§ 22

After Mass, Gervase and the Vicar walked together to Hollingrove.

“I’ve heard from Thunders Abbey,” said Gervase to Luce, “and there’s a vacancy for the eighteenth. So I shall go.”

“I wonder how you’ll like it.”

“So do I. But I’m glad I’m going. They’re full up really, but Father Lawrence said I could sleep at the farm.”

“Then you’ll have to get up early. It’s fifteen minutes’ walk from the Abbey, and Mass is at half-past six and of obligation.”

“Never mind—I’m used to hardships, though I know you think I wallow in unseemly luxuries. But I’m getting keen on this, Father. Whether I like it or not, I know it will be exciting.”

“Exciting! That’s a nice thing to expect of a retreat.”

“Well, religion generally is exciting, isn’t it, so the more I get the more exciting it’s likely to be.”

“Um—too exciting perhaps.”

“What do you mean, Father?”

But Luce would not tell him, and in another minute they were at Dr. Mount’s cottage, where they always had mid-day dinner on Sundays. It was cooked by Stella herself, helped by the little maid, so she did not appear till it was ready. She had changed her frock and bore no traces of her labours beyond a face heated by the fire. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright—she looked absurdly young. How old was she, Gervase wondered? Twenty-eight or twenty-nine? But she did not look a bit over twenty. She did not look as old as he did. It must be her vitality which kept her young like this—her vitality ... and the way she did her hair. He smiled.

“What are you smiling at, Gervase?”

“At you, Stella.”

“And why at me?”

“Because you look so absurdly young. And I’ve been very knowing, and have decided that it’s the way you do your hair.”

“Really, Gervase, you’re not at all gallant. Surely I look young because I am young. If you think different you oughtn’t to say so.”

“This is a poor beginning for your career as a ladies’ man,” said Dr. Mount.

“Just as well he should start it on me,” said Stella—“then he’ll know the technique better by the time it really matters.”

Her words stabbed Gervase—they showed him how he stood with her. She did not take him seriously—or if she did, she was trying to show him that it was all no use, that he must give up thinking of her. The result was that he thought of her with concentrated anxiety for the rest of the meal, his thoughts making him strangely silent.

He was not wanted at Catechism that afternoon, so he could spend it with her, and for the first time he found the privilege unwelcome. He remembered other Sunday afternoons when he had lain blissfully slack in one of the armchairs, while Stella curled herself up in the other with a book or some sewing. They had not talked consecutively, but just exchanged a few words now and then when the processes of their minds demanded it—it had all been heavenly and comfortable and serene.... He found himself longing almost angrily to be back in his old attitude of contented hopelessness. But he knew that he could never go back, though he did not exactly know why. What had happened that he could no longer find his peace in her unrewarded service? Had he suddenly grown up and become dependent on realities—no longer to be comforted with dreams or to taste the sweet sadness of youth?

He had half a mind to go for a walk this afternoon and leave her—he knew that she would not try to make him stay. But, in spite of all, he hankered after her company; also there was now growing up in him a new desire to come to grips with her, to know exactly where he stood—whether, though she did not want his love she still wanted his friendship, or whether she would like him to go away. So when Father Luce went off to his Catechism, and the doctor to see a couple of patients at Horns Cross, Gervase stayed behind in the sitting-room where they had had their coffee, and asked Stella, according to custom, if she would mind his pipe.

“You know, Gervase, you’re always allowed to smoke your pipe if I’m allowed to mend my stockings. Neither is exactly correct behaviour in a drawing-room, but if you dispense me from the rules of feminine good-breeding, I’ll dispense you from the rules of masculine etiquette.”

“Thank you.”

He took out his pipe, and she fetched her work-basket from the back of the sofa. Nothing could have looked more domestic than the two of them sitting each side of the fire, he smoking, she darning, both silent. But the unreality of it vexed him this afternoon. He could not play the childish game he had sometimes played, of pretending they were married, and being content. “When I became a man I put away childish things....” He wanted to have the power to go over to her as she sat absorbed in her work, turn up her face and kiss her—or else pick her off the chair and set her on his knee....

“Stella,” he said gruffly.

“Well?”

“I want to speak to you.”

“What is it?”

“Well ... our friendship isn’t the same as it used to be.”

He would be furious if she contradicted him—or if she said ‘Oh, really? I haven’t noticed anything.’ But she said at once—

“I know it isn’t.”

“And what do you put that down to?”

She hedged for the first time.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re trying to keep me at a distance.”

She did not speak, but he saw the colour burning on the face that she bent hurriedly over her work.

He edged his chair closer, and repeated—

“Yes, you are, Stella—trying to keep me off.”

“I—I’m sorry.”

“You needn’t be sorry; but I wish you’d tell me why you’re doing it. It isn’t that you’ve only just discovered that I love you—you’ve always known that.”

