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Chapter X: The Resolve


The next few days saw Stephen abnormally restless.  She had fairly
well made up her mind to test her theory of equality of the sexes by
asking Leonard Everard to marry her; but her difficulty was as to the
doing it.  She knew well that it would not do to depend on a chance
meeting for an opportunity.  After all, the matter was too serious to
allow of the possibility of levity.  There were times when she
thought she would write to him and make her proffer of affection in
this way; but on every occasion when such thought recurred it was
forthwith instantly abandoned.  During the last few days, however,
she became more reconciled to even this method of procedure.  The
fever of growth was unabated.  At last came an evening which she had
all to herself.  Miss Laetitia was going over to Norwood to look
after matters there, and would remain the night.  Stephen saw in her
absence an opportunity for thought and action, and said that, having
a headache, she would remain at home.  Her aunt offered to postpone
her visit.  But she would not hear of it; and so she had the evening
to herself.
After dinner in her boudoir she set herself to the composition of a
letter to Leonard which would convey at least something of her
feelings and wishes towards him.  In the depths of her heart, which
now and again beat furiously, she had a secret hope that when once
the idea was broached Leonard would do the rest.  And as she thought
of that 'rest' a languorous dreaminess came upon her.  She thought
how he would come to her full of love, of yearning passion; how she
would try to keep towards him, at first, an independent front which
would preserve her secret anxiety until the time should come when she
might yield herself to his arms and tell him all.  For hours she
wrote letter after letter, destroying them as quickly as she wrote,
as she found that she had but swayed pendulum fashion between
overtness and coldness.  Some of the letters were so chilly in tone
that she felt they would defeat their own object.  Others were so
frankly warm in the expression of--regard she called it, that with
burning blushes she destroyed them at once at the candle before her.
At last she made up her mind.  Just as she had done when a baby she
realised that the opposing forces were too strong for her; she gave
in gracefully.  It would not do to deal directly in a letter with the
matter in hand.  She would write to Leonard merely asking him to see
her.  Then, when they were together without fear of interruption, she
would tell him her views.
She got as far as 'Dear Mr. Leonard,' when she stood up, saying to
'I shall not be in a hurry.  I must sleep on it before I write!'  She
took up the novel she had been reading in the afternoon, and read on
at it steadily till her bedtime.
That night she did not sleep.  It was not that she was agitated.
Indeed, she was more at ease than she had been for days; she had
after much anxious thought made up her mind to a definite course of
action.  Therefore her sleeplessness was not painful.  It was rather
that she did not want to sleep, than that she could not.  She lay
still, thinking, thinking; dreaming such dreams as are the occasions
of sanctified privacy to her age and sex.
In the morning she was no worse for her vigil.  When at luncheon-time
Aunt Laetitia had returned she went into all the little matters of
which she had to report.  It was after tea-time when she found
herself alone, and with leisure to attend to what was, she felt,
directly her own affair.  During the night she had made up her mind
exactly what to say to Leonard; and as her specific resolution bore
the test of daylight she was satisfied.  The opening words had in
their inception caused her some concern; but after hours of thought
she had come to the conclusion that to address, under the
circumstance, the recipient of the letter as 'Dear Mr. Everard' would
hardly do.  The only possible justification of her unconventional act
was that there existed already a friendship, an intimacy of years,
since childhood; that there were already between them knowledge and
understanding of each other; that what she was doing, and about to
do, was but a further step in a series of events long ago undertaken.
She thought it better to send by post rather than messenger, as the
latter did away with all privacy with regard to the act.
The letter was as follows:

'DEAR LEONARD,--Would it be convenient for you to meet me to-morrow,
Tuesday, at half-past twelve o'clock on the top of Caester Hill?  I
want to speak about a matter that may have some interest to you, and
it will be more private there than in the house.  Also it will be
cooler in the shade on the hilltop. -
Yours sincerely, STEPHEN NORMAN.'

Having posted the letter she went about the usual routine of her life
at Normanstand, and no occasion of suspicion or remark regarding her
came to her aunt.
In her room that night when she had sent away her maid, she sat down
to think, and all the misgivings of the day came back.  One by one
they were conquered by one protective argument:
'I am free to do as I like.  I am my own mistress; and I am doing
nothing that is wrong.  Even if it is unconventional, what of that?
God knows there are enough conventions in the world that are wrong,
hopelessly, unalterably wrong.  After all, who are the people who are
most bound by convention?  Those who call themselves "smart!"  If
Convention is the god of the smart set, then it is about time that
honest people chose another!'

