She sent back her maid who had
travelled with her, as she knew that the college girls did not have
servants of their own. The visit was prolonged by mutual consent into a
duration of some weeks. Stephen fell in love with the place and the
life, and had serious thoughts of joining the college herself. Indeed
she had made up her mind to ask her father to allow her, knowing well
that he would consent to that or to any other wholesome wish of hers. But
then came the thought that he would be all alone at home; and following
that came another thought, and one of more poignant feeling. He was
alone now! Already, for many days, she had left him, for the first time
in her life! Stephen was quick to act; well she knew that at home there
would be no fault found with her for a speedy return. Within a few hours
she had brought her visit to an end, and was by herself, despite Mrs.
Egerton's protest, in the train on the way back to Norcester. In the train she began to review, for the first time, her visit to the
university. All had been so strange and new and delightful to her that
she had never stopped for retrospect. Life in the new and enchanting
place had been in the moving present. The mind had been receptive only,
gathering data for later thought. During her visit she had had no one to
direct her thought, and so it had been all personal, with the freedom of
individuality at large. Of course her mother's friend, skilled in the
mind-workings of average girls, and able to pick her way through
intellectual and moral quagmires, had taken good care to point out to her
certain intellectual movements and certain moral lessons; just as she had
in their various walks and drives pointed out matters of
interest--architectural beauties and spots of historic import. And she
had taken in, loyally accepted, and thoroughly assimilated all that she
had been told. But there were other lessons which were for her young
eyes; facts which the older eyes had ceased to notice, if they had ever
noticed them at all. The self-content, the sex-content in the endless
tide of young men that thronged the streets and quads and parks; the all-
sufficing nature of sport or study, to whichever their inclinations
tended. The small part which womankind seemed to have in their lives. Stephen had had, as we know, a peculiar training; whatever her instincts
were, her habits were largely boy habits. Here she was amongst boys, a
glorious tide of them; it made now and again her heart beat to look at
them. And yet amongst them all she was only an outsider. She could not
do anything better than any of them. Of course, each time she went out,
she became conscious of admiring glances; she could not be woman without
such consciousness. But it was as a girl that men looked at her, not as
an equal. As well as personal experience and the lessons of eyes and
ears and intelligence, there were other things to classify and adjust;
things which were entirely from the outside of her own life. The
fragments of common-room gossip, which it had been her fortune to hear
accidentally now and again. The half confidences of scandals, borne on
whispered breaths. The whole confidences of dormitory and study which
she had been privileged to share. All were parts of the new and strange
world, the great world which had swum into her ken. As she sat now in the train, with some formulation of memory already
accomplished in the two hours of solitude, her first comment, spoken half
audibly, would have surprised her teachers as much as it would have
surprised herself, if she had been conscious of it; for as yet her
thinking was not self-conscious:

'Surely, I am not like that!' It was of the women she had been thinking, not of the men. The glimpse
which she had had of her own sex had been an awakening to her; and the
awakening had not been to a pleasant world. All at once she seemed to
realise that her sex had defects--littlenesses, meannesses, cowardices,
falsenesses. That their occupations were apt to be trivial or narrow or
selfish; that their desires were earthly, and their tastes coarse; that
what she held to be goodness was apt to be realised only as fear. That
innocence was but ignorance, or at least baffled curiosity. That . . . A flood of shame swept over her, and instinctively she put her hands
before her burning face. As usual, she was running all at once into
extremes. And above all these was borne upon her, and for the first time in her
life, that she was herself a woman! For a long time she sat quite still. The train thrilled and roared on
its way. Crowded stations took and gave their quantum of living freight;
but the young girl sat abstracted, unmoved, seemingly unconscious. All
the dominance and energy of her nature were at work. If, indeed, she was a woman, and had to abide by the exigencies of her
own sex, she would at least not be ruled and limited by woman's weakness. She would plan and act and manage things for herself, in her own way. Whatever her thoughts might be, she could at least control her acts. And
those acts should be based not on woman's weakness, but on man's
strength! CHAPTER VII--THE NEED OF KNOWING


When Stephen announced her intention of going with her father to the
Petty Sessions Court, there was consternation amongst the female
population of Normanstand and Norwood. Such a thing had not been heard
of in the experiences of any of them. Courts of Justice were places for
men; and the lower courts dealt with a class of cases . . . It was quite
impossible to imagine where any young lady could get such an idea . . . Miss Laetitia Rowly recognised that she had a difficult task before her,
for she was by now accustomed to Stephen's quiet method of having her own
way. She made a careful toilet before driving over to Normanstand. Her
wearing her best bonnet was a circumstance not unattended with dread for
some one. Behold her then, sailing into the great drawing-room at
Normanstand with her mind so firmly fixed on the task before her as to be
oblivious of minor considerations. She was so fond of Stephen, and
admired so truly her many beauties and fine qualities, that she was
secure and without flaw in her purpose. Stephen was in danger, and
though she doubted if she would be able to effect any change, she was
determined that at least she should not go into danger with her eyes
unopened. Stephen entered hastily and ran to her. She loved her great-aunt; really
and truly loved her. And indeed it would have been strange if she had
not, for from the earliest hour which she could recollect she had
received from her nothing but the truest, fondest affection. Moreover
she deeply respected the old lady, her truth, her resolution, her
kindliness, her genuine common-sense ability. Stephen always felt safe
with her aunt. In the presence of others she might now and again have a
qualm or a doubt; but not with her. There was an abiding calm in her
love, answering love realised and respected.