Applied Social Research A Tool for the Human

Services 9th Edition Monette Sullivan DeJong

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Monette/ Sullivan/ DeJong/Hilton, Applied Social Research: A Tool for the Human Services, 9e
Test Bank

Chapter 9: Field Research and Qualitative Methods

Multiple Choice

1. The term "observational techniques," as it is used in research, refers to:

a. direct observation of the content of documents.

b. direct observation made on a probability sample.
c. the collection of data through the direct visual or auditory experience of
behavior.
d. all forms of data collection that involve some direct or indirect observation of
behavior.

ANS: C
PG: 220

2. Which of the following statements is true regarding field research?

a. Field researchers actually see or hear the behaviors that are the data for the
research.
b. It involves making observations of people in their natural settings.
c. It is most consistent with the positivist paradigm.
d. Field researchers actually see or hear the behaviors that are the data for the
research and it involves making observations of people in their natural settings.
ANS: D
PG: 220

3. Qualitative research stresses the idea that:

a. knowledge emerges from an understanding of the full context in which people

behave.
b. knowledge emerges from the use of objective and value-free research methods.
c. knowledge can emerge if social scientists isolate variables in the laboratory for
close scrutiny.
d. direct observation of behavior is not necessary to developing an understanding
of it.

ANS: A
PG: 220

4. Which of the following would be most likely to agree that objective and quantitative
measurement techniques can be used to discover what is important in the social world?

a. positivists
b. subjectivists
c. those who adopt the verstehen perspective
d. interactionists

ANS: A
PG: 220

5. Which of the following research methodologies most clearly takes the stance that theory
should be developed by letting it emerge from the data in a somewhat inductive fashion?

a. experiments
b. surveys
c. available data
d. grounded theory

ANS: D
PG: 221-222

6. The verstehen approach in the study of human behavior emphasizes:

a. the study of German culture.

b. the importance of the subjective experiences of people in understanding human
behavior.
c. that only those aspects of behavior that can be observed and recorded
objectively should be studied.
d. that empathy with research participants can lead to bias in research results.

ANS: B
PG: 223

7. Which of the following statements is true regarding grounded theory methodology?

a. It is entirely inductive in nature.

b. It is entirely deductive in nature.
c. It can involve both induction and deduction.
d. It does not engage in theory verification.

ANS: C
PG: 222

8. The text states that the research technique called “participant observation” involves gaining
knowledge from two distinct sources:

a. participation and objectivity.

b. participation and observation.
c. observation and measurement.
d. observation and reactivity.

ANS: B
PG: 223-224

9. In participant observation research, one danger is that the observer may become an
involved participant of the scene being observed. This is a problem because:

a. the researcher may lose his or her objective, scientific perspective.

b. the researcher may become too objective and not perceive things from the
perspective of group members.
c. verstehen may be irreversibly lost.
d. it becomes difficult to conduct time sampling.

ANS: A
PG: 225

10. Which of the following is NOT an observer role that can be adopted by a researcher?

a. participant-as-observer
b. observer-as-participant
c. complete participant
d. observer-as-observer

ANS: D
PG: 225

11. A researcher who is doing disguised observation would be adopting which observer role?

a. complete participant
 b. participant-as-observer
c. complete observer
d. observer-as-observer

ANS: C
PG: 227-229

12. Which of the following would be the preferred way of gaining entry into a group for
purposes of conducting participant observation research?

a. Gain the cooperation of those with less status and power in the group first.
b. Describe the abstract scientific goals of the research to the members of the
group.
c. Tell the group members that one of the research goals is to evaluate them and
their performance.
d. Gain the cooperation of those with more status and power in the group first.

ANS: D
PG: 230

13. In field research, the term “informant” refers to:

a. a group insider who can introduce you to others in the group.

b. a research confederate who helps analyze the data.
c. a person who “goes native” to help further the research goals.
d. a person who “outs” the researcher by telling group members of his or her
status as researcher.

ANS: A
PG: 230

14. In participant observation, rapport between researcher and informants is likely to be

improved by all of the following EXCEPT:

a. the informants view the researcher as a nice person who will do them no harm.
b. the investigator shows through behavior that he or she sympathizes with the
perspective of the people being studied.
c. the informants agree with the research goals of the investigation.
d. both the researcher and the group members have something that the other
needs and wants.

ANS: C
PG: 230-231

15. In field research, becoming “invisible” refers to:

a. taking on the complete observer role.

b. conducting hidden observations.
 c. reducing reactivity to a minimum.
d. coming to be seen as a natural part of the setting being observed.

ANS: D
PG: 231

16. According to the text, all of the following terms characterize an appropriate attitude for field
researchers to have toward the people being studied EXCEPT:

a. detachment.
b. openness.
c. respect.
d. reciprocal.

