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Chapter XV: The End of the Meeting


Stephen went on in her calm, cold voice:
'Did he tell you that I had asked him to marry me?'  Despite herself,
as she spoke the words a red tide dyed her face.  It was not a flush;
it was not a blush; it was a sort of flood which swept through her,
leaving her in a few seconds whiter than before.  Harold saw and
understood.  He could not speak; he lowered his head silently.  Her
eyes glittered more coldly.  The madness that every human being may
have once was upon her.  Such a madness is destructive, and here was
something more vulnerable than herself.
'Did he tell you how I pressed him?'  There was no red tide this
time, nor ever again whilst the interview lasted.  To bow in
affirmation was insufficient; with an effort he answered:
'I understood so.'  She answered with an icy sarcasm:
'You understood so!  Oh, I don't doubt he embellished the record with
some of his own pleasantries.  But you understood it; and that is
sufficient.'  After a pause she went on:
'Did he tell you that he had refused me?'
'Yes!'  Harold knew now that he was under the torture, and that there
was no refusing.  She went on, with a light laugh, which wrung his
heart even more than her pain had done ... Stephen to laugh like
'And I have no doubt that he embellished that too, with some of his
fine masculine witticisms.  I understood myself that he was offended
at my asking him.  I understood it quite well; he told me so!'  Then
with feminine intuition she went on:
'I dare say that before he was done he said something kindly of the
poor little thing that loved him; that loved him so much, and that
she had to break down all the bounds of modesty and decorum that had
made the women of her house honoured for a thousand years!  And you
listened to him whilst he spoke!  Oh-h-h!' she quivered with her
white-hot anger, as the fierce heat in the heart of a furnace
quivers.  But her voice was cold again as she went on:
'But who could help loving him?  Girls always did.  It was such a
beastly nuisance!  You "understood" all that, I dare say; though
perhaps he did not put it in such plain words!'  Then the scorn,
which up to now had been imprisoned, turned on him; and he felt as
though some hose of deathly chill was being played upon him.
'And yet you, knowing that only yesterday, he had refused me--refused
my pressing request that he should marry me, come to me hot-foot in
the early morning and ask me to be your wife.  I thought such things
did not take place; that men were more honourable, or more
considerate, or more merciful!  Or at least I used to think so; till
yesterday.  No! till to-day.  Yesterday's doings were my own doings,
and I had to bear the penalty of them myself.  I had come here to
fight out by myself the battle of my shame ... '
Here Harold interrupted her.  He could not bear to hear Stephen use
such a word in connection with herself.
'No!  You must not say "shame."  There is no shame to you, Stephen.
There can be none, and no one must say it in my presence!'  In her
secret heart of hearts she admired him for his words; she felt them
at the moment sink into her memory, and knew that she would never
forget the mastery of his face and bearing.  But the blindness of
rage was upon her, and it is of the essence of this white-hot anger
that it preys not on what is basest in us, but on what is best.  That
Harold felt deeply was her opportunity to wound him more deeply than
'Even here in the solitude which I had chosen as the battleground of
my shame you had need to come unasked, unthought of, when even a
lesser mind than yours, for you are no fool, would have thought to
leave me alone.  My shame was my own, I tell you; and I was learning
to take my punishment.  My punishment!  Poor creatures that we are,
we think our punishment will be what we would like best:  to suffer
in silence, and not to have spread abroad our shame!'  How she harped
on that word, though she knew that every time she uttered it, it cut
to the heart of the man who loved her.  'And yet you come right on
top of my torture to torture me still more and illimitably.  You
come, you who alone had the power to intrude yourself on my grief and
sorrow; power given you by my father's kindness.  You come to me
without warning, considerately telling me that you knew I would be
here because I had always come here when I had been in trouble.  No--
I do you an injustice.  "In trouble" was not what you said, but that
I had come when I had been in short frocks.  Short frocks!  And you
came to tell me that you loved me.  You thought, I suppose, that as I
had refused one man, I would jump at the next that came along.  I
wanted a man.  God! God! what have I done that such an affront should
come upon me?  And come, too, from a hand that should have protected
me if only in gratitude for my father's kindness!'  She was eyeing
him keenly, with eyes that in her unflinching anger took in
everything with the accuracy of sun-painting.  She wanted to wound;
and she succeeded.
