Complete Works of Bram Stoker (262 page)

Squire Norman lay on his back stretched out.  Some one had raised him to a sitting posture and then lowered him again, straightening his limbs.  He did not therefore look so dreadful as Rowly, but there were signs of coming death in the stertorous breathing, the ooze of blood from nostrils and ears as well as mouth.  Harold knelt down by him at once and examined him.  Those who were round all knew him and stood back.  He felt the ribs and limbs; so far as he could ascertain by touch no bone was broken.

Just then the local doctor, for whom some one had run, arrived in his gig.  He, too, knelt beside the injured man, a quick glance having satisfied him that there was only one patient requiring his care.  Harold stood up and waited.  The doctor looked up, shaking his head.  Harold could hardly suppress the groan which was rising in his throat.  He asked:

‘Is it immediate?  Should his daughter be brought here?’

‘How long would it take her to arrive?’

‘Perhaps half an hour; she would not lose an instant.’

‘Then you had better send for her.’

‘I shall go at once!’ answered Harold, turning to jump on his horse, which was held on the road.

‘No, no!’ said the doctor, ‘send some one else.  You had better stay here yourself.  He may become conscious just before the end; and he may want to say something!’  It seemed to Harold that a great bell was sounding in his ears.  —  ’Before the end!  Good God!  Poor Stephen!’ . . . But this was no time for sorrow, or for thinking of it.  That would come later.  All that was possible must be done; and to do it required a cool head.  He called to one of the lads he knew could ride and said to him:

‘Get on my horse and ride as fast as you can to Normanstand.  Send at once to Miss Norman and tell her that she is wanted instantly.  Tell her that there has been an accident; that her father is alive, but that she must come at once without a moment’s delay.  She had better ride my horse back as it will save time.  She will understand from that the importance of time.  Quick!’

The lad sprang to the saddle, and was off in a flash.  Whilst Harold was speaking, the doctor had told the men, who, accustomed to hunting accidents, had taken a gate from its hinges and held it in readiness, to bring it closer.  Then under his direction the Squire was placed on the gate.  The nearest house was only about a hundred yards away; and thither they bore him.  He was lifted on a bed, and then the doctor made fuller examination.  When he stood up he looked very grave and said to Harold:

‘I greatly fear she cannot arrive in time.  That bleeding from the ears means rupture of the brain.  It is relieving the pressure, however, and he may recover consciousness before he dies.  You had better be close to him.  There is at present nothing that can be done.  If he becomes conscious at all it will be suddenly.  He will relapse and probably die as quickly.’

All at once Norman opened his eyes, and seeing him said quietly, as he looked around:

‘What place is this, Harold?’

‘Martin’s  —  James Martin’s, sir.  You were brought here after the accident.’

‘Yes, I remember!  Am I badly hurt?  I can feel nothing!’

‘I fear so, sir!  I have sent for Stephen.’

‘Sent for Stephen!  Am I about to die?’  His voice, though feeble, was grave and even.

‘Alas! sir, I fear so!’  He sank on his knees as he spoke and took him, his second father, in his arms.

‘Is it close?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then listen to me!  If I don’t see Stephen, give her my love and blessing!  Say that with my last breath I prayed God to keep her and make her happy!  You will tell her this?’

‘I will!  I will!’  He could hardly speak for the emotion which was choking him.  Then the voice went on, but slower and weaker:

‘And Harold, my dear boy, you will look after her, will you not?  Guard her and cherish her, as if you were indeed my son and she your sister!’

‘I will.  So help me God!’  There was a pause of a few seconds which seemed an interminable time.  Then in a feebler voice Squire Norman spoke again:

‘And Harold  —  bend down  —  I must whisper!  If it should be that in time you and Stephen should find that there is another affection between you, remember that I sanction it  —  with my dying breath.  But give her time!  I trust that to you!  She is young, and the world is all before her.  Let her choose . . . and be loyal to her if it is another!  It may be a hard task, but I trust you, Harold.  God bless you, my other son!’  He rose slightly and listened.  Harold’s heart leaped.  The swift hoof-strokes of a galloping horse were heard . . . The father spoke joyously:

‘There she is!  That is my brave girl!  God grant that she may be in time.  I know what it will mean to her hereafter!’

