in the kitchen, no one
troubled to listen. Growing hilarious, Jamie sang louder, spin-
ning with Barbara, gyrating wildly, until Barbara, between laugh-
ing and coughing, must implore her to stop, must beg for mercy.
Wanda said: "You might have a lesson now, Stephen.'
Putting her hands on Stephen's shoulders, she began to
explain the more simple steps, which did not appear at all hard
to Stephen. The music seemed to have got into her feet so that
her feet must follow its rhythm. She discovered to her own very
great amazement that she liked this less formal modern dancing,
and after a while she was clasping Mary quite firmly, and they
moved away together while Wanda stood calling out her
instructions:
'Take much longer steps! Keep your knees straight -
straighter! Don't get so much to the side-look, it's this way -
hold her this way; always stand square to your partner.'
The lesson went on for a good two hours, until even Mary
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
433
seemed somewhat exhausted. She suddenly rang the bell for
Pierre, who appeared with the tray of simple supper. Then Mary
did an unusual thing - she poured herself out a whiskey and
soda.
'I'm tired,' she explained rather fretfully in answer to
Stephen's look of surprise; and she frowned as she turned her
back abruptly. But Wanda shied away from the brandy as a
frightened horse will shy from fire; she drank two large glasses
of lemonade - an extremist she was in all things, this Wanda.
Quite soon she announced that she must go home to bed, because
of her latest picture which required every ounce of strength she
had in her; but before she went she said eagerly to Stephen:
'Do let me show you the Sacré Cœur. You have seen it of
course, but only as a tourist; that is not really seeing it at all, you
must come there with me.'
'All right,' agreed Stephen.
When Jamie and Barbara had departed in their turn, Stephen
took Mary into her arms: 'Dearest . . . has it been a fairly nice
Christmas after all?' she inquired almost timidly.
Mary kissed her: 'Of course it's been a nice Christmas.' Then
her youthful face suddenly changed in expression, the grey eyes
growing hard, the mouth resentful: 'Damn that woman for
what she's done to us, Stephen - the insolence of it! But I've
learnt my lesson; we've got plenty of friends without Lady
Massey and Agnes, friends to whom we're not moral lepers.'
And she laughed, a queer, little joyless laugh.
Stephen flinched, remembering Brockett's warning.
2
WANDA's chastened and temperate mood persisted for several
weeks, and while it was on her she clung like a drowning man
to Stephen, haunting the house from morning until night, dread-
ing to be alone for a moment. It cannot be said that Stephen suf-
fered her gladly, for now with the New Year she was working
hard on a series of articles and short stories; unwilling to visu-
434
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
alize defeat, she began once again to sharpen her weapon. But
something in Wanda's poor efforts to keep sober, in her very
dependence, was deeply appealing, so that Stephen would put
aside her work, feeling loath to desert the unfortunate creature.
Several times they made a long pilgrimage on foot to the
church of the Sacré Coeur; just they two, for Mary would never
go with them; she was prejudiced against Wanda's religion.
They would climb the steep streets with their flights of steps,
grey streets, grey steps leading up from the city. Wanda's eyes
would always be fixed on their goal - pilgrim eyes they would
often seem to Stephen. Arrived at the church she and Wanda
would stand looking down between the tall, massive columns
of the porch, on a Paris of domes and mists, only half revealed
by the fitful sunshine. The air would seem pure up there on
the height, pure and tenuous as a thing of the spirit. And some-
thing in that mighty temple of faith, that amazing thrust towards
the sublime, that silent yet articulate cry of a nation to its God,
would awaken a response in Stephen, so that she would seem to
be brushing the hem of an age-old and rather terrible mystery –
the eternal mystery of good and evil.
Inside the church would be brooding shadows, save where
the wide lakes of amber fire spread out from the endless votive
candles. Above the high altar the monstranced Host would
gleam curiously white in the light of the candles. The sound
of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, would come from those
who prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms, all day
and all night for the sins of Paris.
Wanda would make her way to the statue of the silver Christ
with one hand on His heart, and the other held out in supplica-
tion. Kneeling down she would sign herself with His Cross,
then cover her eyes and forget about Stephen. Standing quietly
behind her Stephen would wonder what Wanda was saying to
the silver Christ, what the silver Christ was saying to Wanda.
She would think that He looked very weary, this Christ Who
must listen to so many supplications. Queer, unbidden thoughts
came to her at such moments; this Man Who was God, a God
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
435
Who waited, could He answer the riddle of Wanda's existence,
of her own existence? If she asked, could He answer? What if
she were suddenly to cry out loudly: 'Look at us, we are two yet
we stand for many. Our name is legion and we also are waiting,
we also are tired, oh, but terribly tired . . . Will You give us
some hope of ultimate release? Will You tell us the secret of our
salvation?
Wanda would rise from her prayers rather stiffly to purchase
a couple of votive candles, and when she had stuck them into
the sconce she would touch the foot of the silver Christ as she
bade Him farewell - a time-honoured custom. Then she and
Stephen might turn again to the lake of fire that flowed round
the monstrance.
But one morning when they arrived at the church, the mon-
strance was not above the high altar. The altar had just been
garnished and swept, so the Host was still in the Lady Chapel.
And while they stood there and gazed at the Host, came a priest
and with him a grey-haired server; they would bear their God
back again to His home, to the costly shrine of His endless
vigil. The server must first light his little lantern suspended
from a pole, and must then grasp his bell. The priest must lift
his Lord from the monstrance and lay Him upon a silken cover,
and carry Him as a man carries a child - protectively, gently, yet
strongly withal, as though some frustrated paternal instinct were
finding in this a divine expression. The lantern swung rhythmi-
cally to and fro, the bell rang out its imperative warning; then the
careful priest followed after the server who cleared his path to
the great high altar. And even as once very long ago, such a bell
had been the herald of death in the putrefying hand of the leper:
'Unclean! Unclean!' death and putrefaction - the warning bell
in the dreadful hand that might never again know the clasp of
the healthful - so now the bell rang out the approach of supreme
purity, of the Healer of lepers, earthbound through compassion;
but compassion so vast, so urgent, that the small, white disc of
the Host must contain the whole suffering universe. Thus the
Prisoner of love Who could never break free while one spiritual
436
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
leper remained to be healed, passed by on His patient way, heavy-
laden.
Wanda suddenly fell to her knees, striking her lean and un-
fruitful breast, for as always she very shamefully feared, and her
fear was a bitter and most deadly insult. With downcast eyes and
trembling hands she cowered at the sight of her own salvation.
But Stephen stood upright and curiously still, staring into the
empty Lady Chapel.
:
3
CHAPTER 48
HAT spring they made their first real acquaintance with the
garish and tragic night life of Paris that lies open to such
people as Stephen Gordon.
IB
I
Until now they had never gone out much at night except to
occasional studio parties, or occasional cafés of the milder sort
for a cup of coffee with Barbara and Jamie; but that spring Mary
seemed fanatically eager to proclaim her allegiance to Pat's miser-
able army. Deprived of the social intercourse which to her would
have been both natural and welcome, she now strove to stand up
to a hostile world by proving that she could get on without it.
The spirit of adventure that had taken her to France, the pluck
that had steadied her while in the Unit, the emotional, hot-
headed nature of the Celt, these things must now work together
in Mary to produce a state of great restlessness, a pitiful revolt
against life's injustice. The blow struck by a weak and thoughtless
hand had been even more deadly than Stephen had imagined;
more deadly to them both, for that glancing blow coming at a
time of apparent success, had torn from them every shred of
illusion.
Stephen, who could see that the girl was fretting, would be
seized with a kind of sick apprehension, a sick misery at her
own powerlessness to provide a more normal and complete
existence. So many innocent recreations, so many harmless social
pleasures must Mary forego for the sake of their union – and she
still young, still well under thirty. And now Stephen came face
to face with the gulf that lies between warning and realization -
all her painful warnings anent the world had not served to lessen
the blow when it fell, had not served to make it more tolerable
to Mary. Deeply humiliated Stephen would feel, when she
thought of Mary's exile from Morton, when she thought of the
¡
438
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
insults this girl must endure because of her loyalty and her faith
- all that Mary was losing that belonged to her youth, would
rise up at this time to accuse and scourge Stephen. Her courage
would flicker like a lamp in the wind, and would all but go out;
she would feel less steadfast, less capable of continuing the war,
that ceaseless war for the right to existence. Then the pen would
slip from her nerveless fingers, no longer a sharp and purposeful
weapon. Yes, that spring saw a weakening in Stephen herself -
she felt tired, and sometimes very old for her age, in spite of her
vigorous mind and body.
Calling Mary she would need to be reassured; and one day
she asked her: How much do you love me?'
Mary answered: 'So much that I'm growing to hate . .
Bitter words to hear on such young lips as Mary's.
And now there were days when Stephen herself would long
for some palliative, some distraction; when her erstwhile success
seemed like Dead Sea fruit, her will to succeed a grotesque pre-
sumption. Who was she to stand out against the whole world,
against those ruthless, pursuing millions bent upon the destruc-
tion of her and her kind? And she but one poor, inadequate
creature. She would start to pace up and down her study; up and
down, up and down, a most desolate pacing; even as years ago her
father had paced his quiet study at Morton. Then those treacher-
ous nerves of hers would betray her, so that when Mary came in
with David - he a little depressed, sensing something amiss – she
would often turn on the girl and speak sharply.
'Where on earth have you been?'
'Only out for a walk. I walked round to Jamie's, Barbara's
not well; I sent her in a few tins of Brand's jelly.'
'You've no right to go off without letting me know where
you're going - I've told you before I won't have it!' Her voice
would be harsh, and Mary would flush, unaware of those nerves
that were strained to breaking.
As though grasping at something that remained secure, they
would go to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, but less often
than they had done in the past, for a feeling of guilt would come
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
439
upon Stephen. Looking at the gentle and foal-like face with its
innocent eyes behind the strong glasses, she would think: ‘We're
here under false pretences. If she knew what we were, she'd
have none of us, either. Brockett was right, we should stick to
our kind.' So they went less and less to see Mademoiselle Duphot.
Mademoiselle said with her mild resignation: 'It is natural,
for now our Stévenne is famous. Why should she waste her time
upon us? I am more than content to have been her teacher.'
But the sightless Julie shook her head sadly: 'It is not like
that; you mistake, my sister. I can feel a great desolation in
Stévenne - and some of the youngness has gone from Mary.
What can it be? My fingers grow blind when I ask them the
cause of that desolation.'
'I will pray for them both to the Sacred Heart which com-
prehends all things,' said Mademoiselle Duphot.
And indeed her own heart would have tried to understand
-- but Stephen had grown very bitterly mistrustful.
And so now, in good earnest they turned to their kind, for as
Puddle had truly divined in the past, it is like to like' for such
people as Stephen. Thus when Pat walked in unexpectedly one
day to invite them to join a party that night at the Ideal Bar,
Stephen did not oppose Mary's prompt and all too eager
acceptance.
Pat said they were going to do the round. Wanda was com-
ing and probably Brockett. Dickie West the American aviator
was in Paris, and she also had promised to join them. Oh, yes,
and then there was Valérie Seymour - Valérie was being dug out
of her hole by Jeanne Maurel, her most recent conquest. Pat sup-
posed that Valérie would drink lemon squash and generally act
as a douche of cold water, she was sure to grow sleepy or disap-
proving, she was no acquisition to this sort of party. But could
they rely upon Stephen's car? In the cold, grey dawn of the
morning after, taxis were sometimes scarce up at Montmartre.
Stephen nodded, thinking how absurdly prim Pat looked to be
talking of cold, grey dawns and all that they stood for up at
Montmartre. After she had left, Stephen frowned a little.
440
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
2
THE FIVE Women were seated at a table near the door when Mary
and Stephen eventually joined them. Pat, looking gloomy, was
sipping light beer. Wanda, with the fires of hell in her eyes, in
the hell of a temper too, drank brandy. She had started to drink
pretty heavily again, and had therefore been avoiding Stephen
just lately. There were only two new faces at the table, that of
Jeanne Maurel, and of Dickie West, the much discussed woman
aviator.
Dickie was short, plump and very young; she could not have
been more than twenty-one and she still looked considerably
under twenty. She was wearing a little dark blue béret; round her
neck was knotted an apache scarf - for the rest she was dressed
in a neat serge suit with a very well cut double-breasted jacket.
Her face was honest, her teeth rather large, her lips chapped and
her skin much weather-beaten. She looked like a pleasant and
nice-minded schoolboy well soaped and scrubbed for some gala
occasion. When she spoke her voice was a little too hearty. She
belonged to the younger, and therefore more reckless, more ag-
gressive and self-assured generation; a generation that was march-
ing to battle with much swagger, much sounding of drums and
trumpets, a generation that had come after war to wage a new
war on a hostile creation. Being mentally very well clothed
and well shod, they had as yet left no blood-stained foot-prints;
they were hopeful as yet, refusing point-blank to believe in the
existence of a miserable army. They said: 'We are as we are;
what about it? We don't care a damn, in fact we're delighted!'
And being what they were they must go to extremes, must quite
often outdo men in their sinning; yet the sins that they had were
the sins of youth, the sins of defiance born of oppression. But
Dickie was in no way exceptionally vile - she lived her life much
as a man would have lived it. And her heart was so loyal, so
trustful, so kind that it caused her much shame and much secret
blushing. Generous as a lover, she was even more so when there
could not be any question of loving. Like the horseleech's daugh-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
44I
ter, her friends cried: 'Give! Give!' and Dickie gave lavishly,
asking no questions. An appeal never left her completely un-
moved, and suspecting this, most people went on appealing. She
drank wine in moderation, smoked Camel cigarettes till her
fingers were brown, and admired stage beauties. Her greatest de-
fect was practical joking of the kind that passes all seemly limits.
Her jokes were dangerous, even cruel at times - in her jokes
Dickie quite lacked imagination.
Jeanne Maurel was tall, almost as tall as Stephen. An elegant
person wearing pearls round her throat above a low cut white
satin waistcoat. She was faultlessly tailored and faultlessly bar-
bered; her dark, severe Eton crop fitted neatly. Her profile was
Greek, her eyes a bright blue - altogether a very arresting young
woman. So far she had had quite a busy life doing nothing in
particular and everything in general. But now she was Valérie
Seymour's lover, attaining at last to a certain distinction.
And Valérie was sitting there calm and aloof, her glance
roving casually round the café, not too critically, yet as though
she would say: Enfin, the whole world has grown very ugly,
but no doubt to some people this represents pleasure.'
