The Well of Loneliness (24 page)

Stephen said: ‘I think I’ll go and get some air, if you really don’t need me—I’m feeling energetic!’

‘Yes, do—I don’t want you to stay in,’ groaned Anna, who was longing for peace and an aspirin tablet.

Once out on the pavement Stephen hailed the first taxi she met; she was quite absurdly elated. ‘Drive to the Piccadilly end of Bond Street,’ she ordered, as she jumped in and slammed the door. Then she put her head quickly out of the window: ‘And when you get to the corner, please stop. I don’t want you to drive along Bond Street, I’ll walk. I want you to stop at the Piccadilly corner.’

But when she was actually standing on the corner—the left-hand corner—she began to feel doubtful as to which side of Bond Street she ought to tackle first. Should she try the right side or keep to the left? She decided to try the right side. Crossing over, she started to walk along slowly. At every jeweller’s shop she stood still and gazed at the wares displayed in the window. Now she was worried by quite a new problem, the problem of stones, there were so many kinds. Emeralds or rubies or perhaps just plain diamonds? Well, certainly neither emeralds nor rubies—Angela’s colouring demanded whiteness. Whiteness—she had it! Pearls—no, one pearl, one flawless pearl and set as a ring. Angela had once described such a ring with envy, but alas, it had been born in Paris.

People stared at the masculine-looking girl who seemed so intent upon feminine adornments. And someone, a man, laughed and nudged his companion: ‘Look at that! What is it?’

‘My God! What indeed?’

She heard them and suddenly felt less elated as she made her way into the shop.

She said rather loudly: ‘I want a pearl ring.’

‘A pearl ring? What kind, madam?’

She hesitated, unable now to describe what she did want: ‘I don’t quite know—but it must be a large one.’

‘For yourself?’ And she thought that the man smiled a little.

Of course he did nothing of the kind; but she stammered: ‘No—oh, no—it’s not for myself, it’s for a friend. She’s asked me to choose her a large pearl ring: To her own ears the words sounded foolish and flustered.

There was nothing in that shop that fulfilled her requirements, so once more she must face the guns of Bond Street. Now she quickened her steps and found herself striding; modifying her pace she found herself dawdling; and always she was conscious of people who stared, or whom she imagined were staring. She felt sure that the shop assistants looked doubtful when she asked for a large and flawless pearl ring; and catching a glimpse of her reflection in a glass, she decided that naturally they would look doubtful—her appearance suggested neither pearls nor their price. She slipped a surreptitious hand into her pocket, gaining courage from the comforting feel of her cheque book.

When the east side of the thoroughfare had been exhausted, she crossed over quickly and made her way back towards her original corner. By now she was rather depressed and disgruntled. Supposing that she did not find what she wanted in Bond Street? She had no idea where else to look—her knowledge of London was far from extensive. But apparently the gods were feeling propitious, for a little further on she paused in front of a small, and as she thought, quite humble shop. As a matter of fact it was anything but humble, hence the bars half-way up its unostentatious window. Then she stared, for there on a white velvet cushion lay a pearl that looked like a round gleaming marble, a marble attached to a slender circlet of platinum—some sort of celestial marble! It was just such a ring as Angela had seen in Paris, and had since never ceased to envy.

The person behind this counter was imposing. He was old, and wore glasses with tortoiseshell rims: ‘Yes, madam, it’s a very fine specimen indeed. The setting’s French, just a thin band of platinum, there’s nothing to detract from the beauty of the pearl.’

He lifted it tenderly off its cushion, and as tenderly Stephen let it rest on her palm. It shone whiter than white against her skin, which by contrast looked sunburnt and weather-beaten.

Then the dignified old gentleman murmured the price, glancing curiously at the girl as he did so, but she seemed to be quite unperturbed, so he said: ‘Will you try the effect of the ring on your finger?’

At this, however, his customer flushed: ‘It wouldn’t go anywhere near my finger!’

‘I can have it enlarged to any size you wish.’

‘Thanks, but it’s not for me—it’s for a friend.’

‘Have you any idea what size your friend takes, say in gloves? Is her hand large or small do you think?’

Stephen answered promptly: ‘It’s a very small hand,’ then immediately looked and felt rather self-conscious.

And now the old gentleman was openly staring: ‘Excuse me,’ he murmured, ‘an extraordinary likeness…’ Then more boldly: ‘Do you happen to be related to Sir Philip Gordon of Morton Hall, who died—it must be about two years ago—from some accident? I believe a tree fell—’

‘Oh, yes, I’m his daughter,’ said Stephen.

