The Stepson (4 page)

‘We'll just look in here before we go,' he said, and unlocked the door of the conservatory. They went in; he shut the door carefully behind them, and immediately Kate found herself in a warm, hushed, luxuriant world. The place was full of thick, branching leaves of every form and colour and of wonderful unknown flowers. The air was a solid presence which pressed upon her face and hands like warm wool. A rich, penetrating fragrance possessed the place: Kate felt a delicious breathless tightening of the throat. He led her round the narrow stone-flagged channel which served as a passage through the jungle. Great fanlike leaves, some green and furry, others glossy and streaked with red or yellow
hung overhead. Sometimes a large warm drop fell from high above them on to the pavement or on to her dress. It was wonderful, unbelievable. When he spoke to her she answered him in a hushed whisper. She paused for a moment to gaze down into a beautiful trumpet-shaped scarlet flower blotched with purple. ‘How lovely!' she whispered. ‘What is it called?'

Young Graham turned and stood beside her and, as he bent to look at the flower, his cheek for one exquisite moment almost touched hers.

When they had left the conservatory the world outside seemed wide and fresh and alive after that enclosed solitude. Kate dared again to raise her voice, and they set out together for the village, talking unceasingly as they walked. What had they talked about? Not a single detail of their conversation remained in Kate's mind now, but that they had talked she remembered well, for what remained in her mind, almost as fresh now as on the day six years ago when she had experienced it, was the thrilling sense of release which that easy, intimate talk with young Graham had brought to her. For at home, since the death of her mother, Kate had not had anyone to talk to. Her father never spoke except for some quite definite and practical reason — to mention, perhaps, something he wished to have done, something which had occurred in the school, some suggestion about food or clothing, or to discuss the
careful spending or saving of his meagre salary. Never did he thaw out of his cold, colourless formality to talk freely and idly for the mere human sake of talking. Kate could vaguely remember long, happy talks with her mother when they were alone together; stories about her mother's childhood, about people she remembered and places she had seen, about things that had happened, cheerful and sad, things that ought to have happened but never did, hopes and dreams of the future, jokes and laughter. But those happy times had been over these fourteen years and now Kate's life was a silent one. She talked indeed — long desultory conversations winding like an intricate embroidery from flower to flower, and changing from colour to colour. But these conversations were inaudible and Kate's lips did not move, for they were with herself.

And so her talk with young Graham on their homeward walk together had loosened again all her pent-up emotions. Was it any wonder that she fell in love with him in the space of an hour, that the walk home was like one long, happy dream?

But it was a dream soon ended. For as they entered the village they had met the Schoolmaster coming out of the post office. For a moment he had stared surprised at the couple: then young Graham had stepped forward and delivered his message and, wishing them good evening, had moved away across the green towards his cottage.

The meeting with her father and young Graham's departure had been so sudden that for a moment Kate stood staring at the young man's retreating back, too dazed by the sudden, lamentable change to hear her father's voice. He repeated his question.

‘How came you to be walking with that young man, Kate?'

Kate coloured. ‘He is one of the under-gardeners at the Hall,' she said, ‘and as he was coming this way, we came together.'

Her father made no reply, but as they walked home to the school he resumed:

‘Don't forget, Kate, that young Graham is only a labourer. You must not walk or talk with him in future. You can say good morning or good evening, of course, if you pass him; but nothing more, remember. Do you understand?'

Kate felt her heart shrink in her breast. She was not sure enough of her voice to reply.

‘Do you understand, Kate?' the Schoolmaster had repeated; and in a dry voice Kate had replied:

‘Yes, Father.'

And that was the end. Kate was not then bold enough or desperate enough to revolt against her father. Next time she saw young Graham he was leaning over his garden gate and she passed him with a brief good evening. She could see the disappointment and reproach in his friendly brown eyes; for a moment she had even seen in them the
impulse to speak to her and delay her. But the impulse had ebbed back and he had not replied, and she had hurried home, run up to her bedroom, and fallen sobbing on her bed. And sometimes, at night, during the following weeks, as she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she had imagined to herself that he was with her and that his strong arms were tightening round her body. Then, by slow degrees, her feeling for him had been suppressed, and after some months it seemed to her that she felt hardly a pang when she met him walking with a pretty girl from the next village. A year later he had got a better job elsewhere and he and his mother left Penridge.