From the stained bar counter at the end of the room came
the sound of Monsieur Pujol's loud laughter. Monsieur Pujol
was affable to his clients, oh, but very, indeed he was almost
paternal. Yet nothing escaped his cold, black eyes - a great expert
he was in his way, Monsieur Pujol. There are many collections
that a man may indulge in; old china, glass, pictures, watches
and bibelots; rare editions, tapestries, priceless jewels. Monsieur
Pujol snapped his fingers at such things, they lacked life - Mon-
sieur Pujol collected inverts. Amazingly morbid of Monsieur
Pujol, and he with the face of an ageing dragoon, and he just
married en secondes noces, and already with six legitimate chil-
dren. A fine, purposeful sire he had been and still was, with his
young wife shortly expecting a baby. Oh, yes, the most aggres-
sively normal of men, as none knew better than the poor Madame
Pujol. Yet behind the bar was a small, stuffy sanctum in which
this strange man catalogued his collection. The walls of the sanc-
C
(AD
442
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
tum were thickly hung with signed photographs, and a good few
sketches. At the back of each frame was a neat little number
corresponding to that in a locked leather notebook - it had long
been his custom to write up his notes before going home with the
milk in the morning. People saw their own faces but not their
numbers - no client suspected that locked leather notebook.
To this room would come Monsieur Pujol's old cronies for a
bock or a petit verre before business; and sometimes, like many
another collector, Monsieur Pujol would permit himself to grow
prosy. His friends knew most of the pictures by heart; knew their
histories too, almost as well as he did; but in spite of this fact he
would weary his guests by repeating many a threadbare story.
'A fine lot, n'est-ce pas?' he would say with a grin,' See that
man? Ah, yes – a really great poet. He drank himself to death.
In those days it was absinthe - they liked it because it gave them
such courage. That one would come here like a scared white rat,
but Crénom! when he left he would bellow like a bull - the ab-
sinthe, of course - it gave them great courage.' Or: 'That woman
over there, what a curious head! I remember her very well, she
was German. Else Weining, her name was - before the war she
would come with a girl she'd picked up here in Paris, just a com-
mon whore, a most curious business. They were deeply in love.
They would sit at a table in the corner - I can show you their
actual table. They never talked much and they drank
very little;
as far as the drink went those two were bad clients, but so inter-
esting that I did not much mind – I grew almost attached to Else
Weining. Sometimes she would come all alone, come early. “ Pu,"
she would say in her hideous French; "Pu, she must never go
back to that hell." Hell! Sacrénom - she to call it hell! Amazing
they are, I tell you, these people. Well, the girl went back, natu-
rally she went back, and Else drowned herself in the Seine. Amaz-
ing they are - ces invertis, I tell you!'
But not all the histories were so tragic as this one; Monsieur
Pujol found some of them quite amusing. Quarrels galore he was
able to relate, and light infidelities by the dozen. He would mimic
a manner of speech, a gesture, a walk - he was really quite a
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
443
good mimic - and when he did this his friends were not bored;
they would sit there and split their sides with amusement.
And now Monsieur Pujol was laughing himself, cracking
jokes as he covertly watched his clients. From where she and
Mary sat near the door, Stephen could hear his loud, jovial
laughter.
'Lord,' sighed Pat, unenlivened as yet by the beer; ‘some
people do seem to feel real good this evening.'
Wanda, who disliked the ingratiating Pujol, and whose
nerves were on edge, had begun to grow angry. She had caught
a particularly gross blasphemy, gross even for this age of stupid
blaspheming. ‘Le salaud!' she shouted, then, inflamed by drink,
an epithet even less complimentary.
Hush up, do!' exclaimed the scandalized Pat, hastily grip-
ping Wanda's shoulder.
But Wanda was out to defend her faith, and she did it in
somewhat peculiar language.
People had begun to turn round and stare; Wanda was caus-
ing quite a diversion. Dickie grinned and skilfully egged her on,
not perceiving the tragedy that was Wanda. For in spite of her
tender and generous heart, Dickie was still but a crude young
creature, one who had not yet learnt how to shiver and shake,
and had thus remained but a crude young creature. Stephen
glanced anxiously at Mary, half deciding to break up this turbu-
lent party; but Mary was sitting with her chin on her hand, quite
unruffled, it seemed, by Wanda's outburst. When her eyes met
Stephen's she actually smiled, then took the cigarette that Jeanne
Maurel was offering; and something in this placid, self-assured
indifference went so ill with her youth that it startled Stephen.
She in her turn must quickly light a cigarette, while Pat still
endeavoured to silence Wanda.
'
Valérie said with her enigmatic smile: 'Shall we now go on
to our next entertainment?
They paid the bill and pursuaded Wanda to postpone her
abuse of the ingratiating Pujol. Stephen took one arm, Dickie
West the other, and between them they coaxed her into the
444
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
motor; after which they all managed to squeeze themselves in -
that is, all except Dickie, who sat by the driver in order to guide
the innocent Burton.
3
AT LE NARCISSE they surprised what at first appeared to be the
most prosaic of family parties. It was late, yet the mean room was
empty of clients, for Le Narcisse seldom opened its eyes until
midnight had chimed from the church clocks of Paris. Seated at
a table with a red and white cloth were the Patron and a lady with
a courtesy title. ' Madame,' she was called. And with them was a
girl, and a handsome young man with severely plucked eyebrows.
Their relationship to each other was . . . well . . . all the
same, they suggested a family party. As Stephen pushed open
the shabby swing door, they were placidly engaged upon playing
belotte.
The walls of the room were hung with mirrors thickly painted
with cupids, thickly sullied by flies. A faint blend of odours was
wafted from the kitchen which stood in proximity to the toilet.
The host rose at once and shook hands with his guests. Every bar
had its social customs, it seemed. At the Ideal one must share
Monsieur Pujol's lewd jokes; at Le Narcisse one must gravely
shake hands with the Patron.
The Patron was tall and exceedingly thin- a clean-shaven
man with the mouth of an ascetic. His cheeks were delicately
tinted with rouge, his eyelids delicately shaded with kohl; but
the eyes themselves were an infantile blue, reproachful and rather
surprised in expression.
For the good of the house, Dickie ordered champagne; it
was warm and sweet and unpleasantly heady. Only Jeanne and
Mary and Dickie herself had the courage to sample this curious
beverage. Wanda stuck to her brandy and Pat to her beer, while
Stephen drank coffee; but Valérie Seymour caused some confu-
sion by gently insisting on a lemon squash - to be made with
fresh lemons. Presently the guests began to arrive in couples,
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
445
Having seated themselves at the tables, they quickly became ob-
livious to the world, what with the sickly champagne and each
other. From a hidden recess there emerged a woman with a
basket full of protesting roses. The stout vendeuse wore a wide
wedding ring - for was she not a most virtuous person? But her
glance was both calculating and shrewd as she pounced upon the
more obvious couples; and Stephen watching her progress through
the room, felt suddenly ashamed on behalf of the roses. And now
at a nod from the host there was music; and now at a bray from
the band there was dancing. Dickie and Wanda opened the ball
- Dickie stodgy and firm, Wanda rather unsteady. Others fol-
lowed. Then Mary leant over the table and whispered:
>
'Won't you dance with me, Stephen?
Stephen hesitated, but only for a moment. Then she got up
abruptly and danced with Mary.
The handsome young man with the tortured eyebrows was
bowing politely before Valérie Seymour. Refused by her, he passed
on to Pat, and to Jeanne's great amusement was promptly
accepted.
Brockett arrived and sat down at the table. He was in his
most prying and cynical humour. He watched Stephen with
coldly observant eyes, watched Dickie guiding the swaying
Wanda, watched Pat in the arms of the handsome young man,
watched the whole bumping, jostling crowd of dancers.
The blended odours were becoming more active. Brockett
lit a cigarette. Well, Valérie darling? You look like an outraged
Elgin marble. Be kind, dear, be kind; you must live and let live,
this is life. . . . ' And he waved his soft, white hands. Observe
it - it's very wonderful, darling. This is life, love, defiance,
emancipation!'
Said Valérie with her calm little smile: 'I think I preferred
it when we were all martyrs!'
The dancers drifted back to their seats and Brockett ma-
nœuvred to sit beside Stephen. 'You and Mary dance well to-
gether,' he murmured. Are you happy? Are you enjoying
yourselves?,'
C
446
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Stephen, who hated this inquisitive mood, this mood that
would feed upon her emotions, turned away as she answered
him, rather coldly: 'Yes, thanks - we're not having at all a bad
evening.'
And now the Patron was standing by their table; bowing
slightly to Brockett he started singing. His voice was a high
and sweet baritone; his song was of love that must end too soon,
of life that in death is redeemed by ending. An extraordinary
song to hear in such a place - melancholy and very sentimental.
Some of the couples had tears in their eyes - tears that had prob-
ably sprung from champagne quite as much as from that melan-
choly singing. Brockett ordered a fresh bottle to console the
Patron. Then he waved him away with a gesture of impatience.
There ensued more dancing, more ordering of drinks, more
dalliance by the amorous couples. The Patron's mood changed,
and now he must sing a song of the lowest boites in Paris. As
he sang he skipped like a performing dog, grimacing, beating
time with his hands, conducting the chorus that rose from the
tables.
Brockett sighed as he shrugged his shoulders in disgust, and
once again Stephen glanced at Mary; but Mary, she saw, had not
understood that song with its inexcusable meaning. Valérie was
talking to Jeanne Maurel, talking about her villa at St. Tropez;
talking of the garden, the sea, the sky, the design she had drawn
for a green marble fountain. Stephen could hear her charming
voice, so cultured, so cool - itself cool as a fountain; and she
marvelled at this woman's perfect poise, the genius she possessed
for complete detachment; Valérie had closed her ears to that
song, and not only her ears but her mind and spirit.
The place was becoming intolerably hot, the room too over-
crowded for dancing. Lids drooped, mouths sagged, heads lay
upon shoulders - there was kissing, much kissing at a table in
the corner. The air was foetid with drink and all the rest; un-
breathable it appeared to Stephen. Dickie yawned an enormous,
uncovered yawn; she was still young enough to feel rather
sleepy. But Wanda was being seduced by her eyes, the lust of
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
447
the eye was heavy upon her, so that Pat must shake a lugubrious
head and begin to murmur anent General Custer.
Brockett got up and paid the bill; he was sulky, it seemed,
because Stephen had snubbed him. He had not spoken for quite
half an hour, and refused point-blank to accompany them further.
'I'm going home to my bed, thanks - good morning,' he said
crossly, as they crowded into the motor.
They drove to a couple more bars, but at these they remained
for only a very few minutes. Dickie said they were dull and
Jeanne Maurel agreed - she suggested that they should go on
to Alec's.
Valérie lifted an eyebrow and groaned. She was terribly
bored, she was terribly hungry. ' I do wish I could get some cold
chicken,' she murmured.
4
As LONG as she lived Stephen never forgot her first impressions of
the bar known as Alec's - that meeting-place of the most miser-
able of all those who comprised the miserable army. That
merciless, drug-dealing, death-dealing haunt to which flocked
the battered remnants of men whom their fellow men had
at last stamped under; who, despised of the world, must
despise themselves beyond all hope, it seemed, of salvation.
There they sat, closely herded together at the tables, creatures
shabby yet tawdry, timid yet defiant - and their eyes, Stephen
never forgot their eyes, those haunted, tormented eyes of the
invert.
Of all ages, all degrees of despondency, all grades of mental
and physical ill-being, they must yet laugh shrilly from time to
time, must yet tap their feet to the rhythm of music, must yet
dance together in response to the band - and that dance seemed
the Dance of Death to Stephen. On more than one hand was
a large, ornate ring, on more than one wrist a conspicuous
bracelet; they wore jewelry that might only be worn by these
men when they were thus gathered together. At Alec's they
448
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
could dare to give way to such tastes - what was left of themselves
they became at Alec's.
Bereft of all social dignity, of all social charts contrived for
man's guidance, of the fellowship that by right divine should
belong to each breathing, living creature; abhorred, spat upon,
from their carliest days the prey to a ceaseless persecution, they
were now even lower than their enemies knew, and more hopeless
than the veriest dregs of creation. For since all that to many of
them had seemed fine, a fine, selfless and at times even noble
emotion, had been covered with shame, called unholy and vile,
so gradually they themselves had sunk down to the level upon
which the world placed their emotions. And looking with ab-
horrence upon these men, drink-sodden, doped as were only
too many, Stephen yet felt that some terrifying thing stalked
abroad in that unhappy room at Alec's; terrifying because if
there were a God His anger must rise at such vast injustice. More
pitiful even than her lot was theirs, and because of them mighty
should be the world's reckoning.
Alec the tempter, the vendor of dreams, the dispenser of
illusions whiter than snow; Alec, who sold little packets of co-
caine for large bundles of notes, was now opening wine, with
a smile and a flourish, at the next-door table.
He set down the bottle: ' Et voilà, mes filles!'
Stephen looked at the men; they seemed quite complacent.
Against the wall sat a bald, flabby man whose fingers crept
over an amber chaplet. His lips moved; God alone knew to whom
he prayed, and God alone knew what prayers he was praying -
horrible he was, sitting there all alone with that infamous chaplet
between his fingers.
S
The band struck up a onestep. Dickie still danced, but with
Pat, for Wanda was now beyond dancing. But Stephen would not
dance, not among these men, and she laid a restraining hand
upon Mary. Despite her sense of their terrible affliction, she
could not dance in this place with Mary.
A youth passed with a friend and the couple were blocked by
press of dancers in front of her table. He bent forward, this
the
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
449
youth, until his face was almost on a level with Stephen's
a grey, drug-marred face with a mouth that trembled incessantly.
Ma sœur,' he whispered.
For a moment she wanted to strike that face with her naked
fist, to obliterate it. Then all of a sudden she perceived the eyes,
and the memory came of a hapless creature, distracted, bleeding
from bursting lungs, hopelessly pursued, glancing this way, then
that, as though looking for something, some refuge, some hope-
and the thought: 'It's looking for God who made it.'
Stephen shivered and stared at her tightly clenched hands;
the nails whitened her flesh. ' Mon frère,' she muttered.
And now some one was making his way through the crowd,
a quiet, tawny man with the eyes of the Hebrew; Adolphe Blanc,
the gentle and learned Jew, sat down in Dickie's seat beside
Stephen. And he patted her knee as though she were young, very
young and in great need of consolation.
'I have seen you for quite a long time, Miss Gordon. I've
been sitting just over there by the window.' Then he greeted
the others, but the greeting over he appeared to forget their very
existence; he had come, it seemed, only to talk to Stephen.
He said: This place - these poor men, they have shocked
you. I've been watching you in between the dances. They are
terrible, Miss Gordon, because they are those who have fallen
but have not risen again - there is surely no sin so great for
them, so unpardonable as the sin of despair; yet as surely you and
I can forgive. . . .
She was silent, not knowing what she should answer.
But he went on, in no way deterred by her silence. He spoke
softly, as though for her ears alone, and yet as a man might
speak when consumed by the flame of some urgent and desperate
mission. 'I am glad that you have come to this place, because
those who have courage have also a duty.'
She nodded without comprehending his meaning.
