THE MAN
By
Bram Stoker
author of “Dracula,” etc.
LONDON: ROBERT
HAYES, LTD.
Sixty-one
Fleet Street, e.c.
Copyright, 1897, in the United States of America, according
to Act of Congress, by Bram Stoker.
CONTENTS:
FORE-GLIMPSE. 3
CHAPTER
I—STEPHEN.. 9
CHAPTER
II—THE HEART OF A CHILD.. 14
CHAPTER
III—HAROLD.. 18
CHAPTER
IV—HAROLD AT NORMANSTAND.. 23
CHAPTER
V—THE CRYPT. 28
CHAPTER
VI—A VISIT TO OXFORD.. 35
CHAPTER
VII—THE NEED OF KNOWING.. 39
CHAPTER
VIII—THE T-CART. 49
CHAPTER
IX—IN THE SPRING.. 56
CHAPTER
X—THE RESOLVE. 60
CHAPTER
XI—THE MEETING.. 65
CHAPTER
XII—ON THE ROAD HOME. 77
CHAPTER
XIII—HAROLD’S RESOLVE. 86
CHAPTER
XIV—THE BEECH GROVE. 93
CHAPTER
XV—THE END OF THE MEETING.. 101
CHAPTER
XVI—A PRIVATE CONVERSATION.. 109
CHAPTER
XVII—A BUSINESS TRANSACTION.. 118
CHAPTER
XVIII—MORE BUSINESS. 123
CHAPTER
XIX—A LETTER.. 130
CHAPTER
XX—CONFIDENCES. 137
CHAPTER
XXI—THE DUTY OF COURTESY.. 144
CHAPTER
XXII—FIXING THE BOUNDS. 151
CHAPTER
XXIII—THE MAN.. 159
CHAPTER
XXIV—FROM THE DEEPS. 165
CHAPTER
XXV—A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD.. 169
CHAPTER
XXVI—A NOBLE OFFER.. 173
CHAPTER
XXVII—AGE’S WISDOM... 180
CHAPTER
XXVIII—DE LANNOY.. 186
CHAPTER
XXIX—THE SILVER LADY.. 191
CHAPTER
XXX—THE LESSON OF THE WILDERNESS. 198
CHAPTER
XXXI—THE LIFE-LINE. 203
CHAPTER
XXXII—‘TO BE GOD AND ABLE TO DO THINGS’ 211
CHAPTER
XXXIII—THE QUEEN’S ROOM... 219
CHAPTER
XXXIV—WAITING.. 230
CHAPTER
XXXV—A CRY.. 239
CHAPTER
XXXVI—LIGHT. 248
CHAPTER
XXXVII—GOLDEN SILENCE. 256
‘I would rather
be an angel than God!’
The voice of the
speaker sounded clearly through the hawthorn tree. The young man and the young
girl who sat together on the low tombstone looked at each other. They had heard
the voices of the two children talking, but had not noticed what they said; it
was the sentiment, not the sound, which roused their attention.
The girl put her
finger to her lips to impress silence, and the man nodded; they sat as still as
mice whilst the two children went on talking.
* * * * *
The scene would
have gladdened a painter’s heart. An old churchyard. The church low and square-towered, with long mullioned windows, the
yellow-grey stone roughened by age and tender-hued with lichens. Round
it clustered many tombstones tilted in all directions. Behind
the church a line of gnarled and twisted yews.
The churchyard
was full of fine trees. On one side a magnificent cedar; on
the other a great copper beech. Here and there among the tombs and
headstones many beautiful blossoming trees rose from the long green grass. The
laburnum glowed in the June afternoon sunlight; the lilac, the hawthorn and the
clustering meadowsweet which fringed the edge of the lazy stream mingled their
heavy sweetness in sleepy fragrance. The yellow-grey crumbling walls were green
in places with wrinkled harts-tongues, and were topped with sweet-williams and
spreading house-leek and stone-crop and wild-flowers whose delicious sweetness
made for the drowsy repose of perfect summer.
But amid all
that mass of glowing colour the two young figures seated on the grey old tomb
stood out conspicuously. The man was in conventional hunting-dress: red coat,
white stock, black hat, white breeches, and top-boots. The girl was one of the
richest, most glowing, and yet withal daintiest figures the eye of man could
linger on. She was in riding-habit of hunting scarlet cloth; her black hat was
tipped forward by piled-up masses red-golden hair. Round her neck was a white
lawn scarf in the fashion of a man’s hunting-stock, close fitting, and sinking
into a gold-buttoned waistcoat of snowy twill. As she sat with the long skirt
across her left arm her tiny black top-boots appeared underneath. Her
gauntleted gloves were of white buckskin; her riding-whip was plaited of white
leather, topped with ivory and banded with gold.
Even in her
fourteenth year Miss Stephen Norman gave promise of striking beauty; beauty of
a rarely composite character. In her the various elements of her race seemed to
have cropped out. The firm-set jaw, with chin broader and more
square than is usual in a woman, and the wide fine forehead and aquiline
nose marked the high descent from Saxon through Norman. The glorious mass of red hair, of the
true flame colour, showed the blood of another ancient ancestor of Northern
race, and suited well with the voluptuous curves of the full, crimson lips. The
purple-black eyes, the raven eyebrows and eyelashes, and the fine curve of the
nostrils spoke of the Eastern blood of the far-back wife of the Crusader.