ANS: A
PG: 231, 233

17. Sometimes a field researcher becomes so involved in and identified with the people being
observed that he or she takes on those people’s perspectives and can’t see them from other
perspectives. This is referred to as:

a. becoming invisible.
b. turning a leaf.
c. going native.
d. achieving verstehen.

ANS: C
PG: 225

18. Qualitative researchers would be more likely than quantitative researchers to use in
recording observations.

a. coding sheets
b. numbers and counts
c. field notes
d. physical traces

ANS: C
PG: 234

19. Which of the following would NOT be included in the field notes that are recorded as a part
of observational research?

a. a running description of what occurs

b. a description of the statistical procedures used in data analysis
c. previous episodes that were forgotten at the time but are recalled while in the
field
d. personal impressions and feelings
Another document from Scribd.com that is
random and unrelated content:
 “I want you to have the whole house to please you—nothing in it
that you don’t like.”
“I like everything except the parlour, and those iron bedsteads
they have upstairs. We’ll want some chests too, to use instead of
the washstands. Then Fourhouses will be perfect inside and out.”
“You have real taste—that’s what you have,” he said admiringly.
“It’s so dear of you to give me what I want.”
“It’s my wedding-present to you, sweetheart; and Mother and
the girls are giving you sheets and table linen, so reckon we’ll be
well set up in our housekeeping.”
She drowsed against him, her head on his shoulder, her arm
across his knees. He put his mouth to her ear.
“My sweet,” he murmured—“my little sweet—when is it going to
be?”
“I’ve told you, Ben. At the beginning of January.”
“That’s your faithful word?”
“My faithful word.”
“I’m glad—for oh, my dearest, it seems I’ve waited long enough.”
“It won’t seem so very long now—and, Ben, I’ve made up my
mind about one thing. I’m not going to tell the family till it’s all
over.”
“You’re not!”
“No—because if I told them before it happened they’d try to stop
it; and though they couldn’t stop it, it would be a nuisance having
them try.”
“Does your brother agree with this?”
“It was he that suggested it.”
“Well, I’ve a great respect for that brother of yours. But,
sweetheart, it seems so dreadful, us marrying on the quiet, when
I’m so proud of you and ud like to hold you before all the world.”
“You shall hold me before all the world—after our marriage. But
there’s no good having a row with the parents, especially as they’re
old. It’ll be bad enough for them anyhow, but I think they’ll take it
easier if they know it’s too late to do anything.”
He acquiesced, as he usually did, for he respected her judgment,
and his natural dignity taught him to ignore this contempt of
Alard for Godfrey. The rest of their short time together must not
be spoiled by discussion. Once more he drew her close, and his
kisses moved slowly from her forehead to her eyes, from her eyes
to her cheeks, then at last to her mouth. His love-making gave her
the thrill of a new experience, for she knew what a discovery and a
wonder it was to him. It was not stale with repetition, distressed
with comparison, as it was to so many men—as it was to herself.
She felt a stab of remorse, a regret that she too was not making
this adventure for the first time. She was younger than he, and yet
beside him she felt shabby, soiled.... She strained him to her heart
in an agony of tender possession. Oh, she would make his
adventure worth while—he should not be disappointed in
experience. They would explore the inmost heart of love together.
 § 24

