Chapter IX: Part 9

Mr. Luce was delivering one of Newman’s Parochial Sermons in his own halting words, and though Gervase always made it a point of discipline to listen to sermons, however much they bored him, he found that this morning attention was almost impossible. Stella seemed to fix his thoughts so that he could not drag them from her. He knew that his attitude towards her was changing—it was becoming more disturbed, more desperate. His heart must have been ready for this change, for he did not think that Jenny’s words would have had power to work it of themselves. He wondered where it was leading him ... he wondered if it had anything to do with this feeling as of a ditch dug across his life at the end of the year.... But probably his leaving the works after Christmas would account for that. Well, anyhow, he would have to put an end to the present state of affairs—they were the result of mere selfishness and cowardice on his part. Perhaps he ought to go away—leave Stella altogether, since she did not love him and his heart was unquiet because of her ... he would have his chance to go away in January—right away.... But he could not—he could never bear to live away from her. And he had no certain knowledge that she did not love him—perhaps she did—perhaps Jenny was right after all.... “In the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

§ 22

After Mass, Gervase and the Vicar walked together to Hollingrove.

“I’ve heard from Thunders Abbey,” said Gervase to Luce, “and there’s a vacancy for the eighteenth. So I shall go.”

“I wonder how you’ll like it.”

“So do I. But I’m glad I’m going. They’re full up really, but Father Lawrence said I could sleep at the farm.”

“Then you’ll have to get up early. It’s fifteen minutes’ walk from the Abbey, and Mass is at half-past six and of obligation.”

“Never mind—I’m used to hardships, though I know you think I wallow in unseemly luxuries. But I’m getting keen on this, Father. Whether I like it or not, I know it will be exciting.”

“Exciting! That’s a nice thing to expect of a retreat.”

“Well, religion generally is exciting, isn’t it, so the more I get the more exciting it’s likely to be.”

“Um—too exciting perhaps.”

“What do you mean, Father?”

But Luce would not tell him, and in another minute they were at Dr. Mount’s cottage, where they always had mid-day dinner on Sundays. It was cooked by Stella herself, helped by the little maid, so she did not appear till it was ready. She had changed her frock and bore no traces of her labours beyond a face heated by the fire. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright—she looked absurdly young. How old was she, Gervase wondered? Twenty-eight or twenty-nine? But she did not look a bit over twenty. She did not look as old as he did. It must be her vitality which kept her young like this—her vitality ... and the way she did her hair. He smiled.

“What are you smiling at, Gervase?”

“At you, Stella.”

“And why at me?”

“Because you look so absurdly young. And I’ve been very knowing, and have decided that it’s the way you do your hair.”

“Really, Gervase, you’re not at all gallant. Surely I look young because I am young. If you think different you oughtn’t to say so.”

“This is a poor beginning for your career as a ladies’ man,” said Dr. Mount.

“Just as well he should start it on me,” said Stella—“then he’ll know the technique better by the time it really matters.”

Her words stabbed Gervase—they showed him how he stood with her. She did not take him seriously—or if she did, she was trying to show him that it was all no use, that he must give up thinking of her. The result was that he thought of her with concentrated anxiety for the rest of the meal, his thoughts making him strangely silent.

He was not wanted at Catechism that afternoon, so he could spend it with her, and for the first time he found the privilege unwelcome. He remembered other Sunday afternoons when he had lain blissfully slack in one of the armchairs, while Stella curled herself up in the other with a book or some sewing. They had not talked consecutively, but just exchanged a few words now and then when the processes of their minds demanded it—it had all been heavenly and comfortable and serene.... He found himself longing almost angrily to be back in his old attitude of contented hopelessness. But he knew that he could never go back, though he did not exactly know why. What had happened that he could no longer find his peace in her unrewarded service? Had he suddenly grown up and become dependent on realities—no longer to be comforted with dreams or to taste the sweet sadness of youth?

He had half a mind to go for a walk this afternoon and leave her—he knew that she would not try to make him stay. But, in spite of all, he hankered after her company; also there was now growing up in him a new desire to come to grips with her, to know exactly where he stood—whether, though she did not want his love she still wanted his friendship, or whether she would like him to go away. So when Father Luce went off to his Catechism, and the doctor to see a couple of patients at Horns Cross, Gervase stayed behind in the sitting-room where they had had their coffee, and asked Stella, according to custom, if she would mind his pipe.

“You know, Gervase, you’re always allowed to smoke your pipe if I’m allowed to mend my stockings. Neither is exactly correct behaviour in a drawing-room, but if you dispense me from the rules of feminine good-breeding, I’ll dispense you from the rules of masculine etiquette.”

“Thank you.”

He took out his pipe, and she fetched her work-basket from the back of the sofa. Nothing could have looked more domestic than the two of them sitting each side of the fire, he smoking, she darning, both silent. But the unreality of it vexed him this afternoon. He could not play the childish game he had sometimes played, of pretending they were married, and being content. “When I became a man I put away childish things....” He wanted to have the power to go over to her as she sat absorbed in her work, turn up her face and kiss her—or else pick her off the chair and set her on his knee....

“Stella,” he said gruffly.

“Well?”

“I want to speak to you.”

“What is it?”

“Well ... our friendship isn’t the same as it used to be.”

He would be furious if she contradicted him—or if she said ‘Oh, really? I haven’t noticed anything.’ But she said at once—

“I know it isn’t.”

“And what do you put that down to?”

She hedged for the first time.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re trying to keep me at a distance.”

She did not speak, but he saw the colour burning on the face that she bent hurriedly over her work.

He edged his chair closer, and repeated—

“Yes, you are, Stella—trying to keep me off.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be sorry; but I wish you’d tell me why you’re doing it. It isn’t that you’ve only just discovered that I love you—you’ve always known that.”

“I’m wasting your time, Gervase. I shouldn’t keep you dangling after me.”

“You mean that I’ve hung about too long?”

“Oh, no....” She was obviously distressed.

“Stella, I’ve loved you for years, and you know it—you’ve always known it. But I’ve never asked anything of you or expected anything. All I’ve wanted has been to see you and talk to you and do anything for you that I could. It hasn’t done me any harm. I’m only just old enough to marry, and I have no means.... And up till a little while ago I was content. Then you changed, and seemed to be trying to put me off—it hurt me, Stella, because I couldn’t think why....”

“Oh, I can’t bear to hurt you.” To his surprise he saw that her tears were falling. She covered her face.

“Stella, my little Stella.”

By leaning forward he could put his hand on her knee. It was the first caress that he had ever given her, and the unbearable sweetness of it made him shiver. He let his hand lie for a few moments on her warm knee, and after a time she put her own over it.

“Gervase, I’m so sorry—I’m afraid I’ve treated you badly. I let you love me—you were so young at first, and I saw it made you happy, and I thought it would pass over. Then people began to talk, as they always do, and I took no notice—it seemed impossible, me being so much older than you—until I found that ... I mean, one day I met Peter, and he really thought we were engaged....”

It was not her words so much as the burst of bitter weeping that followed them which showed Gervase the real state of her heart. She still loved Peter.

“It’s nothing to regret, dear,” he said hurriedly—“you were perfectly right. And now I understand....”

“But it’s wrong, Gervase, it’s wrong....” By some instinct she seemed to have discovered that he guessed her secret ... “it’s wrong; but oh, I can’t help it! I wish I could. It seems dreadful not to be able to help it after all these years.”

She had gripped his hand in both hers—her body was stiff and trembling.

“Stella, darling, don’t be so upset. There’s nothing wrong in loving—how could there be? Surely you know that.”

“Yes I do. It’s not the loving that’s wrong, but letting my whole life be hung up by it. Letting it absorb me so that I don’t notice other men, so that I can’t bear the thought of marrying anyone else—so that I treat you badly.”

“You haven’t treated me badly, my dear. Get that out of your head at once.”

“I have—because I’ve spoilt our friendship. I couldn’t go on with it when I knew....”

“It’s high time our friendship was spoilt, Stella. It was turning into a silly form of self-indulgence on my side, and it ought to be put an end to. Hang it all! why should I get you talked about?—apart from other considerations. You’ve done me good by withdrawing yourself, because you’ve killed my calf-love. For the last few weeks I’ve loved you as a man ought—I’ve known a man’s love, though it’s been in vain....”

“Oh, Gervase....”

“Don’t think any more about me, dear; you’ve done me nothing but good.”

She had hidden her face in the arm of the chair, and he suddenly saw that he must leave her. Since she did not love him, his own love was not enough to make him less of an intruder. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask her—answers he longed to know. But he must not. He rose and touched her shoulder.

“I’m going, my dear. It’s nearly time for Adoration. I shan’t come back next Sunday—and later, next year, I’ll be going away ... don’t fret ... it’ll all be quite easy.”

It wasn’t easy now. She held out one hand without lifting her head, and for a moment they held each other’s hands in a fierce clasp of farewell. He felt her hot, moist palm burning against his, then dropped it quickly and went out.

So that was the end. He had finished it. But Stella herself had taught him that one did not so easily finish love. He supposed that he would go on loving her as she had gone on loving Peter.

It was a quarter to four as he went into church. Quietly and methodically he lit the candles for Devotions, and watched the slight congregation assemble in the drowsy warmth of the September afternoon. He could not feel acutely—he could not even turn in his sorrow to the Sacred Victim on the Altar, whose adoration brought the children’s service to a close.

“O Sacred Victim, opening wide
The gate of heaven to men below ...”

The well-known words rose out of the shadows of the aisles behind him. They bruised his heart with their familiar sweetness.

“Our foes press round on every side,
Thine aid supply, thy strength bestow.”

The candles that jigged in the small draughts of the sanctuary blurred into a cloud of rising incense, and then more thickly into a cloud of unshed tears. He fought them back, ashamed. He was beginning to feel again, and he would rather not feel—like this. It was intolerable, this appeal to his bruised emotion—it was like compelling him to use a wounded limb. He felt as if he could not bear any more of the wan, lilting music, the faint, sweet voices of the faithful, the perfumed cloud that rose like smoke before the altar and then hung among the gilding and shadows of the chancel roof. And now the virile tenor of the Priest seemed to bring a definitely sexual element into the tender dream.... What was this he was saying about love?...

“O God, who has prepared for them that _love_ thee, such good things as pass man’s understanding, pour into our hearts such _love_ towards thee, that we, _loving_ thee above all things....”

§ 23

The clear pale sunlight of late October glittered on the River Tillingham, and seemed to be all light. No warmth was in the evening ray, and Jenny’s woollen scarf was muffled to her throat as she came to the Mocksteeple. From far off she had seen the tall figure waiting beside the kiln. She wondered if he would hear her footsteps in the grass, or whether till she had called his name he would stand looking away towards where the light was thickening at the river’s mouth.

Her feet made a sucking noise in the ground which was spongy with autumn rains. He turned towards her and immediately held out his arms.

“My lovely....”

She was enfolded.

His warmth and strength made her think of the earth, and there was a faint scent of earth about him as she hid her face on his breast. There was also that smell of the clean straw of stables which she had noticed when she first met him. She rubbed her cheek childishly and fondly against the roughness of his coat then lifted her mouth for his slow, hard kisses.... “My lovely—oh, my lovely.”

“How long can you stay?” he asked her a few minutes later, when they had huddled down together under the wall of the Mocksteeple, from which came a faint radiation of warmth, as the tar gave out the heat it had absorbed during the day.

“Not very long, I’m afraid, Benjie. There are people coming to dinner tonight, and I’ll have to be back in good time. But we must fix about Monday. I’ve already told them I’m going up to town for a day’s shopping, and I’ve written to a friend to choose me a couple of frocks at Debenham’s and send them down—to make the lie hold water. I’m afraid I’m getting quite a resourceful liar.”

“But you _are_ going shopping, dear.”

“Yes, but I can’t tell them it’s furniture, stupid. Oh, Ben, won’t it be wildly exciting choosing things for Fourhouses! But we mustn’t be extravagant, and you’ve got some lovely bits already.”

“I want you to have the whole house to please you—nothing in it that you don’t like.”

“I like everything except the parlour, and those iron bedsteads they have upstairs. We’ll want some chests too, to use instead of the washstands. Then Fourhouses will be perfect inside and out.”

“You have real taste—that’s what you have,” he said admiringly.

“It’s so dear of you to give me what I want.”

“It’s my wedding-present to you, sweetheart; and Mother and the girls are giving you sheets and table linen, so reckon we’ll be well set up in our housekeeping.”

She drowsed against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his knees. He put his mouth to her ear.

“My sweet,” he murmured—“my little sweet—when is it going to be?”

“I’ve told you, Ben. At the beginning of January.”

“That’s your faithful word?”

“My faithful word.”

“I’m glad—for oh, my dearest, it seems I’ve waited long enough.”

“It won’t seem so very long now—and, Ben, I’ve made up my mind about one thing. I’m not going to tell the family till it’s all over.”

“You’re not!”

“No—because if I told them before it happened they’d try to stop it; and though they couldn’t stop it, it would be a nuisance having them try.”

“Does your brother agree with this?”

“It was he that suggested it.”

“Well, I’ve a great respect for that brother of yours. But, sweetheart, it seems so dreadful, us marrying on the quiet, when I’m so proud of you and ud like to hold you before all the world.”

“You shall hold me before all the world—after our marriage. But there’s no good having a row with the parents, especially as they’re old. It’ll be bad enough for them anyhow, but I think they’ll take it easier if they know it’s too late to do anything.”

He acquiesced, as he usually did, for he respected her judgment, and his natural dignity taught him to ignore this contempt of Alard for Godfrey. The rest of their short time together must not be spoiled by discussion. Once more he drew her close, and his kisses moved slowly from her forehead to her eyes, from her eyes to her cheeks, then at last to her mouth. His love-making gave her the thrill of a new experience, for she knew what a discovery and a wonder it was to him. It was not stale with repetition, distressed with comparison, as it was to so many men—as it was to herself. She felt a stab of remorse, a regret that she too was not making this adventure for the first time. She was younger than he, and yet beside him she felt shabby, soiled.... She strained him to her heart in an agony of tender possession. Oh, she would make his adventure worth while—he should not be disappointed in experience. They would explore the inmost heart of love together.

§ 24

Jenny was glad that the numbers in the drawing-room made it unnecessary for her to sit down to cards. She and Rose Alard had both cut out, and as Rose liked to sit and watch the play, Jenny felt she had an excuse to mutter something about “having one or two things to see to,” and escape from the room. She wanted to be alone if only for half an hour, just to savour again in memory the comfort of her lover’s arms, his tender breathing, the warmth of his kisses and the darkness of his embrace. She shut her eyes and heard him say “My lovely ... oh, my lovely!”

A full moon was spilling her light over the garden, and instinctively Jenny turned out of doors. She had put on her fur coat, and the still, moon-dazzled night was many degrees from frost. In the garden she would be sure of solitude, and at the same time would not be without the response of nature, so necessary to her mood. “One deep calleth another,” and her heart in its new depth of rapture called to the moon and trees and grass, and received from them an answer which those self-absorbed human beings, crowded over cards, could never give.

She walked to and fro on the wide path beside the tennis lawn then turned into the darkness of the shrubbery, threading her way through moon-spattered arbutus and laurel till she came to a little garden-house which had been built in the reign of Queen Anne. It had the characteristics of its age—solid brick walls, high deepset windows, and a white pediment which now gleamed like silver in the light of the moon. It had been built by the non-juring Gervase Alard, and here he had studied after his deprivation of the Vicarage of Leasan, and written queer crabbed books on a revised liturgy and on reunion with the Eastern Church. No one ever worked in it now, and it contained nothing but a bench and a few dilapidated garden chairs—it would hold only just enough warmth for her to sit down and rest.

To her surprise she found it was not empty; a movement startled her as she crossed the threshold, and the next moment she discovered Gervase, leaning back in one of the chairs. He was just a blot of shadow in the deeper darkness, except where his face, hands and shirt front caught the moonshine in ghostly patches of white.

“Hullo, Gervase—I’d no notion you’d come here.”

He had left the drawing-room before coffee was brought in.

“I’ve been strolling about and got rather cold.”

“Same here. Is there a whole chair beside you?”

At first she had been sorry to find him and had meant to go away, but now she realised that he was the only person whose company would not be loss.

“If not, there’s one under me, and you shall have that.... Ah, here’s something luxurious with rockers. Probably you and I are mad, my dear, to be sitting here. But I felt I simply must run away from the party.”

“So did I.”

She sat down beside him. In spite of the ghastly moonlight that poured over his face, he looked well—far less haggard than he had seemed in the kinder light a month ago. It struck her that he had looked better ever since his holiday, and his parting from Stella Mount, which he had told her of a few days after it happened. He had had a bad time, she knew, but he seemed to have come through it, and to have found a new kind of settlement. As she looked at him more closely in the revealing light, she saw that his mouth was perhaps a little too set, and that there were lines between nose and chin which she had not noticed before. He looked happy, but he also looked older.

“And how goes it, my dear?” he asked.

“Well, Gervase—extremely well.”

She was too shy of intimate things to enquire how it went with him.

“I saw Ben this afternoon,” she continued, “and I told him what you and I thought about not telling the parents till afterwards.”

“And did he agree?”

“Yes, he agreed. I really think he’s been wonderful about it all—when you consider how he must feel....”

“He’s got some sense of proportion—he’s not going to let his love be spoilt by family pride. Jenny, if I’ve learnt anything in these first years of my grown-up life, it is that love must come before everything else.”

She was surprised at this from him.

“You would put it before religion?”

“Religion is the fulfilment of love.”

She repelled the awkward feelings which invariably oppressed her at the mention of such things. She wanted to know more of this young brother of hers, of the conflicts in which he triumphed mysteriously.

“Gervase, I wish I understood you better. I can’t make out how it is that you, who’re so modern and even revolutionary in everything else, should be so reactionary in your religion. Why do you follow tradition there, when you despise it in other things.”

“Because it’s a tradition which stands fast when all the others are tumbling down. It’s not tradition that I’m out against, but all the feeble shams and conventions that can’t stand when they’re shaken.”

“But does religion stand? I thought it was coming down like everything else.”

“Some kinds are. Because they’re built on passing ideas instead of on unchanging instincts. But Catholic Christianity stands fast because it belongs to an order of things which doesn’t change. It’s made of the same stuff as our hearts. It’s the supernatural satisfaction of all our natural instincts. It doesn’t deal with abstractions, but with everyday life. The sacraments are all common things—food, drink, marriage, birth and death. Its highest act of worship is a meal—its most sacred figures are a dying man, and a mother nursing her child. It’s traditional in the sense that nature and life are traditional....”

It was many months since she had heard him talk like this. It reminded her of the old days when they were both at school, and he had brought her all his ideas on men and things, all his latest enthusiasms and discoveries.

“Jenny,” he continued, “I believe that we’ve come to the end of false traditions—to the ‘removing of those things which are shaken, that those things which cannot be shaken may remain.’”

“Is there anything besides religion which can’t be shaken?”

“Yes—my dear, the earth. The land will still be there though the Squires go, just as the faith will still be there though the Parsons go. The Parson and the Squire will go, and their places will be taken by the Yeoman and the Priest who were there before them.”

“Go back to the Middle Ages?”

“Lord, no! Too much has happened since then. We’ve got industry and machinery and science—we can’t go back to sack and maypoles. What I mean is that, instead of the country being divided among a few big landlords who don’t and can’t farm their own land, it will be divided into a lot of small farms of manageable size. Instead of each country parish being in the charge of a small country gentleman who has to keep up state on an income of two hundred a year, and is cut off from his parishioners by his social position and the iron gates of his parsonage, there’ll be a humble servant living among them as one of themselves, set above them only by his vocation. It’ll be a democracy which will have the best of aristocracy kept alive in it. The Parson and the Squire don’t belong to any true aristocracy—they’re Hanoverian relics—and they’re going, and I’m glad.”

“Yes, I think they’re going all right, but I can’t feel so glad as you, because I’m not so sure as to who will take their place. The yeoman isn’t the only alternative to the squire—there’s also the small-holder and the garden-city prospector. As for the parson—I don’t know much about church affairs, but I should think he’s just as likely to lose the spiritual side of himself as the material, and we’ll have men that aren’t much better than relieving officers or heads of recreation clubs.”

“Don’t try and burst my dream, Jenny. It’s a very good sort of dream, and I like to think it will come true. And I know it will come true in a sense, though possibly in a sense which will be nonsense to most people. That’s a way some of the best dreams have.”

He was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Perhaps he was thinking of another Gervase Alard, who had long ago sat where he sat, and dreamed a dream which had not come true.

“But don’t let’s have any more of me and my dreams,” he said after a while. “Talk to me about Ben. We started talking about him, you know, and then drifted off into Utopia. I should think that was a good sign.”

“I’m meeting him in London on Monday to do some shopping.”

“What are you going to buy?”

“Furniture. I want to pick up one or two really nice old pieces for Fourhouses. They’re to be his wedding-present to me. First of all we’ll go to Duke Street, and then to Puttick and Simpson’s in the afternoon.”

“Are you going to refurnish the house?”

“No, only get rid of one or two abominations. I had thought of doing up the Best Parlour, but now I’ve decided to let that stand. If I’m to be a farmer’s wife I must get used to the Family Bible and aspidistras and wool mats.”

“I think you’re wise. It’s just as well not to try to alter more of his life than you can help.”

“I don’t want to alter his life. I’m quite persuaded that his life is better than mine. And as for him not having our taste, or rather a different kind of bad taste from what we’ve got—it doesn’t matter. I’ve made up my mind I must take Ben as he comes and as a whole, and not try to ignore or alter bits of him. I’m going to do the thing properly—make his friends my friends, pour out tea for the old ladies of Icklesham, ask the farmers who call round on business to stay to dinner or supper, go to see them at their farms and make friends with their wives. I know I can do it if only I do it thoroughly and don’t make any reservations. Of course I’ll go on being friends with our set if they’ll let me, but if they won’t, it’s they who’ll have to go and not the others. Gervase, I’m sick of Jenny Alard, and I’m thankful that she’s going to die early next year, and a new creature called Jenny Godfrey take her place.”

“My dear, you’re going to be very happy.”

“I know I am. I’m going to be the only happy Alard.”

“The only one?”

“Yes—look at the others. There’s Doris, a dreary middle-aged spinster, trodden on by both the parents, and always regretting the lovers she turned down because they weren’t good enough for the family. There’s Mary, living alone in private hotels and spending all her money on clothes; there’s Peter, who’s married a rich girl who’s too clever for him, and who—worst of all—thinks he’s happy and has become conventional. No—I can’t help it—I pity them all.”

“And what about me, Jenny? You’ve left me out. Do you pity me?”

She had ignored him deliberately—perhaps because she did not quite know where to place him.

“O Gervase, I hope you’ll be happy—I’m sure you will, because you’re different from the rest.”

“Yes, I’m sure too. I’m going to be happy—as happy as you. I don’t quite know how”—and he gave her a wry smile—“but I know that I shall be.”

_PART IV_
STARVECROW

§ 1

“Father,” said Stella Mount—“I’m afraid I must go away again.”

“Go away, child? Why?”

“I—I can’t fall out of love with Peter.”

“But I thought you’d fallen out of love with him long ago.”

“Yes—I thought so too. But I can’t have done it really, or if I did I must have fallen in again. I’m frightfully sorry about it ... leaving you a second time, just because I’m not strong-minded enough to.... But it’s no use.... I can’t help....”

“Don’t worry, dear. If you’re unhappy you shall certainly go away. But tell me what’s happened. How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Ever since I knew Peter still cared.”

“Peter!—he hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”

“Oh, no—not a word. But I could see—I could see he was jealous of Gervase.”

“How could he possibly be jealous of Gervase?”

“He was. I met him one day in Icklesham street, and he congratulated me ... he said someone had told him Gervase and I were engaged....”

“The idea!—a boy six years younger than yourself!”

“Yes, I know. I never took him seriously—that was my mistake. Peter was ever so worked up about it, and when I told him it wasn’t true he seemed tremendously relieved. And every time I’ve met him since his manner’s been different. I can’t describe it, but he’s been sort of shy and hungry—or else restless and a bit irritable; and for a long time I could see he was still jealous—and it worried me; I felt I couldn’t bear doing anything Peter didn’t like, and I was wild at people talking, and upsetting him, so I pushed off poor Gervase and became cold and unfriendly.”

“Is that why he’s given up coming here on Sundays?”

“No—not exactly. We had rather a scene when he last came, just before his holiday, and he said he wouldn’t come back. You see he cares, Father—he cares dreadfully. I’m ever so sick with myself for not having realised it. I was so wrapped up in Peter.... I thought it was only a rave, like what the Fawcett boy had—but now I’m sure he really cares, and it must be terrible for him. That’s why I want to go away, for I’ll never be able to care for anyone else while I feel for Peter as I do.”

“But, my dear, it’s just as well you shouldn’t fall in love with Gervase. He’s a nice boy, but he’s much too young.”

“Yes, I know—it isn’t that. It’s being sure that however much he was the right age I couldn’t have cared—not because of anything lacking in him—but because of what’s lacking in me ... because of all that I’ve given to Peter, and that Peter can’t take.... Oh, Father, I’ve made some discoveries since Gervase went. I believe I refused Tom Barlow because of Peter. The reason I’m single now is because for years I’ve been in love with a man I can’t have. And that’s wrong—I know it’s wrong. It sounds ‘romantic’ and ‘faithful’ and all that—but it isn’t really—it’s wrong. Not because Peter’s a married man, but because I’m an unmarried woman. He’s keeping me unmarried, and I ought to get married—I don’t like Spinsters—and I know I was meant to be married.”