He nodded and smiled: ‘Of course, of course, you couldn’t be anything but his daughter.’

‘You knew my father?’ she inquired, in surprise.

‘Very well, Miss Gordon, when your father was young. In those days Sir Philip was a customer of mine. I sold him his first pearl studs while he was at Oxford, and at least four scarf pins—a bit of a dandy Sir Philip was up at Oxford. But what may interest you is the fact that I nude your mother’s engagement ring for him; a large half-hoop of very fine diamonds—’

‘Did you make that ring?’

‘I did, Miss Gordon. I remember quite well his showing me a miniature of Lady Anna—I remember his words. He said: “She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.” You see, he’d known me ever since he was at Eton, that’s why he spoke of your mother to me—I felt deeply honoured. Ah, yes—dear, dear—your father was young then and very much in love…’

She said suddenly: ‘Is this pearl as pure as those diamonds?’ And he answered: ‘It’s without a blemish.’

Then she found her cheque book and he gave her his pen with which to write out the very large cheque.

‘Wouldn’t you like some reference?’ she inquired, as she glanced at the sum for which he must trust her.

But at this he laughed: ‘Your face is your reference, if I may be allowed to say so, Miss Gordon.’

They shook hands because he had known her father, and she left the shop with the ring in her pocket. As she walked down the street she was lost in thought, so that if people stared she no longer noticed. In her ears kept sounding those words from the past, those words of her father’s when long, long ago he too had been a young lover: She’s so pure that only the purest stones are fit to touch her finger.’

When they got back to Morton there was Puddle in the hall, with that warm smile of hers, always just a little mocking yet pitiful too, that queer composite smile that made her face so arresting. And the sight of this faithful little grey woman brought home to Stephen the fact that she had missed her. She had missed her, she found, out of all proportion to the size of the creature, which seemed to have diminished. Coming back to it after those weeks of absence, Puddle’s smallness seemed to be even smaller, and Stephen could not help laughing as she hugged her. Then she suddenly lifted her right off her feet with as much ease as though she had been a baby.

Morton smelt good with its log fires burning, and Morton looked good with the goodness of home. Stephen sighed with something very like contentment: ‘Lord! I’m so glad to be back again, Puddle. I must have been a cat in my last incarnation; I hate strange places—especially Cornwall.’

Puddle smiled grimly. She thought that she knew why Stephen had hated Cornwall.

After tea Stephen wandered about the house, touching first this, then that, with affectionate fingers. But presently she went off to the stables with sugar for Collins and carrots for Raftery; and there in his spacious, hay-scented loose box, Raftery was waiting for Stephen. He made a queer little sound in his throat, and his soft Irish eyes said: ‘You’re home, home, home. I’ve grown tired with waiting, and with wishing you home.’

And she answered: ‘Yes, I’ve come back to you, Raftery.’

Then she threw her strong arm around his neck, and they talked together for quite a long while—not in Irish or English but in a quiet language having very few words but many small sounds and many small movements, that meant much more than words.

‘Since you went I’ve discovered a wonderful thing,’ he told her, ‘I’ve discovered that for me you are God. It’s like that sometimes with us humbler people, we may only know God through His human image.’

‘Raftery,’ she murmured, ‘oh, Raftery, my dear—I was so young when you came to Morton. Do you remember that first day out hunting when you jumped the huge hedge in our big north paddock? What a jump! It ought to go down to history. You were splendidly cool and collected about it. Thank the Lord you were—I was only a kid, all the same it was very foolish of us, Raftery.’

She gave him a carrot, which he took with contentment from the hand of his God, and proceeded to munch. And she watched him munch it, contented in her turn, hoping that the carrot was succulent and sweet; hoping that his innocent cup of pleasure might be full to the brim and overflowing. Like God indeed, she tended his needs, mixing the evening meal in his manger, holding the water bucket to his lips while he sucked in the cool, clear, health-giving water. A groom came along with fresh trusses of straw which he opened and tossed among Raftery’s bedding; then he took off the smart blue and red day clothing, and buckled him up in a warm night blanket. Beyond in the far loose box by the window, Sir Philip’s young chestnut kicked loudly for supper.

‘Woa horse! Get up there! Stop kicking them boards!’ And the groom hurried off to attend to the chestnut.

