Chapter XIV--The Beech Grove

by Bram Stoker

　　On the morning following the proposal Stephen strolled out into abeech grove, some little distance from the house, which fromchildhood had been a favourite haunt of hers. It was not in theimmediate road to anywhere, and so there was no occasion for any ofthe household or the garden to go through it or near it. She did notput on a hat, but took only a sunshade, which she used in passingover the lawn. The grove was on the side of the house away from herown room and the breakfast-room. When she had reached its shade shefelt that at last she was alone.The grove was a privileged place. Long ago a great number of youngbeeches had been planted so thickly that as they grew they shot upstraight and branchless in their struggle for the light. Not tillthey had reached a considerable altitude had they been thinned; andthen the thinning had been so effected that, as the high branchesbegan to shoot out in the freer space, they met in time andinterlaced so closely that they made in many places a perfect screenof leafy shade. Here and there were rifts or openings through whichthe light passed; under such places the grass was fine and green, orthe wild hyacinths in due season tinged the earth with blue. Throughthe grove some wide alleys had been left: great broad walks wherethe soft grass grew short and fine, and to whose edges came adrooping of branches and an upspringing of undergrowth of laurel andrhododendron. At the far ends of these walks were little pavilionsof marble built in the classic style which ruled for garden use twohundred years ago. At the near ends some of them were close to thebroad stretch of water from whose edges ran back the great slopingbanks of emerald sward dotted here and there with great forest trees.The grove was protected by a ha-ha, so that it was never invaded fromwithout, and the servants of the house, both the domestics and thegardeners and grooms, had been always forbidden to enter it. Thus bylong usage it had become a place of quiet and solitude for themembers of the family.To this soothing spot had come Stephen in her pain. The long spellof self-restraint during that morning had almost driven her tofrenzy, and she sought solitude as an anodyne to her tortured soul.The long anguish of a third sleepless night, following on a day ofhumiliation and terror, had destroyed for a time the naturalresilience of a healthy nature. She had been for so long in theprison of her own purpose with Fear as warder; the fetters ofconventional life had so galled her that here in the accustomedsolitude of this place, in which from childhood she had been used tomove and think freely, she felt as does a captive who has escapedfrom an irksome durance. As Stephen had all along been free ofmovement and speech, no such opportunities of freedom called to her.The pent-up passion in her, however, found its own relief. Her voicewas silent, and she moved with slow steps, halting often between thegreen tree-trunks in the cool shade; but her thoughts ran free, andpassion found a vent. No stranger seeing the tall, queenly girlmoving slowly through the trees could have imagined the fiercepassion which blazed within her, unless he had been close enough tosee her eyes. The habit of physical restraint to which all her lifeshe had been accustomed, and which was intensified by the experienceof the past thirty-six hours, still ruled her, even here. Graduallythe habit of security began to prevail, and the shackles to meltaway. Here had she come in all her childish troubles. Here had shefought with herself, and conquered herself. Here the spirits of theplace were with her and not against her. Here memory in its seconddegree, habit, gave her the full sense of spiritual freedom.As she walked to and fro the raging of her spirit changed itsobjective: from restraint to its final causes; and chief amongstthem the pride which had been so grievously hurt. How she loathedthe day that had passed, and how more than all she hated herself forher part in it; her mad, foolish, idiotic, self-importance which gaveher the idea of such an act and urged her to the bitter end of itscarrying out; her mulish obstinacy in persisting when every fibre ofher being had revolted at the doing, and when deep in her inmost soulwas a deterring sense of its futility. How could she have stooped tohave done such a thing: to ask a man . . . oh! the shame of it, theshame of it all! How could she have been so blind as to think thatsuch a man was worthy! . . .In the midst of her whirlwind of passion came a solitary gleam ofrelief: she knew with certainty that she did not love Leonard; thatshe had never loved him. The coldness of disdain to him, the fear ofhis future acts which was based on disbelief of the existence of thatfiner nature with which she had credited him, all proved to herconvincingly that he could never really have been within the charmedcircle of her inner life. Did she but know it, there was an evenstronger evidence of her indifference to him in the ready manner inwhich her thoughts flew past him in their circling sweep. For amoment she saw him as the centre of a host of besetting fears; buther own sense of superior power nullified the force of the vision.She was able to cope with him and his doings, were there such need.And so her mind flew back to the personal side of her trouble: herblindness, her folly, her shame.In truth she was doing good work for herself. Her mind was workingtruly and to a beneficent end. One by one she was overcoming thefalse issues of her passion and drifting to an end in which she wouldsee herself face to face and would place so truly the blame for whathad been as to make it a warning and ennobling lesson of her life.She moved more quickly, passing to and fro as does a panther in itscage when the desire of forest freedom is heavy upon it.That which makes the irony of life will perhaps never be understoodin its casual aspect by the finite mind of man. The 'why' and'wherefore' and the 'how' of it is only to be understood by that All-wise intelligence which