The old lady blushed
slightly as she answered:

'There is no need to specify, my dear. Let it be at this, that there
were more than you could count on your right hand!' 'And why did you refuse them?' The tone was wheedling, and the elder
woman loved to hear it. Wheedling is the courtship, by the young of the
old. 'Because, my dear, I didn't love them.' 'But tell me, Auntie, was there never any one that you did love?' 'Ah! my dear, that is a different matter. That is the real tragedy of a
woman's life.' In flooding reminiscent thought she forgot her
remonstrating; her voice became full of natural pathos:

'To love; and be helpless! To wait, and wait, and wait; with your heart
all aflame! To hope, and hope; till time seems to have passed away, and
all the world to stand still on your hopeless misery! To know that a
word might open up Heaven; and yet to have to remain mute! To keep back
the glances that could enlighten; to modulate the tones that might
betray! To see all you hoped for passing away . . . to another! . . . ' Stephen bent over and kissed her, then standing up said:

'I understand! Isn't it wrong, Auntie, that there should be such
tragedies? Should not that glance be given? Why should that tone be
checked? Why should one be mute when a single word might, would, avert
the tragedy? Is it not possible, Auntie, that there is something wrong
in our social system when such things can happen; and can happen so
often?' She looked remorseless as well as irresistible in the pride of her
youthful strength as with eyes that blazed, not flashing as in passion
but with a steady light that seemed to burn, she continued:

'Some day women must learn their own strength, as well as they have
learned their own weakness. They are taught this latter from their
cradles up; but no one ever seems to teach them wherein their power lies. They have to learn this for themselves; and the process and the result of
the self-teaching are not good. In the University Settlement I learned
much that made my heart ache; but out of it there seemed some lesson for
good.' She paused; and her aunt, wishing to keep the subject towards
higher things, asked:

'And that lesson, Stephen dear?' The blazing eyes turned to her so that
she was stirred by them as the answer came:

'It is bad women who seem to know men best, and to be able to influence
them most. They can make men come and go at will. They can turn and
twist and mould them as they choose. And _they_ never hesitate to speak
their own wishes; to ask for what they want. There are no tragedies, of
the negative kind, in _their_ lives. Their tragedies have come and gone
already; and their power remains. Why should good women leave power to
such as they? Why should good women's lives be wrecked for a convention? Why in the blind following of some society fetish should life lose its
charm, its possibilities? Why should love eat its heart out, in vain? The time will come when women will not be afraid to speak to men, as they
should speak, as free and equal. Surely if a woman is to be the equal
and lifelong companion of a man, the closest to him--nay, the only one
really close to him: the mother of his children--she should be free at
the very outset to show her inclination to him just as he would to her. Don't be frightened, Auntie dear; your eyes are paining me! . . . There! perhaps I said too much. But after all it is only theory. Take for your
comfort, Auntie dear, that I am free an heart-whole. You need not fear
for me; I can see what your dear eyes tell me. Yes! I am very young;
perhaps too young to think such things. But I have thought of them. Thought them all over in every way and phase I can imagine.' She stopped suddenly; bending over, she took the old lady in her arms and
kissed her fondly several times, holding her tight. Then, as suddenly
releasing her, she ran away before she could say a word. CHAPTER VIII--THE T-CART


When Harold took his degree, Stephen's father took her to Cambridge. She
enjoyed the trip very much; indeed, it seemed under conditions that were
absolutely happy. When they had returned to Normanstand, the Squire took an early
opportunity of bringing Harold alone into his study. He spoke to him
with what in a very young man would have seemed diffidence:

'I have been thinking, Harold, that the time has come when you should be
altogether your own master. I am more than pleased, my boy, with the way
you have gone through college; it is, I am sure, just as your dear father
would have wished it, and as it would have pleased him best.' He paused,
and Harold said in a low voice:

'I tried hard, sir, to do what I thought he would like; and what you
would.' The Squire went on more cheerfully:

'I know that, my boy! I know that well. And I can tell you that it is
not the least of the pleasures we have all had in your success, how you
have justified yourself. You have won many honours in the schools, and
you have kept the reputation as an athlete which your father was so proud
of. Well, I suppose in the natural order of things you would go into a
profession; and of course if you so desire you can do that. But if you
can see your way to it I would rather that you stayed here. My house is
your home as long as I live; but I don't wish you to feel in any way
dependent. I want you to stay here if you will; but to do it just
because you wish to. To this end I have made over to you the estate at
Camp which was my father's gift to me when I came of age. It is not a
very large one; but it will give you a nice position of your own, and a
comfortable income. And with it goes my blessing, my dear boy. Take it
as a gift from your father and myself!' Harold was much moved, not only by the act itself but by the gracious way
of doing it. There were tears in his eyes as he wrung the Squire's hand;
his voice thrilled with feeling as he said:

'Your many goodnesses to my father's son, sir, will, I hope, be justified
by his love and loyalty. If I don't say much it is because I do not feel
quite master of myself. I shall try to show in time, as I cannot say it
all at once, all that I feel.' Harold continued to live at Normanstand. The house at Camp was in
reality a charming cottage. A couple of servants were installed, and now
and again he stayed there for a few days as he wished to get accustomed
to the place. In a couple of months every one accepted the order of
things; and life at Normanstand went on much as it had done before Harold
had gone to college. There was a man in the house now instead of a boy:
that was all. Stephen too was beginning to be a young woman, but the
relative positions were the same as they had been. Her growth did not
seem to make an ostensible difference to any one. The one who might have
noticed it most, Mrs. Jarrold, had died during the last year of Harold's
life at college. When the day came for the quarterly meeting of the magistrates of the
county of Norcester, Squire Rowly arranged as usual to drive Squire
Norman.