Already she was tall for her age, with something of that lankiness which marks
the early development of a really fine figure. Long-legged,
long-necked, as straight as a lance, with head poised on the proud neck like a
lily on its stem.
Stephen Norman
certainly gave promise of a splendid womanhood. Pride, self-reliance and
dominance were marked in every feature; in her bearing and in her lightest
movement.
Her companion,
Harold An Wolf, was some five years her senior, and by means of those five years
and certain qualities had long stood in the position of her mentor. He was more
than six feet two in height, deep-chested, broad-shouldered, lean-flanked,
long-armed and big-handed. He had that appearance strength, with well-poised
neck and forward set of the head, which marks the successful athlete.
The two sat
quiet, listening. Through the quiet hum of afternoon came the voices of the two
children. Outside the lich-gate, under the shade of the spreading cedar, the
horses stamped occasionally as the flies troubled them. The grooms were
mounted; one held the delicate-limbed white Arab, the other the great black
horse.
‘I would rather
be an angel than God!’
The little girl
who made the remark was an ideal specimen of the village Sunday-school child.
Blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, thick-legged, with her straight brown hair tied into a
hard bunch with a much-creased, cherry-coloured ribbon. A glance at the girl
would have satisfied the most sceptical as to her goodness. Without being in
any way smug she was radiant with self-satisfaction and well-doing. A child of the people; an early riser; a help to her mother; a good
angel to her father; a little mother to her brothers and sisters; cleanly in
mind and body; self-reliant, full of faith, cheerful.
The other little
girl was prettier, but of a more stubborn type; more passionate, less
organised, and infinitely more assertive. Black-haired,
black-eyed, swarthy, large-mouthed, snub-nosed; the very type and essence of
unrestrained, impulsive, emotional, sensual nature. A seeing eye would
have noted inevitable danger for the early years of her womanhood. She seemed
amazed by the self-abnegation implied by her companion’s statement; after a
pause she replied:
‘I wouldn’t! I’d
rather be up at the top of everything and give orders to the angels if I chose.
I can’t think, Marjorie, why you’d rather take orders than give them.’
‘That’s just it,
Susan. I don’t want to give orders; I’d rather obey them. It must be very
terrible to have to think of things so much, that you want everything done your
own way. And besides, I shouldn’t like to have to be just!’
‘Why not?’ the
voice was truculent, though there was wistfulness in it also.
‘Oh Susan. Just fancy having to punish; for of course justice needs punishing as
well as praising. Now an angel has such a nice time, helping people and
comforting them, and bringing sunshine into dark places. Putting down fresh dew
every morning; making the flowers grow, and bringing babies and taking care of
them till their mothers find them. Of course God is very good and very sweet
and very merciful, but oh, He must be very terrible.’
‘All the same I
would rather be God and able to do things!’
Then the
children moved off out of earshot. The two seated on the tombstone looked after
them. The first to speak was the girl, who said:
‘That’s very
sweet and good of Marjorie; but do you know, Harold, I like Susie’s idea
better.’
‘Which idea was
that, Stephen?’
‘Why, didn’t you
notice what she said: “I’d like to be God and be able to do things”?’
‘Yes,’ he said after
a moment’s reflection. ‘That’s a fine idea in the abstract; but I doubt of its
happiness in the long-run.’
‘Doubt of its
happiness? Come now? what could there be better, after
all? Isn’t it good enough to be God? What more do you want?’
The girl’s tone
was quizzical, but her great black eyes blazed with some thought of sincerity
which lay behind the fun. The young man shook his head with a smile of kindly
tolerance as he answered:
‘It isn’t
that—surely you must know it. I’m ambitious enough, goodness knows; but there
are bounds to satisfy even me. But I’m not sure that the good little thing
isn’t right. She seemed, somehow, to hit a bigger truth than she knew: “fancy
having to be just.”’
‘I don’t see
much difficulty in that. Anyone can be just!’
‘Pardon me,’ he
answered, ‘there is perhaps nothing so difficult in the whole range of a man’s
work.’ There was distinct defiance in the girl’s eyes as she asked:
‘A man’s work! Why a man’s work? Isn’t it a woman’s work also?’
‘Well, I suppose
it ought to be, theoretically; practically it isn’t.’
‘And why not,
pray?’ The mere suggestion of any disability of woman as such aroused immediate
antagonism. Her companion suppressed a smile as he answered deliberately:
‘Because, my
dear Stephen, the Almighty has ordained that justice is not a virtue women can
practise. Mind, I do not say women are unjust. Far from it, where there are no
interests of those dear to them they can be of a sincerity of justice that can
make a man’s blood run cold. But justice in the abstract is not an ordinary
virtue: it has to be considerate as well as stern, and above all interest of
all kinds and of every one—’ The girl interrupted
hotly:
‘I don’t agree
with you at all. You can’t give an instance where women are unjust. I don’t
mean of course individual instances, but classes of cases where injustice is
habitual.’ The suppressed smile cropped out now unconsciously
round the man’s lips in a way which was intensely aggravating to the
girl.
‘I’ll give you a
few,’ he said. ‘Did you ever know a mother just to a boy who beat her own boy
at school?’ The girl replied quietly:
‘Ill-treatment
and bullying are subjects for punishment, not justice.’
