The Well of Loneliness

Not very far from Upton-on-Severn⁠—between it, in fact, and the Malvern Hills⁠—stands the country seat of the Gordons of Bramley; well-timbered, well-cottaged, well-fenced and well-watered, having, in this latter respect, a stream that forks in exactly the right position to feed two large lakes in the grounds.

The house itself is of Georgian red brick, with charming circular windows near the roof. It has dignity and pride without ostentation, self-assurance without arrogance, repose without inertia; and a gentle aloofness that, to those who know its spirit, but adds to its value as a home. It is indeed like certain lovely women who, now old, belong to a bygone generation⁠—women who in youth were passionate but seemly; difficult to win but when won, all-fulfilling. They are passing away, but their homesteads remain, and such an homestead is Morton.

To Morton Hall came the Lady Anna Gordon as a bride of just over twenty. She was lovely as only an Irish woman can be, having that in her bearing that betokened quiet pride, having that in her eyes that betokened great longing, having that in her body that betokened happy promise⁠—the archetype of the very perfect woman, whom creating God has found good. Sir Philip had met her away in County Clare⁠—Anna Molloy, the slim virgin thing, all chastity, and his weariness had flown to her bosom as a spent bird will fly to its nest⁠—as indeed such a bird had once flown to her, she told him, taking refuge from the perils of a storm.

At about this time Stephen first became conscious of an urgent necessity to love. She adored her father, but that was quite different; he was part of herself, he had always been there, she could not envisage the world without him⁠—it was other with Collins, the housemaid. Collins was what was called “second of three”; she might one day hope for promotion. Meanwhile she was florid, full-lipped and full-bosomed, rather ample indeed for a young girl of twenty, but her eyes were unusually blue and arresting, very pretty inquisitive eyes. Stephen had seen Collins sweeping the stairs for two years, and had passed her by quite unnoticed; but one morning, when Stephen was just over seven, Collins looked up and suddenly smiled, then all in a moment Stephen knew that she loved her⁠—a staggering revelation!

Collins said politely: “Good morning, Miss Stephen.”

She had always said: “Good morning, Miss Stephen,” but on this occasion it sounded alluring⁠—so alluring that Stephen wanted to touch her, and extending a rather uncertain hand she started to stroke her sleeve.

Collins picked up the hand and stared at it. “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, “what very dirty nails!” Whereupon their owner flushed painfully crimson and dashed upstairs to repair them.

“Put them scissors down this minute, Miss Stephen!” came the nurse’s peremptory voice, while her charge was still busily engaged on her toilet.

But Stephen said firmly: “I’m cleaning my nails ’cause Collins doesn’t like them⁠—she says they’re dirty!”

“What impudence!” snapped the nurse, thoroughly annoyed. “I’ll thank her to mind her own business!”

Having finally secured the large cutting-out scissors, Mrs. Bingham went forth in search of the offender; she was not one to tolerate any interference with the dignity of her status.

Stephen said gravely: “I do wish I’d got it⁠—I wish I’d got your housemaid’s knee, Collins, ’cause that way I could bear it instead of you. I’d like to be awfully hurt for you, Collins, the way that Jesus was hurt for sinners. Suppose I pray hard, don’t you think I might catch it? Or supposing I rub my knee against yours?”

“Lord bless you!” laughed Collins, “it’s not like the measles; no, Miss Stephen, it’s caught from them floors.”

That evening Stephen became rather pensive, and she turned to the Child’s Book of Scripture Stories and she studied the picture of the Lord on His Cross, and she felt that she understood Him. She had often been rather puzzled about Him, since she herself was fearful of pain⁠—when she barked her shins on the gravel in the garden, it was not always easy to keep back her tears⁠—and yet Jesus had chosen to bear pain for sinners, when He might have called up all those angels! Oh, yes, she had wondered a great deal about Him, but now she no longer wondered.

At bedtime, when her mother came to hear her say her prayers⁠—as custom demanded⁠—Stephen’s prayers lacked conviction. But when Anna had kissed her and had turned out the light, then it was that Stephen prayed in good earnest⁠—with such fervour, indeed, that she dripped perspiration in a veritable orgy of prayer.

“Well now, listen,” he drawled, “and I’ll tell you something. You thought they admired you squatting on your pony; you thought you were being very grand, I’ll bet, with your new riding breeches and your black velvet cap; you thought they’d suppose that you looked like a boy, just because you were trying to be one. As a matter of fact, if you really want to know, they were busting their sides; why, my father said so. He was laughing all the time at your looking so funny on that rotten old pony that’s as fat as a porpoise. Why, he only gave you the brush for fun, because you were such a small kid⁠—he said so. He said: ‘I gave Stephen Gordon the brush because I thought she might cry if I didn’t.’ ”

“You’re a liar,” breathed Stephen, who had turned very pale.

“Oh, am I? Well, you ask father.”

“Do stop⁠—” whimpered Violet, beginning to cry; “you’re horrid, you’re spoiling my party.”

But Roger was launched on his first perfect triumph; he had seen the expression in Stephen’s eyes: “And my mother said,” he continued more loudly, “that your mother must be funny to allow you to do it; she said it was horrid to let girls ride that way; she said she was awfully surprised at your mother; she said that she’d have thought that your mother had more sense; she said that it wasn’t modest; she said⁠—”

Stephen had suddenly sprung to her feet: “How dare you! How dare you⁠—my mother!” she spluttered. And now she was almost beside herself with rage, conscious only of one overwhelming impulse, and that to belabour Roger.

It was outside the butcher’s that the dog fight started. The butcher owned an old rip of an Airedale, and the Airedale had taken up his post in the doorway of the shop, as had long been his custom. Down the street, on trim but belligerent tiptoes, came a very small, snow-white West Highland terrier; perhaps he was looking for trouble, and if so he certainly got it in less than two minutes. His yells were so loud that Stephen stopped the car and turned round in her seat to see what was happening. The butcher ran out to swell the confusion by shouting commands that no one obeyed; he was trying to grasp his dog by the tail which was short and not at all handy for grasping. And then, as it seemed from nowhere at all, there suddenly appeared a very desperate young woman; she was carrying her parasol as though it were a lance with which she intended to enter the battle. Her wails of despair rose above the dog’s yells:

“Tony! My Tony! Won’t anyone stop them? My dog’s being killed, won’t any of you stop them?” And she actually tried to stop them herself, though the parasol broke at the first encounter.

But Tony, while yelling, was as game as a ferret, and, moreover, the Airedale had him by the back, so Stephen got hastily out of the car⁠—it seemed only a matter of moments for Tony. She grabbed the old rip by the scruff of his neck, while the butcher dashed off for a bucket of water. The desperate young woman seized her dog by a leg; she pulled, Stephen pulled, they both pulled together.