III
Stupid with misery and growing more inept every day, Stephen found herself no match for Roger. He was calm, self-assured, insolent and triumphant, and his love of tormenting had not waned with his manhood. Roger was no fool; he put two and two together and his masculine instinct deeply resented this creature who might challenge his right of possession. Moreover, that masculine instinct was outraged. He would stare at Stephen as though she were a horse whom he strongly suspected of congenital unsoundness, and then he would let his eyes rest on Angela’s face. They would be the eyes of a lover, possessive, demanding, insistent eyes—if Ralph did not happen to be present. And into Angela’s eyes there would come an expression that Stephen had seen many times. A mist would slowly cloud over their blueness; they would dim, as though they were hiding something. Then Stephen would be seized with a violent trembling, so that she could not stand any more but must sit with her hands clasped tightly together, lest those trembling hands betray her to Roger. But Roger would have seen already, and would smile his slow, understanding, masterful smile.
Sometimes he and Stephen would look at each other covertly, and their youthful faces would be marred by a very abominable thing; the instinctive repulsion of two human bodies, the one for the other, which neither could help—not now that those bodies were stirred by a woman. Then into this vortex of secret emotion would come Ralph. He would stare from Stephen to Roger and then at his wife, and his eyes would be red—one never knew whether from tears or from anger. They would form a grotesque triangle for a moment, those three who must share a common desire. But after a little the two male creatures who hated each other, would be shamefully united in the bond of their deeper hatred of Stephen; and divining this, she in her turn would hate.
IV
It could not go on without some sort of convulsion, and that Christmas was a time of recriminations. Angela’s infatuation was growing, and she did not always hide this from Stephen. Letters would arrive in Roger’s handwriting, and Stephen, half crazy with jealousy by now, would demand to see them. She would be refused, and a scene would ensue.
“That man’s your lover! Have I gone starving only for this—that you should give yourself to Roger Antrim? Show me that letter!”
“How dare you suggest that Roger’s my lover! But if he were it’s no business of yours.”
“Will you show me that letter?”
“I will not.”
“It’s from Roger.”
“You’re intolerable. You can think what you please.”
“What am I to think?” Then because of her longing, “Angela, for God’s sake don’t treat me like this—I can’t bear it. When you loved me it was easier to bear—I endured it for your sake, but now—listen, listen. …” Stark naked confessions dragged from lips that grew white the while they confessed: “Angela, listen. …”
And now the terrible nerves of the invert, those nerves that are always lying in wait, gripped Stephen. They ran like live wires through her body, causing a constant and ruthless torment, so that the sudden closing of a door or the barking of Tony would fall like a blow on her shrinking flesh. At night in her bed she must cover her ears from the ticking of the clock, which would sound like thunder in the darkness.
Angela had taken to going up to London on some pretext or another—she must see her dentist; she must fit a new dress.
“Well then, let me come with you.”
“Good heavens, why? I’m only going to the dentist!”
“All right, I’ll come too.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind.” Then Stephen would know why Angela was going.
All that day she would be haunted by insufferable pictures. Whatever she did, wherever she went, she would see them together, Angela and Roger. … She would think: “I’m going mad! I can see them as clearly as though they were here before me in the room.” And then she would cover her eyes with her hands, but this would only strengthen the pictures.
Like some earthbound spirit she would haunt The Grange on the pretext of taking Tony for a walk. And there, as likely as not, would be Ralph wandering about in his bare rose garden. He would glance up and see her perhaps, and then—most profound shame of all—they would both look guilty, for each would know the loneliness of the other, and that loneliness would draw them together for the moment; they would be almost friends in their hearts.
“Angela’s gone up to London, Stephen.”
“Yes, I know. She’s gone up to fit her new dress.”
Their eyes would drop. Then Ralph might say sharply: “If you’re after the dog, he’s in the kitchen,” and turning his back, he might make a pretence of examining his standard rose-trees.
Calling Tony, Stephen would walk into Upton, then along the mist-swept bank of the river. She would stand very still staring down at the water, but the impulse would pass, and whistling the dog, she would turn and go hurrying back to Upton.
Then one afternoon Roger came with his car to take Angela for a drive through the hills. The New Year was slipping into the spring, and the air smelt of sap and much diligent growing. A warm February had succeeded the winter. Many birds would be astir on those hills where lovers might sit unashamed—where Stephen had sat holding Angela clasped in her arms, while she eagerly took and gave kisses. And remembering