can scan the future as well as the present,and see the far far-reaching ramifications of those schemes of finaldevelopment to which the manifestation of completed character tend.To any mortal it would seem a pity that to Stephen in her solitude,when her passion was working itself out to an end which might begood, should come an interruption which would throw it back uponitself in such a way as to multiply its malignant force. But againit is a part of the Great Plan that instruments whose use man'sfinite mind could never predicate should be employed: the seeminggood to evil, the seeming evil to good.As she swept to and fro, her raging spirit compelling to violentmovement, Stephen's eyes were arrested by the figure of a man comingthrough the aisles of the grove. At such a time any interruption ofher passion was a cause for heightening anger; but the presence of aperson was as a draught to a full-fed furnace. Most of all, in herpresent condition of mind, the presence of a man--for the thought ofa man lay behind all her trouble, was as a tornado striking a burningforest. The blood of her tortured heart seemed to leap to her brainand to suffuse her eyes. She 'saw blood'!It mattered not that the man whom she saw she knew and trusted.Indeed, this but added fuel to the flame. In the presence of astranger some of her habitual self-restraint would doubtless havecome back to her. But now the necessity for such was foregone;Harold was her alter ego, and in his presence was safety. He was, inthis aspect, but a higher and more intelligent rendering of the treesaround her. In another aspect he was an opportune victim, somethingto strike at. When the anger of a poison snake opens its gland, andthe fang is charged with venom, it must strike at something. It doesnot pause or consider what it may be; it strikes, though it may be atstone or iron. So Stephen waited till her victim was within distanceto strike. Her black eyes, fierce with passion and blood-rimmed as acobra's, glittered as he passed among the tree-trunks towards her,eager with his errand of devotion.Harold was a man of strong purpose. Had he not been, he would neverhave come on his present errand. Never, perhaps, had any suitor setforth on his quest with a heavier heart. All his life, since hisvery boyhood, had been centred round the girl whom to-day he had cometo serve. All his thought had been for her: and to-day all he couldexpect was a gentle denial of all his hopes, so that his future lifewould be at best a blank.But he would be serving Stephen! His pain might be to her good;ought to be, to a certain extent, to her mental ease. Her woundedpride would find some solace . . . As he came closer the feeling thathe had to play a part, veritably to act one, came stronger andstronger upon him, and filled him with bitter doubt as to his power.Still he went on boldly. It had been a part of his plan to seem tocome eagerly, as a lover should come; and so he came. When he gotclose to Stephen, all the witchery of her presence came upon him asof old. After all, he loved her with his whole soul; and the chancehad come to tell her so. Even under the distressing conditions ofhis suit, the effort had its charm.Stephen schooled herself to her usual attitude with him; and that,too, since the effort was based on truth came with a certain ease toher. At the present time, in her present frame of mind, nothing inthe wide world could give her pleasure; the ease which came, if itdid not change her purpose, increased her power. Their usualsalutation, begun when she was a little baby, was 'Good morning,Stephen!' 'Good morning, Harold!' It had become so much a customthat now it came mechanically on her part. The tender reference tochildhood's days, though it touched her companion to the quick, didnot appeal to her since she had no special thought of it. Had such athought come to her it might have softened her even to tears, forHarold had been always deep in her heart. As might have beenexpected from her character and condition of mind, she was the firstto begin:'I suppose you want to see me about something special, Harold, youhave come so early.''Yes, Stephen. Very special!''Were you at the house?' she asked in a voice whose quietness mighthave conveyed a warning. She was so suspicious now that shesuspected even Harold of--of what she did not know. He answered inall simplicity:'No. I came straight here.''How did you know I should be here?' Her voice was now not onlyquiet but sweet. Without thinking, Harold blundered on. Hisintention was so single-minded, and his ignorance of woman socomplete, that he did not recognise even elementary truths:'I knew you always came here long ago when you were a child when youwere in--' Here it suddenly flashed upon him that if he seemed toexpect that she was in trouble as he had purposed saying, he wouldgive away his knowledge of what had happened and so destroy the workto which he had set himself. So he finished the sentence in a lameand impotent manner, which, however, saved complete annihilation asit was verbally accurate: 'in short frocks.' Stephen needed to knowlittle more. Her quick intelligence grasped the fact that there wassome purpose afoot which she did not know or understand. Shesurmised, of course, that it was some way in connection with her madact, and she grew cooler in her brain as well as colder in her heartas she prepared to learn more. Stephen had changed from girl towoman in the last twenty-four hours; and all the woman in her was nowawake. After a moment's pause she said with a winning smile:'Why, Harold, I've been in long frocks for years. Why should I comehere on this special day on that account?' Even as she was speakingshe felt that it would be well to abandon this ground of inquiry. Ithad clearly told her all it could. She would learn more by someother means. So she went on in a playful way, as a cat--not akitten--does when it has got a mouse:'That reason won't work, Harold. It's quite rusty in the joints.But never mind it! Tell me why you have come so early?' This seemedto Harold to be a heaven-sent