‘Oh, I don’t
mean that kind of beating. I mean getting the prizes their own boys contended
for; getting above them in class; showing superior powers in running or cricket
or swimming, or in any of the forms of effort in which boys vie with each
other.’ The girl reflected, then she spoke:
‘Well, you may
be right. I don’t altogether admit it, but I accept it as not on my side. But
this is only one case.’
‘A pretty common one. Do you think that Sheriff of Galway, who in default
of a hangman hanged his son with his own hands, would have done so if he had
been a woman?’ The girl answered at once:
‘Frankly, no. I don’t suppose the mother was ever born who would do such a thing. But
that is not a common case, is it? Have you any other?’ The young man paused
before he spoke:
‘There is
another, but I don’t think I can go into it fairly with you.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, because
after all you know, Stephen, you are only a girl and you can’t be expected to
know.’ The girl laughed:
‘Well, if it’s
anything about women surely a girl, even of my tender age, must know something
more of it, or be able to guess at, than any young man can. However, say what
you think and I’ll tell you frankly if I agree—that is if a woman can be just,
in such a matter.’
‘Shortly the
point is this: Can a woman be just to another woman, or to a man for the matter
of that, where either her own affection or a fault of the other is concerned?’
‘I don’t see any
reason to the contrary. Surely pride alone should ensure justice in the former
case, and the consciousness of superiority in the other.’ The young man shook
his head:
‘Pride and the consciousness of superiority! Are they not much the
same thing. But whether or no, if either of them has
to be relied on, I’m afraid the scales of Justice would want regulating, and
her sword should be blunted in case its edge should be turned back on herself. I have an idea that although pride might be a
guiding principle with you individually, it would be a failure with the
average. However, as it would be in any case a rule subject to many exceptions
I must let it go.’
Harold looked at
his watch and rose. Stephen followed him; transferring her whip into the hand
which held up the skirt, she took his arm with her right hand in the pretty way
in which a young girl clings to her elders. Together they went out at the
lich-gate. The groom drew over with the horses. Stephen patted hers and gave
her a lump of sugar. Then putting her foot into Harold’s ready hand she sprang
lightly into the saddle. Harold swung himself into his saddle with the
dexterity of an accomplished rider.
As the two rode
up the road, keeping on the shady side under the trees, Stephen said quietly,
half to herself, as if the sentence had impressed
itself on her mind:
‘To be God and able to do things!’
Harold rode on
in silence. The chill of some vague fear was upon him.
Stephen Norman
of Normanstand had remained a bachelor until close on middle age, when the fact
took hold of him that there was no immediate heir to his great estate. Whereupon, with his wonted decision, he set about looking for a
wife.
He had been a
close friend of his next neighbour, Squire Rowly, ever since their college
days. They had, of course, been often in each other’s houses, and Rowly’s young
sister—almost a generation younger than himself, and the sole fruit of his
father’s second marriage—had been like a little sister to him too. She had, in
the twenty years which had elapsed, grown to be a sweet and beautiful young
woman. In all the past years, with the constant opportunity which friendship
gave of close companionship, the feeling never altered. Squire Norman would have
been surprised had he been asked to describe Margaret Rowly and found himself
compelled to present the picture of a woman, not a child.
Now, however,
when his thoughts went womanward and wifeward, he awoke to the fact that
Margaret came within the category of those he sought. His usual decision ran
its course. Semi-brotherly feeling gave place to a stronger and perhaps more
selfish feeling. Before he even knew it, he was head over ears in love with his
pretty neighbour.
Norman was a fine man, stalwart
and handsome; his forty years sat so lightly on him that his age never seemed
to come into question in a woman’s mind. Margaret had always liked him and
trusted him; he was the big brother who had no duty in the way of scolding to
do. His presence had always been a gladness; and the
sex of the girl, first unconsciously then consciously, answered to the man’s
overtures, and her consent was soon obtained.
When in the
fulness of time it was known that an heir was expected, Squire Norman took for
granted that the child would be a boy, and held the idea so tenaciously that
his wife, who loved him deeply, gave up warning and remonstrance after she had
once tried to caution him against too fond a hope. She saw how bitterly he
would be disappointed in case it should prove to be a girl. He was, however, so
fixed on the point that she determined to say no more. After all, it might be a
boy; the chances were equal. The Squire would not listen to any one else at
all; so as the time went on his idea was more firmly fixed than ever. His
arrangements were made on the base that he would have a son. The name was of
course decided. Stephen had been the name of all the Squires of Normanstand for
ages—as far back as the records went; and Stephen the new heir of course would
be.
Like all
middle-aged men with young wives he was supremely anxious as the time drew
near. In his anxiety for his wife his belief in the son became passive rather
than active. Indeed, the idea of a son was so deeply fixed in his mind that it
was not disturbed even by his anxiety for the young wife he idolised.
When instead of
a son a daughter was born, the Doctor and the nurse, who knew his views on the
subject, held back from the mother for a little the knowledge of the sex. Dame
Norman was so weak that the Doctor feared lest anxiety as to how her husband
would bear the disappointment, might militate against
her. Therefore the Doctor sought the Squire in his study, and went resolutely
at his task.
‘Well, Squire, I
congratulate you on the birth of your child!’ Norman was of course struck with the use of
the word ‘child’; but the cause of his anxiety was manifested by his first
question:
‘How is she,
Doctor? Is she safe?’ The child was after all of secondary importance! The
Doctor breathed more freely; the question had lightened his task. There was,
therefore, more assurance in his voice as he answered:
‘She is safely
through the worst of her trouble, but I am greatly anxious yet. She is very
weak. I fear anything that might upset her.’
