“I don’t know. Go on holding like that to my hand—hold it tighter—I like the feel of your fingers.”
“Stephen, don’t be absurd!”
“Go on holding my hand, I like the feel of your fingers.”
“Stephen, you’re hurting, you’re crushing my rings!”
And now they were under the trees by the lakes, their feet falling softly on the luminous carpet. Hand in hand they entered that place of deep stillness, and only their breathing disturbed the stillness for a moment, then it folded back over their breathing.
“Look,” said Stephen, and she pointed to the swan called Peter, who had come drifting past on his own white reflection. “Look,” she said, “this is Morton, all beauty and peace—it drifts like that swan does, on calm, deep water. And all this beauty and peace is for you, because now you’re a part of Morton.”
Angela said: “I’ve never known peace, it’s not in me—I don’t think I’d find it here, Stephen.” And as she spoke she released her hand, moving a little away from the girl.
But Stephen continued to talk on gently; her voice sounded almost like that of a dreamer: “Lovely, oh, lovely it is, our Morton. On evenings in winter these lakes are quite frozen, and the ice looks like slabs of gold in the sunset, when you and I come and stand here in the winter. And as we walk back we can smell the log fires long before we can see them, and we love that good smell because it means home, and our home is Morton—and we’re happy, happy—we’re utterly contented and at peace, we’re filled with the peace of this place—”
“Stephen—don’t!”
“We’re both filled with the old peace of Morton, because we love each other so deeply—and because we’re perfect, a perfect thing, you and I—not two separate people but one. And our love has lit a great, comforting beacon, so that we need never be afraid of the dark any more—we can warm ourselves at our love, we can lie down together, and my arms will be round you—”
She broke off abruptly, and they stared at each other.
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Angela whispered.
And Stephen answered: “I know that I love you, and that nothing else matters in the world.”
Then, perhaps because of that glamorous evening, with its spirit of queer, unearthly adventure, with its urge to strange, unendurable sweetness, Angela moved a step nearer to Stephen, then another, until their hands were touching. And all that she was, and all that she had been and would be again, perhaps even tomorrow, was fused at that moment into one mighty impulse, one imperative need, and that need was Stephen. Stephen’s need was now hers, by sheer force of its blind and uncomprehending will to appeasement.
Then Stephen took Angela into her arms, and she kissed her full on the lips, as a lover.
XIX
I
Through the long years of life that followed after, bringing with them their dreams and disillusions, their joys and sorrows, their fulfilments and frustrations, Stephen was never to forget this summer when she fell quite simply and naturally in love, in accordance with the dictates of her nature.
To her there seemed nothing strange or unholy in the love that she felt for Angela Crossby. To her it seemed an inevitable thing, as much a part of herself as her breathing; and yet it appeared transcendent of self, and she looked up and onward towards her love—for the eyes of the young are drawn to the stars, and the spirit of youth is seldom earthbound.
She loved deeply, far more deeply than many a one who could fearlessly proclaim himself a lover. Since this is a hard and sad truth for the telling; those whom nature has sacrificed to her ends—her mysterious ends that often lie hidden—are sometimes endowed with a vast will to loving, with an endless capacity for suffering also, which must go hand in hand with their love.
But at first Stephen’s eyes were drawn to the stars, and she saw only gleam upon gleam of glory. Her physical passion for Angela Crossby had aroused a strange response in her spirit, so that side by side with every hot impulse that led her at times beyond her own understanding, there would come an impulse not of the body; a fine, selfless thing of great beauty and courage—she would gladly have given her body over to torment, have laid down her life if need be, for the sake of this woman whom she loved. And so blinded was she by those gleams of glory which the stars fling into the eyes of young lovers, that she saw perfection where none existed; saw a patient endurance that was purely fictitious, and conceived of a loyalty far beyond the limits of Angela’s nature.
All that Angela gave seemed the gift of love; all that Angela withheld seemed withheld out of honour: “If only I were free,” she was always saying, “but I can’t deceive Ralph, you know I can’t, Stephen—he’s ill.” Then Stephen would feel abashed and ashamed before so much pity and honour.
She would humble herself to the very dust, as one who was altogether unworthy: “I’m a beast, forgive me; I’m all, all wrong—I’m mad sometimes these days—yes, of course, there’s Ralph.”
But the thought of Ralph would be past all bearing, so that she must reach out for Angela’s hand. Then, as likely as not, they would draw together and start kissing, and Stephen would be utterly undone by those painful and terribly sterile kisses.
“God!” she would mutter, “I want to get away!”
At which Angela might weep: “Don’t leave me, Stephen! I’m so lonely—why can’t you understand that I’m only trying to be decent to Ralph?” So Stephen would stay on for an hour, for two hours, and the next day would find her once more at The Grange,