The horse stopped suddenly.

A quick patter of feet along the passage and then Stephen half dressed with a peignoir thrown over her, swept into the room.  With the soft agility of a leopard she threw herself on her knees beside her father and put her arms round him.  The dying man motioned to Harold to raise him.  When this had been done he laid his hand tenderly on his daughter’s head, saying:

‘Let now, O Lord, Thy servant depart in peace!  God bless and keep you, my dear child!  You have been all your life a joy and a delight to me!  I shall tell your mother when I meet her all that you have been to me!  Harold, be good to her!  Good-bye  —  Stephen! . . . Margaret! . . . ‘

His head fell over, and Harold, laying him gently down, knelt beside Stephen.  He put his arm round her; and she, turning to him, laid her hand on his breast and sobbed as though her heart would break.

* * * * *

The bodies of the two squires were brought to Normanstand.  Rowly had long ago said that if he died unmarried he would like to lie beside his half-sister, and that it was fitting that, as Stephen would be the new Squire of Norwood, her dust should in time lie by his.  When the terrible news of her nephew’s and of Norman’s death came to Norwood, Miss Laetitia hurried off to Normanstand as fast as the horses could bring her.

Her coming was an inexpressible comfort to Stephen.  After the first overwhelming burst of grief she had settled into an acute despair.  Of course she had been helped by the fact that Harold had been with her, and she was grateful for that too.  But it did not live in her memory of gratitude in the same way.  Of course Harold was with her in trouble!  He had always been; would always be.

But the comfort which Aunt Laetitia could give was of a more positive kind.

From that hour Miss Rowly stayed at Normanstand.  Stephen wanted her; and she wanted to be with Stephen.

After the funeral Harold, with an instinctive delicacy of feeling, had gone to live in his own house; but he came to Normanstand every day.  Stephen had so long been accustomed to consulting him about everything that there was no perceptible change in their relations.  Even necessary business to be done did not come as a new thing.

And so things went on outwardly at Normanstand very much as they had done before the coming of the tragedy.  But for a long time Stephen had occasional bursts of grief which to witness was positive anguish to those who loved her.

Then her duty towards her neighbours became a sort of passion.  She did not spare herself by day or by night.  With swift intuition she grasped the needs of any ill case which came before her, and with swift movement she took the remedy in hand.

Her aunt saw and approved.  Stephen, she felt, was in this way truly fulfilling her duty as a woman.  The old lady began to secretly hope, and almost to believe, that she had laid aside those theories whose carrying into action she so dreaded.

But theories do not die so easily.  It is from theory that practice takes its real strength, as well as its direction.  And did the older woman whose life had been bound under more orderly restraint but know, Stephen was following out her theories, remorselessly and to the end.

CHAPTER IX  —  IN THE SPRING

The months since her father’s death spread into the second year before Stephen began to realise the loneliness of her life.  She had no companion now but her aunt; and though the old lady adored her, and she returned her love in full, the mere years between them made impossible the companionship that youth craves.  Miss Rowly’s life was in the past.  Stephen’s was in the future.  And loneliness is a feeling which comes unbidden to a heart.

