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Chapter VI: A Visit to Oxford


The next important move in the household was Harold's going to
Cambridge.  His father had always intended this, and Squire Norman
had borne his wishes in mind.  Harold joined Trinity, the college
which had been his father's, and took up his residence in due course.
Stephen was now nearly twelve.  Her range of friendships, naturally
limited by her circumstances in life, was enlarged to the full; and
if she had not many close friends there were at least of them all
that was numerically possible.  She still kept up to certain degree
the little gatherings which in her childhood were got together for
her amusement, and in the various games then instituted she still
took a part.  She never lost sight of the fact that her father took a
certain pleasure in her bodily vigour.  And though with her growing
years and the conscious acceptance of her womanhood, she lost sight
of the old childish fancy of being a boy instead of a girl, she could
not lose sight of the fact that strength and alertness are sources of
feminine as well as of masculine power.
Amongst the young friends who came from time to time during his
holidays was Leonard Everard, now a tall, handsome boy.  He was one
of those boys who develop young, and who seem never to have any of
that gawky stage so noticeable in the youth of men made in a large
pattern.  He was always well-poised, trim-set, alert; fleet of foot,
and springy all over.  In games he was facile princeps, seeming to
make his effort always in the right way and without exertion, as if
by an instinct of physical masterdom.  His universal success in such
matters helped to give him an easy debonair manner which was in
itself winning.  So physically complete a youth has always a charm.
In its very presence there is a sort of sympathetic expression, such
as comes with the sunshine.
Stephen always in Leonard's presence showed something of the common
attitude.  His youth and beauty and sex all had their influence on
her.  The influence of sex, as it is understood with regard to a
later period of life, did not in her case exist; Cupid's darts are
barbed and winged for more adult victims.  But in her case Leonard's
masculine superiority, emphasised by the few years between their age,
his sublime self-belief, and, above all, his absolute disregard for
herself or her wishes or her feelings, put him on a level at which
she had to look up to him.  The first step in the ladder of pre-
eminence had been achieved when she realised that he was not on her
level; the second when she experienced rather than thought that he
had more influence on her than she had on him.  Here again was a
little morsel of hero worship, which, though based on a misconception
of fact, was still of influence.  In that episode of the crypt she
had always believed that it was Leonard who had carried her out and
laid her on the church floor in light and safety.  He had been strong
enough and resolute enough to do this, whilst she had fainted!
Harold's generous forbearance had really worked to a false end.
It was not strange, therefore, that she found occasional
companionship with the handsome, wilful, domineering boy somewhat of
luxury.  She did not see him often enough to get tired of him; to
find out the weakness of his character; to realise his deep-seated,
remorseless selfishness.  But after all he was only an episode in a
young life which was full of interests.  Term after term came and
went; the holidays had their seasonable pleasures, occasionally
shared in common.  That was all.
Harold's attitude was the same as ever.  He was of a constant nature;
and now that manhood was within hail the love of his boyhood was
ripening to a man's love.  That was all.  He was with regard to
Stephen the same devoted, worshipping protector, without thought of
self; without hope of reward.  Whatever Stephen wished Harold did;
and Stephen, knowing their old wishes and their old pleasures, was
content with their renewal.  Each holiday between the terms became
mainly a repetition of the days of the old life.  They lived in the
Amongst the things that did not change was Stephen's riding dress.
The scarlet habit had never been a thing for everyday wear, but had
from the first been kept for special occasions.  Stephen herself knew
that it was not a conventional costume; but she rather preferred it,
if on that account alone.  In a certain way she felt justified in
using it; for a red habit was a sort of tradition in the family.
It was on one of these occasions that she had gone with Harold into
the churchyard where they had heard the discussion regarding God and
the Angels.

When Stephen was about sixteen she went for a short visit to Oxford.