'Yes, I am glad that you have come here,' he repeated. 'In
this little room, to-night, every night, there is so much misery,
so much despair, that the walls seem almost too narrow to con-
450
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
tain it - many have grown callous, many have grown vile, but
these things in themselves are despair, Miss Gordon. Yet outside
there are happy people who sleep the sleep of the so-called just
and righteous. When they wake it will be to persecute those who,
through no known fault of their own, have been set apart from
the day of their birth, deprived of all sympathy, all understand-
ing. They are thoughtless, these happy people who sleep – and
who is there to make them think, Miss Gordon?
They can
can read,' she stammered, there are many
books. . . .'
But he shook his head. 'Do you think they are students?
Ah, but no, they will not read medical books; what do such
people care for the doctors? And what doctor can know the
entire truth? Many times they meet only the neurasthenics, those
of us for whom life has proved too bitter. They are good, these
doctors - some of them very good; they work hard trying to solve
our problem, but half the time they must work in the dark-
the whole truth is known only to the normal invert. The doctors
cannot make the ignorant think, cannot hope to bring home the
sufferings of millions; only one of ourselves can some day do that.
. . . It will need great courage but it will be done, because
all things must work toward ultimate good; there is no real wast-
age
and no destruction.' He lit a cigarette and stared thoughtfully
at her for a moment or two. Then he touched her hand. 'Do
you comprehend? There is no destruction.'
She said: 'When one comes to a place like this, one feels
horribly sad and humiliated. One feels that the odds are too
heavily against any real success, any real achievement. Where so
many have failed who can hope to succeed? Perhaps this is
the end.'
Adolphe Blanc met her eyes. 'You are wrong, very wrong-
this is only the beginning. Many die, many kill their bodies
and souls, but they cannot kill the justice of God, even they
cannot kill the eternal spirit. From their very degradation
that spirit will rise up to demand of the world compassion and
justice.'
J
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
45I
Strange - this man was actually speaking her thoughts, yet
again she fell silent, unable to answer.
Dickie and Pat came back to the table, and Adolphe Blanc
slipped quietly away; when Stephen glanced round his place
was empty, nor could she perceive him crossing the room through
the press and maze of those terrible dancers.
5
DICKIE went sound asleep in the car with her head against Pat's
inhospitable shoulder. When they got to her hotel she wriggled
and stretched. 'Is it . . . is it time to get up?' she murmured.
Next came Valérie Seymour and Jeanne Maurel to be dropped
at the flat on the Quai Voltaire; then Pat who lived a few streets
away, and last but not least the drunken Wanda. Stephen had to
lift her out of the car and then get her upstairs as best she could,
assisted by Burton and followed by Mary. It took quite a long
time, and arrived at the door, Stephen must hunt for a missing
latchkey.
When they finally got home, Stephen sank into a chair.
Good Lord, what a night - it was pretty awful.' She was filled
with the deep depression and disgust that are apt to result from
such excursions.
But Mary pretended to a callousness that in truth she was
very far from feeling, for life had not yet dulled her finer in-
stincts; so far it had only aroused her anger. She yawned. 'Well,
at least we could dance together without being thought freaks;
there was something in that. Beggars can't be choosers in this
world, Stephen!'
1
CHAPTER 49
Ο
C
I
N A fine June day Adèle married her Jean in the church
of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires - the shrine of innumerable
candles and prayers, of the bountiful Virgin who bestows many
graces. From early dawn the quiet old house in the Rue Jacob had
been in a flutter - Pauline preparing the déjeuner de noces, Pierre
garnishing and sweeping their sitting-room, and both of them
pausing from time to time to embrace the flushed cheeks of their
happy daughter.
Stephen had given the wedding dress, the wedding break-
fast and a sum of money; Mary had given the bride her lace veil,
her white satin shoes and her white silk stockings; David had
given a large gilt clock, purchased for him in the Palais Royal;
while Burton's part was to drive the bride to the church, and
the married pair to the station.
By nine o'clock the whole street was agog, for Pauline and
Pierre were liked by their neighbours; and besides, as the baker
remarked to his wife, from so grand a house it would be a fine
business.
C
"They are after all generous, these English,' said he; and if
Mademoiselle Gordon is strange in appearance, one should not
forget that she served la France and must now wear a scar as
well as ribbon.' Then remembering his four sons slain in the war,
he sighed – sons are sons to a king or a baker.
David, growing excited, rushed up and down stairs with
offers to help which nobody wanted, least of all the flustered and
anxious bride at the moment of putting on tight satin slippers.
'Va donc! Tu ne peux pas m'aider, mon chou, veux tu te
taire, alors!' implored Adèle.
In the end Mary had had to find collar and lead and tie David
up to the desk in the study, where he brooded and sucked his
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
453
white satin bow, deciding that only the four-legged were grate-
ful. But at long last Adèle was arrayed to be wed, and must show
herself shyly to Mary and Stephen. She looked very appealing
with her good, honest face; with her round, bright eyes like those
of a blackbird. Stephen wished her well from the bottom of her
heart, this girl who had waited so long for her mate – had so
patiently and so faithfully waited.
2
IN THE church were a number of friends and relations; to-
gether with those who will journey for miles in order to attend
a funeral or wedding. Poor Jean looked his worst in a cheap dress
suit, and Stephen could smell the pomade on his hair; very greasy
and warm it smelt, although scented. But his hand was unsteady
as he groped for the ring, because he was feeling both proud and
humble; because, loving much, he must love even more and
conceive of himself as entirely unworthy. And something in that
fumbling, unsteady hand, in that sleekly greased hair and those
ill-fitting garments, touched Stephen, so that she longed to re-
assure, to tell him how great was the gift he offered - security,
peace, and love with honour.
3
The young priest gravely repeated the prayers ancient,
primitive prayers, yet softened through custom. In her mauve
silk dress Pauline wept as she knelt; but Pierre's handkerchief
was spread out on the stool to preserve the knees of his new
grey trousers. Next to Stephen were sitting Pauline's two brothers,
one in uniform, the other retired and in mufti, but both wearing
medals upon their breasts and thus worthily representing the
army. The baker was there with his wife and three daughters,
and since the latter were still unmarried, their eyes were more
often fixed upon Jean in his shoddy dress suit than upon their
Missals. The greengrocer accompanied the lady whose chickens it
was Pauline's habit to prod on their breastbones; while the cobbler
who mended Pierre's boots and shoes, sat ogling the buxom and
comely young laundress.
454
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
The Mass drew to its close. The priest asked that a blessing
might be accomplished upon the couple; asked that these two
might live to behold, not only their own but their children's
children, even unto the third and fourth generation. Then he
spoke of their duty to God and to each other, and finally moist-
ened their bowed young heads with a generous sprinkling of
holy water. And so in the church of Notre-Dame-des-Victoires -
that bountiful Virgin who bestows many graces - Jean and his
Adèle were made one flesh in the eyes of their church, in the eyes
of their God, and as one might confront the world without
flinching.
Arm in arm they passed out through the heavy swing doors
and into Stephen's waiting motor. Burton smiled above the white
favour in his coat; the crowd, craning their necks, were also
smiling. Arrived back at the house, Stephen, Mary, and Burton
must drink the health of the bride and bridegroom. Then Pierre
thanked his employer for all she had done in giving his daughter
so splendid a wedding. But when that employer was no longer
present, when Mary had followed her into the study, the baker's
wife lifted quizzical eyebrows.
Quel type! On dirait plutôt un homme; ce n'est
là qui trouvera un mari!'
The guests laughed. 'Mais oui, elle est joliment bizarre ';
and they started to make little jokes about Stephen.
pas celle-
C
Pierre flushed as he leaped to Stephen's defence. She is
good, she is kind, and I greatly respect her and so does my wife
while as for our daughter, Adèle here has very much cause to be
grateful. Moreover she gained the Croix de Guerre through serv-
ing our wounded men in the trenches.'
The baker nodded. 'You are quite right, my friend – pre-
cisely what I myself said this morning.'
―
But Stephen's appearance was quickly forgotten in the jolli-
fication of so much fine feasting - a feasting for which her money
had paid, for which her thoughtfulness had provided. Jokes
there were, but no longer directed at her - they were harmless,
well meant if slightly broad jokes made at the expense of the
bashful bridegroom. Then before even Pauline had realized the
-
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
455
time, there was Burton strolling into the kitchen, and Adèle
must rush off to change her dress, while Jean must change also,
but in the pantry.
Burton glanced at the clock. 'Faut dépêcher vous, 'urry, if
you're going to catch that chemin de fer,' he announced as one
having authority. 'It's a goodish way to the Guard de Lions.'
3
THAT evening the old house seemed curiously thoughtful and
curiously sad after all the merry-making. David's second white
bow had come untied and was hanging in two limp ends from
his collar. Pauline had gone to church to light candles; Pierre,
together with Pauline's niece who would take Adèle's place, was
preparing dinner. And the sadness of the house flowed out like a
stream to mingle itself with the sadness in Stephen. Adèle and
Jean, the simplicity of it . . . they loved, they married, and
after a while they would care for each other all over again, renew-
ing their youth and their love in their children. So orderly, placid
and safe it seemed, this social scheme evolved from creation; this
guarding of two young and ardent lives for the sake of the lives
that might follow after. A fruitful and peaceful road it must be.
The same road had been taken by those founders of Morton who
had raised up children from father to son, from father to son until
the advent of Stephen; and their blood was her blood - what they
had found good in their day, seemed equally good to their
descendant. Surely never was outlaw more law-abiding at heart,
than this, the last of the Gordons.
So now a great sadness took hold upon her, because she per-
ceived both dignity and beauty in the coming together of Adèle
and Jean, very simply and in accordance with custom. And this
sadness mingling with that of the house, widened into a flood
that compassed Mary and through her David, and they both went
and sat very close to Stephen on the study divan. As the twilight
gradually merged into dusk, these three must huddle even closer
together - David with his head upon Mary's lap, Mary with her
head against Stephen's shoulder.
CHAPTER 50
I
SMO
TEPHEN ought to have gone to England that summer; at
Morton there had been a change of agent, and once again cer-
tain questions had arisen which required her careful personal
attention. But time had not softened Anna's attitude to Mary,
and time had not lessened Stephen's exasperation - the more so
as Mary no longer hid the bitterness that she felt at this treatment.
So Stephen tackled the business by writing a number of long and
wearisome letters, unwilling to set foot again in the house where
Mary Llewellyn would not be welcome. But as always the thought
of England wounded, bringing with it the old familiar longing –
homesick she would feel as she sat at her desk writing those
wearisome business letters. For even as Jamie must crave for the
grey, wind-swept street and the wind-swept uplands of Beedles,
so Stephen must crave for the curving hills, for the long green
hedges and pastures of Morton. Jamie openly wept when such
moods were upon her, but the easement of tears was denied to
Stephen.
GORG
In August Jamie and Barbara joined them in a villa that
Stephen had taken at Houlgate. Mary hoped that the bathing
would do Barbara good; she was not at all well. Jamie worried
about her. And indeed the girl had grown very frail, so frail that
the housework now tried her sorely; when alone she must sit
down and hold her side for the pain that was never mentioned
to Jamie. Then too, all was not well between them these days;
poverty, even hunger at times, the sense of being unwanted out-
casts, the knowledge that the people to whom they belonged-
good and honest people - both abhorred and despised them,
such things as these had proved very bad housemates for sensitive
souls like Barbara and Jamie.
Large, helpless, untidy and intensely forlorn, Jamie would
Categ
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
457
struggle to finish her opera; but quite often these days she would
tear up her work, knowing that what she had written was un-
worthy. When this happened she would sigh and peer round the
studio, vaguely conscious that something was not as it had been,
vaguely distressed by the dirt of the place to which she herself
had helped to contribute – Jamie, who had never before noticed
dirt, would feel aggrieved by its noxious presence. Getting up
she would wipe the keys of the piano with Barbara's one clean
towel dipped in water.
'Can't play,' she would grumble,' these keys are all sticky.'
'Oh, Jamie - my towel - go and fetch the duster!'
The quarrel that ensued would start Barbara's cough, which
in turn would start Jamie's nerves vibrating. Then compassion,
together with unreasoning anger and a sudden uprush of sex-
frustration, would make her feel wellnigh beside herself - since
owing to Barbara's failing health, these two could be lovers
now in name only. And this forced abstinence told on Jamie's
work as well as her nerves, destroying her music, for those
who maintain that the North is cold, might just as well tell us
that hell is freezing. Yet she did her best, the poor uncouth
creature, to subjugate the love of the flesh to the pure and more
selfless love of the spirit - the flesh did not have it all its own way
with Jamie.
That summer she made a great effort to talk, to unburden
herself when alone with Stephen; and Stephen tried hard to
console and advise, while knowing that she could help very little.
All her offers of money to ease the strain were refused pointblank,
sometimes almost with rudeness - she felt very anxious indeed
about Jamie.
Mary in her turn was deeply concerned; her affection for
Barbara had never wavered, and she sat for long hours in the
garden with the girl who seemed too weak to bathe, and whom
walking exhausted.
'Let us help,' she pleaded, stroking Barbara's thin hand,
'after all, we're much better off than you are. Aren't you two
like ourselves? Then why mayn't we help?
458
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Barbara slowly shook her head: 'I'm all right - please don't
talk about money to Jamie.'
But Mary could see that she was far from all right; the warm
weather was proving of little avail, even care and good food and
sunshine and rest seemed unable to ease that incessant coughing.
'You ought to see a specialist at once,' she told Barbara
rather sharply one morning.
But Barbara shook her head yet again: ' Don't, Mary – don't,
please . you'll be frightening Jamie.'
2
AFTER their return to Paris in the autumn, Jamie sometimes
joined the nocturnal parties; going rather grimly from bar to
bar, and drinking too much of the crême-de-menthe that re-
minded her of the bull's eyes at Beedles. She had never cared
for these parties before, but now she was clumsily trying to
escape, for a few hours at least, from the pain of existence. Bar-
bara usually stayed at home or spent the evening with Stephen
and Mary. But Stephen and Mary would not always be there, for
now they also went out fairly often; and where was there to go to
except the bars? Nowhere else could two women dance together
without causing comment and ridicule, without being looked
upon as freaks, argued Mary. So rather than let the girl go with-
out her, Stephen would lay aside her work - she had recently
started to write her fourth novel.
Sometimes, it is true, their friends came to them, a less sordid
and far less exhausting business; but even at their own house the
drink was too free: 'We can't be the only couple to refuse to
give people a brandy and soda,' said Mary, ´ Valérie's parties are
awfully dull; that's because she's allowed herself to grow cranky!'
And thus, very gradually just at first, Mary's finer percep-
tions began to coarsen.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
459
3
THE MONTHS passed, and now more than a year had slipped
by, yet Stephen's novel remained unfinished; for Mary's face
stood between her and her work - surely the mouth and the eyes
had hardened?
Still unwilling to let Mary go without her, she dragged
wearily round to the bars and cafés, observing with growing
anxiety that Mary now drank as did all the others - not too much
perhaps, but quite enough to give her a cheerful outlook on
existence.
