Complete Works of Bram Stoker (261 page)

The effect of the mental working was shown by a remark made by Harold when home on his next college vacation.  He had been entering with her on a discussion of an episode on the estate:

‘Stephen, you are learning to be just!’

At the moment she was chagrined by the remark, though she accepted it in silence; but later, when she had thought the matter over, she took from it infinite pleasure.  This was indeed to share man’s ideas and to think with the workings of man’s mind.  It encouraged her to further and larger ideas, and to a greater toleration than she had hitherto dreamed of.

Of all those who loved her, none seemed to understand so fully as Laetitia Rowly the change in her mental attitude, or rather the development of it.  Now and again she tried to deflect or modify certain coming forces, so that the educational process in which she had always had a part would continue in the right direction.  But she generally found that the girl had been over the ground so thoroughly that she was able to defend her position.  Once, when she had ventured to remonstrate with her regarding her attitude of woman’s equality with man, she felt as if Stephen’s barque was indeed entering on dangerous seas.  The occasion had arisen thus: Stephen had been what her aunt had stigmatised as ‘laying down the law’ with regard to the position a married woman, and Miss Rowly, seeing a good argumentative opening, remarked:

‘But what if a woman does not get the opportunity of being married?’  Stephen looked at her a moment before saying with conviction:

‘It is a woman’s fault if she does not get the opportunity!’  The old lady smiled as she answered:

‘Her fault?  My dear, what if no man asks her?’  This seemed to her own mind a poser.

‘Still her own fault!  Why doesn’t she ask him?’  Her aunt’s lorgnon was dropped in horrified amazement.

Stephen went on impassively.

‘Certainly!  Why shouldn’t she?  Marriage is a union.  As it is in the eye of the law a civil contract, either party to it should be at liberty to originate the matter.  If a woman is not free to think of a man in all ways, how is she to judge of the suitability of their union?  And if she is free in theory, why not free to undertake if necessary the initiative in a matter so momentous to herself?’  The old lady actually groaned and wrung her hands; she was horrified at such sentiments.  They were daring enough to think; but to put them in words! . . .

‘Oh, my dear, my dear!’ she moaned, ‘be careful what you say.  Some one might hear you who would not understand, as I do, that you are talking theory.’  Stephen’s habit of thought stood to her here.  She saw that her aunt was distressed, and as she did not wish to pain her unduly, was willing to divert the immediate channel of her fear.  She took the hand which lay in her lap and held it firmly whilst she smiled in the loving old eyes.

‘Of course, Auntie dear, it is theory.  But still it is a theory which I hold very strongly!’ . . . Here a thought struck her and she said suddenly:

‘Did you ever . . . How many proposals did you have, Auntie?’  The old lady smiled; her thoughts were already diverted.

‘Several, my dear!  It is so long ago that I don’t remember!’

‘Oh yes, you do, Auntie!  No woman ever forgets that, no matter what else she may or may not remember!  Tell me, won’t you?’  The old lady blushed slightly as she answered:

‘There is no need to specify, my dear.  Let it be at this, that there were more than you could count on your right hand!’

‘And why did you refuse them?’  The tone was wheedling, and the elder woman loved to hear it.  Wheedling is the courtship, by the young of the old.

‘Because, my dear, I didn’t love them.’

‘But tell me, Auntie, was there never any one that you did love?’

‘Ah! my dear, that is a different matter.  That is the real tragedy of a woman’s life.’  In flooding reminiscent thought she forgot her remonstrating; her voice became full of natural pathos:

‘To love; and be helpless!  To wait, and wait, and wait; with your heart all aflame!  To hope, and hope; till time seems to have passed away, and all the world to stand still on your hopeless misery!  To know that a word might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute!  To keep back the glances that could enlighten; to modulate the tones that might betray!  To see all you hoped for passing away . . . to another! . . . ‘

Stephen bent over and kissed her, then standing up said:

‘I understand!  Isn’t it wrong, Auntie, that there should be such tragedies?  Should not that glance be given?  Why should that tone be checked?  Why should one be mute when a single word might, would, avert the tragedy?  Is it not possible, Auntie, that there is something wrong in our social system when such things can happen; and can happen so often?’

