The Well of Loneliness Read online

  ‘Whoa 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 woeful lack of molars. He stared at Stephen with whitish-blue eyes that saw nothing, and when she touched him he grunted—a discourteous 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-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 himself—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 friendship. 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!” ’

  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 currycombs 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.

  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 awful!’ 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 sideways as he walked and whispered and kissed in the lanes. And because they were old yet undivided, her heart ached; not for them but rather for Stephen. Her youth seemed a 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 walking on lamplight, while Williams, bare headed, 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 TWENTY-THREE

  1

  ANGELA 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 birthday. 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 Peacocks, 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 remarked, 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 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.

  ‘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 bookcase. 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 uncontrollable anger.

  3

  RIGHT up to the moment of Angela’s return that hot anger supported 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 Morton. 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.

  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 crêpe de Chine nightgowns, ma’am? Or ought they to go to the cleaners?’

  Then, somehow, they all fell silent.

  To break this suggestive and awkward silence, Stephen inquired 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.

  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 discussing 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 my affairs with our neighbours, was it?’

  ‘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 passion. 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 you. It’s all wrong, 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.

  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.

  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.’

  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 another. 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—sometimes I think you’re almost too kind.’

  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 confession, 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: