The Well of Loneliness (23 page)

He wanted to talk about Frau Karl Druschki: ‘She’s a beauty! There’s something so wonderfully cool—as you say, it’s the whiteness—’ 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 everything 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 roses.’

‘Yes, why not? We’ve got quite a number at Morton. Why don’t you come over tomorrow 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 understand 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 murmured, 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 her; 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?’

‘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.

That 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 Angela 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.’

‘Well—thank you.’

She would wander away, leaving the porter to think to himself: ‘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 evening 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 letters 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 seagull.

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, telling 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 elaborate description of the castle, together with the ancestral tree of the Peacocks. Then: ‘Roger has talked quite a lot about you; he says 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 mollified 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 complete—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, together 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 impulse 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! Angela delivered over, betrayed—the unthinkable folly, the madness 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 seagulls 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 upright and honourable things that had served many simple and honourable people. Then all that to some might appear uninspiring, 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.’

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 suddenly Stephen felt shamelessly childish, and she spoke as a child who wants comforting.

‘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 appeased—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 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 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 separate 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.