She looked remorseless as well as irresistible in the pride of her youthful strength as with eyes that blazed, not flashing as in passion but with a steady light that seemed to burn, she continued:

‘Some day women must learn their own strength, as well as they have learned their own weakness.  They are taught this latter from their cradles up; but no one ever seems to teach them wherein their power lies.  They have to learn this for themselves; and the process and the result of the self-teaching are not good.  In the University Settlement I learned much that made my heart ache; but out of it there seemed some lesson for good.’  She paused; and her aunt, wishing to keep the subject towards higher things, asked:

‘And that lesson, Stephen dear?’  The blazing eyes turned to her so that she was stirred by them as the answer came:

‘It is bad women who seem to know men best, and to be able to influence them most.  They can make men come and go at will.  They can turn and twist and mould them as they choose.  And
they
never hesitate to speak their own wishes; to ask for what they want.  There are no tragedies, of the negative kind, in
their
lives.  Their tragedies have come and gone already; and their power remains.  Why should good women leave power to such as they?  Why should good women’s lives be wrecked for a convention?  Why in the blind following of some society fetish should life lose its charm, its possibilities?  Why should love eat its heart out, in vain?  The time will come when women will not be afraid to speak to men, as they should speak, as free and equal.  Surely if a woman is to be the equal and lifelong companion of a man, the closest to him  —  nay, the only one really close to him: the mother of his children  —  she should be free at the very outset to show her inclination to him just as he would to her.  Don’t be frightened, Auntie dear; your eyes are paining me! . . . There! perhaps I said too much.  But after all it is only theory.  Take for your comfort, Auntie dear, that I am free an heart-whole.  You need not fear for me; I can see what your dear eyes tell me.  Yes!  I am very young; perhaps too young to think such things.  But I have thought of them.  Thought them all over in every way and phase I can imagine.’

She stopped suddenly; bending over, she took the old lady in her arms and kissed her fondly several times, holding her tight.  Then, as suddenly releasing her, she ran away before she could say a word.

CHAPTER VIII  —  THE T-CART

When Harold took his degree, Stephen’s father took her to Cambridge.  She enjoyed the trip very much; indeed, it seemed under conditions that were absolutely happy.

When they had returned to Normanstand, the Squire took an early opportunity of bringing Harold alone into his study.  He spoke to him with what in a very young man would have seemed diffidence:

‘I have been thinking, Harold, that the time has come when you should be altogether your own master.  I am more than pleased, my boy, with the way you have gone through college; it is, I am sure, just as your dear father would have wished it, and as it would have pleased him best.’  He paused, and Harold said in a low voice:

‘I tried hard, sir, to do what I thought he would like; and what you would.’  The Squire went on more cheerfully:

‘I know that, my boy!  I know that well.  And I can tell you that it is not the least of the pleasures we have all had in your success, how you have justified yourself.  You have won many honours in the schools, and you have kept the reputation as an athlete which your father was so proud of.  Well, I suppose in the natural order of things you would go into a profession; and of course if you so desire you can do that.  But if you can see your way to it I would rather that you stayed here.  My house is your home as long as I live; but I don’t wish you to feel in any way dependent.  I want you to stay here if you will; but to do it just because you wish to.  To this end I have made over to you the estate at Camp which was my father’s gift to me when I came of age.  It is not a very large one; but it will give you a nice position of your own, and a comfortable income.  And with it goes my blessing, my dear boy.  Take it as a gift from your father and myself!’

Harold was much moved, not only by the act itself but by the gracious way of doing it.  There were tears in his eyes as he wrung the Squire’s hand; his voice thrilled with feeling as he said:

‘Your many goodnesses to my father’s son, sir, will, I hope, be justified by his love and loyalty.  If I don’t say much it is because I do not feel quite master of myself.  I shall try to show in time, as I cannot say it all at once, all that I feel.’