But Harold had nerves and muscles of steel; and when the call came to
them they answered.  Though the pain of death was upon him he did not
flinch.  He stood before her like a rock, in all his great manhood;
but a rock on whose summit the waves had cast the wealth of their
foam, for his face was as white as snow.  She saw and understood; but
in the madness upon her she went on trying new places and new ways to
'You thought, I suppose, that this poor, neglected, despised,
rejected woman, who wanted so much to marry that she couldn't wait
for a man to ask her, would hand herself over to the first chance
comer who threw his handkerchief to her; would hand over herself--and
her fortune!'
'Oh, Stephen!  How can you say such things, think such things?'  The
protest broke from him with a groan.  His pain seemed to inflame her
still further; to gratify her hate, and to stimulate her mad passion:
'Why did I ever see you at all?  Why did my father treat you as a
son; that when you had grown and got strong on his kindness you could
thus insult his daughter in the darkest hour of her pain and her
shame!'  She almost choked with passion.  There was now nothing in
the whole world that she could trust.  In the pause he spoke:
'Stephen, I never meant you harm.  Oh, don't speak such wild words.
They will come back to you with sorrow afterwards!  I only meant to
do you good.  I wanted ... '  Her anger broke out afresh:
'There; you speak it yourself!  You only wanted to do me good.  I was
so bad that any kind of a husband ... Oh, get out of my sight!  I
wish to God I had never seen you!  I hope to God I may never see you
again!  Go!  Go!  Go!'
This was the end!  To Harold's honest mind such words would have been
impossible had not thoughts of truth lain behind them.  That Stephen-
-his Stephen, whose image in his mind shut out every other woman in
the world, past, present, and future--should say such things to any
one, that she should think such things, was to him a deadly blow.
But that she should say them to him! ... Utterance, even the
utterance which speaks in the inmost soul, failed him.  He had in
some way that he knew not hurt--wounded--killed Stephen; for the
finer part was gone from the Stephen that he had known and worshipped
so long.  She wished him gone; she wished she had never seen him; she
hoped to God never to see him again.  Life for him was over and done!
There could be no more happiness in the world; no more wish to work,
to live! ...
He bowed gravely; and without a word turned and walked away.
Stephen saw him go, his tall form moving amongst the tree trunks till
finally it was lost in their massing.  She was so filled with the
tumult of her passion that she looked, unmoved.  Even the sense of
his going did not change her mood.  She raged to and fro amongst the
trees, her movements getting quicker and quicker as her excitement
began to change from mental to physical; till the fury began to
exhaust itself.  All at once she stopped, as though arrested by a
physical barrier; and with a moan sank down in a helpless heap on the
cool moss.

Harold went from the grove as one seems to move in a dream.  Little
things and big were mixed up in his mind.  He took note, as he went
towards the town by the byroads, of everything around him in his
usual way, for he had always been one of those who notice
unconsciously, or rather unintentionally.  Long afterwards he could
shut his eyes and recall every step of the way from the spot where he
had turned from Stephen to the railway station outside Norcester.
And on many and many such a time when he opened them again the
eyelids were wet.  He wanted to get away quickly, silently,
unobserved.  With the instinct of habitual thought his mind turned
London-ward.  He met but few persons, and those only cottiers.  He
saluted them in his usual cheery way, but did not stop to speak with
any.  He was about to take a single ticket to London when it struck
him that this might look odd, so he asked for a return.  Then, his
mind being once more directed towards concealment of purpose, he sent
a telegram to his housekeeper telling her that he was called away to
London on business.  It was only when he was far on his journey that
he gave thought to ways and means, and took stock of his possessions.