“So do I; and I’m sure that one day you will be.”

“But I can’t fall in love with anyone while I love Peter ... that’s why I must go away. I ought to go somewhere really far, out of the country perhaps. I feel dreadful leaving you, daddy, but I know I must go. It’s even more necessary than it was the first time. And there’s no good saying I could help Peter if I stayed—I don’t help him—I can see that I only make him unhappy; I’m not cold enough to be able to help him. A calm strong dignified woman might be able to help him, but I’m not that sort. I want his love, his kisses, his arms round me.... I want to give.... O Father, Father....”

She sobbed breathlessly, her face hidden in the back of her chair. Dr. Mount stood beside her in silence; then he touched her gently and said—

“Don’t cry like that my dear—don’t—I can’t bear it. You shall go away—we’ll both go away. I’ve been in this place twenty years, and it’s time I moved on.”

“But you don’t want to go, and you mustn’t. You’re happy here, and I’d never forgive myself if you left because of me.”

“I’d like to see a bit more of the world before I retire. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought of a move, and if you want to go away, that settles it. I might get a colonial practice....”

Stella thought of some far away country with flat roofs and dust and a devouring sun, she thought of hundreds of miles of forest and desert and ocean lying between her and Peter, and her tears were suddenly dried up as with the hot breath of that far land. Dry sobs tore her throat, as she clutched the back of the chair. She pushed her father away—

“Go, dear—don’t stay—when I’m like this.”

He understood her well enough to go.

For a few seconds she sobbed on, then checked herself, and perfunctorily wiped her eyes. The four o’clock sun of early November was pouring into the room, showing all its dear faded homeliness, giving life to the memories that filled it. Long ago Peter had sat in that chair—she had sat on the arm ... she seemed to feel his warm hand on her cheek as he held her head down to his shoulder. O Peter, Peter—why had he left her when he loved her so?... Oh, yes, she knew he had treated her badly, and had only himself to blame. But that didn’t make her love him less. She felt now that she had been in love with him the whole time—all along—all through and since their parting. All the time that she thought she was indifferent, and was happy in her busy life—driving the car, seeing her friends, talking and writing to Gervase, cooking and sewing and going to church, wearing pretty frocks at the winter dances and summer garden-parties—all that time her love for Peter was still alive, growing and feeding itself with her life. It had not died and been buried as she had thought but had entered a second time into its mother’s womb to be born. She had carried it secretly, as a mother carries her child in her womb, nourishing it with her life, and now it was born—born again—with all the strength of the twice-born.

§ 2

It would be difficult to say how the rumour got abroad in Vinehall and Leasan that the Mounts were going away. It may have been servants’ gossip, or the talk of some doctor come down to view the practice. But, whatever the source, the story was in both villages at the end of the month, and in the first week of December Rose Alard brought it to Starvecrow.

She had come to have tea with Vera, and Peter was there too. Vera was within three months of the heir, and displayed her condition with all the opulence of her race. Not even her purple velvet tea-gown could hide lines reminiscent of Sarah’s and Hannah’s exulting motherhood. Her very features seemed to have a more definitely Jewish cast—she was now no longer just a dark beauty, but a Hebrew beauty, heir of Rebecca and Rachel and Miriam and Jael. As Jenny had once said, one expected her to burst into a song about horses and chariots. She had for the time lost those intellectual and artistic interests which distinguished her from the other Alards. She no longer seemed to care about her book, for which she had so far been unable to find a publisher, but let it lie forgotten in a drawer, while she worked at baby clothes. Nevertheless she was inclined to be irritable and snap at Peter, and Peter himself seemed sullen and without patience. Rose watched him narrowly—“He’s afraid it’s going to be a girl.”

Aloud she said—

“Have you heard that the Mounts are leaving Vinehall?”

Her news caused all the commotion she could have wished.

“The Mounts leaving!”—“When?”—“Why?”—“Both of them?”

“Yes, both. I heard it at the Hursts; they seemed quite positive about it, and you know they’re patients.”

“But where are they going?” asked Vera.

“That I don’t know—yet. The Hursts said something about a colonial appointment.”

“I’m surprised, I must say. Dr. Mount’s getting old, and you’d think he’d want to stay on here till he retired—not start afresh in a new place at his age.”

“If you ask me, it’s Miss Stella’s doing. She’s lived here nearly all her life and hasn’t got a husband, so she thinks she’ll go and try somewhere else before it’s too late.”

“Then they’d certainly better go to the Colonies—there are no men left in England. But I’m sorry for Dr. Mount.”

“I suppose you know it’s all over between her and Gervase?”

“Oh, is it—at last?”

“Yes—he hasn’t been there since his holiday in September. He has his dinner on Sundays either at the Church Farm or alone with Mr. Luce.”

“Rose, how do you find out all these things?”

“The Wades told me this. They say she’s been looking awful.”

“Peter!” cried Vera irritably, as a small occasional table went to the ground.