The next morning she was often deeply depressed, in the
grip of a rather tearful reaction: 'It's too beastly - why do we
do it?' she would ask.
And Stephen would answer: 'God knows I don't want to,
but I won't let you go to such places without me. Can't we give
it all up? It's appallingly sordid!'
Then Mary would flare out with sudden anger, her mood
changing as she felt a slight tug on the bridle. Were they to have
no friends? she would ask. Were they to sit still and let the
world crush them? If they were reduced to the bars of Paris,
whose fault was that? Not hers and not Stephen's. Oh, no, it was
the fault of the Lady Annas and the Lady Masseys who had
closed their doors, so afraid were they of contamination!
Stephen would sit with her head on her hand, searching her
sorely troubled mind for some ray of light, some adequate answer.
4
THAT Winter Barbara fell very ill. Jamie rushed round to the
house one morning, hatless, and with deeply tormented eyes:
Mary, please come - Barbara can't get up, it's a pain in her
side. Oh, my God - we quarrelled . .' Her voice was shrill
and she spoke very fast: Listen - last night - there was snow
on the ground, it was cold - I was angry . . .
I can't remem-
ber... but I know I was angry - I get like that. She went out -
460
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
she stayed out for quite two hours, and when she came back she
was shivering so. Oh, my God, but why did we quarrel, what-
ever? She can't move; it's an awful pain in her side
Stephen said quietly: 'We'll come almost at once, but first
I'm going to ring up my own doctor."
5
BARBARA was lying in the tiny room with the eye-shaped window
that would not open. The stove had gone out in the studio, and
the air was heavy with cold and dampness. On the piano lay
some remnants of manuscript music torn up on the previous
evening by Jamie.
Barbara opened her eyes: 'Is that you, my bairn?'
They had never heard Barbara call her that before – the
great, lumbering, big-boned, long-legged Jamie.
"Yes, it's me.'
Come here close
'The voice drifted away.
'I'm here - oh, I'm here! I've
oh, I'm here! I've got hold of your hand. Look
at me, open your eyes again - Barbara, listen, I'm here - don't
you
feel me?'
Stephen tried to restrain the shrill, agonized voice: 'Don't
speak so loud, Jamie, perhaps she's sleeping;' but she knew
very well that this was not so; the girl was not sleeping now,
but unconscious.
Mary found some fuel and lighted the stove, then she started
to tidy the disordered studio. Flakes of flue lay here and there
on the floor; thick dust was filming the top of the piano. Bar-
bara had been waging a losing fight - strange that so mean a
thing as this dust should, in the end, have been able to conquer.
Food there was none, and putting on her coat Mary finally
went forth in quest of milk and other things likely to come in
useful. At the foot of the stairs she was met by the concierge;
the woman looked glum, as though deeply aggrieved by this sud-
den and very unreasonable illness. Mary thrust some money into
her hand, then hurried away intent on her shopping.
i
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
461
When she returned the doctor was there; he was talking
very gravely to Stephen: 'It's double pneumonia, a pretty bad
case - the girl's heart's so weak. I'll send in a nurse. What about
the friend, will she be any good?'
'I'll help with the nursing if she isn't,' said Mary.
Stephen said: 'You do understand about the bills - the nurse
and all that?'
The doctor nodded.
They forced Jamie to eat: ' For Barbara's sake. . . Jamie,
we're with you, you're not alone, Jamie.'
She peered with her red-rimmed, short-sighted eyes, only half
understanding, but she did as they told her. Then she got up with-
out so much as a word, and went back to the room with the eye-
shaped window. Still in silence she squatted on the floor by the
bed, like a dumb, faithful dog who endured without speaking.
And they let her alone, let her have her poor way, for this was not
their Calvary but Jamie's.
The nurse arrived, a calm, practical woman: 'You'd better
lie down for a bit,' she told Jamie, and in silence Jamie lay
down on the floor.
'No, my dear - please go and lie down in the studio.'
She got up slowly to obey this new voice, lying down, with
her face to the wall, on the divan.
The nurse turned to Stephen: Is she a relation?'
Stephen hesitated, then she shook her head.
That's a pity, in a serious case like this I'd like to be in
touch with some relation, some one who has a right to decide
things. You know what I mean - it's double pneumonia.'
Stephen said dully: 'No - she's not a relation.'
'Just a friend?' the nurse queried.
'Just a friend,' muttered Stephen.
6
THEY went back that evening and stayed the night. Mary helped
with the nursing; Stephen looked after Jamie.
462
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
'Is she a little - I mean the friend is she mental at all, do
you know?' The nurse whispered, 'I can't get her to speak
she's anxious, of course; still, all the same, it doesn't seem natural.'
Stephen said: 'No - it doesn't seem natural to you.' And
she suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair. Dear God, the out-
rage of this for Jamie!
But Jamie seemed quite unconscious of outrage. From time
to time she stood in the doorway peering over at Barbara's wasted
face, listening to Barbara's painful breathing, and then she
would turn her bewildered eyes on the nurse, on Mary, but above
all on Stephen.
'Jamie- come back and sit down by the stove; Mary's there,
it's all right.'
Came a queer, halting voice that spoke with an effort: But
Stephen . . . we quarrelled.'
Come and sit by the stove - Mary's with her, my dear.'
'Hush, please,' said the nurse, you're disturbing my patient.'
C
I
Dag
7
BARBARA's fight against death was so brief that it hardly seemed
in the nature of a struggle. Life had left her no strength to repel
this last foe - or perhaps it was that to her he seemed friendly.
Just before her death she kissed Jamie's hand and tried to speak,
but the words would not come - those words of forgiveness and
love for Jamie.
Then Jamie flung herself down by the bed, and she clung
there, still in that uncanny silence. Stephen never knew how
they got her away while the nurse performed the last merciful
duties.
But when flowers had been placed in Barbara's hands, and
Mary had lighted a couple of candles, then Jamie went back
and stared quietly down at the small, waxen face that lay on the
pillow; and she turned to the nurse:
'Thank you so much,' she said, 'I think you've done all that
there is to do and now I suppose you'll want to be going?'
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
463
The nurse glanced at Stephen.
'It's all right, we'll stay. I think perhaps - if you don't mind,
nurse
•
Very well, it must be as you wish, Miss Gordon.'
When she had gone Jamie veered round abruptly and walked
back into the empty studio. Then all in a moment the floodgates
gave way and she wept and she wept like a creature demented.
Bewailing the life of hardship and exile that had sapped Bar-
bara's strength and weakened her spirit; bewailing the cruel
dispensation of fate that had forced them to leave their home
in the Highlands; bewailing the terrible thing that is death to
those who, still loving, must look upon it. Yet all the exquisite
pain of this parting seemed as nothing to an anguish that was
far more subtle: 'I can't mourn her without bringing shame
on her name - I can't go back home now and mourn her,'
wailed Jamie; oh, and I want to go back to Beedles, I want
to be home among our own people - I want them to know how
much I loved her. Oh God, oh God! I can't even mourn her,
and I want to grieve for her home there in Beedles.'
What could they speak but inadequate words: 'Jamie, don't,
don't! You loved each other - isn't that something? Remember
that, Jamie.' They could only speak the inadequate words that
are given to people on such occasions.
But after a while the storm seemed to pass, Jamie seemed to
grow suddenly calm and collected: "You two,' she said gravely,
'I want to thank you for all you've been to Barbara and me.
Mary started crying.
Don't cry,' said Jamie.
up
The evening came. Stephen lighted the lamp, then she made
the stove while Mary laid the supper. Jamie ate a little, and
she actually smiled when Stephen poured her out a weak whiskey.
‘Drink it, Jamie - it may help you to get some sleep.'
Jamie shook her head: 'I shall sleep without it - but I want
to be left alone to-night, Stephen.'
Mary protested but Jamie was firm: "I want to be left alone.
with her, please - you do understand that, Stephen, don't you?'
464
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
Stephen hesitated, then she saw Jamie's face; it was full of
a new and calm resolution: 'It's my right,' she was saying, 'I've
a right to be alone with the woman I love before they take her.'
Jamie held the lamp to light them downstairs - her hand,
Stephen thought, seemed amazingly steady.
-
8
THE NEXT morning when they went to the studio quite early,
they heard voices coming from the topmost landing. The con-
cierge was standing outside Jamie's door, and with her was
a young man, one of the tenants. The concierge had tried the
door; it was locked and no one made any response to her knock-
ing. She had brought Jamie up a cup of hot coffee - Stephen
saw it, the coffee had slopped into the saucer. Either pity or the
memory of Mary's large tips, had apparently touched the heart
of this woman.
'Th
Stephen hammered loudly: 'Jamie!' she called, and then
again and again: "Jamie! Jamie!'
The young man set his shoulder to a panel, and all the while
he pushed he was talking. He lived just underneath, but last
night he was out, not returning until nearly six that morning.
He had heard that one of the girls had died - the little one-
she had always looked fragile.
Stephen added her strength to his; the woodwork was damp
and rotten with age, the lock suddenly gave and the door swung
inwards.
Then Stephen saw: 'Don't come here - go back, Mary!'
But Mary followed them into the studio.
So neat, so amazingly neat it was for Jamie, she who had al-
ways been so untidy, she who had always littered up the place
with her large, awkward person and shabby possessions, she
who had always been Barbara's despair Just a drop or two
of blood on the floor, just a neat little hole low down in her left
side. She must have fired upwards with great foresight and skill
- and they had not even known that she owned a revolver!
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
465
3
And so Jamie who dared not go home to Beedles for fear of
shaming the woman she loved, Jamie who dared not openly
mourn lest Barbara's name be defiled through her mourning,
Jamie had dared to go home to God to trust herself to His
more perfect mercy, even as Barbara had gone home before her.
C
CHAPTER 51
I
T
HE TRAGIC deaths of Barbara and Jamie cast a gloom over
every one who had known them, but especially over Mary
and Stephen. Again and again Stephen blamed herself for having
left Jamie on that fatal evening; if she had only insisted upon
staying, the tragedy might never have happened, she might
somehow have been able to impart to the girl the courage and
strength to go on living. But great as the shock undoubtedly was
to Stephen, to Mary it was even greater, for together with her
very natural grief, was a new and quite unexpected emotion, the
emotion of fear. She was suddenly afraid, and now this fear
looked out of her eyes and crept into her voice when she spoke
of Jamie.
'To end in that way, to have killed herself; Stephen, it's so
awful that such things can happen - they were like you and
me.' And then she would go over every sorrowful detail of
Barbara's last illness, every detail of their finding of Jamie's body.
'Did it hurt, do you think, when she shot herself? When
you shot that wounded horse at the front, he twitched such a lot,
Í shall never forget it - and Jamie was all alone that night, there
was no one there to help in her pain. It's all so ghastly; supposing
it hurt her!'
Useless for Stephen to quote the doctor who had said that
death had been instantaneous; Mary was obsessed by the horror
of the thing, and not only its physical horror either, but by the
mental and spiritual suffering that must have strengthened the
will to destruction.
and
'Such despair,' she would say, ' such utter despair.
that was the end of all their loving. I can't bear it!' And then
she would hide her face against Stephen's strong and protective
shoulder.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
467
Oh, yes, there was now little room for doubt, the whole busi-
ness was preying badly on Mary.
Sometimes strange, amorous moods would seize her, in
which she must kiss Stephen rather wildly: 'Don't let go of me,
darling - never let go. I'm afraid; I think it's because of what's
happened.'
S
Her kisses would awaken a swift response, and so in these
days that were shadowed by death, they clung very desperately
to life with the passion they had felt when first they were lovers,
as though only by constantly feeding that flame could they hope
to ward off some unseen disaster.
2
AT THIS time of shock, anxiety and strain, Stephen turned to
Valérie Seymour as many another had done before her. This
woman's great calm in the midst of storm was not only soothing
but helpful to Stephen, so that now she often went to the flat
on the Quai Voltaire; often went there alone, since Mary would
seldom accompany her - for some reason she resented Valérie
Seymour. But in spite of this resentment Stephen must go, for
now an insistent urge was upon her, the urge to unburden her
weary mind of the many problems surrounding inversion. Like
most inverts she found a passing relief in discussing the intoler-
able situation; in dissecting it ruthlessly bit by bit, even though
she arrived at no solution; but since Jamie's death it did not
seem wise to dwell too much on this subject with Mary. On the
other hand, Valérie was now quite free, having suddenly tired
of Jeanne Maurel, and moreover she was always ready to listen.
Thus it was that between them a real friendship sprang up -
a friendship founded on mutual respect, if not always on mutual
understanding.
Stephen would again and again go over those last heart-
rending days with Barbara and Jamie, railing against the out-
rageous injustice that had led to their tragic and miserable end-
ing. She would clench her hands in a kind of fury. How long was
468
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
this persecution to continue? How long would God sit still and
endure this insult offered to His creation? How long tolerate
the preposterous statement that inversion was not a part of
nature? For since it existed what else could it be? All things that
existed were a part of nature!
But with equal bitterness she would speak of the wasted
lives of such creatures as Wanda, who beaten down into the
depths of the world, gave the world the very excuse it was
seeking for pointing at them an accusing finger. Pretty bad
examples they were, many of them, and yet - but for an unfore-
seen accident of birth, Wanda might even now have been a great
painter.
And then she would discuss very different people whom she
had been led to believe existed; hard-working, honourable men
and women, but a few of them possessed of fine brains, yet lack-
ing the courage to admit their inversion. Honourable, it seemed,
in all things save this that the world had forced on them
this dishonourable lie whereby alone they could hope to find
peace, could hope to stake out a claim on existence. And always
these people must carry that lie like a poisonous asp pressed
against their bosoms; must unworthily hide and deny their love,
which might well be the finest thing about them.
And what of the women who had worked in the war - those
quiet, gaunt women she had seen about London? England had
called them and they had come; for once, unabashed, they had
faced the daylight. And now because they were not prepared
to slink back and hide in their holes and corners, the very public
whom they had served was the first to turn round and spit upon
them; to cry: ' Away with this canker in our midst, this nest of
unrighteousness and corruption!' That was the gratitude they
had received for the work they had done out of love for England!
And what of that curious craving for religion which so often
went hand in hand with inversion? Many such people were
deeply religious, and this surely was one of their bitterest prob-
lems. They believed, and believing they craved a blessing on
what to some of them seemed very sacred – a faithful and deeply
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
469
devoted union. But the church's blessing was not for them. Faith-
ful they might be, leading orderly lives, harming no one, and yet
the church turned away; her blessings were strictly reserved for
the normal.
Then Stephen would come to the thing of all others that to
her was the most agonizing question. Youth, what of youth?
Where could it turn for its natural and harmless recreations?
