Chapter VI--A Visit to Oxford

by Bram Stoker

　　The next important move in the household was Harold's going toCambridge. His father had always intended this, and Squire Normanhad borne his wishes in mind. Harold joined Trinity, the collegewhich had been his father's, and took up his residence in due course.Stephen was now nearly twelve. Her range of friendships, naturallylimited by her circumstances in life, was enlarged to the full; andif she had not many close friends there were at least of them allthat was numerically possible. She still kept up to certain degreethe little gatherings which in her childhood were got together forher amusement, and in the various games then instituted she stilltook a part. She never lost sight of the fact that her father took acertain pleasure in her bodily vigour. And though with her growingyears and the conscious acceptance of her womanhood, she lost sightof the old childish fancy of being a boy instead of a girl, she couldnot lose sight of the fact that strength and alertness are sources offeminine as well as of masculine power.Amongst the young friends who came from time to time during hisholidays was Leonard Everard, now a tall, handsome boy. He was oneof those boys who develop young, and who seem never to have any ofthat gawky stage so noticeable in the youth of men made in a largepattern. He was always well-poised, trim-set, alert; fleet of foot,and springy all over. In games he was facile princeps, seeming tomake his effort always in the right way and without exertion, as ifby an instinct of physical masterdom. His universal success in suchmatters helped to give him an easy debonair manner which was initself winning. So physically complete a youth has always a charm.In its very presence there is a sort of sympathetic expression, suchas comes with the sunshine.Stephen always in Leonard's presence showed something of the commonattitude. His youth and beauty and sex all had their influence onher. The influence of sex, as it is understood with regard to alater period of life, did not in her case exist; Cupid's darts arebarbed and winged for more adult victims. But in her case Leonard'smasculine superiority, emphasised by the few years between their age,his sublime self-belief, and, above all, his absolute disregard forherself or her wishes or her feelings, put him on a level at whichshe had to look up to him. The first step in the ladder of pre-eminence had been achieved when she realised that he was not on herlevel; the second when she experienced rather than thought that hehad more influence on her than she had on him. Here again was alittle morsel of hero worship, which, though based on a misconceptionof fact, was still of influence. In that episode of the crypt shehad always believed that it was Leonard who had carried her out andlaid her on the church floor in light and safety. He had been strongenough and resolute enough to do this, whilst she had fainted!Harold's generous forbearance had really worked to a false end.It was not strange, therefore, that she found occasionalcompanionship with the handsome, wilful, domineering boy somewhat ofluxury. She did not see him often enough to get tired of him; tofind out the weakness of his character; to realise his deep-seated,remorseless selfishness. But after all he was only an episode in ayoung life which was full of interests. Term after term came andwent; the holidays had their seasonable pleasures, occasionallyshared in common. That was all.Harold's attitude was the same as ever. He was of a constant nature;and now that manhood was within hail the love of his boyhood wasripening to a man's love. That was all. He was with regard toStephen the same devoted, worshipping protector, without thought ofself; without hope of reward. Whatever Stephen wished Harold did;and Stephen, knowing their old wishes and their old pleasures, wascontent with their renewal. Each holiday between the terms becamemainly a repetition of the days of the old life. They lived in thepast.Amongst the things that did not change was Stephen's riding dress.The scarlet habit had never been a thing for everyday wear, but hadfrom the first been kept for special occasions. Stephen herself knewthat it was not a conventional costume; but she rather preferred it,if on that account alone. In a certain way she felt justified inusing it; for a red habit was a sort of tradition in the family.It was on one of these occasions that she had gone with Harold intothe churchyard where they had heard the discussion regarding God andthe Angels.When Stephen was about sixteen she went for a short visit to Oxford.She stayed at Somerville with Mrs. Egerton, an old friend of hermother's, who was a professor at the college. She sent back her maidwho had travelled with her, as she knew that the college girls didnot have servants of their own. The visit was prolonged by mutualconsent into a duration of some weeks. Stephen fell in love with theplace and the life, and had serious thoughts of joining the collegeherself. Indeed she had made up her mind to ask her father to allowher, knowing well that he would consent to that or to any otherwholesome wish of hers. But then came the thought that he would beall alone at home; and following that came another thought, and oneof more poignant feeling. He was alone now! Already, for many days,she had left him, for the first time in her life! Stephen was quickto act; well she knew that at home there would be no fault found withher for a speedy return. Within a few hours she had brought hervisit 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 tothe university. All had been so strange and new and delightful toher that she had never stopped for retrospect. Life in the new andenchanting place had been in the moving present. The mind had beenreceptive only, gathering data for later thought. During her visitshe had had no one to direct her thought, and so it had been allpersonal, with the freedom of individuality at large. Of course hermother's friend, skilled in the mind-workings of average girls, andable to pick her way through intellectual and moral quagmires, hadtaken good care to point out to her certain intellectual movementsand certain moral lessons; just as she had in their various walks anddrives pointed out matters of interest--architectural beauties andspots of historic import. And she had taken in, loyally accepted,and thoroughly assimilated all that she had been told. But therewere other lessons which were for her young eyes; facts which theolder eyes had ceased to notice, if they had ever noticed them atall. The self-content, the sex-content in the endless tide of youngmen that thronged the streets and quads and parks; the all-sufficingnature 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 herinstincts were, her habits were largely boy habits. Here she wasamongst boys, a glorious tide of them; it made now and again herheart beat to look at them. And yet amongst them all she was only anoutsider. She could not do anything better than any of them. Ofcourse, each time she went out, she became conscious of admiringglances; she could not be woman without such consciousness. But itwas as a girl that men looked at her, not as an equal. As well aspersonal experience and the lessons of eyes and ears andintelligence, there were other things to classify and adjust; thingswhich were entirely from the outside of her own life. The fragmentsof common-room gossip, which it had been her fortune to hearaccidentally now and again. The half confidences of scandals, borneon whispered breaths. The whole confidences of dormitory and studywhich she had been privileged to share. All were parts of the newand strange world, the great world which had swum into her ken.As she sat now in the train, with some formulation of memory alreadyaccomplished in the two hours of solitude, her first comment, spokenhalf audibly, would have surprised her teachers as much as it wouldhave surprised herself, if she had been conscious of it; for as yether thinking was not self-conscious:'Surely, I am not like that!'It was of the women she had been thinking, not of the men. Theglimpse which she had had of her own sex had been an awakening toher; and the awakening had not been to a pleasant world. All at onceshe seemed to realise that her sex had defects--littlenesses,meannesses, cowardices, falsenesses. That their occupations were aptto be trivial or narrow or selfish; that their desires were earthly,and their tastes coarse; that what she held to be goodness was apt tobe realised only as fear. That innocence was but ignorance, or atleast baffled curiosity. That . . .A flood of shame swept over her, and instinctively she put her handsbefore her burning face. As usual, she was running all at once intoextremes.And above all these was borne upon her, and for the first time in herlife, that she was herself a woman!For a long time she sat quite still. The train thrilled and roaredon its way. Crowded stations took and gave their quantum of livingfreight; but the young girl sat abstracted, unmoved, seeminglyunconscious. All the dominance and energy of her nature were atwork.If, indeed, she was a woman, and had to abide by the exigencies ofher own sex, she would at least not be ruled and limited by woman'sweakness. She would plan and act and manage things for herself, inher 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'sstrength!