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Charles Dickens - "The Pickwick Papers"

Don Marquis - "Hermione and Her Little Group of Serious Thinkers"

John Milton - "L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, Comus, and Lycidas"

Henry van Dyke - "The Blue Flower"

The Man

B >> Bram Stoker >> The Man



THE MAN




FORE-GLIMPSE



'I would rather be an angel than God!'

The voice of the speaker sounded clearly through the hawthorn tree.
The young man and the young girl who sat together on the low
tombstone looked at each other. They had heard the voices of the two
children talking, but had not noticed what they said; it was the
sentiment, not the sound, which roused their attention.

The girl put her finger to her lips to impress silence, and the man
nodded; they sat as still as mice whilst the two children went on
talking.


The scene would have gladdened a painter's heart. An old churchyard.
The church low and square-towered, with long mullioned windows, the
yellow-grey stone roughened by age and tender-hued with lichens.
Round it clustered many tombstones tilted in all directions. Behind
the church a line of gnarled and twisted yews.

The churchyard was full of fine trees. On one side a magnificent
cedar; on the other a great copper beech. Here and there among the
tombs and headstones many beautiful blossoming trees rose from the
long green grass. The laburnum glowed in the June afternoon
sunlight; the lilac, the hawthorn and the clustering meadowsweet
which fringed the edge of the lazy stream mingled their heavy
sweetness in sleepy fragrance. The yellow-grey crumbling walls were
green in places with wrinkled harts-tongues, and were topped with
sweet-williams and spreading house-leek and stone-crop and wild-
flowers whose delicious sweetness made for the drowsy repose of
perfect summer.

But amid all that mass of glowing colour the two young figures seated
on the grey old tomb stood out conspicuously. The man was in
conventional hunting-dress: red coat, white stock, black hat, white
breeches, and top-boots. The girl was one of the richest, most
glowing, and yet withal daintiest figures the eye of man could linger
on. She was in riding-habit of hunting scarlet cloth; her black hat
was tipped forward by piled-up masses red-golden hair. Round her
neck was a white lawn scarf in the fashion of a man's hunting-stock,
close fitting, and sinking into a gold-buttoned waistcoat of snowy
twill. As she sat with the long skirt across her left arm her tiny
black top-boots appeared underneath. Her gauntleted gloves were of
white buckskin; her riding-whip was plaited of white leather, topped
with ivory and banded with gold.

Even in her fourteenth year Miss Stephen Norman gave promise of
striking beauty; beauty of a rarely composite character. In her the
various elements of her race seemed to have cropped out. The firm-
set jaw, with chin broader and more square than is usual in a woman,
and the wide fine forehead and aquiline nose marked the high descent
from Saxon through Norman. The glorious mass of red hair, of the
true flame colour, showed the blood of another ancient ancestor of
Northern race, and suited well with the voluptuous curves of the
full, crimson lips. The purple-black eyes, the raven eyebrows and
eyelashes, and the fine curve of the nostrils spoke of the Eastern
blood of the far-back wife of the Crusader. Already she was tall for
her age, with something of that lankiness which marks the early
development of a really fine figure. Long-legged, long-necked, as
straight as a lance, with head poised on the proud neck like a lily
on its stem.

Stephen Norman certainly gave promise of a splendid womanhood.
Pride, self-reliance and dominance were marked in every feature; in
her bearing and in her lightest movement.

Her companion, Harold An Wolf, was some five years her senior, and by
means of those five years and certain qualities had long stood in the
position of her mentor. He was more than six feet two in height,
deep-chested, broad-shouldered, lean-flanked, long-armed and big-
handed. He had that appearance strength, with well-poised neck and
forward set of the head, which marks the successful athlete.

The two sat quiet, listening. Through the quiet hum of afternoon
came the voices of the two children. Outside the lich-gate, under
the shade of the spreading cedar, the horses stamped occasionally as
the flies troubled them. The grooms were mounted; one held the
delicate-limbed white Arab, the other the great black horse.

'I would rather be an angel than God!'

The little girl who made the remark was an ideal specimen of the
village Sunday-school child. Blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked, thick-legged,
with her straight brown hair tied into a hard bunch with a much-
creased, cherry-coloured ribbon. A glance at the girl would have
satisfied the most sceptical as to her goodness. Without being in
any way smug she was radiant with self-satisfaction and well-doing.
A child of the people; an early riser; a help to her mother; a good
angel to her father; a little mother to her brothers and sisters;
cleanly in mind and body; self-reliant, full of faith, cheerful.