There was Dickie West and many more like her, vigorous,
courageous and kind-hearted youngsters; yet shut away from
so many of the pleasures that belonged by right to every young
creature and more pitiful still was the lot of a girl who, herself
being normal, gave her love to an invert. The young had a right
to their innocent pleasures, a right to social companionship; had
a right, indeed, to resent isolation. But here, as in all the great
cities of the world, they were isolated until they went under;
until, in their ignorance and resentment, they turned to the only
communal life that a world bent upon their destruction had
left them; turned to the worst elements of their kind, to those
who haunted the bars of Paris. Their lovers were helpless, for
what could they do? Empty-handed they were, having nothing
to offer. And even the tolerant normal were helpless - those who
went to Valérie's parties, for instance. If they had sons and daugh-
ters, they left them at home; and considering all things, who
could blame them? While as for themselves, they were far too
old - only tolerant, no doubt because they were ageing. They
could not provide the frivolities for which youth had a perfectly
natural craving.
p
In spite of herself, Stephen's voice would tremble, and Valérie
would know that she was thinking of Mary.
Valérie would genuinely want to be helpful, but would find
very little to say that was consoling. It was hard on the young,
she had thought so herself, but some came through all right,
though a few might go under. Nature was trying to do her bit;
inverts were being born in increasing numbers, and after a while
their numbers would tell, even with the fools who still ignored
Nature. They must just bide their time - recognition was com-
470
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
ing. But meanwhile they should all cultivate more pride, should
learn to be proud of their isolation. She found little excuse for
poor fools like Pat, and even less for drunkards like Wanda.
As for those who were ashamed to declare themselves, lying
low for the sake of a peaceful existence, she utterly despised
such of them as had brains; they were traitors to themselves
and their fellows, she insisted. For the sooner the world came
to realize that fine brains very frequently went with inversion,
the sooner it would have to withdraw its ban, and the sooner
would cease this persecution. Persecution was always a hideous
thing, breeding hideous thoughts - and such thoughts were
dangerous.
As for the women who had worked in the war, they had set
an example to the next generation, and that in itself should be
a reward. She had heard that in England many such women
had taken to breeding dogs in the country. Well, why not?
Dogs were very nice people to breed. ' Plus je connais les hommes,
plus j'aime les chiens.' There were worse things than breeding
dogs in the country.
It was quite true that inverts were often religious, but church-
going in them was a form of weakness; they must be a religion
unto themselves if they felt that they really needed religion. As
for blessings, they profited the churches no doubt, apart from
which they were just superstition. But then of course she herself
was a pagan, acknowledging only the god of beauty; and since
the whole world was so ugly these days, she was only too thankful
to let it ignore her. Perhaps that was lazy - she was rather lazy.
She had never achieved all she might have with her writing. But
humanity was divided into two separate classes, those who did
things and those who looked on at their doings. Stephen was one
of the kind that did things - under different conditions of en-
vironment and birth she might very well have become a reformer.
They would argue for hours, these two curious friends whose
points of view were so widely divergent, and although they sel-
dom if ever agreed, they managed to remain both courteous and
friendly.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
471
Valérie seemed wellnigh inhuman at times, completely de-
tached from all personal interest. But one day she remarked to
Stephen abruptly: 'I really know very little about you, but this
I do know you're a bird of passage, you don't belong to the
life here in Paris.' Then as Stephen was silent, she went on more
gravely: You're rather a terrible combination: you've the nerves
of the abnormal with all that they stand for - you're appall-
ingly over-sensitive, Stephen - well, and then we get le revers
de la médaille; you've all the respectable county instincts of the
man who cultivates children and acres - any gaps
in your
fences
would always disturb you; one side of your mind is so aggres-
sive tidy. I can't see your future, but I feel you'll succeed; though
I must say, of all the improbable people .. But supposing
you could bring the two sides of your nature into some sort of
friendly amalgamation and compel them to serve you and
through you your work - well then I really don't see what's
to stop you. The question is, can you ever bring them together?'
She smiled. If you climb to the highest peak, Valérie Seymour
won't be there to see you. It's a charming friendship that we two
have found, but it's passing, like so many charming things;
however, my dear, let's enjoy it while it lasts, and . . . remem-
ber me when you come into your kingdom.'
you. I
Stephen said: 'When we first met I almost disliked
thought your interest was purely scientific or purely morbid.
I said so to Puddle – you remember Puddle, I think you once met
her. I want to apologize to you now; to tell you how grateful I
am for your kindness. You're so patient when I come here and
talk for hours, and it's such a relief; you'll never know the relief
it is to have some one to talk to.' She hesitated. 'You see it's not
fair to make Mary listen to all my worries - she's still pretty
young, and the road's damned hard then there's been
that horrible business of Jamie.'
C
•
Come as often as you feel like it,' Valérie told her; ´ and if
ever you should want my help or advice, here I am. But do try
to remember this: even the world's not so black as it's painted.'
CHAPTER 52
Opi
NE morning a very young cherry-tree that Mary herself had
planted in the garden was doing the most delightful things –
it was pushing out leaves and tight pink buds along the whole
length of its childish branches. Stephen made a note of it in her
diary: 'Today Mary's cherry-tree started to blossom.' This is why
she never forgot the date on which she received Martin Hallam's
letter.
I
The letter had been redirected from Morton; she recognized
Puddle's scholastic handwriting. And the other writing - large,
rather untidy, but with strong black down-strokes and firmly
crossed T's - she stared at it thoughtfully, puckering her brows.
Surely that writing, too, was familiar? Then she noticed a Paris
postmark in the corner - that was strange. She tore open the
envelope.
Martin wrote very simply: ' Stephen, my dear. After all these
years I am sending you a letter, just in case you have not com-
pletely forgotten the existence of a man called Martin Hallam.
'I've been in Paris for the past two months. I had to come
across to have my eye seen to; I stopped a bullet with my head
here in France - it affected the optic nerve rather badly. But the
point is: if I fly over to England as I'm thinking of doing, may
I come and see you? I'm a very poor hand at expressing myself
- can't do it at all when I put pen to paper - in addition to which
I'm feeling nervous because you've become such a wonderful
writer. But I do want to try and make you understand how des-
perately I've regretted our friendship - that perfect early friend-
ship of ours seems to me now a thing well worth regretting.
Believe me or not, I've thought of it for years; and the fault was
all mine for not understanding. I was just an ignorant cub in those
days. Well, anyhow, please will you see me, Stephen? I'm a
1
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
473
lonely sort of fellow, so if you're kind-hearted you'll invite me to
motor down to Morton, supposing you're there; and then if you
like me, we'll take up our friendship just where it left off. We'll
pretend that we're very young again, walking over the hills and
jawing about life. Lord, what splendid companions we were in
those early days - like a couple of brothers!
'Do you think it's queer that I'm writing all this? It does
seem queer, yet I'd have written it before if I'd ever come over
to stay in England; but except when I rushed across to join up,
I've pretty well stuck to British Columbia. I don't even know
exactly where you are, for I've not met a soul who knows you
for ages. I heard of your father's death of course, and was terribly
sorry - beyond that I've heard nothing; still, I fancy I'm quite
safe in sending this to Morton.
'I'm staying with my aunt, the Comtesse de Mirac; she's
English, twice married and once more a widow. She's been a
perfect angel to me. I've been staying with her ever since I came
to Paris. Well, my dear, if you've forgiven my mistake – and
please say you have, we were both very young - then write to me
at Aunt Sarah's address, and if you write don't forget to put
Passy." The posts are so erratic in France, and I'd hate to think
that they'd lost your letter. Your very sincere friend, MARTIN
HALLAM.'
<<
Stephen glanced through the window. Mary was in the
garden still admiring her brave little cherry-tree; in a minute or
two she would feed the pigeons - yes, she was starting to cross
the lawn to the shed in which she kept pigeon-mixture - but
presently she would be coming in. Stephen sat down and began
to think quickly.
Martin Hallam - he must be about thirty-nine. He had
fought in the war and been badly wounded - she had thought
of him during that terrible advance, the smitten trees had been
a reminder. . . . He must often have been very near her then;
he was very near now, just out at Passy, and he wanted to see her;
he offered his friendship.
She closed her eyes the better to consider, but now her mind
474
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
must conjure up pictures. A very young man at the Antrims'
dance – oh, but very young - with a bony face that glowed when
he talked of the beauty of trees, of their goodness.
. a tall,
loose-limbed young man who slouched when he walked, as
though from much riding. The hills . . . winter hills rust-
coloured by bracken Martin touching the ancient thorns
with kind fingers. 'Look, Stephen - the courage of these old
fellows!' How clearly she remembered his actual words after
all these years, and her own she remembered: 'You're the only
real friend I've ever had except Father - our friendship's so
wonderful somehow. . .' And his answer: 'I know, a won-
derful friendship.' A great sense of companionship, of comfort
- it had been so good to have him beside her; she had liked his
quiet and careful voice, and his thoughtful blue eyes that moved
rather slowly. He had filled a real need that had always been
hers and still was, a need for the friendship of men - how very
completely Martin had filled it, until. . . . But she resolutely
closed her mind, refusing to visualize that last picture. He knew
now that it had been a ghastly mistake he understood - he
practically said so. Could they take up their friendship where
they had left it? If only they could .
་
She got up abruptly and went to the telephone on her desk.
Glancing at his letter, she rang up a number.
'Hallo - yes? '
She recognized his voice at once.
'Is that you, Martin? It's Stephen speaking.'
Stephen
you?
. . oh, I'm so glad! But where on earth are
At my house in Paris 35, Rue Jacob.'
'But I don't understand, I thought
Yes, I know, but I've lived here for ages – since before the
war. I've just got your letter, sent back from England. Funny,
isn't it? Why not come to dinner to-night if you're free – eight
o'clock.'
<
-
'I say! May I really? '
'Of course . come and dine with my friend and me.'
•
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
475
'What number?
Thirty-five - 35, Rue Jacob.'
'I'll be there on the actual stroke of eight!'
<
-
'That's right - good-bye, Martin.'
'Good-bye, and thanks, Stephen.'
<
She hung up the receiver and opened the window.
Mary saw her and called: Stephen, please speak to David.
He's just bitten off and swallowed a crocus! Oh, and do come
here: the scyllas are out, I never saw anything like their blue-
ness. I think I shall go and fetch my birds, it's quite warm in the
sun over there by the wall. David, stop it; will you get off that
border!'
David wagged a bald but ingratiating tail. Then he thrust
out his nose and sniffed at the pigeons. Oh, hang it all, why
should the coming of spring be just one colossal smell of
temptation! And why was there nothing really exciting that a
spaniel might do and yet remain lawful? Sighing, he turned
amber eyes of entreaty first on Stephen, and then on his goddess,
Mary.
She forgave him the crocus and patted his head. 'Darling,
you get more than a pound of raw meat for your dinner; you
mustn't be so untruthful. Of course you're not hungry - it was
just pure mischief."
He barked, trying desperately hard to explain. 'It's the
spring; it's
got into my blood, oh, Goddess! Oh, Gentle Purveyor
of all Good Things, let me dig till I've rooted up every damned
crocus; just this once let me sin for the joy of life, for the ancient
and exquisite joy of sinning!'
But Mary shook her head. 'You must be a nice dog; and
nice dogs never look at white fantail pigeons, or walk on the
borders, or bite off the flowers - do they, Stephen?'
Stephen smiled. 'I'm afraid they don't, David.' Then she
said: 'Mary, listen – about this evening. I've just heard from a
very old friend of mine, a man called Hallam that I knew in
England. He's in Paris; it's too queer. He wrote to Morton and
his letter has been sent back by Puddle. I've rung him up, and
476
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
he's coming to dinner. Better tell Pauline at once, will you,
darling?
But Mary must naturally ask a few questions. What was he
like? Where had Stephen known him? - she had never men-
tioned a man called Hallam - where had she known him, in
London or at Morton?
And finally: How old were you when you knew him?'
'Let me think - I must have been just eighteen.'
How old was he?'
M
'Twenty-two - very young - I only knew him for quite a
short time; after that he went back to British Columbia. But I
liked him so much - we were very great friends - so I'm hoping
that you're going to like him too, darling.'
Stephen, you are strange. Why haven't you told me that
you once had a very great friend - a man? I've always thought
that
you didn't like men.'
'On the contrary, I like them very much. But I haven't seen
Martin for years and years. I've hardly
years. I've hardly ever thought about him
until I got his letter this morning. Now, sweetheart, we don't
want the poor man to starve - you really must go off and try to
find Pauline.'
G
When she had gone Stephen rubbed her chin with thoughtful
and rather uncertain fingers.
2
HE CAME. Amazing how little he had changed. He was just
the same clean-shaven, bony-faced Martin, with the slow
blue eyes and the charming expression, and the loose-
limbed figure that slouched from much riding; only now there
were a few faint lines round his eyes, and the hair had gone
snow-white on his temples. Just beside the right temple
was a deep little scar - it must have been a near thing, that
bullet.
He said: 'My dear, it is good to see you.' And he held Ste-
phen's hand in his own thin brown ones.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
477
She felt the warm, friendly grip of his fingers, and the years
dropped away. 'I'm so glad you wrote, Martin.'
So am I. I can't tell you how glad I am. And all the time we
were both in Paris, and we never knew. Well, now that I've
found you, we'll cling like grim death, if you don't mind,
Stephen.'
As Mary came into the room they were laughing.
She looked less tired, Stephen thought with satisfaction, of
perhaps it was that her dress became her - she was always at her
best in the evening.
Stephen said quite simply: This is Martin, Mary.'
They shook hands, and as they did so they smiled. Then they
stared at each other for a moment, almost gravely.
He proved to be wonderfully easy to talk to. He did not
seem surprised that Mary Llewellyn was installed as the mistress.
of Stephen's home; he just accepted the thing as he found it. Yet
he let it be tacitly understood that he had grasped the exact
situation.
After dinner Stephen inquired about his sight: was it badly
injured? His eyes looked so normal. Then he told them the
history of the trouble at full length, going into details with the
confidence displayed by most children and lonely people.
He had got his knock-out in 1918. The bullet had grazed
the optic nerve. At first he had gone to a base hospital, but as
soon as he could he had come to Paris to be treated by a very
celebrated man. He had been in danger of losing the sight of the
right eye; it had scared him to death, he told them. But after
three months he had had to go home; things had gone wrong
on some of his farms owing to the mismanagement of a bailiff.
The oculist had warned him that the trouble might recur, that he
ought to have remained under observation. Well, it had recurred
about four months ago. He had got the wind up and rushed
back to Paris. For three weeks he had lain in a darkened room,
not daring to think of the possible verdict. Eyes were so tiresomely
sympathetic: if the one went the other might easily follow. But,
thank God, it had proved to be less serious than the oculist had
478
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
feared. His sight was saved, but he had to go slow, and was still
under treatment. The eye would have to be watched for some
time; so here he was with Aunt Sarah at Passy.
'You must see my Aunt Sarah, you two; she's a darling.
She's my father's sister. I know you'll like her. She's become very
French since her second marriage, a little too Faubourg St. Ger-
main perhaps, but so kind - I want you to meet her at once.
She's quite a well-known hostess at Passy.'
They talked on until well after twelve o'clock - very happy
they were together that evening, and he left with a promise to
ring them up on the following morning about lunch with Aunt
Sarah.