opening; he rushed in at once:'Because, Stephen, I wanted to ask you to be my wife! Oh! Stephen,don't you know that I love you? Ever since you were a little girl!When you were a little girl and I a big boy I loved you. I haveloved you ever since with all my heart, and soul, and strength.Without you the world is a blank to me! For you and your happiness Iwould do anything--anything!'This was no acting. When once the barrier of beginning had beenbroken, his soul seemed to pour itself out. The man was vibrantthrough all his nature; and the woman's very soul realised its truth.For an instant a flame of gladness swept through her; and for thetime it lasted put all other thought aside.But suspicion is a hard metal which does not easily yield to fire.It can come to white heat easily enough, but its melting-point ishigh indeed. When the flame had leaped it had spent its force; thereaction came quick. Stephen's heart seemed to turn to ice, all theheat and life rushing to her brain. Her thoughts flashed withconvincing quickness; there was no time for doubting amid their rush.Her life was for good or ill at the crossing of the ways. She hadtrusted Harold thoroughly. The habit of her whole life from herbabyhood up had been to so look to him as comrade and protector andsympathetic friend. She was so absolutely sure of his earnestdevotion that this new experience of a riper feeling would have beena joy to her, if it should be that his act was all spontaneous anddone in ignorance of her shame. 'Shame' was the generic word whichnow summarised to herself her thought of her conduct in proposing toLeonard. But of this she must be certain. She could not, dare not,go farther till this was settled. With the same craving forcertainty with which she convinced herself that Leonard understoodher overtures, and with the same dogged courage with which shepressed the matter on him, she now went on to satisfy her mind.'What did you do yesterday?''I was at Norcester all day. I went early. By the way, here is theribbon you wanted; I think it's exactly the same as the pattern.' Ashe spoke he took a tissue-piper parcel from his pocket and handed itto her.'Thanks!' she said. 'Did you meet any friends there?''Not many.' He answered guardedly; he had a secret to keep.'Where did you dine?''At the club!' He began to be uneasy at this questioning; but he didnot see any way to avoid answering without creating some suspicion.'Did you see any one you knew at the club?' Her voice as she spokewas a little harder, a little more strained. Harold noticed thechange, rather by instinct than reason. He felt that there wasdanger in it, and paused. The pause seemed to suddenly create a newfury in the breast of Stephen. She felt that Harold was playing withher. Harold! If she could not trust him, where then was she to lookfor trust in the world? If he was not frank with her, what thenmeant his early coming; his seeking her in the grove; his proposal ofmarriage, which seemed so sudden and so inopportune? He must haveseen Leonard, and by some means have become acquainted with hersecret of shame . . . His motive?Here her mind halted. She knew as well as if it had been trumpetedfrom the skies that Harold knew all. But she must be certain . . .Certain!She was standing erect, her hands held down by her sides and clenchedtogether till the knuckles were white; all her body strung high--likean over-pitched violin. Now she raised her right hand and flung itdownward with a passionate jerk.'Answer me!' she cried imperiously. 'Answer me! Why are you playingwith me? Did you see Leonard Everard last night? Answer me, I say.Harold An Wolf, you do not lie! Answer me!'As she spoke Harold grew cold. From the question he now knew thatStephen had guessed his secret. The fat was in the fire with avengeance. He did not know what to do, and still remained silent.She did not give him time to think, but spoke again, this time morecoldly. The white terror had replaced the red:'Are you not going to answer me a simple question, Harold? To besilent now is to wrong me! I have a right to know!'In his trouble, for he felt that say what he would he could only giveher new pain, he said humbly:'Don't ask me, Stephen! Won't you understand that I want to do whatis best for you? Won't you trust me?' Her answer came harshly. Amore experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, wouldhave seen how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivotof his future bearing and acts and words while the interview lasted;pity, and pity only. But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same.The Stephen whom he loved was no subject for pity, but for devotiononly. He knew the nobility of her nature and must trust it to theend. When her silence and her blazing eyes denied his request, heanswered her query in a low voice:'I did!' Even whilst he spoke he was thankful for one thing, he hadnot been pledged in any way to confidence. Leonard had forced theknowledge on him; and though he would have preferred a million timesover to be silent, he was still free to speak. Stephen's nextquestion came more coldly still:'Did he tell you of his meeting with me?''He did.''Did he tell you all?' It was torture to him to answer; but he wasat the stake and must bear it.'I think so! If it was true.''What did he tell you? Stay! I shall ask you the facts myself; thebroad facts. We need not go into details . . . ''Oh, Stephen!' She silenced his pleading with an imperious hand.'If I can go into this matter, surely you can. If I can bear theshame of telling, you can at least bear that of listening. Rememberthat knowing--knowing what you know, or at least what you have heard--you could come here and propose marriage to me!' This she said witha cold, cutting sarcasm which sounded like the rasping of a roughly-sharpened knife through raw flesh. Harold groaned in spirit; he felta weakness which began at his heart to steal through him. It tookall his manhood to bear himself erect. He dreaded what was coming,as of old the once-tortured victim dreaded the coming torment of therack.