Harold continued to live at Normanstand.  The house at Camp was in reality a charming cottage.  A couple of servants were installed, and now and again he stayed there for a few days as he wished to get accustomed to the place.  In a couple of months every one accepted the order of things; and life at Normanstand went on much as it had done before Harold had gone to college.  There was a man in the house now instead of a boy: that was all.  Stephen too was beginning to be a young woman, but the relative positions were the same as they had been.  Her growth did not seem to make an ostensible difference to any one.  The one who might have noticed it most, Mrs. Jarrold, had died during the last year of Harold’s life at college.

When the day came for the quarterly meeting of the magistrates of the county of Norcester, Squire Rowly arranged as usual to drive Squire Norman.  This had been their habit for good many years.  The two men usually liked to talk over the meeting as they returned home together.  It was a beautiful morning for a drive, and when Rowly came flying up the avenue in his T-cart with three magnificent bays, Stephen ran out on the top of the steps to see him draw up.  Rowly was a fine whip, and his horses felt it.  Squire Norman was ready, and, after a kiss from Stephen, climbed into the high cart.  The men raised their hats and waved good-bye.  A word from Rowly; with a bound the horses were off.  Stephen stood looking at them delighted; all was so sunny, so bright, so happy.  The world was so full of life and happiness to-day that it seemed as if it would never end; that nothing except good could befall.

Harold, later on that morning, was to go into Norcester also; so Stephen with a lonely day before her set herself to take up loose-ends of all sorts of little personal matters.  They would all meet at dinner as Rowly was to stop the night at Normanstand.

Harold left the club in good time to ride home to dinner.  As he passed the County Hotel he stopped to ask if Squire Norman had left; and was told that he had started only a short time before with Squire Rowly in his T-cart.  He rode on fast, thinking that perhaps he might overtake them and ride on with them.  But the bays knew their work, and did it.  They kept their start; it was only at the top of the North hill, five miles out of Norcester, that he saw them in the distance, flying along the level road.  He knew he would not now overtake them, and so rode on somewhat more leisurely.

The Norcester highroad, when it has passed the village of Brackling, turns away to the right behind the great clump of oaks.  From this the road twists to the left again, making a double curve, and then runs to Norling Parva in a clear stretch of some miles before reaching the sharp turn down the hill which is marked ‘Dangerous to Cyclists.’  From the latter village branches the by-road over the hill which is the short cut to Normanstand.

When Harold turned the corner under the shadow of the oaks he saw a belated road-mender, surrounded by some gaping peasants, pointing excitedly in the distance.  The man, who of course knew him, called to him to stop.

‘What is it?’ he asked, reining up.

‘It be Squire Rowly’s bays which have run away with him.  Three on ‘em, all in a row and comin’ like the wind.  Squire he had his reins all right, but they ‘osses didn’t seem to mind ‘un.  They was fair mad and bolted.  The leader he had got frightened at the heap o’ stones theer, an’ the others took scare from him.’

Without a word Harold shook his reins and touched the horse with his whip.  The animal seemed to understand and sprang forward, covering the ground at a terrific pace.  Harold was not given to alarms, but here might be serious danger.  Three spirited horses in a light cart made for pace, all bolting in fright, might end any moment in calamity.  Never in his life did he ride faster than on the road to Norling Parva.  Far ahead of him he could see at the turn, now and again, a figure running.  Something had happened.  His heart grew cold: he knew as well as though he had seen it, the high cart swaying on one wheel round the corner as the maddened horses tore on their way; the one jerk too much, and the momentary reaction in the crash! . . .

With beating heart and eyes aflame in his white face he dashed on.

It was all too true.  By the side of the roadway on the inner curve lay the cart on its side with broken shafts.  The horses were prancing and stamping about along the roadway not recovered from their fright.  Each was held by several men.

And on the grass two figures were still lying where they had been thrown out.  Rowly, who had of course been on the off-side, had been thrown furthest.  His head had struck the milestone that stood back on the waste ground before the ditch.  There was no need for any one to tell that his neck had been broken.  The way his head lay on one side, and the twisted, inert limbs, all told their story plainly enough.