The Squire’s
voice came quick and strong:
‘There must be
no upset! And now tell me about my son?’ He spoke the last word half with
pride, half bashfully.
‘Your son is a
daughter!’ There was silence for so long that the Doctor began to be anxious.
Squire Norman sat quite still; his right hand resting on the writing-table
before him became clenched so hard that the knuckles looked white and the veins
red. After a long slow breath he spoke:
‘She, my
daughter, is well?’ The Doctor answered with cheerful alacrity:
‘Splendid!—I
never saw a finer child in my life. She will be a comfort and an honour to
you!’ The Squire spoke again:
‘What does her
mother think? I suppose she’s very proud of her?’
‘She does not
know yet that it is a girl. I thought it better not to let her know till I had
told you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because—because—Norman,
old friend, you know why! Because you had set your heart on a son; and I know
how it would grieve that sweet young wife and mother to feel your
disappointment. I want your lips to be the first to tell her; so that on may
assure her of your happiness in that a daughter has been born to you.’
The Squire put
out his great hand and laid it on the other’s shoulder. There was almost a
break in his voice as he said:
‘Thank you, my
old friend, my true friend, for your thought. When may
I see her?’
‘By right, not yet. But, as knowing your views, she may fret herself
till she knows, I think you had better come at once.’
All Norman’s love and
strength combined for his task. As he leant over and kissed his young wife
there was real fervour in his voice as he said:
‘Where is my
dear daughter that you may place her in my arms?’ For an instant there came a
chill to the mother’s heart that her hopes had been so far disappointed; but
then came the reaction of her joy that her husband, her baby’s father, was
pleased. There was a heavenly dawn of red on her pale face as she drew her
husband’s head down and kissed him.
‘Oh, my dear,’
she said, ‘I am so happy that you are pleased!’ The nurse took the mother’s
hand gently and held it to the baby as she laid it in the father’s arms.
He held the
mother’s hand as he kissed the baby’s brow.
The Doctor
touched him gently on the arm and beckoned him away. He went with careful
footsteps, looking behind as he went.
After dinner he
talked with the Doctor on various matters; but presently he asked:
‘I suppose,
Doctor, it is no sort of rule that the first child regulates the sex of a
family?’
‘No, of course not. Otherwise how should we see boys and girls mixed in
one family, as is nearly always the case. But, my
friend,’ he went on, ‘you must not build hopes so far away. I have to tell you
that your wife is far from strong. Even now she is not so
well as I could wish, and there yet may be change.’ The Squire leaped
impetuously to his feet as he spoke quickly:
‘Then why are we
waiting here? Can nothing be done? Let us have the best help, the best advice
in the world.’ The Doctor raised his hand.
‘Nothing can be
done as yet. I have only fear.’
‘Then let us be
ready in case your fears should be justified! Who are the best men in London to help in such a
case?’ The Doctor mentioned two names; and within a few minutes a mounted
messenger was galloping to Norcester, the nearest telegraph centre. The
messenger was to arrange for a special train if necessary. Shortly afterwards
the Doctor went again to see his patient. After a long absence he came back,
pale and agitated. Norman
felt his heart sink when he saw him; a groan broke from him as the Doctor
spoke:
‘She is much
worse! I am in great fear that she may pass away before the morning!’ The
Squire’s strong voice was clouded, with a hoarse veil as he asked:
‘May I see her?’
‘Not yet; at
present she is sleeping. She may wake strengthened; in which case you may see
her. But if not—’
‘If not?’—the voice was not like his own.
‘Then I shall
send for you at once!’ The Doctor returned to his vigil. The Squire, left
alone, sank on his knees, his face in his hands; his great shoulders shook with
the intensity of his grief.
An hour or more
passed before he heard hurried steps. He sprang to the door:
‘Well?’
‘You had better
come now.’
‘Is she better?’
‘Alas! no. I fear her minutes are numbered. School yourself, my
dear old friend! God will help you in this bitter hour. All you can do now is
to make her last moments happy.’
‘I know! I
know!’ he answered in a voice so calm that his companion wondered.
When they came
into the room Margaret was dozing. When her eyes opened and she found her
husband beside her bed there spread over her face a glad look; which, alas! soon changed to one of pain. She motioned to him to bend
down. He knelt and put his head beside her on the pillow; his arms went
tenderly round her as though by his iron devotion and strength he would shield
her from all harm. Her voice came very low and in broken gasps; she was
summoning all her strength that she might speak:
‘My dear, dear
husband, I am so sad at leaving you! You have made me so happy, and I love you
so! Forgive me, dear, for the pain I know you will suffer when I am gone! And
oh, Stephen, I know you will cherish our little one—yours and mine—when I am
gone. She will have no mother; you will have to be father and mother too.’
‘I will hold her
in my very heart’s core, my darling, as I hold you!’ He could hardly speak from
emotion. She went on:
‘And oh, my
dear, you will not grieve that she is not a son to carry on your name?’ And
then a sudden light came into her eyes; and there was exultation in her weak
voice as she said:
‘She is to be
our only one; let her be indeed our son! Call her the name we both love!’ For
answer he rose and laid his hand very, very tenderly on the babe as he said:
‘This dear one,
my sweet wife, who will carry your soul in her breast, will be my son; the only
son I shall ever have. All my life long I shall, please Almighty God, so love
her—our little Stephen—as you and I love each other!’