So her first flower of love had withered before it had bloomed, and her mind, retarded and stunted by that chilling experience, had shrunk back into itself and she was again the joyless, apathetic servant of her father. But, unknown to her father and even to herself, the repressed flame of life began to eat inwards, spreading unseen in a fiery core which would some day break out, sudden and volcanic, into an uncontrollable conflagration.

She herself realized now, as she sat looking back over those past years, that, though her life had fallen back, since her meeting with young Graham, into the old monotony, she herself had not relapsed to her former state of long-suffering resignation. If she appeared resigned it was only because she saw no loophole for escape; but, in fact, her character from
that date had hardened. She had received one fleeting glimpse of what life might be, and a relentless determination grew up within her during the years that followed. Her father had snatched the cup from her lips once, but he should not do so again. She hated him, and she knew now that she hated him, and if ever a new opportunity occurred, she would grasp it. Nothing, next time, should thwart her. If her father tried to do so, she would sacrifice him ruthlessly. Her body and soul were desperate for self-realization. Coldly and punctually she fulfilled her duties in the house, but her thoughts and desires were concentrated now upon herself. She had given to her father more, much more than he deserved, and as she sat brooding now, her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand, her black brows drew together and in her grey-green eyes there flickered for a moment that sinister ghost which gave to them an expression of almost fanatic intensity. Then she went on to recall how, one day two months ago, as she was walking home from a neighbouring village with a heavy basket on her arm, she had heard the sound of wheels coming up behind her, and how, when the trap came level with her, it had pulled up and the old man driving it had offered her a lift. She had accepted it gladly and old Ben Humphrey had gone a mile out of his way to set her down at her own door. She had spoken of the impossibility, in that country place, of getting meat and any but the plainest
groceries, and Humphrey had offered to call for her and drive her into Elchester next market-day. She had accepted gratefully, and it never crossed her mind that this smart, kindly old man might provide her long-awaited chance of escape, nor to wonder at his willingness to drive nine miles out of his way to call for her and take her to market and back — never, at least, until, while driving her back from Elchester for the third time, he had slid his arm round her waist and kissed her. She had struggled to get free of his grip and they had not spoken again till he set her down outside the school. Then, as he handed her basket down to her, he had muttered an apology. ‘I love you, my dear,' he added, ‘so don't be cross with me.'

The experience had upset her, for the kiss had shocked and offended her and she had never for an instant thought of the old white-haired man as a lover. But, thinking it over coldly and rationally during the next few days, she determined that if he asked her to marry him she would accept him, for she would be infinitely freer and happier as the wife of a prosperous farmer than as the drudge of a poor schoolmaster. Besides, Ben Humphrey was a cheerful, kindly old man, and though his love would be a sad and sordid substitute for the love of a young man whom she could love in return, she forced herself to check her body's shudder of repulsion at the thought of being his wife.

Yet, as she had pondered it again that night, lying in bed in the dark little room upstairs, her heart and body rebelled once more and she wept bitterly for an hour. What an end to her tremulous, unconfessed hopes of love. But in all else the change would be a very happy one, for at least she would be rid for ever of her father and the life of joyless drudgery. And to comfort herself she began to imagine the life she would lead after her marriage; a life of peaceful idleness, for Mr. Humphrey had told her there would be no need for her to do any more work than she felt inclined for. How delightful it would be not to have to get up and light the fire in the morning, not to have to make the beds and do the cooking and wash up. She was resolved that she would idle and enjoy herself to her heart's content. She had done her share of drudgery: now she was going to have her full share of idleness. Her will grew stubborn and she faced the future clearly and coldly; and as she sat there reflecting, her grey-green eyes looked out clear and cold from under the straight black brows. Yes, she would take full advantage of her position. She felt a kind of resentment against old Humphrey. Why, after all, should he have all the advantage? He was in love with her: by consenting to marry him she was giving him what he most desired in the world. It was only fair that the advantage should not all be on his side: she too would claim her full share. For a moment the sinister ghost flashed once more in her eyes: for a
moment only; then it was gone and the eyes were serene again. The joylessness of her last ten years had hardened her gentle and patient nature: where she had previously been diffident and self-effacing, flashes of fierce tenacity had begun to show themselves, a grim self-assertion which was really no more than a despairing cry for the life which had hitherto been denied her.