Jenny was glad that the numbers in the drawing-room made it

unnecessary for her to sit down to cards. She and Rose Alard had
both cut out, and as Rose liked to sit and watch the play, Jenny felt
she had an excuse to mutter something about “having one or two
things to see to,” and escape from the room. She wanted to be
alone if only for half an hour, just to savour again in memory the
comfort of her lover’s arms, his tender breathing, the warmth of
his kisses and the darkness of his embrace. She shut her eyes and
heard him say “My lovely ... oh, my lovely!”
A full moon was spilling her light over the garden, and
instinctively Jenny turned out of doors. She had put on her fur
coat, and the still, moon-dazzled night was many degrees from
frost. In the garden she would be sure of solitude, and at the same
time would not be without the response of nature, so necessary to
her mood. “One deep calleth another,” and her heart in its new
depth of rapture called to the moon and trees and grass, and
received from them an answer which those self-absorbed human
beings, crowded over cards, could never give.
She walked to and fro on the wide path beside the tennis lawn
then turned into the darkness of the shrubbery, threading her way
through moon-spattered arbutus and laurel till she came to a little
garden-house which had been built in the reign of Queen Anne. It
had the characteristics of its age—solid brick walls, high deepset
windows, and a white pediment which now gleamed like silver in
the light of the moon. It had been built by the non-juring Gervase
Alard, and here he had studied after his deprivation of the
Vicarage of Leasan, and written queer crabbed books on a revised
liturgy and on reunion with the Eastern Church. No one ever
worked in it now, and it contained nothing but a bench and a few
dilapidated garden chairs—it would hold only just enough warmth
for her to sit down and rest.
To her surprise she found it was not empty; a movement
startled her as she crossed the threshold, and the next moment
she discovered Gervase, leaning back in one of the chairs. He was
just a blot of shadow in the deeper darkness, except where his
face, hands and shirt front caught the moonshine in ghostly
patches of white.
 “Hullo, Gervase—I’d no notion you’d come here.”
He had left the drawing-room before coffee was brought in.
“I’ve been strolling about and got rather cold.”
“Same here. Is there a whole chair beside you?”
At first she had been sorry to find him and had meant to go
away, but now she realised that he was the only person whose
company would not be loss.
“If not, there’s one under me, and you shall have that.... Ah,
here’s something luxurious with rockers. Probably you and I are
mad, my dear, to be sitting here. But I felt I simply must run away
from the party.”
“So did I.”
She sat down beside him. In spite of the ghastly moonlight that
poured over his face, he looked well—far less haggard than he had
seemed in the kinder light a month ago. It struck her that he had
looked better ever since his holiday, and his parting from Stella
Mount, which he had told her of a few days after it happened. He
had had a bad time, she knew, but he seemed to have come
through it, and to have found a new kind of settlement. As she
looked at him more closely in the revealing light, she saw that his
mouth was perhaps a little too set, and that there were lines
between nose and chin which she had not noticed before. He
looked happy, but he also looked older.
“And how goes it, my dear?” he asked.
“Well, Gervase—extremely well.”
She was too shy of intimate things to enquire how it went with
him.
“I saw Ben this afternoon,” she continued, “and I told him what
you and I thought about not telling the parents till afterwards.”
“And did he agree?”
“Yes, he agreed. I really think he’s been wonderful about it all—
when you consider how he must feel....”
“He’s got some sense of proportion—he’s not going to let his
love be spoilt by family pride. Jenny, if I’ve learnt anything in
these first years of my grown-up life, it is that love must come
before everything else.”
She was surprised at this from him.
“You would put it before religion?”
 “Religion is the fulfilment of love.”
She repelled the awkward feelings which invariably oppressed
her at the mention of such things. She wanted to know more of
this young brother of hers, of the conflicts in which he triumphed
mysteriously.
“Gervase, I wish I understood you better. I can’t make out how it
is that you, who’re so modern and even revolutionary in
everything else, should be so reactionary in your religion. Why do
you follow tradition there, when you despise it in other things.”
“Because it’s a tradition which stands fast when all the others
are tumbling down. It’s not tradition that I’m out against, but all
the feeble shams and conventions that can’t stand when they’re
shaken.”
“But does religion stand? I thought it was coming down like
everything else.”
“Some kinds are. Because they’re built on passing ideas instead
of on unchanging instincts. But Catholic Christianity stands fast
because it belongs to an order of things which doesn’t change. It’s
made of the same stuff as our hearts. It’s the supernatural
satisfaction of all our natural instincts. It doesn’t deal with
abstractions, but with everyday life. The sacraments are all
common things—food, drink, marriage, birth and death. Its
highest act of worship is a meal—its most sacred figures are a
dying man, and a mother nursing her child. It’s traditional in the
sense that nature and life are traditional....”
It was many months since she had heard him talk like this. It
reminded her of the old days when they were both at school, and
he had brought her all his ideas on men and things, all his latest
enthusiasms and discoveries.
“Jenny,” he continued, “I believe that we’ve come to the end of
false traditions—to the ‘removing of those things which are
shaken, that those things which cannot be shaken may remain.’”
“Is there anything besides religion which can’t be shaken?”
“Yes—my dear, the earth. The land will still be there though the
Squires go, just as the faith will still be there though the Parsons
go. The Parson and the Squire will go, and their places will be
taken by the Yeoman and the Priest who were there before them.”
“Go back to the Middle Ages?”
 “Lord, no! Too much has happened since then. We’ve got
industry and machinery and science—we can’t go back to sack and
maypoles. What I mean is that, instead of the country being
divided among a few big landlords who don’t and can’t farm their
own land, it will be divided into a lot of small farms of manageable
size. Instead of each country parish being in the charge of a small
country gentleman who has to keep up state on an income of two
hundred a year, and is cut off from his parishioners by his social
position and the iron gates of his parsonage, there’ll be a humble
servant living among them as one of themselves, set above them
only by his vocation. It’ll be a democracy which will have the best
of aristocracy kept alive in it. The Parson and the Squire don’t
belong to any true aristocracy—they’re Hanoverian relics—and
they’re going, and I’m glad.”
“Yes, I think they’re going all right, but I can’t feel so glad as
you, because I’m not so sure as to who will take their place. The
yeoman isn’t the only alternative to the squire—there’s also the
small-holder and the garden-city prospector. As for the parson—I
don’t know much about church affairs, but I should think he’s just
as likely to lose the spiritual side of himself as the material, and
we’ll have men that aren’t much better than relieving officers or
heads of recreation clubs.”
“Don’t try and burst my dream, Jenny. It’s a very good sort of
dream, and I like to think it will come true. And I know it will
come true in a sense, though possibly in a sense which will be
nonsense to most people. That’s a way some of the best dreams
have.”
He was silent and thoughtful for a moment. Perhaps he was
thinking of another Gervase Alard, who had long ago sat where he
sat, and dreamed a dream which had not come true.
“But don’t let’s have any more of me and my dreams,” he said
after a while. “Talk to me about Ben. We started talking about
him, you know, and then drifted off into Utopia. I should think
that was a good sign.”
“I’m meeting him in London on Monday to do some shopping.”
“What are you going to buy?”
“Furniture. I want to pick up one or two really nice old pieces
for Fourhouses. They’re to be his wedding-present to me. First of
all we’ll go to Duke Street, and then to Puttick and Simpson’s in
the afternoon.”
 “Are you going to refurnish the house?”
“No, only get rid of one or two abominations. I had thought of
doing up the Best Parlour, but now I’ve decided to let that stand. If
I’m to be a farmer’s wife I must get used to the Family Bible and
aspidistras and wool mats.”
“I think you’re wise. It’s just as well not to try to alter more of
his life than you can help.”
“I don’t want to alter his life. I’m quite persuaded that his life is
better than mine. And as for him not having our taste, or rather a
different kind of bad taste from what we’ve got—it doesn’t matter.
I’ve made up my mind I must take Ben as he comes and as a
whole, and not try to ignore or alter bits of him. I’m going to do
the thing properly—make his friends my friends, pour out tea for
the old ladies of Icklesham, ask the farmers who call round on
business to stay to dinner or supper, go to see them at their farms
and make friends with their wives. I know I can do it if only I do it
thoroughly and don’t make any reservations. Of course I’ll go on
being friends with our set if they’ll let me, but if they won’t, it’s
they who’ll have to go and not the others. Gervase, I’m sick of
Jenny Alard, and I’m thankful that she’s going to die early next
year, and a new creature called Jenny Godfrey take her place.”
“My dear, you’re going to be very happy.”
“I know I am. I’m going to be the only happy Alard.”
“The only one?”
“Yes—look at the others. There’s Doris, a dreary middle-aged
spinster, trodden on by both the parents, and always regretting
the lovers she turned down because they weren’t good enough for
the family. There’s Mary, living alone in private hotels and
spending all her money on clothes; there’s Peter, who’s married a
rich girl who’s too clever for him, and who—worst of all—thinks
he’s happy and has become conventional. No—I can’t help it—I
pity them all.”
“And what about me, Jenny? You’ve left me out. Do you pity
me?”
She had ignored him deliberately—perhaps because she did not
quite know where to place him.
“O Gervase, I hope you’ll be happy—I’m sure you will, because
you’re different from the rest.”
 “Yes, I’m sure too. I’m going to be happy—as happy as you. I
don’t quite know how”—and he gave her a wry smile—“but I know
that I shall be.”
 PART IV
STARVECROW
 §1