The other little girl was prettier, but of a more stubborn type; more
passionate, less organised, and infinitely more assertive. Black-
haired, black-eyed, swarthy, large-mouthed, snub-nosed; the very type
and essence of unrestrained, impulsive, emotional, sensual nature. A
seeing eye would have noted inevitable danger for the early years of
her womanhood. She seemed amazed by the self-abnegation implied by
her companion's statement; after a pause she replied:

'I wouldn't! I'd rather be up at the top of everything and give
orders to the angels if I chose. I can't think, Marjorie, why you'd
rather take orders than give them.'

'That's just it, Susan. I don't want to give orders; I'd rather obey
them. It must be very terrible to have to think of things so much,
that you want everything done your own way. And besides, I shouldn't
like to have to be just!'

'Why not?' the voice was truculent, though there was wistfulness in
it also.

'Oh Susan. Just fancy having to punish; for of course justice needs
punishing as well as praising. Now an angel has such a nice time,
helping people and comforting them, and bringing sunshine into dark
places. Putting down fresh dew every morning; making the flowers
grow, and bringing babies and taking care of them till their mothers
find them. Of course God is very good and very sweet and very
merciful, but oh, He must be very terrible.'

'All the same I would rather be God and able to do things!'

Then the children moved off out of earshot. The two seated on the
tombstone looked after them. The first to speak was the girl, who
said:

'That's very sweet and good of Marjorie; but do you know, Harold, I
like Susie's idea better.'

'Which idea was that, Stephen?'

'Why, didn't you notice what she said: "I'd like to be God and be
able to do things"?'

'Yes,' he said after a moment's reflection. 'That's a fine idea in
the abstract; but I doubt of its happiness in the long-run.'

'Doubt of its happiness? Come now? what could there be better, after
all? Isn't it good enough to be God? What more do you want?'

The girl's tone was quizzical, but her great black eyes blazed with
some thought of sincerity which lay behind the fun. The young man
shook his head with a smile of kindly tolerance as he answered:

'It isn't that--surely you must know it. I'm ambitious enough,
goodness knows; but there are bounds to satisfy even me. But I'm not
sure that the good little thing isn't right. She seemed, somehow, to
hit a bigger truth than she knew: "fancy having to be just."'

'I don't see much difficulty in that. Anyone can be just!'

'Pardon me,' he answered, 'there is perhaps nothing so difficult in
the whole range of a man's work.' There was distinct defiance in the
girl's eyes as she asked:

'A man's work! Why a man's work? Isn't it a woman's work also?'

'Well, I suppose it ought to be, theoretically; practically it
isn't.'

'And why not, pray?' The mere suggestion of any disability of woman
as such aroused immediate antagonism. Her companion suppressed a
smile as he answered deliberately:

'Because, my dear Stephen, the Almighty has ordained that justice is
not a virtue women can practise. Mind, I do not say women are
unjust. Far from it, where there are no interests of those dear to
them they can be of a sincerity of justice that can make a man's
blood run cold. But justice in the abstract is not an ordinary
virtue: it has to be considerate as well as stern, and above all
interest of all kinds and of every one--' The girl interrupted
hotly:

'I don't agree with you at all. You can't give an instance where
women are unjust. I don't mean of course individual instances, but
classes of cases where injustice is habitual.' The suppressed smile
cropped out now unconsciously round the man's lips in a way which was
intensely aggravating to the girl.

'I'll give you a few,' he said. 'Did you ever know a mother just to
a boy who beat her own boy at school?' The girl replied quietly:

'Ill-treatment and bullying are subjects for punishment, not
justice.'

'Oh, I don't mean that kind of beating. I mean getting the prizes
their own boys contended for; getting above them in class; showing
superior powers in running or cricket or swimming, or in any of the
forms of effort in which boys vie with each other.' The girl
reflected, then she spoke:

'Well, you may be right. I don't altogether admit it, but I accept
it as not on my side. But this is only one case.'