She laid her
hand on his so that it touched at once her husband and her child. Then she
raised the other weak arm, and placed it round his neck, and their lips met.
Her soul went out in this last kiss.
For some weeks
after his wife’s death Squire Norman was overwhelmed with grief. He made a
brave effort, however, to go through the routine of his life; and succeeded so
far that he preserved an external appearance of bearing his loss with
resignation. But within, all was desolation.
Little Stephen
had winning ways which sent deep roots into her father’s heart. The little
bundle of nerves which the father took into his arms must have realised with
all its senses that, in all that it saw and heard and touched, there was
nothing but love and help and protection. Gradually the trust was followed by
expectation. If by some chance the father was late in coming to the nursery the
child would grow impatient and cast persistent, longing glances at the door.
When he came all was joy.
Time went
quickly by, and Norman
was only recalled to its passing by the growth of his child. Seedtime and
harvest, the many comings of nature’s growth were such commonplaces to him, and
had been for so many years, that they made on him no impressions of comparison.
But his baby was one and one only. Any change in it was not only in itself a
new experience, but brought into juxtaposition what is with what was. The
changes that began to mark the divergence of sex were positive shocks to him,
for they were unexpected. In the very dawn of babyhood dress had no special
import; to his masculine eyes sex was lost in youth. But, little by little, came the tiny changes which convention has established. And
with each change came to Squire Norman the growing realisation that his child
was a woman. A tiny woman, it is true, and requiring more care and protection
and devotion than a bigger one; but still a woman. The pretty little ways, the
eager caresses, the graspings and holdings of the childish hands, the little
roguish smiles and pantings and flirtings were all but repetitions in little of
the dalliance of long ago. The father, after all, reads in the same book in
which the lover found his knowledge.
At first there
was through all his love for his child a certain resentment of her sex. His old
hope of a son had been rooted too deeply to give way easily. But
when the conviction came, and with it the habit of its acknowledgment, there
came also a certain resignation, which is the halting-place for satisfaction.
But he never, not then nor afterwards, quite lost the old belief that Stephen
was indeed a son. Could there ever have been a doubt,
the remembrance of his wife’s eyes and of her faint voice, of her hope and her
faith, as she placed her baby in his arms would have refused it a
resting-place. This belief tinged all his after-life and moulded his policy
with regard to his girl’s upbringing. If she was to be indeed his son as well
as his daughter, she must from the first be accustomed to boyish as well as to
girlish ways. This, in that she was an only child, was not a difficult matter
to accomplish. Had she had brothers and sisters, matters of her sex would soon
have found their own level.
There was one
person who objected strongly to any deviation from the conventional rule of a
girl’s education. This was Miss Laetitia Rowly, who took after a time, in so
far as such a place could be taken, that of the child’s mother. Laetitia Rowly
was a young aunt of Squire Rowly of Norwood;
the younger sister of his father and some sixteen years his own senior. When
the old Squire’s second wife had died, Laetitia, then a conceded spinster of
thirty-six, had taken possession of the young Margaret. When Margaret had
married Squire Norman, Miss Rowly was well satisfied; for she had known Stephen
Norman all her life. Though she could have wished a younger bridegroom for her
darling, she knew it would be hard to get a better man or one of more suitable
station in life. Also she knew that Margaret loved him, and the woman who had
never found the happiness of mutual love in her own life found a pleasure in
the romance of true love, even when the wooer was middle-aged. She had been
travelling in the Far East when the belated
news of Margaret’s death came to her. When she had arrived home she announced
her intention of taking care of Margaret’s child, just as she had taken care of
Margaret. For several reasons this could not be done in the same way. She was
not old enough to go and live at Normanstand without exciting comment; and the
Squire absolutely refused to allow that his daughter should live anywhere
except in his own house. Educational supervision,
exercised at such distance and so intermittently, could neither be complete nor
exact.
Though Stephen
was a sweet child she was a wilful one, and very early in life manifested a
dominant nature. This was a secret pleasure to her father, who, never losing
sight of his old idea that she was both son and daughter, took pleasure as well
as pride out of each manifestation of her imperial will. The keen instinct of
childhood, which reasons in feminine fashion, and is therefore doubly effective
in a woman-child, early grasped the possibilities of her own will. She learned
the measure of her nurse’s foot and then of her father’s; and so, knowing where
lay the bounds of possibility of the achievement of her wishes, she at once
avoided trouble and learned how to make the most of the space within the limit
of her tether.
It is not those
who ‘cry for the Moon’ who go furthest or get most in this limited world of
ours. Stephen’s pretty ways and unfailing good temper were a perpetual joy to
her father; and when he found that as a rule her desires were reasonable, his
wish to yield to them became a habit.
Miss Rowly seldom
saw any individual thing to disapprove of. She it was who selected the
governesses and who interviewed them from time to time as to the child’s
progress. Not often was there any complaint, for the little thing had such a
pretty way of showing affection, and such a manifest sense of justified trust
in all whom she encountered, that it would have been hard to name a specific
fault.
But though all
went in tears of affectionate regret, and with eminently satisfactory
emoluments and references, there came an irregularly timed succession of
governesses.