Collins, who had spat out his two lumps of sugar, was now busy indulging his morbid passion. His sides were swollen well night to bursting—blown out like an air balloon was old Collins from the evil and dyspeptic effects of the straw, plus his own woeful lack of molars. He stared at Stephen with whitish-blue eyes that saw nothing, and when she touched him he grunted—a discourteous sound which meant: ‘Leave me alone!’ So after a mild reproof she left him to his sins and his indigestion.

Last but not least, she strolled down to the home of the two-legged creature who had once reigned supreme in those princely but now depleted stables. And the lamplight streamed out through uncurtained windows to meet her, so that she walked on lamplight. A slim streak of gold led right up to the porch of old Williams’ comfortable cottage. She found him sitting with the Bible on his knees, peering crossly down at the Scriptures through his glasses. He had taken to reading the Scriptures aloud to himself—a melancholy occupation. He was at this now. As Stephen entered she could hear him mumbling from Revelation: ‘And the heads of the horses were as the heads of lions; and out of their mouths issued fire and smoke and brimstone.’

He looked up, and hastily twitched off his glasses: ‘Miss Stephen!’

‘Sit still—stop where you are, Williams.’

But Williams had the arrogance of the humble. He was proud of the stern traditions of his service, and his pride forbade him to sit in her presence, in spite of their long and kind years of friendship. Yet when he spoke he must grumble a little, as though she were still the very small child who had swaggered round the stables rubbing her chin, imitating his every expression and gesture.

‘You didn’t ought to have no ‘orses, Miss Stephen, the way you runs off and leaves them,’ he grumbled. Raftery’s been off ‘is feed these last days. I’ve been talkin’ to that Jim what you sets such store by! Impudent young blight, ‘e answered me back like as though I’d no right to express me opinion. But I says to ‘im: “You just wait, lad,” I says, “You wait until I gets ‘old of Miss Stephen!”’

For Williams could never keep clear of the stables, and could never refrain from nagging when he got there. Deposed he might be, but not yet defeated even by old age, as grooms knew to their cost. The tap of his heavy oak stick in the yard was enough to send Jim and his underling flying to hide curry-combs and brushes out of sight. Williams needed no glasses when it came to disorder.

‘Be this place ‘ere a stable or be it a pigsty, I wonder e’ was now his habitual greeting.

His wife came bustling in from the kitchen: Sit down, Miss Stephen,’ and she dusted a chair.

Stephen sat down and glanced at the Bible where it lay, still open, on the table.

‘Yes,’ said Williams, dourly, as though she had spoken, ‘I’m reduced to readin’ about ‘eavenly ‘orses. A nice endin’ that for a man like me, what’s been in the service of Sir Philip Gordon, what’s ‘ad ‘is legs across the best ‘unters as ever was seen in this county or any! And I don’t believe in them lion-headed beasts breathin’ fire and brimstone, it’s all agin nature. Whoever it was wrote them Revelations, can’t never have been inside of a stable. I don’t believe in no ‘eavenly ‘orses neither—there won’t be no ‘orses in ‘eaven; and a good thing too, judgin’ by the description.’

‘I’m surprised at you, Arth-thur, bein’ so disrespectful to The Book!’ his wife reproached him gravely.

‘Well, it ain’t no encyclopaedee to the stable, and that’s a sure thing,’ grinned Williams.

Stephen looked from one to the other. They were old, very old, fast approaching completion. Quite soon, their circle would be complete, and then Williams would be able to tackle Saint John on the points of those heavenly horses.

Mrs. Williams glanced apologetically at her: ‘Excuse ‘im, Miss Stephen, ‘e’s gettin’ rather childish. ‘E won’t read no pretty parts of the Book; all e’ll read is them parts about chariots and such-like. All what’s to do with ‘orses ‘e reads; and then ‘e’s so unbelievin’—it’s aw-ful!’ But she looked at her mate with the eyes of a mother, very gentle and tolerant eyes.

And Stephen, seeing those two together, could picture them as they must once have been, in the halcyon days of their youthful vigour. For she thought that she glimpsed through the dust of the years, a faint flicker of the girl who had lingered in the lanes when the young man Williams and she had been courting. And looking at Williams as he stood before her twitching and bowed, she thought that she glimpsed a faint flicker of the youth, very stalwart and comely, who had bent his head downwards and sideways, as he walked and whispered and kissed in the lanes. And because they were old yet undivided, her heart ached; not for them but rather for Stephen. Her youth seemed as dross when compared to their honourable age; because they were undivided.