'A pretty common one. Do you think that Sheriff of Galway, who in
default of a hangman hanged his son with his own hands, would have
done so if he had been a woman?' The girl answered at once:

'Frankly, no. I don't suppose the mother was ever born who would do
such a thing. But that is not a common case, is it? Have you any
other?' The young man paused before he spoke:

'There is another, but I don't think I can go into it fairly with
you.'

'Why not?'

'Well, because after all you know, Stephen, you are only a girl and
you can't be expected to know.' The girl laughed:

'Well, if it's anything about women surely a girl, even of my tender
age, must know something more of it, or be able to guess at, than any
young man can. However, say what you think and I'll tell you frankly
if I agree--that is if a woman can be just, in such a matter.'

'Shortly the point is this: Can a woman be just to another woman, or
to a man for the matter of that, where either her own affection or a
fault of the other is concerned?'

'I don't see any reason to the contrary. Surely pride alone should
ensure justice in the former case, and the consciousness of
superiority in the other.' The young man shook his head:

'Pride and the consciousness of superiority! Are they not much the
same thing. But whether or no, if either of them has to be relied
on, I'm afraid the scales of Justice would want regulating, and her
sword should be blunted in case its edge should be turned back on
herself. I have an idea that although pride might be a guiding
principle with you individually, it would be a failure with the
average. However, as it would be in any case a rule subject to many
exceptions I must let it go.'

Harold looked at his watch and rose. Stephen followed him;
transferring her whip into the hand which held up the skirt, she took
his arm with her right hand in the pretty way in which a young girl
clings to her elders. Together they went out at the lich-gate. The
groom drew over with the horses. Stephen patted hers and gave her a
lump of sugar. Then putting her foot into Harold's ready hand she
sprang lightly into the saddle. Harold swung himself into his saddle
with the dexterity of an accomplished rider.

As the two rode up the road, keeping on the shady side under the
trees, Stephen said quietly, half to herself, as if the sentence had
impressed itself on her mind:

'To be God and able to do things!'

Harold rode on in silence. The chill of some vague fear was upon
him.



CHAPTER I--STEPHEN



Stephen Norman of Normanstand had remained a bachelor until close on
middle age, when the fact took hold of him that there was no
immediate heir to his great estate. Whereupon, with his wonted
decision, he set about looking for a wife.

He had been a close friend of his next neighbour, Squire Rowly, ever
since their college days. They had, of course, been often in each
other's houses, and Rowly's young sister--almost a generation younger
than himself, and the sole fruit of his father's second marriage--had
been like a little sister to him too. She had, in the twenty years
which had elapsed, grown to be a sweet and beautiful young woman. In
all the past years, with the constant opportunity which friendship
gave of close companionship, the feeling never altered. Squire
Norman would have been surprised had he been asked to describe
Margaret Rowly and found himself compelled to present the picture of
a woman, not a child.

Now, however, when his thoughts went womanward and wifeward, he awoke
to the fact that Margaret came within the category of those he
sought. His usual decision ran its course. Semi-brotherly feeling
gave place to a stronger and perhaps more selfish feeling. Before he
even knew it, he was head over ears in love with his pretty
neighbour.

Norman was a fine man, stalwart and handsome; his forty years sat so
lightly on him that his age never seemed to come into question in a
woman's mind. Margaret had always liked him and trusted him; he was
the big brother who had no duty in the way of scolding to do. His
presence had always been a gladness; and the sex of the girl, first
unconsciously then consciously, answered to the man's overtures, and
her consent was soon obtained.

When in the fulness of time it was known that an heir was expected,
Squire Norman took for granted that the child would be a boy, and
held the idea so tenaciously that his wife, who loved him deeply,
gave up warning and remonstrance after she had once tried to caution
him against too fond a hope. She saw how bitterly he would be
disappointed in case it should prove to be a girl. He was, however,
so fixed on the point that she determined to say no more. After all,
it might be a boy; the chances were equal. The Squire would not
listen to any one else at all; so as the time went on his idea was
more firmly fixed than ever. His arrangements were made on the base
that he would have a son. The name was of course decided. Stephen
had been the name of all the Squires of Normanstand for ages--as far
back as the records went; and Stephen the new heir of course would
be.

Like all middle-aged men with young wives he was supremely anxious as
the time drew near. In his anxiety for his wife his belief in the
son became passive rather than active. Indeed, the idea of a son was
so deeply fixed in his mind that it was not disturbed even by his
anxiety for the young wife he idolised.