Stephen’s
affection for her ‘Auntie’ was never affected by any of the changes. Others
might come and go, but there no change came. The child’s little hand would
steal into one of the old lady’s strong ones, or would clasp a finger and hold
it tight. And then the woman who had never had a child of her own would feel,
afresh each time, as though the child’s hand was gripping her heart.
With her father
she was sweetest of all. And as he seemed to be pleased when she did anything
like a little boy, the habit of being like one insensibly grew on her.
An only child
has certain educational difficulties. The true learning is not that which we
are taught, but that which we take in for ourselves from experience and observation,
and children’s experiences and observation, especially of things other than
repressive, are mainly of children. The little ones teach each other. Brothers
and sisters are more with each other than are ordinary playmates, and in the
familiarity of their constant intercourse some of the great lessons, so useful
in after-life, are learned. Little Stephen had no means of learning the wisdom
of give-and-take. To her everything was given, given bountifully and
gracefully. Graceful acceptance of good things came to her naturally, as it
does to one who is born to be a great lady. The children of the farmers in the
neighbourhood, with whom at times she played, were in such habitual awe of the
great house, that they were seldom sufficiently at
ease to play naturally. Children cannot be on equal terms on special occasions
with a person to whom they have been taught to bow or courtesy as a public
habit. The children of neighbouring landowners, who were few and far between,
and of the professional people in Norcester, were at such times as Stephen met
them, generally so much on their good behaviour, that the spontaneity of play,
through which it is that sharp corners of individuality are knocked off or worn
down, did not exist.
And so Stephen
learned to read in the Book of Life; though only on one side of it. At the age
of six she had, though surrounded with loving care and instructed by skilled
teachers, learned only the accepting side of life. Giving of course there was
in plenty, for the traditions of Normanstand were royally benevolent; many a
blessing followed the little maid’s footsteps as she accompanied some timely
aid to the sick and needy sent from the Squire’s house. Moreover, her Aunt
tried to inculcate certain maxims founded on that noble one that it is more
blessed to give than to receive. But of giving in its true sense: the giving
that which we want for ourselves, the giving that is as a temple built on the
rock of self-sacrifice, she knew nothing. Her sweet and spontaneous nature,
which gave its love and sympathy so readily, was almost a bar to education: it
blinded the eyes that would have otherwise seen any defect that wanted
altering, any evil trait that needed repression, any lagging virtue that
required encouragement—or the spur.
Squire Norman
had a clerical friend whose rectory of Carstone lay some thirty miles from
Normanstand. Thirty miles is not a great distance for railway travel; but it is
a long drive. The days had not come, nor were they ever likely to come, for the
making of a railway between the two places. For a good many years the two men
had met in renewal of their old University days. Squire Norman and Dr. An Wolf
had been chums at Trinity, Cambridge,
and the boyish friendship had ripened and lasted. When Harold An Wolf had put
in his novitiate in a teeming Midland manufacturing town, it was Norman’s influence which
obtained the rectorship for his friend. It was not often that they could meet,
for An Wolf’s work, which, though not very exacting, had to be done single-handed,
kept him to his post. Besides, he was a good scholar and eked out a small
income by preparing a few pupils for public school. An occasional mid-week
visit to Normanstand in the slack time of school work on the Doctor’s part, and
now and again a drive by Norman over to the rectory, returning the next day,
had been for a good many years the measure of their meeting. Then An Wolf’s
marriage and the birth of a son had kept him closer to home. Mrs. An Wolf had
been killed in a railway accident a couple of years after her only child had
been born; and at the time Norman had gone over to render any assistance in his
power to the afflicted man, and to give him what was under the circumstances
his best gift, sympathy. After an interval of a few years the Squire’s
courtship and marriage, at which his old friend had assisted, had confined his
activities to a narrower circle. The last time they had met was when An Wolf
had come over to Norcester to aid in the burial of his friend’s wife. In the
process of years, however, the shadow over Norman’s life had begun to soften; when his
baby had grown to be something of a companion, they met again. Norman, ‘who had
never since his wife’s death been able to tear himself, even for a night, away
from Normanstand and Stephen, wrote to his old friend asking him to come to
him. An Wolf gladly promised, and for a week of
growing expectation the Squire looked forward to their meeting. Each found the
other somewhat changed, in all but their old affection.
An Wolf was delighted with the little Stephen. Her dainty beauty seemed to
charm him; and the child, seeming to realise what pleasure she was giving,
exercised all her little winning ways. The rector, who knew more of children
than did his, friend, told her as she sat on his knee of a very interesting
person: his own son. The child listened, interested at first, then enraptured.
She asked all kinds of questions; and the father’s eyes brightened as he gladly
answered the pretty sympathetic child, already deep in his heart for her father’s
sake. He told her about the boy who was so big and strong, and who could run
and leap and swim and play cricket and football better than any other boy with
whom he played. When, warmed himself by the keen interest of the little girl,
and seeing her beautiful black eyes beginning to glow, he too woke to the glory
of the time; and all the treasured moments of the father’s lonely heart gave
out their store. And the other father, thrilled with delight because of his
baby’s joy with, underlying all, an added pleasure that the little Stephen’s
interest was in sports that were for boys, looked on approvingly, now and again
asking questions himself in furtherance of the child’s wishes.
