Chapter X--The Resolve

by Bram Stoker

　　The next few days saw Stephen abnormally restless. She had fairlywell made up her mind to test her theory of equality of the sexes byasking Leonard Everard to marry her; but her difficulty was as to thedoing it. She knew well that it would not do to depend on a chancemeeting for an opportunity. After all, the matter was too serious toallow of the possibility of levity. There were times when shethought she would write to him and make her proffer of affection inthis way; but on every occasion when such thought recurred it wasforthwith instantly abandoned. During the last few days, however,she became more reconciled to even this method of procedure. Thefever of growth was unabated. At last came an evening which she hadall to herself. Miss Laetitia was going over to Norwood to lookafter matters there, and would remain the night. Stephen saw in herabsence an opportunity for thought and action, and said that, havinga headache, she would remain at home. Her aunt offered to postponeher visit. But she would not hear of it; and so she had the eveningto herself.After dinner in her boudoir she set herself to the composition of aletter to Leonard which would convey at least something of herfeelings and wishes towards him. In the depths of her heart, whichnow and again beat furiously, she had a secret hope that when oncethe idea was broached Leonard would do the rest. And as she thoughtof that 'rest' a languorous dreaminess came upon her. She thoughthow he would come to her full of love, of yearning passion; how shewould try to keep towards him, at first, an independent front whichwould preserve her secret anxiety until the time should come when shemight yield herself to his arms and tell him all. For hours shewrote letter after letter, destroying them as quickly as she wrote,as she found that she had but swayed pendulum fashion betweenovertness and coldness. Some of the letters were so chilly in tonethat she felt they would defeat their own object. Others were sofrankly warm in the expression of--regard she called it, that withburning blushes she destroyed them at once at the candle before her.At last she made up her mind. Just as she had done when a baby sherealised that the opposing forces were too strong for her; she gavein gracefully. It would not do to deal directly in a letter with thematter in hand. She would write to Leonard merely asking him to seeher. Then, when they were together without fear of interruption, shewould tell him her views.She got as far as 'Dear Mr. Leonard,' when she stood up, saying toherself:'I shall not be in a hurry. I must sleep on it before I write!' Shetook up the novel she had been reading in the afternoon, and read onat it steadily till her bedtime.That night she did not sleep. It was not that she was agitated.Indeed, she was more at ease than she had been for days; she hadafter much anxious thought made up her mind to a definite course ofaction. Therefore her sleeplessness was not painful. It was ratherthat she did not want to sleep, than that she could not. She laystill, thinking, thinking; dreaming such dreams as are the occasionsof sanctified privacy to her age and sex.In the morning she was no worse for her vigil. When at luncheon-timeAunt Laetitia had returned she went into all the little matters ofwhich she had to report. It was after tea-time when she foundherself alone, and with leisure to attend to what was, she felt,directly her own affair. During the night she had made up her mindexactly what to say to Leonard; and as her specific resolution borethe test of daylight she was satisfied. The opening words had intheir inception caused her some concern; but after hours of thoughtshe had come to the conclusion that to address, under thecircumstance, the recipient of the letter as 'Dear Mr. Everard' wouldhardly do. The only possible justification of her unconventional actwas that there existed already a friendship, an intimacy of years,since childhood; that there were already between them knowledge andunderstanding of each other; that what she was doing, and about todo, was but a further step in a series of events long ago undertaken.She thought it better to send by post rather than messenger, as thelatter did away with all privacy with regard to the act.The letter was as follows:'DEAR LEONARD,--Would it be convenient for you to meet me to-morrow,Tuesday, at half-past twelve o'clock on the top of Caester Hill? Iwant to speak about a matter that may have some interest to you, andit will be more private there than in the house. Also it will becooler in the shade on the hilltop. -Yours sincerely, STEPHEN NORMAN.'Having posted the letter she went about the usual routine of her lifeat Normanstand, and no occasion of suspicion or remark regarding hercame to her aunt.In her room that night when she had sent away her maid, she sat downto think, and all the misgivings of the day came back. One by onethey were conquered by one protective argument:'I am free to do as I like. I am my own mistress; and I am doingnothing that is wrong. Even if it is unconventional, what of that?God knows there are enough conventions in the world that are wrong,hopelessly, unalterably wrong. After all, who are the people who aremost bound by convention? Those who call themselves "smart!" IfConvention is the god of the smart set, then it is about time thathonest people chose another!'Leonard received the letter at breakfast-time. He did not give itany special attention, as he had other letters at the