Before he took out his purse and pocket-book he made up his mind that
he would be content with what it was, no matter how little.  He had
left Normanstand and all belonging to it for ever, and was off to
hide himself in whatever part of the world would afford him the best
opportunity.  Life was over!  There was nothing to look forward to;
nothing to look back at!  The present was a living pain whose
lightest element was despair.  As, however, he got further and
further away, his practical mind began to work; he thought over
matters so as to arrange in his mind how best he could dispose of his
affairs, so to cause as little comment as might be, and to save the
possibility of worry or distress of any kind to Stephen.
Even then, in his agony of mind, his heart was with her; it was not
the least among his troubles that he would have to be away from her
when perhaps she would need him most.  And yet whenever he would come
to this point in his endless chain of thought, he would have to stop
for a while, overcome with such pain that his power of thinking was
paralysed.  He would never, could never, be of service to her again.
He had gone out of her life, as she had gone out of his life; though
she never had, nor never could out of his thoughts.  It was all over!
All the years of sweetness, of hope, and trust, and satisfied and
justified faith in each other, had been wiped out by that last
terrible, cruel meeting.  Oh! how could she have said such things to
him!  How could she have thought them!  And there she was now in all
the agony of her unrestrained passion.  Well he knew, from his long
experience of her nature, how she must have suffered to be in such a
state of mind, to have so forgotten all the restraint of her teaching
and her life!  Poor, poor Stephen!  Fatherless now as well as
motherless; and friendless as well as fatherless!  No one to calm her
in the height of her wild abnormal passion!  No one to comfort her
when the fit had passed!  No one to sympathise with her for all that
she had suffered!  No one to help her to build new and better hopes
out of the wreck of her mad ideas!  He would cheerfully have given
his life for her.  Only last night he was prepared to kill, which was
worse than to die, for her sake.  And now to be far away, unable to
help, unable even to know how she fared.  And behind her eternally
the shadow of that worthless man who had spurned her love and flouted
her to a chance comer in his drunken delirium.  It was too bitter to
bear.  How could God lightly lay such a burden on his shoulders who
had all his life tried to walk in sobriety and chastity and in all
worthy and manly ways!  It was unfair!  It was unfair!  If he could
do anything for her?  Anything!  Anything! ... And so the unending
whirl of thoughts went on!
The smoke of London was dim on the horizon when he began to get back
to practical matters.  When the train drew up at Euston he stepped
from it as one to whom death would be a joyous relief!
He went to a quiet hotel, and from there transacted by letter such
business matters as were necessary to save pain and trouble to
others.  As for himself, he made up his mind that he would go to
Alaska, which he took to be one of the best places in the as yet
uncivilised world for a man to lose his identity.  As a security at
the start he changed his name; and as John Robinson, which was not a
name to attract public attention, he shipped as a passenger on the
Scoriac from London to New York.
The Scoriac was one of the great cargo boats which take a certain
number of passengers.  The few necessaries which he took with him
were chosen with an eye to utility in that frozen land which he
sought.  For the rest, he knew nothing, nor did he care how or
whither he went.  His vague purpose was to cross the American
Continent to San Francisco, and there to take passage for the high
latitudes north of the Yukon River.

When Stephen began to regain consciousness her first sensation was
one of numbness.  She was cold in the back, and her feet did not seem
to exist; but her head was hot and pulsating as though her brain were
a living thing.  Then her half-open eyes began to take in her
surroundings.  For another long spell she began to wonder why all
around her was green.  Then came the inevitable process of reason.
Trees!  It is a wood!  How did I come here? why am I lying on the
All at once wakened memory opened on her its flood-gates, and
overwhelmed her with pain.  With her hands pressed to her throbbing
temples and her burning face close to the ground, she began to recall
what she could of the immediate past.  It all seemed like a terrible
dream.  By degrees her intelligence came back to its normal strength,
and all at once, as does one suddenly wakened from sleep to the
knowledge of danger, she sat up.