All the
afternoon they sat in the garden, close to the stream that came out of the rock, and An Wolf told father’s tales of his only son. Of the great cricket match with Castra Puerorum when he had made a
hundred not out. Of the school races when he had won so many prizes. Of the swimming match in the Islam River
when, after he had won the race and had dressed himself, he went into the water
in his clothes to help some children who had upset a boat. How when
Widow Norton’s only son could not be found, he dived into the deep hole of the
intake of the milldam of the great Carstone mills where Wingate the farrier had
been drowned. And how, after diving twice without success, he had insisted on
going down the third time though people had tried to hold him back; and how he
had brought up in his arms the child all white and so near death that they had
to put him in the ashes of the baker’s oven before he could be brought back to
life.
When her nurse
came to take her to bed, she slid down from her father’s knee and coming over
to Dr. An Wolf, gravely held out her hand and said: ‘Good-bye!’ Then she kissed
him and said:
‘Thank you so
much, Mr. Harold’s daddy. Won’t you come soon again, and tell us more?’ Then
she jumped again upon her father’s knee and hugged him round the neck and
kissed him, and whispered in his ear:
‘Daddy, please
make Mr. Harold’s daddy when he comes again, bring Harold with him!’
After all it is
natural for women to put the essence of the letter in the postscript!
Two weeks
afterwards Dr. An Wolf came again and brought Harold with him. The time had
gone heavily with little Stephen when she knew that Harold was coming with his
father. Stephen had been all afire to see the big boy whose feats had so much
interested her, and for a whole week had flooded Mrs. Jarrold with questions
which she was unable to answer. At last the time came and she went out to the
hall door with her father to welcome the guests. At the top of the great
granite steps, down which in time of bad weather the white awning ran, she
stood holding her father’s hand and waving a welcome.
‘Good morning,
Harold! Good morning, Mr. Harold’s daddy!’
The meeting was
a great pleasure to both the children, and resulted in an immediate friendship.
The small girl at once conceived a great admiration for the big, strong boy
nearly twice her age and more than twice her size. At her time of life the
convenances are not, and love is a thing to be spoken out at once and in the
open. Mrs. Jarrold, from the moment she set eyes on him, liked the big
kindly-faced boy who treated her like a lady, and who stood awkwardly blushing
and silent in the middle of the nursery listening to the tiny child’s proffers
of affection. For whatever kind of love it is that boys are capable of, Harold
had fallen into it. ‘Calf-love’ is a thing habitually treated with contempt. It
may be ridiculous; but all the same it is a serious reality—to the calf.
Harold’s
new-found affection was as deep as his nature. An only child who had in his
memory nothing of a mother’s love, his naturally affectionate nature had in his
childish days found no means of expression. A man child can hardly pour out his
full heart to a man, even a father or a comrade; and this child had not, in a
way, the consolations of other children. His father’s secondary occupation of
teaching brought other boys to the house and necessitated a domestic routine
which had to be exact. There was no place for little girls in a boys’ school;
and though many of Dr. An Wolf’s friends who were mothers made much of the
pretty, quiet boy, and took him to play with their children, he never seemed to
get really intimate with them. The equality of companionship was wanting. Boys
he knew, and with them he could hold his own and yet be on affectionate terms.
But girls were strange to him, and in their presence he was shy. With this lack
of understanding of the other sex, grew up a sort of awe of it. His
opportunities of this kind of study were so few that the view never could
become rectified.
And so it was
that from his boyhood up to his twelfth year, Harold’s knowledge of girlhood
never increased nor did his awe diminish. When his father had told him all
about his visit to Normanstand and of the invitation which had been extended to
him there came first awe, then doubt, then expectation. Between Harold and his
father there was love and trust and sympathy. The father’s married love so soon
cut short found expression towards his child; and between them there had never
been even the shadow of a cloud. When his father told him how pretty the little
Stephen was, how dainty, how sweet, he began to picture her in his mind’s eye
and to be bashfully excited over meeting her.
His first
glimpse of Stephen was, he felt, one that he never could forget. She had made
up her mind that she would let Harold see what she could do. Harold could fly
kites and swim and play cricket; she could not do any of these, but she could
ride. Harold should see her pony, and see her riding him all by herself. And
there would be another pony for Harold, a big, big, big one—she had spoken
about its size herself to Topham, the stud-groom. She had coaxed her daddy into
promising that after lunch she should take Harold riding. To this end she had
made ready early. She had insisted on putting on the red riding habit which
Daddy had given her for her birthday, and now she stood on the top of the steps
all glorious in hunting pink, with the habit held over her arms, with the tiny
hunting-hoots all shiny underneath. She had no hat on, and her beautiful hair
of golden red shone in its glory. But even it was almost outshone by the joyous
flush on her cheeks as she stood waving the little hand that did not hold
Daddy’s. She was certainly a picture to dream of! Her father’s eyes lost
nothing of her dainty beauty. He was so proud of her that he almost forgot to
wish that she had been a boy. The pleasure he felt in her appearance was
increased by the fact that her dress was his own idea.
During luncheon
Stephen was fairly silent; she usually chattered all through as freely as a
bird sings. Stephen was silent because the occasion was important. Besides,
Daddy wasn’t all alone, and therefore had not to be
cheered up. Also—this in postscript form—Harold was silent! In her present
frame of mind Harold could do no wrong, and what Harold did was right. She was
unconsciously learning already a lesson from his presence.