“No harm done,” he mumbled, picking it up.

“But you’re so clumsy. You’re always knocking things over....” She checked herself suddenly, pleating angry folds in her gown.

Peter got up and went out.

“I’m glad he’s gone,” said Rose—“it’s much easier to talk without a man in the room. I really do feel sorry for Stella—losing her last chance of becoming Lady Alard.”

“You think it’s Gervase who’s cooled off, not she who’s turned him down?”

“Oh, she’d never do that. She’s much too keen on getting married.”

“Well, so I thought once. But I’m not so sure now. I used to think she was in love with Gervase, but now I believe she only kept him on as a blind.”

“To cover what?”

“Peter.”

“You mean....”

“That they’ve been in love with each other the whole time.”

“Vera!”

Excitement at the disclosure was mingled in Rose’s voice with disappointment that she had not been the one to make it.

“Yes,” continued her sister-in-law in a struggling voice—“they’ve always been in love—ever since he married me—ever since he gave her up. They’ve never been out of it—I know it now.”

“But I always thought it was all on her side.”

“Oh, no, it wasn’t. Peter was infatuated with her, for some strange reason—she doesn’t seem to me at all the sort of girl a man of his type would take to. Being simple himself, you’d think he’d like something more sophisticated.”

“But Stella is sophisticated—she’s artful. Look how she got Gervase to change his religion, and break his poor brother’s heart. I often think that it was Gervase’s religion which killed poor George, and Stella was responsible for that. She may have pretended to be in love with him just to get him over. You see she can be forgiven anything she does by just going to confession.”

“Well, she needs forgiveness now if she never did before. So it’s just as well she knows where to get it.”

“But, Vera, do you really think there’s anything—I mean anything wicked between them?”

“I don’t know what you call wicked, Rose, if keeping a man’s affections away from his wife who’s soon going to have her first child ... if that isn’t enough for you.... No, I don’t suppose he’s actually slept with her”—Vera liked shocking Rose—“She hasn’t got the passion or the spunk to go so far. But it’s bad enough to know Peter’s heart isn’t mine just when I need him most—to know he only married me just to put the estate on its legs, and now is bitterly regretting it”—and Vera began to cry.

“But how do you know he’s regretting it? He doesn’t go about with Stella, I can tell you that. I’d be sure to have heard if he did.”

“No, I daresay he doesn’t go about with her. I shouldn’t mind if he did, if only his manner was the same to me. But it isn’t—every time we’re together I can see he doesn’t love me any more. He may have for a bit—he did, I know—but Stella got him back, and now every time he looks at me I can see he’s regretting he ever married me. And if the baby’s a girl ... my only justification now is that I may be the mother of an heir ... if the baby’s a girl, I hope I’ll die. Oh, I tell you, Stella may be Lady Alard yet.”

She threw herself back among the cushions and sobbed unrestrainedly. Rose felt a thrill. She had always looked upon Vera as a superior being, remote from the commonplaces of existence in Leasan; and here she was behaving like any other jealous woman.

“Oh, I wish I’d never married,” sobbed Vera—“at least not this sort of marriage. My life’s dull—my husband’s dull—my only interests are bearing his children and watching his affair with another woman. I’m sick of the County families—they’ve got no brains, they’ve got no guts—I’d much better have married among my own people. They at least are alive.”

Rose was shocked. However, she valiantly suppressed her feelings, and patted the big olive shoulder which had shrugged abandonedly out of the purple wrappings.

“Don’t worry, dear,” she soothed—“you’re upset. I’m sure Peter’s all right. It’s often rather trying for men in times like these ...” she heaved on the edge of an indelicate remark ... “so they notice other women more. But I’m quite sure there’s nothing really wrong between him and Stella; because if there was,” she added triumphantly, “Stella wouldn’t be going away.”

“Oh, wouldn’t she!”

“No, of course not. I expect she’s going only because she knows now definitely that she’ll never get Peter back.”

“Nonsense.”

“It isn’t nonsense, dear. Don’t be so cross.”

“I’m sorry, Rose, but I’m ... anyhow Dr. Mount can’t go before I’m through, and that’s three months ahead. I’ve half a mind not to have him now. I feel sick of the whole family.”

“That would be very silly of you, Vera. Dr. Mount’s the best doctor round here for miles, and it would only be spiting yourself not to have him. After all he’s not responsible for Stella’s behaviour.”

“No, I suppose not. Oh, I daresay I’m an ass, going on like this.”

She sat up, looking more like the author of “Modern Rhymes.” Rose, who had always been a little afraid of her, now had the privileged thrill of those who behold the great in their cheaper moments.

“You’ll be all right, dear,” she said meaningly “in three months’ time.”

“All right, or utterly done in. O God, why can’t someone find out a way of deciding the sex of children? I’d give all I possess and a bit over to be sure this is going to be a boy. Not that I want a boy myself—I like girls much better—but I don’t want to see Peter go off his head or off with Stella Mount.”

“I don’t believe she’s got a single chance against you once you’re yourself again. Even now I could bet anything that it’s all on her side.”

“She’s got no chance against me as a woman, but as an Ancient Habit she can probably do a lot with a man like Peter. But I’m not going to worry about her any more—I’ve given way and made an utter fool of myself, and it’s done me good, as it always does. Rose, you promise not to say a word of this to anyone.”

