The Well of Loneliness

hospital wards⁠—I didn’t want to end up that way. Well, so you see why I’ve got to be careful how I act; he’s terribly and awfully suspicious. He thinks that because I took a lover when I was literally down and out, I’m likely to do the same thing now. He doesn’t trust me, it’s natural enough, but sometimes he throws it all up in my face, and when he does that, my God, how I hate him! But oh, Stephen, I could never go through it all again⁠—I haven’t got an ounce of fight left in me. That’s why, although Ralph’s no cinch as a husband, I’d be scared to death if he really turned nasty. He knows that, I think, so he’s not afraid to bully⁠—he’s bullied me many a time over you⁠—but of course you’re a woman so he couldn’t divorce me⁠—I expect that’s really what makes him so angry. All the same, when you asked me to leave him for you, I hadn’t the courage to face that either. I couldn’t have faced the public scandal that Ralph would have made; he’d have hounded us down to the ends of the earth, he’d have branded us, Stephen. I know him, he’s revengeful, he’d stop at nothing, that weak sort of man is often that way. It’s as though what Ralph lacks in virility, he tries to make up for by being revengeful. My dear, I couldn’t go under again⁠—I couldn’t be one of those apologetic people who must always exist just under the surface, only coming up for a moment, like fish⁠—I’ve been through that particular hell. I want life, and yet I’m always afraid. Every time that Ralph looks at me I feel frightened, because he knows that I hate him most when he tries to make love⁠—” She broke off abruptly.

And now she was crying a little to herself, letting the tears trickle down unheeded. One of them splashed on to Stephen’s coat sleeve and lay there, a small, dark blot on the cloth, while the patient arms never faltered.

“Stephen, say something⁠—say you don’t hate me!”

A log crashed, sending up a bright spurt of flame, and Stephen stared down into Angela’s face. It was marred by weeping; it looked almost ugly, splotched and reddened as it was by her weeping. And because of that pitiful, blemished face, with the pitiful weakness that lay behind it, the unworthiness even, Stephen loved her so deeply at that moment, that she found no adequate words.

“Say something⁠—speak to me, Stephen!”

Then Stephen gently released her arm, and she found the little white box in her pocket: “Look, Angela, I got you this for your birthday⁠—Ralph can’t bully you about it, it’s a birthday present.”

“Stephen⁠—my dear!”

“Yes⁠—I want you to wear it always, so that you’ll remember how much I love you. I think you forgot that just now when you talked about hating⁠—Angela, give me your hand, the hand that used to bleed in the winter.”

So the pearl that was pure as her mother’s diamonds were pure, Stephen slipped on to Angela’s finger. Then she sat very still, while Angela gazed at the pearl wide-eyed, because of its beauty. Presently she lifted her wondering face, and now her lips were quite close to Stephen’s, but Stephen kissed her instead on the forehead. “You must rest,” she said, “you’re simply worn out. Can’t you sleep if I keep you safe in my arms?”

For at moments, such is the blindness and folly yet withal the redeeming glory of love.

XXIV

I

Ralph said very little about the ring. What could he say? A present given to his wife by the daughter of a neighbour⁠—an unusually costly present of course⁠—still, after all, what could he say? He took refuge in sulky silence. But Stephen would see him staring at the pearl, which Angela wore on her right-hand third finger, and his weak little eyes would look redder than usual, perhaps with anger⁠—one could never quite tell from his eyes whether he was tearful or angry.

And because of those eyes with their constant menace, Stephen must play her conciliatory role; and this she must do in spite of his rudeness, for now he was openly rude and hostile. And he bullied. It was almost as though he took pleasure in bullying his wife when Stephen was present; her presence seemed to arouse in the man everything that was ill-bred, petty and cruel. He would make thinly-veiled allusions to the past, glancing sideways at Stephen the while he did so; and one day when she flushed to the roots of her hair with rage to see Angela humble and fearful, he laughed loudly: “I’m just a plain tradesman, you know; if you don’t like my ways, then you’d better not come here.” Catching Angela’s eye, Stephen tried to laugh too.

A soul-sickening business. She would feel degraded; she would feel herself gradually losing all sense of pride, of common decency, even, so that when she returned in the evening to Morton she would not want to look the old house in the eyes. She would not want to face those pictures of Gordons that hung in its hall, and must turn away, lest they by their very silence rebuke this descendant of theirs who was so unworthy. Yet sometimes it seemed to her that she loved more intensely because she had lost so much⁠—there was nothing left now but Angela Crossby.

II

Watching this deadly decay that threatened all that was fine in her erstwhile pupil, Puddle must sometimes groan loudly in spirit; she must even argue with God about it. Yes, she must actually argue with God like Job; and remembering his words in affliction, she must speak those words on behalf of Stephen: “Thine hands have made me and fashioned me together round about; yet Thou dost destroy me.” For now in addition to everything else, she had learnt of the advent of Roger Antrim. Not that