Stephen felt her loneliness all round.  In old days Harold was always within hail, and companionship of equal age and understanding was available.  But now his very reticence in her own interest, and by her father’s wishes, made for her pain.  Harold had put his strongest restraint on himself, and in his own way suffered a sort of silent martyrdom.  He loved Stephen with every fibre of his being.  Day by day he came toward her with eager step; day by day he left her with a pang that made his heart ache and seemed to turn the brightness of the day to gloom.  Night by night he tossed for hours thinking, thinking, wondering if the time would ever come when her kisses would be his . . . But the tortures and terrors of the night had their effect on his days.  It seemed as if the mere act of thinking, of longing, gave him ever renewed self-control, so that he was able in his bearing to carry out the task he had undertaken: to give Stephen time to choose a mate for herself.  Herein lay his weakness  —  a weakness coming from his want of knowledge of the world of women.  Had he ever had a love affair, be it never so mild a one, he would have known that love requires a positive expression.  It is not sufficient to sigh, and wish, and hope, and long, all to oneself.  Stephen felt instinctively that his guarded speech and manner were due to the coldness  —  or rather the trusting abated worship  —  of the brotherhood to which she had been always accustomed.  At the time when new forces were manifesting and expanding themselves within her; when her growing instincts, cultivated by the senses and the passions of young nature, made her aware of other forces, new and old, expanding themselves outside her; at the time when the heart of a girl is eager for new impressions and new expansions, and the calls of sex are working within her all unconsciously, Harold, to whom her heart would probably have been the first to turn, made himself in his effort to best show his love, a
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Thus Stephen, whilst feeling that the vague desires of budding womanhood were trembling within her, had neither thought nor knowledge of their character or their ultimate tendency.  She would have been shocked, horrified, had that logical process, which she applied so freely to less personal matters, been used upon her own intimate nature.  In her case logic would of course act within a certain range; and as logic is a conscious intellectual process, she became aware that her objective was man.  Man  —  in the abstract.  ‘Man,’ not ‘a man.’  Beyond that, she could not go.  It is not too much to say that she did not ever, even in her most errant thought, apply her reasoning, or even dream of its following out either the duties, the responsibilities, or the consequences of having a husband.  She had a vague longing for younger companionship, and of the kind naturally most interesting to her.  There thought stopped.

One only of her male acquaintances did not at this time appear.  Leonard Everard, who had some time ago finished his course at college, was living partly in London and partly on the Continent.  His very absence made him of added interest to his old play-fellow.  The image of his grace and comeliness, of his dominance and masculine force, early impressed on her mind, began to compare favourably with the actualities of her other friends; those of them at least who were within the circle of her personal interest.  ‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.’  In Stephen’s mind had been but a very mustard-seed of fondness.  But new lights were breaking for her; and all of them, in greater or lesser degree, shone in turn on the memory of the pretty self-willed dominant boy, who now grew larger and more masculine in stature under the instance of each successive light.  Stephen knew the others fairly well through and through.  The usual mixture of good and evil, of strength and weakness, of purpose and vacillation, was quite within the scope of her own feeling and of her observation.  But this man was something of a problem to her; and, as such, had a prominence in her thoughts quite beyond his own worthiness.

In movement of some form is life; and even ideas grow when the pulses beat and thought quickens.  Stephen had long had in her mind the idea of sexual equality.  For a long time, in deference to her aunt’s feelings, she had not spoken of it; for the old lady winced in general under any suggestion of a breach of convention.  But though her outward expression being thus curbed had helped to suppress or minimise the opportunities of inward thought, the idea had never left her.  Now, when sex was, consciously or unconsciously, a dominating factor in her thoughts, the dormant idea woke to new life.  She had held that if men and women were equal the woman should have equal rights and opportunities as the man.  It had been, she believed, an absurd conventional rule that such a thing as a proposal of marriage should be entirely the prerogative of man.

And then came to her, as it ever does to woman, opportunity.  Opportunity, the cruelest, most remorseless, most unsparing, subtlest foe that womanhood has.  Here was an opportunity for her to test her own theory; to prove to herself, and others, that she was right.  They  —  ’they’ being the impersonal opponents of, or unbelievers in, her theory  —  would see that a woman could propose as well as a man; and that the result would be good.

It is a part of self-satisfaction, and perhaps not the least dangerous part of it, that it has an increasing or multiplying power of its own.  The desire to do increases the power to do; and desire and power united find new ways for the exercise of strength.  Up to now Stephen’s inclination towards Leonard had been vague, nebulous; but now that theory showed a way to its utilisation it forthwith began to become, first definite, then concrete, then substantial.  When once the idea had become a possibility, the mere passing of time did the rest.

Her aunt saw  —  and misunderstood.  The lesson of her own youth had not been applied; not even of those long hours and days and weeks at which she hinted when she had spoken of the tragedy of life which by inference was her own tragedy: ‘to love and to be helpless.  To wait, and wait, and wait, with your heart all aflame!’