same time, someof which were, if less pleasant, of more immediate importance. Hehad of late been bombarded with dunning letters from tradesmen; forduring his University life, and ever since, he had run into debt.The moderate allowance his father made him he had treated as cash forincidental expenses, but everything else had been on credit. Indeedhe was beginning to get seriously alarmed about the future, for hisfather, who had paid his debts once, and at a time when they were bycomparison inconsiderable, had said that he would not under anycircumstances pay others. He was not sorry, therefore, for anopportunity of getting away for a few hours from home; from himself--from anxieties, possibilities. The morning was a sweltering one, andhe grumbled to himself as he set out on his journey through thewoods.Stephen rose fresh and in good spirits, despite her sleepless night.When youth and strength are to the fore, a night's sleep is not ofmuch account, for the system once braced up is not allowed toslacken. It was a notable sign of her strong nature that she was noteven impatient, but waited with calm fixity the hour at which she hadasked Leonard Everard to meet her. It is true that as the time grewcloser her nerve was less marked. And just before it she was a girl--and nothing more; with all girl's diffidence, a girl's self-distrust, a girl's abnegation, a girl's plasticity.In the more purely personal aspect of her enterprise Stephen's effortwas more conscious. It is hardly possible for a pretty woman to seekin her study of perfection the aid of her mirror and to beunconscious of her aims. There must certainly be at least onedominant purpose: the achievement of success. Stephen did notattempt to deny her own beauty; on the contrary she gave it thefullest scope. There was a certain triumph in her glance as she tookher last look in her mirror; a gratification of her wish to showherself in the best way possible. It was a very charming picturewhich the mirror reflected.It may be that there is a companionship in a mirror, especially to awoman; that the reflection of oneself is an emboldening presence, apersonality which is better than the actuality of an unvaluedstranger. Certainly, when Stephen closed the door and stood in thewainscoted passage, which was only dimly lit by the high window ateither end, her courage seemed at once to ooze away.Probably for the first time in her life, as she left the shade of thelong passage and came out on the staircase flooded with the light ofthe noonday sun, Stephen felt that she was a girl--'girl' standing assome sort of synonym for weakness, pretended or actual. Fear, inwhatever form or degree it may come, is a vital quality and mustmove. It cannot stand at a fixed point; if it be not sent backwardit must progress. Stephen felt this, and, though her whole naturewas repugnant to the task, forced herself to the effort ofrepression. It would, she felt, have been to her a deliciouspleasure to have abandoned all effort; to have sunk in the lassitudeof self-surrender.The woman in her was working; her sex had found her out!She turned and looked around her, as though conscious of beingwatched. Then, seeing that she was alone, she went her way withsettled purpose; with flashing eyes and glowing cheeks--and a beatingheart. A heart all woman's since it throbbed the most withapprehension when the enemy, Man, was the objective of her mostresolute attack. She knew that she must keep moving; that she mustnot stop or pause; or her whole resolution must collapse. And so shehurried on, fearful lest a chance meeting with any one might imperilher purpose.On she went through the faint moss-green paths; through meadows richwith flowering grasses and the many reds of the summer wild-flowers.And so up through the path cut in the natural dipping of the rockthat rose over Caester Hill and formed a strong base for the clump ofgreat trees that made a landmark for many a mile around. During thefirst part of her journey between the house and the hilltop, shetried to hold her purpose at arm's length; it would be sufficient toface its terrors when the time had come. In the meantime the matterwas of such overwhelming importance that nothing else could take itsplace; all she could do was to suspend the active part of thethinking faculties and leave the mind only receptive.But when she had passed through the thin belt of stunted oak andbeech which hedged in the last of the lush meadows, and caught sightof the clump of trees on the hilltop, she unconsciously bracedherself as a young regiment loses its tremors when the sight of theenemy breaks upon it. No longer her eyes fell earthward; they wereraised, and raised proudly. Stephen Norman was fixed in herintention. Like the woman of old, her feet were on the ploughsharesand she would not hesitate.As she drew near the appointed place her pace grew slower and slower;the woman in her was unconsciously manifesting itself. She would notbe first in her tryst with a man. Unconsciousness, however, is not aworking quality which can be relied upon for staying power; theapproach to the trysting-place brought once more home to her thestrange nature of her enterprise. She had made up her mind to it;there was no use in deceiving herself. What she had undertaken to dowas much more unconventional than being first at a meeting. It wasfoolish and weak to delay. The last thought braced her up; and itwas with a hurried gait, which alone would have betrayed her to anintelligent observer, that she entered the grove.