When instead of a son a daughter was born, the Doctor and the nurse,
who knew his views on the subject, held back from the mother for a
little the knowledge of the sex. Dame Norman was so weak that the
Doctor feared lest anxiety as to how her husband would bear the
disappointment, might militate against her. Therefore the Doctor
sought the Squire in his study, and went resolutely at his task.

'Well, Squire, I congratulate you on the birth of your child!'
Norman was of course struck with the use of the word 'child'; but the
cause of his anxiety was manifested by his first question:

'How is she, Doctor? Is she safe?' The child was after all of
secondary importance! The Doctor breathed more freely; the question
had lightened his task. There was, therefore, more assurance in his
voice as he answered:

'She is safely through the worst of her trouble, but I am greatly
anxious yet. She is very weak. I fear anything that might upset
her.'

The Squire's voice came quick and strong:

'There must be no upset! And now tell me about my son?' He spoke
the last word half with pride, half bashfully.

'Your son is a daughter!' There was silence for so long that the
Doctor began to be anxious. Squire Norman sat quite still; his right
hand resting on the writing-table before him became clenched so hard
that the knuckles looked white and the veins red. After a long slow
breath he spoke:

'She, my daughter, is well?' The Doctor answered with cheerful
alacrity:

'Splendid!--I never saw a finer child in my life. She will be a
comfort and an honour to you!' The Squire spoke again:

'What does her mother think? I suppose she's very proud of her?'

'She does not know yet that it is a girl. I thought it better not to
let her know till I had told you.'

'Why?'

'Because--because--Norman, old friend, you know why! Because you had
set your heart on a son; and I know how it would grieve that sweet
young wife and mother to feel your disappointment. I want your lips
to be the first to tell her; so that on may assure her of your
happiness in that a daughter has been born to you.'

The Squire put out his great hand and laid it on the other's
shoulder. There was almost a break in his voice as he said:

'Thank you, my old friend, my true friend, for your thought. When
may I see her?'

'By right, not yet. But, as knowing your views, she may fret herself
till she knows, I think you had better come at once.'

All Norman's love and strength combined for his task. As he leant
over and kissed his young wife there was real fervour in his voice as
he said:

'Where is my dear daughter that you may place her in my arms?' For
an instant there came a chill to the mother's heart that her hopes
had been so far disappointed; but then came the reaction of her joy
that her husband, her baby's father, was pleased. There was a
heavenly dawn of red on her pale face as she drew her husband's head
down and kissed him.

'Oh, my dear,' she said, 'I am so happy that you are pleased!' The
nurse took the mother's hand gently and held it to the baby as she
laid it in the father's arms.

He held the mother's hand as he kissed the baby's brow.

The Doctor touched him gently on the arm and beckoned him away. He
went with careful footsteps, looking behind as he went.

After dinner he talked with the Doctor on various matters; but
presently he asked:

'I suppose, Doctor, it is no sort of rule that the first child
regulates the sex of a family?'

'No, of course not. Otherwise how should we see boys and girls mixed
in one family, as is nearly always the case. But, my friend,' he
went on, 'you must not build hopes so far away. I have to tell you
that your wife is far from strong. Even now she is not so well as I
could wish, and there yet may be change.' The Squire leaped
impetuously to his feet as he spoke quickly:

'Then why are we waiting here? Can nothing be done? Let us have the
best help, the best advice in the world.' The Doctor raised his
hand.

'Nothing can be done as yet. I have only fear.'

'Then let us be ready in case your fears should be justified! Who
are the best men in London to help in such a case?' The Doctor
mentioned two names; and within a few minutes a mounted messenger was
galloping to Norcester, the nearest telegraph centre. The messenger
was to arrange for a special train if necessary. Shortly afterwards
the Doctor went again to see his patient. After a long absence he
came back, pale and agitated. Norman felt his heart sink when he saw
him; a groan broke from him as the Doctor spoke:

'She is much worse! I am in great fear that she may pass away before
the morning!' The Squire's strong voice was clouded, with a hoarse
veil as he asked:

'May I see her?'

'Not yet; at present she is sleeping. She may wake strengthened; in
which case you may see her. But if not--'

'If not?'--the voice was not like his own.

'Then I shall send for you at once!' The Doctor returned to his
vigil. The Squire, left alone, sank on his knees, his face in his
hands; his great shoulders shook with the intensity of his grief.