Well,' said Stephen, what do you think of my friend?'
'I think he's most awfully nice,' said Mary.
3
-
AUNT SARAH lived in the palatial house that a grateful second
husband had left her. For years she had borne with his peccadil-
loes, keeping her temper and making no scandal. The result was
that everything he possessed apart from what had gone to her
stepson - and the Comte de Mirac had been very wealthy – had
found its way to the patient Aunt Sarah. She was one of those sur-
vival's who look upon men as a race of especially privileged beings.
Her judgment of women was more severe, influenced no doubt
by the ancien régime, for now she was even more French than
the French whose language she spoke like a born Parisian.
S
She was sixty-five, tall, had an aquiline nose, and her iron-
grey hair was dressed to perfection; for the rest she had Martin's
slow blue eyes and thin face, though she lacked his charming
expression. She bred Japanese spaniels, was kind to young girls
who conformed in all things to the will of their parents, was
particularly gracious to good-looking men, and adored her only
surviving nephew. In her opinion he could do no wrong, though
she wished that he would settle down in Paris. As Stephen and
Mary were her nephew's friends, she was predisposed to consider
them charming, the more so as the former's antecedents left little
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
479
or nothing to be desired, and her parents had shown great kind-
ness to Martin. He had told his aunt just what he wished her to
know and not one word more about the old days at Morton. She
was therefore quite unprepared for Stephen.
Aunt Sarah was a very courteous old dame, and those who
broke bread at her table were sacred, at all events while they
remained her guests. But Stephen was miserably telepathic, and
before the déjeuner was half-way through, she was conscious of
the deep antagonism that she had aroused in Martin's Aunt
Sarah. Not by so much as a word or a look did the Comtesse de
Mirac betray her feelings; she was gravely polite, she discussed
literature as being a supposedly congenial subject, she praised
Stephen's books, and asked no questions as to why she was living
apart from her mother. Martin could have sworn that these two
would be friends - but good manners could not any more deceive
Stephen.
And true it was that the Comtesse de Mirac saw in Stephen
the type that she most mistrusted, saw only an unsexed creature
of pose, whose cropped head and whose dress were pure affecta-
tion; a creature who aping the prerogatives of men, had lost all
the charm and the grace of a woman. An intelligent person in
nearly all else, the Comtesse would never have admitted of in-
version as a fact in nature. She had heard things whispered, it is
true, but had scarcely grasped their full meaning. She was in-
nocent and stubborn; and this being so, it was not Stephen's
morals that she suspected, but her obvious desire to ape what she
was not in the Comtesse's set, as at county dinners, there was
firm insistence upon sex-distinction.
་
On the other hand, she took a great fancy to Mary, whom
she quickly discovered to be an orphan. In a very short time she
had learnt quite a lot about Mary's life before the war and about
her meeting with Stephen in the Unit; had learnt also that she
was quite penniless - since Mary was eager that every one should
know that she owed her prosperity entirely to Stephen.
Aunt Sarah secretly pitied the girl who must surely be living
a dull existence, bound, no doubt, by a false sense of gratitude to
this freakish and masterful-looking woman - pretty girls should
Madd
—
480
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
find husbands and homes of their own, and this one she con-
sidered excessively pretty. Thus it was that while Mary in all
loyalty and love was doing her best to extol Stephen's virtues, to
convey an impression of her own happiness, of the privilege it
was to serve so great a writer by caring for her house and her
personal needs, she was only succeeding in getting herself pitied.
But as good luck would have it, she was blissfully unconscious
of the sympathy that her words were arousing; indeed she was
finding it very pleasant at Aunt Sarah's hospitable house in Passy.
As for Martin, he had never been very subtle, and just now
he must rejoice in a long-lost friendship - to him it appeared a
delightful luncheon. Even after the guests had said goodbye, he
remained in the very highest of spirits, for the Comtesse was ca-
pable of unexpected tact, and while praising Mary's prettiness and
charm, she was careful in no way to disparage Stephen.
'Oh, yes, undoubtedly a brilliant writer, I agree with you,
Martin.' And so she did. But books were one thing and their
scribes another; she saw no reason to change her opinion with
regard to this author's unpleasant affectation, while she saw every
reason to be tactful with her nephew.
i
4
ON THE drive home Mary held Stephen's hand. 'I enjoyed my-
self awfully, didn't you? Only -' and she frowned; only will it
last? I mean, we mustn't forget Lady Massey. But he's so nice,
and I liked the old aunt
•
Stephen said firmly: 'Of course it will last.' Then she lied.
'I enjoyed it very much too.'
And even as she lied she came to a resolve which seemed so
strange that she flinched a little, for never before since they had
been lovers, had she thought of this girl as apart from herself.
Yet now she resolved that Mary should go to Passy again – but
should go without her. Sitting back in the car she half closed her
eyes; just at that moment she did not want to speak lest her voice
should betray that flinching to Mary.
CHAPTER 53
I
W
ITH Martin's return Stephen realized how very deeply she
had missed him; how much she still needed the thing he
now offered, how long indeed she had starved for just this - the
friendship of a normal and sympathetic man whose mentality
being very much her own, was not only welcome but reassuring.
Yes, strange though it was, with this normal man she was far
more at ease than with Jonathan Brockett, far more at one with
all his ideas, and at times far less conscious of her own inversion;
though it seemed that Martin had not only read, but had thought
a great deal about the subject. He spoke very little of his studies,
however, just accepting her now for the thing that she was, with-
out question, and accepting most of her friends with a courtesy
as innocent of patronage as of any suspicion of morbid interest.
And thus it was that in these first days they appeared to have
achieved a complete reunion. Only sometimes, when Mary would
talk to him freely as she did very often of such people as Wanda,
of the night life of the cafés and bars of Paris - most of which it
transpired he himself had been to - of the tragedy of Barbara and
Jamie that was never very far from her thoughts, even although
a most perfect spring was hurrying forward towards the summer
- when Mary would talk to him of these things, Martin would
look rather gravely at Stephen.
But now they seldom went to the bars, for Martin provided
recreations that were really much more to Mary's liking. Martin
the kindly, the thoroughly normal, seemed never at a loss as to
what they should do or where they should go when in search of
pleasure. By now he knew Paris extremely well, and the Paris
he showed them during that spring came as a complete revelation
to Mary. He would often take them to dine in the Bois. At the
neighbouring tables would be men and women; neat, well
482
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
tailored men; pretty, smartly dressed women who laughed and
talked very conscious of sex and its vast importance - in a word,
normal women. Or perhaps they would go to Claridge's for tea
or to Ciro's for dinner, and then on to supper at an equally
fashionable restaurant, of which Mary discovered there were
many in Paris. And although people still stared a little at Stephen,
Mary fancied that they did so much less, because of the protective
presence of Martin.
At such places of course, it was out of the question for a couple
of women to dance together, and yet every one danced, so that in
the end Mary must get up and dance with Martin.
He had said: 'You don't mind, do you, Stephen?'
She had shaken her head: 'No, of course I don't mind.' And
indeed she had been very glad to know that Mary had a good
partner to dance with.
But now when she sat alone at their table, lighting one
cigarette from another, uncomfortably conscious of the interest
she aroused by reason of her clothes and her isolation - when she
glimpsed the girl in Martin's arms, and heard her laugh for a
moment in passing, Stephen would know a queer tightening of
her heart, as though a mailed fist had closed down upon it. What
was it? Good God, surely not resentment? Horrified she would
feel at this possible betrayal of friendship, of her fine, honest
friendship for Martin. And when they came back, Mary smiling
and flushed, Stephen would force herself to smile also.
She would say: 'I've been thinking how well you two
dance -
And when Mary once asked rather timidly: 'Are you sure
you're not bored, sitting there by yourself? '
Stephen answered: 'Don't be so silly, darling; of course I'm
not bored – go on dancing with Martin.'
But that night she took Mary in her arms - the relentless,
compelling arms of a lover.
On warm days they would all drive into the country, as Mary
and she had so frequently done during their first spring months
in Paris. Very often now it would be Barbizon, for Martin loved
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
483
to walk in the forest. And there he must start to talk about trees,
his face glowing with its curious inner light, while Mary listened
half fascinated.
One evening she said: 'But these trees are so small – you
make me long to see real forests, Martin.'
David loved these excursions - he also loved Martin, not be-
ing exactly disloyal to Stephen, but discerning in the man a more
perfect thing, a more entirely fulfilling companion. And this little
betrayal, though slight in itself, had the power to wound out of
all proportion, so that Stephen would feel very much as she had
done when ignored years ago by the swan called Peter. She had
thought then: ' Perhaps he thinks I'm a freak,' and now she must
sometimes think the same thing as she watched Martin hurling
huge sticks for David - it was strange what a number of ridic-
ulous trifles had lately acquired the power to hurt her. And yet
she clung desperately to Martin's friendship, feeling herself to be
all unworthy if she harboured so much as a moment's doubt; in-
deed they both loyally clung to their friendship.
He would beg her to accept his aunt's invitations, to accom-
pany Mary when she went to Passy:
'Don't you like the old thing? Mary likes her all right - why
won't you come? It's so mean of you, Stephen. It's not half as
much fun when you're not there.' He would honestly think that
he was speaking the truth, that the party or the luncheon or what-
ever it might be, was not half as much fun for him without
Stephen.
But Stephen always made her work an excuse: My dear, I'm
trying to finish a novel. I seem to have been at it for years and
years; it's growing hoary like Rip Van Winkle.'
2
THERE were times when their friendship seemed well-nigh per-
fect, the perfect thing that they would have it to be, and on such
a day of complete understanding, Stephen suddenly spoke to
Martin about Morton.
484
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
They two were alone together in her study, and she said:
"There's something I want to tell you - you must often have won-
dered why I left my home.'
He nodded: 'I've never quite liked to ask, because I know
how you loved the place, how you love it still.
'Yes, I love it,' she answered.
Then she let every barrier go down before him, blissfully con-
scious of what she was doing. Not since Puddle had left her had
she been able to talk without restraint of her exile. And once
launched she had not the least wish to stop, but must tell him all,
omitting no detail save one that honour forbade her to give – she
withheld the name of Angela Crossby.
'It's so terribly hard on Mary,' she finished; think of it,
Mary's never seen Morton; she's not even met Puddle in all these
years! Of course Puddle can't very well come here to stay - how
can she and then go back to Morton? And yet I want her to live
with my mother. . . But the whole thing seems so outrageous
for Mary.' She went on to talk to him of her father: 'If my father
had lived, I know he'd have helped me. He loved me so much, and
he understood - I found out that my father knew all about me,
only - 'She hesitated, and then: ' Perhaps he loved me too much
to tell me.'
Martin said nothing for quite a long time, and when he did
speak it was very gravely: ' Mary - how much does she know of
all this?'
As little as I could possibly tell her. She knows that I can't
get on with my mother, and that my mother won't ask her to
Morton; but she doesn't know that I had to leave home because
of a woman, that I was turned out - I've wanted to spare her all
I could.'
'Do
you think
you were right?'
'Yes, a thousand times.'
'Well, only you can judge of that, Stephen.' He looked down
at the carpet, then he asked abruptly:
then he asked abruptly: ' Does she know about you
and me, about . .
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
485
Stephen shook her head: 'No, she's no idea. She thinks you
were just my very good friend as you are to-day. I don't want her
to know.'
'For my sake?' he demanded.
And she answered slowly: 'Well, yes, I suppose so . . . for
your sake, Martin.'
Then an unexpected, and to her very moving thing happened;
his eyes filled with pitiful tears: 'Lord,' he muttered, why need
this have come upon you - this incomprehensible dispensation?
It's enough to make one deny God's existence!'
She felt a great need to reassure him. At that moment he
seemed so much younger than she was as he stood there with his
eyes full of pitiful tears, doubting God, because of his human com-
passion: There are still the trees. Don't forget the trees, Martin
- because of them you used to believe.'
"Have you come to believe in a God then?' he muttered.
Yes,' she told him, 'it's strange, but I know now I must-
lots of us feel that way in the end. I'm not really religious like
some of the others, but I've got to acknowledge God's existence,
though at times I still think: "Can He really exist? " One can't
help it, when one's seen what I have here in Paris. But unless
there's a God, where do some of us find even the little courage
we possess? '
Martin stared out of the window in silence.
3
MARY was growing gentle again; infinitely gentle she now was
at times, for happiness makes for gentleness, and in these days
Mary was strangely happy. Reassured by the presence of Martin
Hallam, re-established in pride and self-respect, she was able to
contemplate the world without her erstwhile sense of isolation,
was able for the moment to sheathe her sword, and this respite
brought her a sense of well-being. She discovered that at heart she
was neither so courageous nor so defiant as she had imagined,
486
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
that like many another woman before her, she was well content
to feel herself protected; and gradually as the weeks went by, she
began to forget her bitter resentment.
One thing only distressed her, and this was Stephen's refusal
to accompany her when she went to Passy; she could not under-
stand it, so must put it down to the influence of Valérie Seymour
who had met and disliked Martin's aunt at one time, indeed the
dislike, it seemed, had been mutual. Thus the vague resentment
that Valérie had inspired in the girl, began to grow much less
vague, until Stephen realized with a shock of surprise that Mary
was jealous of Valérie Seymour. But this seemed so absurd and
preposterous a thing, that Stephen decided it could only be pass-
ing, nor did it loom very large in these days that were so fully
taken up by Martin. For now that his eyesight was quite restored
he was talking of going home in the autumn, and every free mo-
ment that he could steal from his aunt, he wanted to spend with
Stephen and Mary. When he spoke of his departure, Stephen
sometimes fancied that a shade of sadness crept into Mary's face,
and her heart misgave her, though she told herself that naturally
both of them would miss Martin. Then too, never had Mary been
more loyal and devoted, more obviously anxious to prove
her love by a thousand little acts of devotion. There would
even be times when by contrast her manner would appear
abrupt and unfriendly to Martin, when she argued with him
over every trifle, backing up her opinion by quoting Stephen -
yes, in spite of her newly restored gentleness, there were times
when she would not be gentle with Martin. And these sudden
and unforeseen changes of mood would leave Stephen feel-
ing uneasy and bewildered, so that one night she spoke rather
anxiously:
'Why were you so beastly to Martin this evening?
But Mary pretended not to understand her: "How was I
beastly? I was just as usual.' And when Stephen persisted, Mary
kissed her scar: 'Darling, don't start working now, it's so late,
and besides ..
Stephen put away her work, then she suddenly caught the girl
1
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
487
1
to her roughly: 'How much do you love me? Tell me quickly,
quickly!' Her voice shook with something very like fear.
Stephen, you're hurting me - don't, you're hurting! You
know how I love you - more than life.'
'You are my life . . . all my life,' muttered Stephen.
CHAPTER 54
I
F
ATE, which by now had them well in its grip, began to play
the game out more quickly. That summer they went to Pont-
resina since Mary had never seen Switzerland; but the Comtesse
must make a double cure, first at Vichy and afterwards at Bag-
noles de l'Orne, which fact left Martin quite free to join them.
