She began to be very inattentive at her lessons, sucking her pencil, staring out of the window, or what was far worse, not listening at all, except for Collins’ footsteps. The nurse slapped her hands, and stood her in the corner, and deprived her of jam, but all to no purpose; for Stephen would smile, hugging closer her secret—it was worth being punished for Collins.
She grew restless and could not be induced to sit still even when her nurse read aloud. At one time she had very much liked being read to, especially from books that were all about heroes; but now such stories so stirred her ambition, that she longed intensely to live them. She, Stephen, now longed to be William Tell, or Nelson, or the whole Charge of Balaclava; and this led to much foraging in the nursery ragbag, much hunting up of garments once used for charades, much swagger and noise, much strutting and posing, and much staring into the mirror. There ensued a period of general confusion when the nursery looked as though smitten by an earthquake; when the chairs and the floor would be littered with oddments that Stephen had dug out but discarded. Once dressed, however, she would walk away grandly, waving the nurse peremptorily aside, going, as always, in search of Collins, who might have to be stalked to the basement.
Sometimes Collins would play up, especially to Nelson. “My, but you do look fine!” she would exclaim. And then to the cook: “Do come here, Mrs. Wilson! Doesn’t Miss Stephen look exactly like a boy? I believe she must be a boy with them shoulders, and them funny gawky legs she’s got on her!”
And Stephen would say gravely: “Yes, of course I’m a boy. I’m young Nelson, and I’m saying: ‘What is fear?’ you know, Collins—I must be a boy, ’cause I feel exactly like one, I feel like young Nelson in the picture upstairs.”
Collins would laugh and so would Mrs. Wilson, and after Stephen had gone they would get talking, and Collins might say: “She is a queer kid, always dressing herself up and playacting—it’s funny.”
But Mrs. Wilson might show disapproval: “I don’t hold with such nonsense, not for a young lady. Miss Stephen’s quite different from other young ladies—she’s got none of their pretty little ways—it’s a pity!”
There were times, however, when Collins seemed sulky when Stephen could dress up as Nelson in vain. “Now, don’t bother me, Miss, I’ve got my work to see to!” or: “You go and show Nurse—yes, I know you’re a boy, but I’ve got my work to get on with. Run away.”
And Stephen must slink upstairs thoroughly deflated, strangely unhappy and exceedingly humble, and must tear off the clothes she so dearly loved donning, to replace them by the garments she hated. How she hated soft dresses and sashes, and ribbons, and small coral beads, and openwork stockings! Her legs felt so free and comfortable in breeches; she adored pockets too, and these were forbidden—at least really adequate pockets. She would gloom about the nursery because Collins had snubbed her, because she was conscious of feeling all wrong, because she so longed to be someone quite real, instead of just Stephen pretending to be Nelson. In a quick fit of anger she would go to the cupboard, and getting out her dolls would begin to torment them. She had always despised the idiotic creatures which, however, arrived with each Christmas and birthday.
“I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” she would mutter thumping their innocuous faces.
But one day, when Collins had been crosser than usual, she seemed to be filled with a sudden contrition. “It’s me housemaid’s knee,” she confided to Stephen, “It’s not you, it’s me housemaid’s knee, dearie.”
“Is that dangerous?” demanded the child, looking frightened.
Then Collins, true to her class, said: “It may be—it may mean an ’orrible operation, and I don’t want no operation.”
“What’s that?” inquired Stephen.
“Why, they’d cut me,” moaned Collins; “they’d ’ave to cut me to let out the water.”
“Oh, Collins! What water?”
“The water in me kneecap—you can see if you press it, Miss Stephen.”
They were standing alone in the spacious night-nursery, where Collins was limply making the bed. It was one of those rare and delicious occasions when Stephen could converse with her goddess undisturbed, for the nurse had gone out to post a letter. Collins rolled down a coarse woollen stocking and displayed the afflicted member; it was blotchy and swollen and far from attractive, but Stephen’s eyes filled with quick, anxious tears as she touched the knee with her finger.
“There now!” exclaimed Collins, “See that dent? That’s the water!” And she added: “It’s so painful it fair makes me sick. It all comes from polishing them floors, Miss Stephen; I didn’t ought to polish them floors.”
Stephen said gravely: “I do wish I’d got it—I wish I’d got your housemaid’s knee, Collins, ’cause that way I could bear it instead of you. I’d like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way that Jesus was hurt for sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don’t you think I might catch it? Or supposing I rub my knee against yours?”
“Lord bless you!” laughed Collins, “it’s not like the measles; no, Miss Stephen, it’s caught from them floors.”
That evening Stephen became rather pensive, and she turned to the Child’s Book of Scripture Stories and she studied the picture of the Lord on His Cross, and she felt that she understood Him. She had often been rather puzzled about Him, since she herself was fearful of pain—when she barked her shins on the gravel in the garden, it was not always easy to keep back her tears—and yet Jesus had chosen to bear pain for