She stayed at Somerville with Mrs. Egerton, an old friend of her
mother's, who was a professor at the college.  She sent back her maid
who had travelled with her, as she knew that the college girls did
not have servants of their own.  The visit was prolonged by mutual
consent into a duration of some weeks.  Stephen fell in love with the
place and the life, and had serious thoughts of joining the college
herself.  Indeed she had made up her mind to ask her father to allow
her, knowing well that he would consent to that or to any other
wholesome wish of hers.  But then came the thought that he would be
all alone at home; and following that came another thought, and one
of more poignant feeling.  He was alone now!  Already, for many days,
she had left him, for the first time in her life!  Stephen was quick
to act; well she knew that at home there would be no fault found with
her for a speedy return.  Within a few hours she had brought her
visit to an end, and was by herself, despite Mrs. Egerton's protest,
in the train on the way back to Norcester.
In the train she began to review, for the first time, her visit to
the university.  All had been so strange and new and delightful to
her that she had never stopped for retrospect.  Life in the new and
enchanting place had been in the moving present.  The mind had been
receptive only, gathering data for later thought.  During her visit
she had had no one to direct her thought, and so it had been all
personal, with the freedom of individuality at large.  Of course her
mother's friend, skilled in the mind-workings of average girls, and
able to pick her way through intellectual and moral quagmires, had
taken good care to point out to her certain intellectual movements
and certain moral lessons; just as she had in their various walks and
drives pointed out matters of interest--architectural beauties and
spots of historic import.  And she had taken in, loyally accepted,
and thoroughly assimilated all that she had been told.  But there
were other lessons which were for her young eyes; facts which the
older eyes had ceased to notice, if they had ever noticed them at
all.  The self-content, the sex-content in the endless tide of young
men that thronged the streets and quads and parks; the all-sufficing
nature of sport or study, to whichever their inclinations tended.
The small part which womankind seemed to have in their lives.
Stephen had had, as we know, a peculiar training; whatever her
instincts were, her habits were largely boy habits.  Here she was
amongst boys, a glorious tide of them; it made now and again her
heart beat to look at them.  And yet amongst them all she was only an
outsider.  She could not do anything better than any of them.  Of
course, each time she went out, she became conscious of admiring
glances; she could not be woman without such consciousness.  But it
was as a girl that men looked at her, not as an equal.  As well as
personal experience and the lessons of eyes and ears and
intelligence, there were other things to classify and adjust; things
which were entirely from the outside of her own life.  The fragments
of common-room gossip, which it had been her fortune to hear
accidentally now and again.  The half confidences of scandals, borne
on whispered breaths.  The whole confidences of dormitory and study
which she had been privileged to share.  All were parts of the new
and strange world, the great world which had swum into her ken.
As she sat now in the train, with some formulation of memory already
accomplished in the two hours of solitude, her first comment, spoken
half audibly, would have surprised her teachers as much as it would
have surprised herself, if she had been conscious of it; for as yet
her thinking was not self-conscious:
'Surely, I am not like that!'
It was of the women she had been thinking, not of the men.  The
glimpse which she had had of her own sex had been an awakening to
her; and the awakening had not been to a pleasant world.  All at once
she seemed to realise that her sex had defects--littlenesses,
meannesses, cowardices, falsenesses.  That their occupations were apt
to be trivial or narrow or selfish; that their desires were earthly,
and their tastes coarse; that what she held to be goodness was apt to
be realised only as fear.  That innocence was but ignorance, or at
least baffled curiosity.  That ...
A flood of shame swept over her, and instinctively she put her hands
before her burning face.  As usual, she was running all at once into
And above all these was borne upon her, and for the first time in her
life, that she was herself a woman!
For a long time she sat quite still.  The train thrilled and roared
on its way.  Crowded stations took and gave their quantum of living
freight; but the young girl sat abstracted, unmoved, seemingly
unconscious.  All the dominance and energy of her nature were at
If, indeed, she was a woman, and had to abide by the exigencies of
her own sex, she would at least not be ruled and limited by woman's
weakness.  She would plan and act and manage things for herself, in
her own way.
Whatever her thoughts might be, she could at least control her acts.
And those acts should be based not on woman's weakness, but on man's