That evening
when going to bed she came to say good-night to Daddy. After she had kissed him
she also kissed ‘old Mr. Harold,’ as she now called him, and as a matter of
course kissed Harold also. He coloured up at once. It was the first time a girl
had ever kissed him.
The next day
from early morning until bed-time was one long joy to Stephen, and there were
few things of interest that Harold had not been shown; there were few of the
little secrets which had not been shared with him as they went about hand in
hand. Like all manly boys Harold was good to little children and patient with
them. He was content to follow Stephen about and obey all her behests. He had
fallen in love with her to the very bottom of his boyish heart.
When the guests
were going, Stephen stood with her father on the steps to see them off. When
the carriage had swept behind the farthest point in the long avenue, and when
Harold’s cap waving from the window could no longer be seen, Squire Norman
turned to go in, but paused in obedience to the unconscious restraint of
Stephen’s hand. He waited patiently till with a long sigh she turned to him and
they went in together.
That night
before she went to bed Stephen came and sat on her father’s knee, and after
sundry pattings and kissings whispered in his ear:
‘Daddy, wouldn’t
it be nice if Harold could come here altogether? Couldn’t you ask him to? And
old Mr. Harold could come too. Oh, I wish he was here!’
Two years
afterwards a great blow fell upon Harold. His father, who had been suffering
from repeated attacks of influenza, was, when in the low condition following
this, seized with pneumonia, to which in a few days he succumbed. Harold was
heart-broken. The affection which had been between him and his father had been
so consistent that he had never known a time when it was not.
When Squire
Norman had returned to the house with him after the funeral, he sat in silence
holding the boy’s hand till he had wept his heart out. By this time the two
were old friends, and the boy was not afraid or too shy to break down before
him. There was sufficient of the love of the old generation to begin with trust
in the new.
Presently, when
the storm was past and Harold had become his own man again, Norman said:
‘And now, Harold,
I want you to listen to me. You know, my dear boy, that
I am your father’s oldest friend, and right sure I am that he would approve of
what I say. You must come home with me to live. I know that in his last hours
the great concern of your dear father’s heart would have been for the future of
his boy. And I know, too, that it was a comfort to him to feel that you and I
are such friends, and that the son of my dearest old friend would be as a son
to me. We have been friends, you and I, a long time, Harold; and we have
learned to trust, and I hope to love, one another. And you and my little
Stephen are such friends already that your coming into the house will be a joy
to us all. Why, long ago, when first you came, she said to me the night you
went away: “Daddy, wouldn’t it be nice if Harold could come here altogether?”’
And so Harold An
Wolf came back with the Squire to Normanstand, and
from that day on became a member of his house, and as a son to him. Stephen’s
delight at his coming was of course largely qualified by her sympathy with his
grief; but it would have been hard to give him more comfort than she did in her
own pretty way. Putting her lips to his she kissed him, and holding his big
hand in both of her little ones, she whispered softly:
‘Poor Harold! You and I should love each other, for we have both lost our mother. And
now you have lost your father. But you must let my dear daddy be yours too!’
At this time
Harold was between fourteen and fifteen years old. He was well educated in so
far as private teaching went. His father had devoted much care to him, so that
he was well grounded in all the Academic branches of learning. He was also, for
his years, an expert in most manly exercises. He could ride anything, shoot
straight, fence, run, jump or swim with any boy more than his age and size.
In Normanstand
his education was continued by the rector. The Squire used often to take him
with him when he went to ride, or fish, or shoot; frankly telling him that as
his daughter was, as yet, too young to be his companion in these matters, he
would act as her locum tenens. His living in the house and his helping as he
did in Stephen’s studies made familiarity perpetual. He was just enough her
senior to command her childish obedience; and there were certain qualities in
his nature which were eminently calculated to win and keep the respect of women
as well as of men. He was the very incarnation of sincerity, and had now and
again, in certain ways, a sublime self-negation which, at times, seemed in
startling contrast to a manifestly militant nature. When at school he had often
been involved in fights which were nearly always on matters of principle, and
by a sort of unconscious chivalry he was generally found fighting on the weaker
side. Harold’s father had been very proud of his ancestry, which was Gothic
through the Dutch, as the manifestly corrupted prefix of the original name
implied, and he had gathered from a constant study of the Sagas something of
the philosophy which lay behind the ideas of the Vikings.
This new stage
of Harold’s life made for quicker development than any which had gone before.
Hitherto he had not the same sense of responsibility. To obey is in itself a
relief; and as it is an actual consolation to weak natures, so it is only a
retarding of the strong. Now he had another individuality to think of. There
was in his own nature a vein of anxiety of which the subconsciousness of his
own strength threw up the outcrop.
Little Stephen with the instinct of her sex discovered before long this
weakness. For it is a weakness when any quality can be assailed
or used. The using of a man’s weakness is not always coquetry; but it is
something very like it. Many a time the little girl, who looked up to and
admired the big boy who could compel her to anything when he was so minded,
would, for her own ends, work on his sense of responsibility, taking an elfin
delight in his discomfiture.
The result of
Stephen’s harmless little coquetries was that Harold had occasionally either to
thwart some little plan of daring, or else cover up
its results. In either case her confidence in him grew, so that before long he
became an established fact in her life, a being in whose power and discretion
and loyalty she had absolute, blind faith. And this feeling seemed to grow with