All around were the homely activities of evening, the watering of horses, the care of cattle—pleasant, peaceable things that preceded the peace and repose of the coming nightfall. And suddenly Stephen longed to share them, an immense need to share them leapt up within her, so that she ached with this urgent longing that was somehow a part of her bodily dejection.
She drove on and left the car at the stables, then walked round to the house, and when she got there she opened the door of the study and went in, feeling terribly lonely without her father. Sitting down in the old armchair that had survived him, she let her head rest where his head had rested; and her hands she laid on the arms of the chair where his hands, as she knew, had lain times without number. Closing her eyes, she tried to visualize his face, his kind face that had sometimes looked anxious; but the picture came slowly and faded at once, for the dead must often give place to the living. It was Angela Crossby’s face that persisted as Stephen sat in her father’s old chair.
IV
In the small panelled room that gave on to the herb-garden, Angela yawned as she stared through the window; then she suddenly laughed out loud at her thoughts; then she suddenly frowned and spoke crossly to Tony.
She could not get Stephen out of her mind, and this irritated while it amused her. Stephen was so large to be tongue-tied and frightened—a curious creature, not devoid of attraction. In a way—her own way—she was almost handsome; no, quite handsome; she had fine eyes and beautiful hair. And her body was supple like that of an athlete, narrow-hipped and wide shouldered, she should fence very well. Angela was anxious to see her fence; she must certainly try to arrange it somehow.
Mrs. Antrim had conveyed a number of things, while actually saying extremely little; but Angela had no need of her hints, not now that she had come to know Stephen Gordon. And because she was idle, discontented and bored, and certainly not overburdened with virtue, she must let her thoughts dwell unduly on this girl, while her curiosity kept pace with her thoughts.
Tony stretched and whimpered, so Angela kissed him, then she sat down and wrote quite a short little letter: “Do come over to lunch the day after tomorrow and advise me about the garden,” ran the letter. And it ended—after one or two casual remarks about gardens—with: “Tony says please come, Stephen!”
XVIII
I
On a beautiful evening three weeks later, Stephen took Angela over Morton. They had had tea with Anna and Puddle, and Anna had been coldly polite to this friend of her daughter’s, but Puddle’s manner had been rather resentful—she deeply mistrusted Angela Crossby. But now Stephen was free to show Angela Morton, and this she did gravely, as though something sacred were involved in this first introduction to her home, as though Morton itself must feel that the coming of this small, fair-haired woman was in some way momentous. Very gravely, then, they went over the house—even into Sir Philip’s old study.
From the house they made their way to the stables, and still grave, Stephen told her friend about Raftery. Angela listened, assuming an interest she was very far from feeling—she was timid of horses, but she liked to hear the girl’s rather gruff voice, such an earnest young voice, it intrigued her. She was thoroughly frightened when Raftery sniffed her and then blew through his nostrils as though disapproving, and she started back with a sharp exclamation, so that Stephen slapped him on his glossy grey shoulder: “Stop it, Raftery, come up!” And Raftery, disgusted, went and blew on his oats to express his hurt feelings.
They left him and wandered away through the gardens, and quite soon poor Raftery was almost forgotten, for the gardens smelt softly of night-scented stock and of other pale flowers that smell sweetest at evening, and Stephen was thinking that Angela Crossby resembled such flowers—very fragrant and pale she was, so Stephen said to her gently:
“You seem to belong to Morton.”
Angela smiled a slow, questioning smile: “You think so, Stephen?”
And Stephen answered: “I do, because Morton and I are one,” and she scarcely understood the portent of her words, but Angela, understanding, spoke quickly:
“Oh, I belong nowhere—you forget I’m the stranger.”
“I know that you’re you,” said Stephen.
They walked on in silence while the light changed and deepened, growing always more golden and yet more elusive. And the birds, who loved that strange light, sang singly and then all together: “We’re happy, Stephen!”
And turning to Angela, Stephen answered the birds: “Your being here makes me so happy.”
“If that’s true, then why are you so shy of my name?”
“Angela—” mumbled Stephen.
Then Angela said: “It’s just over three weeks since we met—how quickly our friendship’s happened. I suppose it was meant, I believe in Kismet. You were awfully scared that first day at The Grange; why were you so scared?”
Stephen answered slowly: “I’m frightened now—I’m frightened of you.”
“Yet you’re stronger than I am—”
“Yes, that’s why I’m so frightened, you make me feel strong—do you want to do that?”
“Well—perhaps—you’re so very unusual, Stephen.”
“Am I?”
“Of course, don’t you know that you are? Why, you’re altogether different from other people.”
Stephen trembled a little: “Do you mind?” she faltered.
“I know that you’re you,” teased Angela, smiling again, but she reached out and took Stephen’s hand.
Something in