An hour or more passed before he heard hurried steps. He sprang to
the door:

'Well?'

'You had better come now.'

'Is she better?'

'Alas! no. I fear her minutes are numbered. School yourself, my
dear old friend! God will help you in this bitter hour. All you can
do now is to make her last moments happy.'

'I know! I know!' he answered in a voice so calm that his companion
wondered.

When they came into the room Margaret was dozing. When her eyes
opened and she found her husband beside her bed there spread over her
face a glad look; which, alas! soon changed to one of pain. She
motioned to him to bend down. He knelt and put his head beside her
on the pillow; his arms went tenderly round her as though by his iron
devotion and strength he would shield her from all harm. Her voice
came very low and in broken gasps; she was summoning all her strength
that she might speak:

'My dear, dear husband, I am so sad at leaving you! You have made me
so happy, and I love you so! Forgive me, dear, for the pain I know
you will suffer when I am gone! And oh, Stephen, I know you will
cherish our little one--yours and mine--when I am gone. She will
have no mother; you will have to be father and mother too.'

'I will hold her in my very heart's core, my darling, as I hold you!'
He could hardly speak from emotion. She went on:

'And oh, my dear, you will not grieve that she is not a son to carry
on your name?' And then a sudden light came into her eyes; and there
was exultation in her weak voice as she said:

'She is to be our only one; let her be indeed our son! Call her the
name we both love!' For answer he rose and laid his hand very, very
tenderly on the babe as he said:

'This dear one, my sweet wife, who will carry your soul in her
breast, will be my son; the only son I shall ever have. All my life
long I shall, please Almighty God, so love her--our little Stephen--
as you and I love each other!'

She laid her hand on his so that it touched at once her husband and
her child. Then she raised the other weak arm, and placed it round
his neck, and their lips met. Her soul went out in this last kiss.



CHAPTER II--THE HEART OF A CHILD



For some weeks after his wife's death Squire Norman was overwhelmed
with grief. He made a brave effort, however, to go through the
routine of his life; and succeeded so far that he preserved an
external appearance of bearing his loss with resignation. But
within, all was desolation.

Little Stephen had winning ways which sent deep roots into her
father's heart. The little bundle of nerves which the father took
into his arms must have realised with all its senses that, in all
that it saw and heard and touched, there was nothing but love and
help and protection. Gradually the trust was followed by
expectation. If by some chance the father was late in coming to the
nursery the child would grow impatient and cast persistent, longing
glances at the door. When he came all was joy.

Time went quickly by, and Norman was only recalled to its passing by
the growth of his child. Seedtime and harvest, the many comings of
nature's growth were such commonplaces to him, and had been for so
many years, that they made on him no impressions of comparison. But
his baby was one and one only. Any change in it was not only in
itself a new experience, but brought into juxtaposition what is with
what was. The changes that began to mark the divergence of sex were
positive shocks to him, for they were unexpected. In the very dawn
of babyhood dress had no special import; to his masculine eyes sex
was lost in youth. But, little by little, came the tiny changes
which convention has established. And with each change came to
Squire Norman the growing realisation that his child was a woman. A
tiny woman, it is true, and requiring more care and protection and
devotion than a bigger one; but still a woman. The pretty little
ways, the eager caresses, the graspings and holdings of the childish
hands, the little roguish smiles and pantings and flirtings were all
but repetitions in little of the dalliance of long ago. The father,
after all, reads in the same book in which the lover found his
knowledge.

At first there was through all his love for his child a certain
resentment of her sex. His old hope of a son had been rooted too
deeply to give way easily. But when the conviction came, and with it
the habit of its acknowledgment, there came also a certain
resignation, which is the halting-place for satisfaction. But he
never, not then nor afterwards, quite lost the old belief that
Stephen was indeed a son. Could there ever have been a doubt, the
remembrance of his wife's eyes and of her faint voice, of her hope
and her faith, as she placed her baby in his arms would have refused
it a resting-place. This belief tinged all his after-life and
moulded his policy with regard to his girl's upbringing. If she was
to be indeed his son as well as his daughter, she must from the first
be accustomed to boyish as well as to girlish ways. This, in that
she was an only child, was not a difficult matter to accomplish. Had
she had brothers and sisters, matters of her sex would soon have
found their own level.

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