“I’m wasting your time, Gervase. I shouldn’t keep you dangling after me.”

“You mean that I’ve hung about too long?”

“Oh, no....” She was obviously distressed.

“Stella, I’ve loved you for years, and you know it—you’ve always known it. But I’ve never asked anything of you or expected anything. All I’ve wanted has been to see you and talk to you and do anything for you that I could. It hasn’t done me any harm. I’m only just old enough to marry, and I have no means.... And up till a little while ago I was content. Then you changed, and seemed to be trying to put me off—it hurt me, Stella, because I couldn’t think why....”

“Oh, I can’t bear to hurt you.” To his surprise he saw that her tears were falling. She covered her face.

“Stella, my little Stella.”

By leaning forward he could put his hand on her knee. It was the first caress that he had ever given her, and the unbearable sweetness of it made him shiver. He let his hand lie for a few moments on her warm knee, and after a time she put her own over it.

“Gervase, I’m so sorry—I’m afraid I’ve treated you badly. I let you love me—you were so young at first, and I saw it made you happy, and I thought it would pass over. Then people began to talk, as they always do, and I took no notice—it seemed impossible, me being so much older than you—until I found that ... I mean, one day I met Peter, and he really thought we were engaged....”

It was not her words so much as the burst of bitter weeping that followed them which showed Gervase the real state of her heart. She still loved Peter.

“It’s nothing to regret, dear,” he said hurriedly—“you were perfectly right. And now I understand....”

“But it’s wrong, Gervase, it’s wrong....” By some instinct she seemed to have discovered that he guessed her secret ... “it’s wrong; but oh, I can’t help it! I wish I could. It seems dreadful not to be able to help it after all these years.”

She had gripped his hand in both hers—her body was stiff and trembling.

“Stella, darling, don’t be so upset. There’s nothing wrong in loving—how could there be? Surely you know that.”

“Yes I do. It’s not the loving that’s wrong, but letting my whole life be hung up by it. Letting it absorb me so that I don’t notice other men, so that I can’t bear the thought of marrying anyone else—so that I treat you badly.”

“You haven’t treated me badly, my dear. Get that out of your head at once.”

“I have—because I’ve spoilt our friendship. I couldn’t go on with it when I knew....”

“It’s high time our friendship was spoilt, Stella. It was turning into a silly form of self-indulgence on my side, and it ought to be put an end to. Hang it all! why should I get you talked about?—apart from other considerations. You’ve done me good by withdrawing yourself, because you’ve killed my calf-love. For the last few weeks I’ve loved you as a man ought—I’ve known a man’s love, though it’s been in vain....”

“Oh, Gervase....”

“Don’t think any more about me, dear; you’ve done me nothing but good.”

She had hidden her face in the arm of the chair, and he suddenly saw that he must leave her. Since she did not love him, his own love was not enough to make him less of an intruder. There were dozens of questions he wanted to ask her—answers he longed to know. But he must not. He rose and touched her shoulder.

“I’m going, my dear. It’s nearly time for Adoration. I shan’t come back next Sunday—and later, next year, I’ll be going away ... don’t fret ... it’ll all be quite easy.”

It wasn’t easy now. She held out one hand without lifting her head, and for a moment they held each other’s hands in a fierce clasp of farewell. He felt her hot, moist palm burning against his, then dropped it quickly and went out.

So that was the end. He had finished it. But Stella herself had taught him that one did not so easily finish love. He supposed that he would go on loving her as she had gone on loving Peter.

It was a quarter to four as he went into church. Quietly and methodically he lit the candles for Devotions, and watched the slight congregation assemble in the drowsy warmth of the September afternoon. He could not feel acutely—he could not even turn in his sorrow to the Sacred Victim on the Altar, whose adoration brought the children’s service to a close.

“O Sacred Victim, opening wide

The gate of heaven to men below ...”

The well-known words rose out of the shadows of the aisles behind him. They bruised his heart with their familiar sweetness.

“Our foes press round on every side,

Thine aid supply, thy strength bestow.”

The candles that jigged in the small draughts of the sanctuary blurred into a cloud of rising incense, and then more thickly into a cloud of unshed tears. He fought them back, ashamed. He was beginning to feel again, and he would rather not feel—like this. It was intolerable, this appeal to his bruised emotion—it was like compelling him to use a wounded limb. He felt as if he could not bear any more of the wan, lilting music, the faint, sweet voices of the faithful, the perfumed cloud that rose like smoke before the altar and then hung among the gilding and shadows of the chancel roof. And now the virile tenor of the Priest seemed to bring a definitely sexual element into the tender dream.... What was this he was saying about love?...

“O God, who has prepared for them that love thee, such good things as pass man’s understanding, pour into our hearts such love towards thee, that we, loving thee above all things....”