Leonard received the letter at breakfast-time.  He did not give it
any special attention, as he had other letters at the same time, some
of which were, if less pleasant, of more immediate importance.  He
had of late been bombarded with dunning letters from tradesmen; for
during his University life, and ever since, he had run into debt.
The moderate allowance his father made him he had treated as cash for
incidental expenses, but everything else had been on credit.  Indeed
he was beginning to get seriously alarmed about the future, for his
father, who had paid his debts once, and at a time when they were by
comparison inconsiderable, had said that he would not under any
circumstances pay others.  He was not sorry, therefore, for an
opportunity of getting away for a few hours from home; from himself--
from anxieties, possibilities.  The morning was a sweltering one, and
he grumbled to himself as he set out on his journey through the

Stephen rose fresh and in good spirits, despite her sleepless night.
When youth and strength are to the fore, a night's sleep is not of
much account, for the system once braced up is not allowed to
slacken.  It was a notable sign of her strong nature that she was not
even impatient, but waited with calm fixity the hour at which she had
asked Leonard Everard to meet her.  It is true that as the time grew
closer her nerve was less marked.  And just before it she was a girl-
-and nothing more; with all girl's diffidence, a girl's self-
distrust, a girl's abnegation, a girl's plasticity.
In the more purely personal aspect of her enterprise Stephen's effort
was more conscious.  It is hardly possible for a pretty woman to seek
in her study of perfection the aid of her mirror and to be
unconscious of her aims.  There must certainly be at least one
dominant purpose:  the achievement of success.  Stephen did not
attempt to deny her own beauty; on the contrary she gave it the
fullest scope.  There was a certain triumph in her glance as she took
her last look in her mirror; a gratification of her wish to show
herself in the best way possible.  It was a very charming picture
which the mirror reflected.
It may be that there is a companionship in a mirror, especially to a
woman; that the reflection of oneself is an emboldening presence, a
personality which is better than the actuality of an unvalued
stranger.  Certainly, when Stephen closed the door and stood in the
wainscoted passage, which was only dimly lit by the high window at
either end, her courage seemed at once to ooze away.
Probably for the first time in her life, as she left the shade of the
long passage and came out on the staircase flooded with the light of
the noonday sun, Stephen felt that she was a girl--'girl' standing as
some sort of synonym for weakness, pretended or actual.  Fear, in
whatever form or degree it may come, is a vital quality and must
move.  It cannot stand at a fixed point; if it be not sent backward
it must progress.  Stephen felt this, and, though her whole nature
was repugnant to the task, forced herself to the effort of
repression.  It would, she felt, have been to her a delicious
pleasure to have abandoned all effort; to have sunk in the lassitude
of self-surrender.
The woman in her was working; her sex had found her out!
She turned and looked around her, as though conscious of being
watched.  Then, seeing that she was alone, she went her way with
settled purpose; with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks--and a beating
heart.  A heart all woman's since it throbbed the most with
apprehension when the enemy, Man, was the objective of her most
resolute attack.  She knew that she must keep moving; that she must
not stop or pause; or her whole resolution must collapse.  And so she
hurried on, fearful lest a chance meeting with any one might imperil
her purpose.
On she went through the faint moss-green paths; through meadows rich
with flowering grasses and the many reds of the summer wild-flowers.
And so up through the path cut in the natural dipping of the rock
that rose over Caester Hill and formed a strong base for the clump of
great trees that made a landmark for many a mile around.  During the
first part of her journey between the house and the hilltop, she
tried to hold her purpose at arm's length; it would be sufficient to
face its terrors when the time had come.  In the meantime the matter
was of such overwhelming importance that nothing else could take its
place; all she could do was to suspend the active part of the
thinking faculties and leave the mind only receptive.
But when she had passed through the thin belt of stunted oak and
beech which hedged in the last of the lush meadows, and caught sight
of the clump of trees on the hilltop, she unconsciously braced
herself as a young regiment loses its tremors when the sight of the
enemy breaks upon it.  No longer her eyes fell earthward; they were
raised, and raised proudly.  Stephen Norman was fixed in her
intention.  Like the woman of old, her feet were on the ploughshares
and she would not hesitate.
As she drew near the appointed place her pace grew slower and slower;
the woman in her was unconsciously manifesting itself.  She would not
be first in her tryst with a man.  Unconsciousness, however, is not a
working quality which can be relied upon for staying power; the
approach to the trysting-place brought once more home to her the
strange nature of her enterprise.  She had made up her mind to it;
there was no use in deceiving herself.  What she had undertaken to do
was much more unconventional than being first at a meeting.  It was
foolish and weak to delay.  The last thought braced her up; and it
was with a hurried gait, which alone would have betrayed her to an
intelligent observer, that she entered the grove.