“Of course I won’t. But I might try to get at the facts....”

“For God’s sake don’t. You’ll only make a mess.”

As she revived she was recovering some old contempt for her sister-in-law.

§ 3

The post arrived just as Stella was setting out with the car one day early the next month to meet her father in Ashford. He had been in Canterbury for a couple of days, attending a dinner and some meetings of the Medico-Chirurgical Society, and this afternoon she was to meet him at Ashford Station and drive him home. She was in plenty of time, so when she saw Gervase’s writing on the envelope handed to her, she went back into the house and opened it.

It was now three months since she had spoken to Gervase or heard anything directly from him. He still came over to Vinehall on Sundays and to certain early masses in the week, but he never called at Dr. Mount’s cottage, nor had she seen him out of church, not heard his voice except in dialogue with the Priest—“I will go unto the Altar of God” ... “Even unto the God of my joy and gladness”....

She wondered what he could have to say to her now. Perhaps he had recovered, and was coming back. She would be pleased, for she missed his company—also it would be good to have his letters when she was out in Canada.... But Stella knew what happened to people who “recovered” and “came back,” and reflected sadly that it would be her duty to discourage Gervase if he thought himself cured.

But the letter did not contain what she expected.

Conster Manor
Leasan.
Sussex.

“Jan. 2, 1922
“_My dear Stella_,

“I’m writing to tell you something rather funny which has happened to
me. I don’t mean that I’ve fallen out of love with you—I never shall
and don’t want to. But I’m going to do something with my love which I
never expected.

“You know that in September, I went ‘into retreat’ for four days at
Thunders Abbey. I was sure I’d hate it—and so I did in a way—but when
I’d got there I saw at once that it was going to be more important
than I’d thought. At first I thought it was just a dodge of Father
Luce’s for making me uncomfortable—you know he looks upon me as a
luxury-loving young aristocrat, in need of constant mortification. I
don’t know what it was exactly that made me change—it was partly, I
think, the silence, and partly, I know, the Divine Office. At the end
of my visit I knew that Office as the great work of prayer, and
Thunders Abbey as just part of that heart of prayer which keeps the
world alive. And, dear, I knew that my place was in that heart. I
can’t describe to you exactly what I felt—and I wouldn’t if I could.
But you’re a Catholic, so you won’t think I’m talking nonsense when I
say that I feel I belong there, or, in plainer language, that I have a
vocation. You don’t believe that vocations come only to priggish
maidens and pious youth, but much more often to ordinary healthy,
outdoor people like you and me. Of course I know that even you will
think (as Father Luce and the Father Superior have thought) that my
vocation may possibly be another name for disappointment in love. I’ve
thought it myself, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow it’s at last been
settled that I’m going to be allowed to try. As soon as I’ve finished
at Gillingham’s I shall go. You know the Community, of course. It’s an
order for work among the poor, and has houses in London, Birmingham
and Leeds. At Thunders Abbey there’s a big farm for drunkards,
epileptics, idiots, and other pleasant company. I’d be useful there,
as they’ve just started motor traction, but I don’t know where they’ll
send me. Of course I may come out again; but I don’t think so. One
knows a sure thing, Stella, and I never felt so sure about anything as
about this—and it’s all the more convincing, because I went in without
a thought of it. I expect you will be tremendously surprised, but I
know you won’t write trying to dissuade me, and telling me all the
good I could do outside by letting out taxis for hire and things like
that. You dear! I feel I owe everything to you—including this new
thing which is so joyful and so terrifying. For I’m frightened a
bit—I’m not just going in because I like it—I don’t know if I do. And
yet I’m happy.

“Don’t say a word to anyone, except your father. I must wait till the
time is ripe to break the news to my family, and then, I assure you,
the excitement will be intense. But I felt I must write and tell you
as soon as I knew definitely they’d let me come and try, because you
are at the bottom of it all—I don’t mean as a disappointment in love,
but as the friend who first showed me the beauty of this faith which
makes such demands on us. Stella, I’m glad you brought me to the faith
before I’d had time to waste much of myself. It’s lovely to think that
I can give Him all my grown-up life. I can never pay you back for what
you’ve done, but I can come nearest to it by taking my love for you
into this new life. My love for you isn’t going to die, but it’s going
to become a part of prayer.

“May I come and see you next Sunday? I thought I would write and tell
you about things first, for now you know you won’t feel there are any
embarrassments or regrets between us. Dear Stella, I think of you such
a lot, and I’m afraid you must still be unhappy. But I know that this
thing I am going to do will help you as much as me. Perhaps, too, some
day I shall be a Priest—though I haven’t thought about that yet—and
then I shall be able to help you more. Oh my dear, it isn’t every man
who’s given the power to do so much for the woman he loves. I bless
you, my dear, and send you in anticipation one of those free kisses we
shall all give one another in Paradise.”

“GERVASE.

P.S. There is a rumour that you are going away, but as I can’t trace
its succession back further than Rose, I pronounce it of doubtful
validity.

P.P.S. Dear, please burn this—it’s more than a love-letter.

P.P.P.S. I hope I haven’t written like a prig.”