Then it was that Stephen perceived for the first time that all was
not well with Martin Hallam.
Try as he might he could not deceive her, for this man was
almost painfully honest, and any deception became him so ill that
it seemed to stand out like a badly fitting garment. Yet now there
were times when he avoided her eyes, when he grew very silent
and awkward with Stephen, as though something inevitable and
unhappy had obtruded itself upon their friendship; something,
moreover, that he feared to tell her. Then one day in a blinding
flash of insight she suddenly knew what this was - it was Mary.
Like a blow that is struck full between the eyes, the thing
stunned her, so that at first she groped blindly. Martin, her
friend But what did it mean? And Mary . . The in-
credible misery of it if it were true. But was it true that Martin
Hallam had grown to love Mary? And the other thought, more
incredible still - had Mary in her turn grown to love Martin?
The mist gradually cleared; Stephen grew cold as steel, her
perceptions becoming as sharp as daggers - daggers that thrust
themselves into her soul, draining the blood from her innermost
being. And she watched. To herself she seemed all
eyes and ears,
a monstrous thing, a complete degradation, yet endowed with an
almost unbearable skill, with a subtlety passing her own under-
standing.
And Martin was no match for this thing that was Stephen. He,
the lover, could not hide his betraying eyes from her eyes
that were
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
489
also those of a lover; could not stifle the tone that crept into his
voice at times when he was talking to Mary. Since all that he felt
was a part of herself, how could he hope to hide it from Stephen?
And he knew that she had discovered the truth, while she in her
turn perceived that he knew this, yet neither of them spoke - in a
deathly silence she watched, and in silence he endured her
watching.
It was rather a terrible summer for them all, the more so as
they were surrounded by beauty, and great peace when the eve-
ning came down on the snows, turning the white, unfurrowed
peaks to sapphire and then to a purple darkness; hanging out
large, incredible stars above the wide slope of the Roseg Glacier.
For their hearts were full of unspoken dread, of clamorous pas-
sions, of bewilderment that went very ill with the quiet fulfil-
ments, with the placid and smiling contentment of nature and
not the least bewildered was Mary. Her respite, it seemed, had
been pitifully fleeting; now she was torn by conflicting emotions;
terrified and amazed at her realization that Martin meant more
to her than a friend, yet less, oh, surely much less than Stephen.
Like a barrier of fire her passion for the woman flared up to forbid
her love of the man; for as great as the mystery of virginity itself,
is sometimes the power of the one who has destroyed it, and that
power still remained in these days, with Stephen.
Alone in his bare little hotel bedroom, Martin would wrestle
with his soul-sickening problem, convinced in his heart that but
for Stephen, Mary Llewellyn would grow to love him, nay more,
that she had grown to love him already. Yet Stephen was his
friend - he had sought her out, had all but forced his friendship
upon her; had forced his way into her life, her home, her con-
fidence; she had trusted his honour. And now he must either
utterly betray her or through loyalty to their friendship, betray
Mary.
―
K
And he felt that he knew, and knew only too well, what life
would do to Mary Llewellyn, what it had done to her already;
for had he not seen the bitterness in her, the resentment that
could only lead to despair, the defiance that could only lead to
490
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
disaster? She was setting her weakness against the whole world,
and slowly but surely the world would close in until in the end it
had utterly crushed her. In her very normality lay her danger.
Mary, all woman, was less of a match for life than if she had been
as was Stephen. Oh, most pitiful bond so strong yet so helpless;
so fruitful of passion yet so bitterly sterile; despairing, heart-
breaking, yet courageous bond that was even now holding them
ruthlessly together. But if he should break it by taking the girl
away into
peace and security, by winning for her the world's
approbation so that never again need her back feel the scourge and
her heart grow faint from the pain of that scourging - if he,
Martin Hallam, should do this thing, what would happen, in
that day of his victory, to Stephen? Would she still have the cour-
age to continue the fight? Or would she, in her turn, be forced
to surrender? God help him, he could not betray her like this, he
could not bring about Stephen's destruction - and yet if he spared
her, he might destroy Mary.
Night after night alone in his bedroom during the miserable
weeks of that summer, Martin struggled to discover some ray of
hope in what seemed a wellnigh hopeless situation. And night
after night Stephen's masterful arms would enfold the warm
softness of Mary's body, the while she would be shaken as though
with great cold. Lying there she would shiver with terror and
love, and this torment of hers would envelop Mary so that some-
times she wept for the pain of it all, yet neither would give a name
to that torment.
Stephen, why are you shivering?'
'I don't know, my darling.'
<
Mary, why are you crying?'
'I don't know, Stephen.'
Thus the bitter nights slipped into the days, and the anxious
days slipped back into the nights, bringing to that curious trinity
neither helpful counsel nor consolation.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
491
2
IT WAS after they had all returned to Paris that Martin found
Stephen alone one morning.
He said: 'I want to speak to you - I must.'
She put down her and looked into his eyes: 'Well,
pen
Martin, what is it?' But she knew already.
He answered her very simply: 'It's Mary.' Then he said:
'I'm going because I'm your friend and I love her I must
go
because of our friendship, and because I think Mary's grown
to care for me.'
•
He thought Mary cared . . . Stephen got up slowly, and all
of a sudden she was no more herself but the whole of her kind
out to combat this man, out to vindicate their right to possess, out
to prove that their courage was unshakable, that they neither ad-
mitted of nor feared any rival.
She said coldly: 'If you're going because of me, because you
imagine that I'm frightened - then stay. I assure you I'm not in
the least afraid; here and now I defy you to take her from me!'
And even as she said this she marvelled at herself, for she was
afraid, terribly afraid of Martin.
He flushed at the quiet contempt in her voice, which roused
all the combative manhood in him: 'You think that Mary doesn't
love me, but you're wrong.'
'Very well then, prove that I'm wrong!' she told him.
They stared at each other in bitter hostility for a moment,
then Stephen said more gently: 'You don't mean to insult me by
what you propose, but I won't consent to your going, Martin. You
think that I can't hold the woman I love against you, because
you've got an advantage over me and over the whole of my kind.
I accept that challenge - I must accept it if I'm to remain at all
worthy of Mary.'
He bowed his head: 'It must be as you wish.' Then he sud-
denly began to talk rather quickly: ' Stephen, listen, I hate what
I'm going to say, but by God, it's got to be said to you somehow!
You're courageous and fine and you mean to make good, but life
492
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
with
you is spiritually murdering Mary. Can't you see it? Can't
you realize that she needs all the things that it's not in your power
to give her? Children, protection, friends whom she can respect
and who'll respect her - don't you realize this, Stephen? A few
may survive such relationships as yours, but Mary Llewellyn won't
be among them. She's not strong enough to fight the whole world,
to stand up against persecution and insult; it will drive her down,
it's begun to already already she's been forced to turn to people
like Wanda. I know what I'm saying, I've seen the thing - the
bars, the drinking, the pitiful defiance, the horrible, useless wast-
age of lives - well, I tell you it's spiritual murder for Mary. I'd
have gone away because you're my friend, but before I went I'd
have said all this to you; I'd have begged and implored you to set
Mary free if you love her. I'd have gone on my knees to you,
Stephen
-
He paused, and she heard herself saying quite calmly: 'You
don't understand, I have faith in my writing, great faith; some
day I shall climb to the top and that will compel the world to
accept me for what I am. It's a matter of time, but I mean to
succeed for Mary's sake.'
"God pity you!' he suddenly blurted out. Your triumph, if
it comes, will come too late for Mary.'
She stared at him aghast: ' How dare you!' she stammered,
'How dare you try to undermine my courage! You call yourself
my friend and you say things like that.
'It's your courage that I appeal to,' he answered. He began to
speak very quietly again: 'Stephen, if I stay I'm going to fight
you. Do
you understand? We'll fight this thing out until one of us
has to admit that he's beaten. I'll do all in my power to take Mary
from you - all that's honourable, that is for I mean to play
straight, because whatever you may think I'm your friend, only,
you see I love Mary Llewellyn.
—
And now she struck back. She said rather slowly, watching
his sensitive face as she did so: 'You seem to have thought it all
out very well, but then of course, our friendship has given you
time
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
493
He flinched and she smiled, knowing how she could wound:
'Perhaps,' she went on, you'll tell me your plans. Supposing you
win, do I give the wedding? Is Mary to marry you from my house,
or would that be a grave social disadvantage? And supposing she
should want to leave me quite soon for love of you where would
you take her, Martin? To your aunt's for respectability's sake?
'Don't, Stephen!
'But why not? I've a right to know because, you see, I also
love Mary, I also consider her reputation. Yes, I think on the
whole we'll discuss your plans.'
'She'd always be welcome at my aunt's,' he said firmly.
And you'll take her there if she runs away to you? One
never knows what may happen, does one? You say that she cares
for you already.
His eyes hardened: 'If Mary will have me, Stephen, I shall
take her first to my aunt's house in Passy.'
'And then?' she mocked.
'I shall marry her from there.'
<
And then?
'I shall take her back to my home.'
'To Canada - I see a safe distance of course."
ladyboy
He held out his hand: 'Oh, for God's sake, don't! It's so hor-
rible somehow – be merciful, Stephen.'
She laughed bitterly: ' Why should I be merciful to you? Isn't
it enough that I accept your challenge, that I offer you the freedom
of my house, that I don't turn you out and forbid you to come
here? Come by all means, whenever you like. You may even re-
peat our conversation to Mary; I shall not do so, but don't let that
stop you if you think you may possibly gain some advantage.'
He shook his head: No, I shan't repeat it.'
‘Oh, well, that must be as you think best. I propose to behave
as though nothing had happened – and now I must get along with
my work.'
He hesitated: 'Won't you shake hands?'
Of course,' she smiled; ' aren't you my very good friend?
But you know, you really must leave me now, Martin.'
494
THE WELL OF LONELINESS.
3
AFTER he had gone she lit a cigarette; the action was purely auto-
matic. She felt strangely excited yet strangely numb – a most
curious synthesis of sensations; then she suddenly felt deathly
sick and giddy. Going up to her bedroom she bathed her face, sat
down on the bed and tried to think, conscious that her mind was
completely blank. She was thinking of nothing - not even of
Mary.
T
CHAPTER 55
A w
BITTER and most curious warfare it was that must now be
waged between Martin and Stephen, but secretly waged, lest
because of them the creature they loved should be brought to
suffer; not the least strange aspect being that these two must quite
often take care to protect each other, setting a guard upon eyes and
lips when they found themselves together with Mary. For the sake
of the girl whom they sought to protect, they must actually often
protect each other. Neither would stoop to detraction or malice,
though they fought in secret they did so with honour. And all
the while their hearts cried out loudly against this cruel and in-
sidious thing that had laid its hand upon their doomed friendship
- verily a bitter and most curious warfare.
I
And now Stephen, brought suddenly face to face with the
menace of infinite desolation, fell back upon her every available
weapon in the struggle to assert her right to possession. Every link
that the years had forged between her and Mary, every tender
and passionate memory that bound their past to their ardent pres-
ent, every moment of joy - aye, and even of sorrow, she used in
sheer self defence against Martin. And not the least powerful of
all her weapons, was the perfect companionship and understand-
ing that constitutes the great strength of such unions. Well armed
she was, thanks to both present and past - but Martin's sole
weapon lay in the future.
With a new subtlety that was born of his love, he must lead
the girl's thoughts very gently forward towards a life of security
and peace; such a life as marriage with him would offer. In a
thousand little ways must redouble his efforts to make himself
indispensable to her, to surround her with the warm, happy cloak
of protection that made even a hostile world seem friendly. And
although he forbore to speak openly as yet, playing his hand with
496
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
much skill and patience - although before speaking he wished to
be certain that Mary Llewellyn, of her own free will, would come
when he called her, because she loved him - yet nevertheless she
divined his love, for men cannot hide such knowledge from
women.
Very pitiful Mary was in these days, torn between the two
warring forces; haunted by a sense of disloyalty if she thought
with unhappiness of losing Martin, hating herself for a treach-
erous coward if she sometimes longed for the life he could offer,
above all intensely afraid of this man who was creeping in be-
tween her and Stephen. And the very fact of this fear made her
yield to the woman with a new and more desperate ardour, so
that the bond held as never before - the days might be Martin's,
but the nights were Stephen's. And yet, lying awake far into the
dawn, Stephen's victory would take on the semblance of defeat,
turned to ashes by the memory of Martin's words: Your triumph,
'
if it comes, will come too late for Mary.' In the morning she
would go to her desk and write, working with something very
like frenzy, as though it were now a neck-to-neck race between
the world and her ultimate achievement. Never before had she
worked like this; she would feel that her pen was dipped in blood,
that with every word she wrote, she was bleeding!
2
CHRISTMAS came and went, giving place to the New Year, and
Martin fought on but he fought more grimly. He was haunted
these days by the spectre of defeat, painfully conscious that do
what he might, nearly every advantage lay with Stephen. All that
he loved and admired most in Mary, her frankness, her tender and
loyal spirit, her compassion towards suffering of any kind, these
very attributes told against him, serving as they did to bind her
more firmly to the creature to whom she had given devotion. One
thing only sustained the man at this time, and that was his con-
viction that in spite of it all, Mary Llewellyn had grown to love
him.
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
497
So careful she was when they were together, so guarded lest
she should betray her feelings, so pitifully insistent that all was
yet well - that life had in no way lessened her courage. But Martin
was not deceived by these protests, knowing how she clung to
what he could offer, how gladly she turned to the simple things
that so easily come to those who are normal. Under all her parade
of gallantry he divined a great weariness of spirit, a great longing
to be at peace with the world, to be able to face her fellow men
with the comforting knowledge that she need not fear them, that
their friendship would be hers for the asking, that their laws and
their codes would be her protection. All this Martin perceived;
but Stephen's perceptions were even more accurate and far-
reaching, for to her there had come the despairing knowledge
that the woman she loved was deeply unhappy. At first she had
blinded herself to this truth, sustained by the passionate stress of
the battle, by her power to hold in despite of the man, by the eager
response that she had awakened. Yet the day came when she was
no longer blind, when nothing counted in all the world except
this grievous unhappiness that was being silently borne by Mary.
Martin, if he had wished for revenge, might have taken his
fill of it now from Stephen. Little did he know how, one by one,
Mary was weakening her defences; gradually undermining her
will, her fierce determination to hold, the arrogance of the male
that was in her. All this the man was never to know; it was
Stephen's secret, and she knew how to keep it. But one night she
suddenly pushed Mary away, blindly, scarcely knowing what she
was doing; conscious only that the weapon she thus laid aside had
become a thing altogether unworthy, an outrage upon her love for
this girl. And that night there followed the terrible thought that
her love itself was a kind of outrage.