When she had mentioned her engagement to the Schoolmaster, he had begun to expostulate. ‘It would have been better, Kate, if you had consulted me before giving this Mr. Humphrey an answer. If you go, who, pray, is to look after the house?'

A strange smile had flickered for a moment at the corners of Kate's mouth. ‘That's your business, Father,' she had replied, so abruptly, so coldly, that the Schoolmaster had stared at her in speechless amazement.

The gig trotted briskly down the straight tree-bordered road. The pale November sunshine, barred by tree-trunks and almost leafless boughs, flickered over the bouncing hindquarters of the sturdy mare and over the faces and bodies of Kate and Ben Humphrey, seated side by side in the gig. Roped into the back of the gig were two small yellow tin portmanteaux containing Kate's possessions. The wedding was over and Ben was driving his bride home to the farm that she had never yet seen.

Now that it was all over, Kate was radiantly happy. She had got up that morning exactly as usual, putting on her old black dress and going down to light the fire and get the breakfast ready, as if the day was no different from the thousands of days that went before it; and as she went mechanically through the invariable morning routine it was unbelievable to her that in a few hours she would have vanished from that familiar scene, and even her name, that name which she had come to hate because it was the label of the humiliations and disappointments and bitternesses of her joyless youth, would have ceased to exist. Yes, within a few hours, soon after midday, Kate Patten would be dead and gone and Kate Humphrey, a free, happy, self-respecting young woman, would have taken her place. Again and again as she moved from the kitchen to the scullery and from the scullery to
the kitchen she tried to make clear to her mind these astonishing facts. But her mind stared at them un-comprehendingly as if at a jumble of meaningless words, powerless to accept them and savour them. Her eyes wandered round the kitchen as if seeking for some object that would enable her to realize this huge change that was sweeping down upon her; but all the old familiar things stood about her, crass and dumb as always. They said nothing to her. Her eyes rested for a moment on that unfaded square in the faded wallpaper where the picture had hung which she had destroyed ten days ago, but even that said nothing to her and she smiled, realizing that her father had never remarked upon it. ‘He can never have noticed it,' she thought. ‘He has ceased long since to notice anything in the house.'

Then her father had come down in his shirt-sleeves to breakfast and their breakfast had been an exact copy of all their breakfasts for the last ten years.

‘Mind you have everything ready by twelve, Kate,' he had said as he went off to take morning school. ‘I shall only have to wash my hands and slip on my Sunday coat and then I shall be ready to take you across to the church.'

Kate had made no reply, and next moment she had heard him close the door. Then, having cleared away and washed up, she had completed the cleaning and tidying of the house which she had begun some days before. It was a matter of course
with her that she should leave everything clean and in perfect order.

By that time it was a quarter past eleven and, pouring hot water from the kettle into a jug, she took it up and went upstairs to wash and dress. And now, at last, at this strange break in the daily routine, a realization of the coming change began to dawn in her, and far away in some deep thicket of her mind she felt the pulsation of a keen excitement. She took off her old black dress, her petticoat, bodice, and stays, the old, carefully darned black stockings and the broken shoes, and standing up in nothing but her chemise she raised her hands to her head, took the hairpins out of her hair, and with a shake of her head shook her hair about her shoulders like a long black hood. Then taking a brush from the dressing-table she began to brush it with long sweeping movements of her strong white arms, bending her head now so that half of the hair fell over her right shoulder, now to let it fall over the left, now nodding her head forward so that with the help of her hands the whole glossy mass was flung forward and hung in a dense curtain over her bowed face and breast, down almost to her knees: and, as she brushed, cold lights stirred and rippled over the moving black flow of it.