“Yes, Stephen—a long time ago I was young. …”
“But can’t you remember back for my sake?” And now her voice sounded almost angry in her distress: “It’s unfair, it’s unjust. Why should I live in this great isolation of spirit and body—why should I, why? Why have I been afflicted with a body that must never be indulged, that must always be repressed until it grows stronger much than my spirit because of this unnatural repression? What have I done to be so cursed? And now it’s attacking my holy of holies, my work—I shall never be a great writer because of my maimed and insufferable body—” She fell silent, suddenly shy and ashamed, too much ashamed to go on speaking.
And there sat Puddle as pale as death and as speechless, having no comfort to offer—no comfort, that is, that she dared to offer—while all her fine theories about making good for the sake of those others; being noble, courageous, patient, honourable, physically pure, enduring because it was right to endure, the terrible birthright of the invert—all Puddle’s fine theories lay strewn around her like the ruins of some false and flimsy temple, and she saw at that moment but one thing clearly—true genius in chains, in the chains of the flesh, a fine spirit subject to physical bondage. And as once before she had argued with God on behalf of this sorely afflicted creature, so now she inwardly cried yet again to the Maker whose will had created Stephen: “Thine hands have made me and fashioned me together round about; yet Thou dost destroy me.” Then into her heart crept a bitterness very hard to endure: “Yet Thou dost destroy me—”
Stephen looked up and saw her face: “Never mind,” she said sharply, “it’s all right, Puddle—forget it!”
But Puddle’s eyes filled with tears, and seeing this, Stephen went to her desk. Sitting down she groped for her manuscript: “I’m going to turn you out now, I must work. Don’t wait for me if I’m late for dinner.”
Very humbly Puddle crept out of the study.
XXIX
I
Soon after the New Year, nine months later, Stephen’s second novel was published. It failed to create the sensation that the first had created, there was something disappointing about it. One critic described this as: “A lack of grip,” and his criticism, on the whole, was a fair one. However, the Press was disposed to be kind, remembering the merits of The Furrow.
But the heart of the Author knoweth its own sorrows and is seldom responsive to false consolation, so that when Puddle said: “Never mind, Stephen, you can’t expect every book to be The Furrow—and this one is full of literary merit,” Stephen replied as she turned away: “I was writing a novel, my dear, not an essay.”
After this they did not discuss it any more, for what was the use of fruitless discussion? Stephen knew well and Puddle knew also that this book fell far short of its author’s powers. Then suddenly, that spring, Raftery went very lame, and everything else was forgotten.
Raftery was aged, he was now eighteen, so that lameness in him was not easy of healing. His life in a city had tried him sorely, he had missed the light, airy stables of Morton, and the cruel-hard bed that lay under the tan of the Row had jarred his legs badly.
The vet shook his head and looked very grave: “He’s an aged horse, you know, and of course in his youth you hunted him pretty freely—it all counts. Everyone comes to the end of their tether, Miss Gordon. Yes, at times I’m afraid it is painful.” Then seeing Stephen’s face: “I’m awfully sorry not to give a more cheerful diagnosis.”
Other experts arrived. Every good vet in London was consulted, including Professor Hobday. No cure, no cure, it was always the same, and at times, they told Stephen, the old horse suffered; but this she well knew—she had seen the sweat break out darkly on Raftery’s shoulders.
So one morning she went into Raftery’s loosebox, and she sent the groom Jim out of the stable, and she laid her cheek against the beast’s neck, while he turned his head and began to nuzzle. Then they looked at each other very quietly and gravely, and in Raftery’s eyes was a strange, new expression—a kind of half-anxious, protesting wonder at this thing men call pain: “What is it, Stephen?”
She answered, forcing back her hot tears: “Perhaps, for you, the beginning, Raftery. …”
After a while she went to his manger and let the fodder slip through her fingers; but he would not eat, not even to please her, so she called the groom back and ordered some gruel. Very gently she readjusted the clothing that had slipped to one side, first the