Somehow the sense of time elapsed made Stephen look at her watch.  It
was half-past twelve.  As she had come into the grove immediately
after breakfast, and as Harold had almost immediately joined her, and
as the interview between them had been but short, she must have lain
on the ground for more than three hours.  She rose at once, trembling
in every limb.  A new fear began to assail her; that she had been
missed at home, and that some one might have come to look for her.
Up to now she had not been able to feel the full measure of pain
regarding what had passed, but which would, she knew, come to her in
the end.  It was too vague as yet; she could not realise that it had
really been.  But the fear of discovery was immediate, and must be
guarded against without delay.  As well as she could, she tidied
herself and began to walk slowly back to the house, hoping to gain
her own room unnoticed.  That her general intelligence was awake was
shown by the fact that before she left the grove she remembered that
she had forgotten her sunshade.  She went back and searched till she
had found it.
Gaining her room without meeting any one, she at once change her
dress, fearing that some soil or wrinkle might betray her.
Resolutely she put back from her mind all consideration of the past;
there would be time for that later on.  Her nerves were already much
quieter than they had been.  That long faint, or lapse into
insensibility, had for the time taken the place of sleep.  There
would be a price to be paid for it later; but for the present it had
served its purpose.  Now and again she was disturbed by one thought;
she could not quite remember what had occurred after Harold had left,
and just before she became unconscious.  She dared not dwell upon it,
however.  It would doubtless all come back to her when she had
leisure to think the whole matter over as a connected narrative.
When the gong sounded for lunch she went down, with a calm exterior,
to face the dreaded ordeal of another meal.
Luncheon passed off without a hitch.  She and her aunt talked as
usual over all the small affairs of the house and the neighbourhood,
and the calm restraint was in itself soothing.  Even then she could
not help feeling how much convention is to a woman's life.  Had it
not been for these recurring trials of set hours and duties she could
never have passed the last day and night without discovery of her
condition of mind.  That one terrible, hysterical outburst was
perhaps the safety valve.  Had it been spread over the time occupied
in conventional duties its force even then might have betrayed her;
but without the necessity of nerving herself to conventional needs,
she would have infallibly betrayed herself by her negative condition.
After lunch she went to her own boudoir where, when she had shut the
inner door, no one was allowed to disturb her without some special
need in the house or on the arrival of visitors.  This 'sporting oak'
was the sign of 'not at home' which she had learned in her glimpse of
college life.  Here in the solitude of safety, she began to go over
the past, resolutely and systematically.
She had already been so often over the memory of the previous
humiliating and unhappy day that she need not revert to it at
present.  Since then had she not quarrelled with Harold, whom she had
all her life so trusted that her quarrel with him seemed to shake the
very foundations of her existence?  As yet she had not remembered
perfectly all that had gone on under the shadow of the beech grove.
She dared not face it all at once, even as yet.  Time must elapse
before she should dare to cry; to think of her loss of Harold was to
risk breaking down altogether.  Already she felt weak.  The strain of
the last forty-eight hours was too much for her physical strength.
She began to feel, as she lay back in her cushioned chair, that a
swoon is no worthy substitute for sleep.  Indeed it had seemed to
make the need for sleep even more imperative.
It was all too humiliating!  She wanted to think over what had been;
to recall it as far as possible so as to fix it in her mind, whilst
it was still fresh.  Later on, some action might have to be based on
her recollection.  And yet ... How could she think when she was so
tired ... tired ...
Nature came to the poor girl's relief at last, and she fell into a
heavy sleep ...
It was like coming out of the grave to be dragged back to waking life
out of such a sleep, and so soon after it had begun.  But the voice
seemed to reach to her inner consciousness in some compelling way.
For a second she could not understand; but as she rose from the
cushions the maid's message repeated, brought her wide awake and
alert in an instant:
'Mr. Everard, young Mr. Everard, to see you, miss!'