And now she must pay very dearly indeed for that inherent
respect of the normal which nothing had ever been able to destroy,
not even the long years of persecution - an added burden it was,
handed down by the silent but watchful founders of Morton. She
must pay for the instinct which, in earliest childhood, had made
her feel something akin to worship for the perfect thing which
498
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
she had divined in the love that existed between her parents.
Never before had she seen so clearly all that was lacking to Mary
Llewellyn, all that would pass from her faltering grasp, perhaps
never to return, with the passing of Martin - children, a home
that the world would respect, ties of affection that the world
would hold sacred, the blessèd security and the peace of being re-
leased from the world's persecution. And suddenly Martin ap-
peared to Stephen as a creature endowed with incalculable bounty,
having in his hands all those priceless gifts which she, love's
mendicant, could never offer. Only one gift could she offer to love,
to Mary, and that was the gift of Martin.
In a kind of dream she perceived these things. In a dream she
now moved and had her being; scarcely conscious of whither this
dream would lead, the while her every perception was quickened.
And this dream of hers was immensely compelling, so that all
that she did seemed clearly predestined; she could not have acted
otherwise, nor could she have made a false step, although dream-
ing. Like those who in sleep tread the edge of a chasm unappalled,
having lost all sense of danger, so now Stephen walked on the
brink of her fate, having only one fear; a nightmare fear of what
she must do to give Mary her freedom.
In obedience to the mighty but unseen will that had taken
control of this vivid dreaming, she ceased to respond to the girl's
tenderness, nor would she consent that they two should be lovers.
Ruthless as the world itself she became, and almost as cruel in this
ceaseless wounding. For in spite of Mary's obvious misgivings, she
went more and more often to see Valérie Seymour, so that gradu-
ally, as the days slipped by, Mary's mind became a prey to sus-
picion. Yet Stephen struck at her again and again, desperately
wounding herself in the process, though scarcely feeling the pain
of her wounds for the misery of what she was doing to Mary. But
even as she struck the bonds seemed to tighten, with each fresh
blow to bind more securely. Mary now clung with every fibre of
her sorely distressed and outraged being; with every memory that
Stephen had stirred; with every passion that Stephen had fostered;
with every instinct of loyalty that Stephen had aroused to do battle
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
499
with Martin. The hand that had loaded Mary with chains was
powerless, it seemed, to strike them from her.
Came the day when Mary refused to see Martin, when she
turned upon Stephen, pale and accusing: 'Can't
you understand?
Are you utterly blind - have you only got eyes now for Valérie
Seymour?'
And as though she were suddenly smitten dumb, Stephen's
lips remained closed and she answered nothing.
Then Mary wept and cried out against her: 'I won't let you
go- I won't let you, I tell you! It's your fault if I love the
you
way I do. I can't do without you, you've taught me to need you,
and now. . .' In half-shamed, half-defiant words she must stand
there and plead for what Stephen withheld, and Stephen must
listen to such pleading from Mary. Then before the girl realized
it she had said:´ But for you, I could have loved Martin Hallam!'
Stephen heard her own voice a long way away: ' But for me,
you could have loved Martin Hallam.
Mary flung despairing arms round her neck: No, no! Not
that, I don't know what I'm saying.'
3
THE FIRST faint breath of spring was in the air, bringing daffodils
to the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary's young cherry tree
in the garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink buds along
the whole length of its childish branches.
Then Martin wrote: ' Stephen, where can I see you? It must be
alone. Better not at your house, I think, if you don't mind, because
of Mary.'
She appointed the place. They would meet at the Auberge du
Vieux Logis in the Rue Lepic. They two would meet there on the
following evening. When she left the house without saying a
word, Mary thought she was going to Valérie Seymour.
Stephen sat down at a table in the corner to await Martin's
coming she herself was early. The table was gay with a new
check cloth - red and white, white and red, she counted the
Jodhp
500
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
squares, tracing them carefully out with her finger. The woman
behind the bar nudged her companion: 'En voilà une originale -
et quelle cicatrice, bon Dieu!' The scar across Stephen's pale face
stood out livid.
Martin came and sat quietly down at her side, ordering some
coffee for appearances' sake. For appearances' sake, until it was
brought, they smiled at each other and made conversation. But
when the waiter had turned away, Martin said: 'It's all over
you've beaten me, Stephen . . The bond was too strong.
Their unhappy eyes met as she answered: 'I tried to
strengthen that bond.'
He nodded: 'I know. Well, my dear, you succeeded.'
Then he said: 'I'm leaving Paris next week; ' and in spite of his
effort to be calm his voice broke, Stephen. do what you can
to take care of Mary
She found that she was holding his hand. Or was it some one
else who sat there beside him, who looked into his sensitive,
troubled face, who spoke such queer words?
'No, don't go - not yet.
'But I don't understand
•
،
..
T
"You must trust me, Martin.' And now she heard herself
speaking very gravely: 'Would you trust me enough to do any-
thing I asked, even although it seemed rather strange? Would you
trust me if I said that I asked it for Mary, for her happiness? ›
His fingers tightened: ' Before God, yes. You know that I'd
trust you!
Very well then, don't leave Paris - not now.'
You really want me to stay on, Stephen?
'Yes, I can't explain.'
He hesitated, then he suddenly seemed to come to a decision:
‘All right . . . I'll do whatever you ask me.'
They paid for their coffee and got up to leave: ' Let me come
as far as the house,' he pleaded.
But she shook her head: 'No, no, not now. I'll write to you
very soon
Good-bye, Martin.'
She watched him hurrying down the street, and when he was
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
501
.
finally lost in its shadows, she turned slowly and made her own
way up the hill, past the garish lights of the Moulin de la Galette.
Its pitiful sails revolved in the wind, eternally grinding out petty
sins - dry chaff blown in from the gutters of Paris. And after a
while, having breasted the hill, she must climb a dusty flight of
stone steps, and push open a heavy, slow-moving door; the door
of the mighty temple of faith that keeps its anxious but tireless
vigil.
She had no idea why she was doing this thing, or what she
would say to the silver Christ with one hand on His heart and
the other held out in a patient gesture of supplication. The sound
of praying, monotonous, low, insistent, rose up from those who
prayed with extended arms, with crucified arms - like the tides
of an ocean it swelled and receded and swelled again, bathing the
shores of heaven.
They were calling upon the Mother of God: Sainte Marie,
Mère de Dieu, priez pour nous, pauvres pêcheurs, maintenant et
à l'heure de notre mort.'
<
' Et à l'heure de notre mort,' Stephen heard herself repeating.
He looked terribly weary, the silver Christ: But then He al-
ways looks tired,' she thought vaguely; and she stood there with-
out finding anything to say, embarrassed as one so frequently is in
the presence of somebody else's sorrow. For herself she felt noth-
ing, neither pity nor regret; she was curiously empty of all sen-
sation, and after a little she left the church, to walk on through
the wind-swept streets of Montmartre.
C
CHAPTER 56
I
V₁
ALÉRIE stared at Stephen in amazement: But . . . it's
such an extraordinary thing you're asking! Are you sure
you're right to take such a step? For myself I care nothing; why
should I care? If you want to pretend that you're my lover, well,
my dear, to be quite frank, I wish it were true I feel certain
you'd make a most charming lover. All the same,' and now her
voice sounded anxious, this is not a thing to be done lightly,
Stephen. Aren't you being absurdly self-sacrificing? You can give
the girl a very great deal.'
<
A
Stephen shook her head: 'I can't give her protection or
happiness, and yet she won't leave me. There's only one
way
Then Valérie Seymour, who had always shunned tragedy like
the plague, flared out in something very like temper: 'Protec-
tion! Protection! I'm sick of the word. Let her do without it;
aren't you enough for her? Good heavens, you're worth twenty
Mary Llewellyns! Stephen, think it over before you decide -- it
seems mad to me. For God's sake keep the girl, and
happiness you can out of life.'
get what
No, I can't do that,' said Stephen dully.
Valérie got up: Being what you are, I suppose you can't -
you were made for a martyr! Very well, I agree'; she finished
abruptly, though of all the curious situations that I've ever been
in, this one beats the lot!'
That night Stephen wrote to Martin Hallam.
2
Two days later as she crossed the street to her house, Stephen
saw Martin in the shadow of the archway. He stepped out and
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
503
:
1
they faced each other on the pavement. He had kept his word;
it was just ten o'clock.
He said: 'I've come. Why did you send for me, Stephen?
She answered heavily: 'Because of Mary.'
And something in her face made him catch his breath, so that
the questions died on his lips: 'I'll do whatever you want,' he
murmured.
'It's so simple,' she told him, ' it's all perfectly simple. I want
you to wait just under this arch - just here where you can't be
seen from the house. I want you to wait until Mary needs you, as
I think she will . . . it may not be long
Can I count on
your being here if she needs you?
He nodded: Yes - yes!' He was utterly bewildered, scared
too by the curious look in her eyes; but he allowed her to pass
him and enter the courtyard.
3
SHE let herself into the house with her latchkey. The place seemed
full of an articulate silence that leapt out shouting from every
corner - a jibing, grimacing, vindictive silence. She brushed it
aside with a sweep of her hand, as though it were some sort of
physical presence.
But who was it who brushed that silence aside? Not Stephen
Gordon ... oh, no, surely not. . . Stephen Gordon was dead;
she had died last night: A l'heure de notre mort. . Many
people had spoken those prophetic words quite a short time ago
perhaps they had been thinking of Stephen Gordon.
Yet now some one was slowly climbing the stairs, then
pausing upon the landing to listen, then opening the door of
Mary's bedroom, then standing quite still and staring at
Mary. It was some one whom David knew and loved well; he
sprang forward with a sharp little bark of welcome. But
Mary shrank back as though she had been struck - Mary pale
and red-eyed from sleeplessness - or was it because of excessive
weeping?
.
-
504
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
When she spoke her voice sounded unfamiliar: Where were
you last night?
'With Valérie Seymour. I thought you'd know somehow
It's better to be frank . . . we both hate lies
. . .
•
Came that queer voice again: 'Good God - and I've tried so
hard not to believe it! Tell me you're lying to me now; say it,
Stephen!'
Stephen - then she wasn't dead after all; or was she? But now
Mary was clinging - clinging.
Stephen, I can't believe this thing - Valérie! Is that why you
always repulse me . . . why you never want to come near me
these days? Stephen, answer me; are you her lover? Say some-
thing, for Christ's sake! Don't stand there dumb . .
A mist closing down, a thick black mist. Some one pushing
the girl away, without speaking. Mary's queer voice coming out
of the gloom, muffled by the folds of that thick black mist, only a
word here and there getting through: All my life I've given
'
you've killed. . . I loved you Cruel, oh, cruel! You're
unspeakably cruel . . .' Then the sound of rough and pitiful
sobbing.
No, assuredly this was not Stephen Gordon who stood there
unmoved by such pitiful sobbing. But what was the figure doing
in the mist? It was moving about, distractedly, wildly. All the
while it sobbed it was moving about: 'I'm going
Going? But where could it go? Somewhere out of the
mist, somewhere into the light? Who was it that had said
wait, what were the words? To give light to them that sit in
darkness . . .
No one was moving about any more - there was only
only a dog,
a dog called David. Something had to be done. Go into the bed-
room, Stephen Gordon's bedroom that faced on the courtyard
just a few short steps and then the window. A girl, hatless,
with the sun falling full on her hair . . . she was almost run-
ning she stumbled a little. But now there were two people
down in the courtyard - a man had his hands on the girl's bowed
shoulders. He questioned her, yes, that was it, he questioned; and
•
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
505
the girl was telling him why she was there, why she had fled from
that thick, awful darkness. He was looking at the house, in-
credulous, amazed; hesitating as though he were coming in; but
the girl went on and the man turned to follow . . . They were
side by side, he was gripping her arm . . . They were gone; they
had passed out under the archway.
Then all in a moment the stillness was shattered: 'Mary,
come back! Come back to me, Mary!'
David crouched and trembled. He had crawled to the bed,
and he lay there watching with his eyes of amber; trembling be-
cause such an anguish as this struck across him like the lash of a
whip, and what could he do, the poor beast, in his dumbness?
She turned and saw him, but only for a moment, for now
the room seemed to be thronging with people. Who were they,
these strangers with the miserable eyes? And yet, were they all
strangers? Surely that was Wanda? And some one with a neat
little hole in her side - Jamie clasping Barbara by the hand; Bar-
bara with the white flowers of death on her bosom. Oh, but they
were many, these unbidden guests, and they called very softly at
first and then louder. They were calling her by name, saying:
،
Stephen, Stephen!' The quick, the dead, and the yet unborn
all calling her, softly at first and then louder. Aye, and those lost
and terrible brothers from Alec's, they were here, and they also
were calling: Stephen, Stephen, speak with your God and ask
Him why He has left us forsaken!' She could see their marred
and reproachful faces with the haunted, melancholy eyes of the
invert - eyes that had looked too long on a world that lacked all
pity and all understanding: 'Stephen, Stephen, speak with your
God and ask Him why He has left us forsaken!' And these ter-
rible ones started pointing at her with their shaking, white-
skinned, effeminate fingers: You and your kind have stolen our
birthright; you have taken our strength and have given us your
weakness!' They were pointing at her with white, shaking
fingers.
S
Rockets of pain, burning rockets of pain - their pain, her
pain, all welded together into one great consuming agony. Rockets
506
THE WELL OF LONELINESS
of pain that shot up and burst, dropping scorching tears of fire
on the spirit - her pain, their pain all the misery at Alec's.
And the press and the clamour of those countless others - they
fought, they trampled, they were getting her under. In their mad-
ness to become articulate through her, they were tearing her to
pieces, getting her under. They were everywhere now, cutting off
her retreat; neither bolts nor bars would avail to save her. The
walls fell down and crumbled before them; at the cry of their
suffering the walls fell and crumbled: 'We are coming, Stephen
we are still coming on, and our name is legion – you dare not
disown us!' She raised her arms, trying to ward them off, but
they closed in and in: ' You dare not disown us!'
They possessed her. Her barren womb became fruitful – it
ached with its fearful and sterile burden. It ached with the fierce
yet helpless children who would clamour in vain for their right
to salvation. They would turn first to God, and then to the world,
and then to her. They would cry out accusing: 'We have asked
for bread; will you give us a stone? Answer us: will you give us a
stone? You, God, in Whom we, the outcast, believe; you, world,
into which we are pitilessly born; you, Stephen, who have drained
our cup to the dregs – we have asked for bread; will you give us
a stone?'
M
And now there was only one voice, one demand; her own
voice into which those millions had entered. A voice like the aw-
ful, deep rolling of thunder; a demand like the gathering together
of great waters. A terrifying voice that made her ears throb, that
made her brain throb, that shook her very entrails, until she must
stagger and all but fall beneath this appalling burden of sound
that strangled her in its will to be uttered.
God,' she gasped, ' we believe; we have told You we believe
We have not denied You, then rise up and defend us. Ac-
knowledge us, oh God, before the whole world. Give us also the
right to our existence!'
C
THE END

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