“Father,” said Stella Mount—“I’m afraid I must go away again.”

“Go away, child? Why?”
“I—I can’t fall out of love with Peter.”
“But I thought you’d fallen out of love with him long ago.”
“Yes—I thought so too. But I can’t have done it really, or if I did
I must have fallen in again. I’m frightfully sorry about it ... leaving
you a second time, just because I’m not strong-minded enough
to.... But it’s no use.... I can’t help....”
“Don’t worry, dear. If you’re unhappy you shall certainly go
away. But tell me what’s happened. How long have you been
feeling like this?”
“Ever since I knew Peter still cared.”
“Peter!—he hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”
“Oh, no—not a word. But I could see—I could see he was jealous
of Gervase.”
“How could he possibly be jealous of Gervase?”
“He was. I met him one day in Icklesham street, and he
congratulated me ... he said someone had told him Gervase and I
were engaged....”
“The idea!—a boy six years younger than yourself!”
“Yes, I know. I never took him seriously—that was my mistake.
Peter was ever so worked up about it, and when I told him it
wasn’t true he seemed tremendously relieved. And every time I’ve
met him since his manner’s been different. I can’t describe it, but
he’s been sort of shy and hungry—or else restless and a bit
irritable; and for a long time I could see he was still jealous—and it
worried me; I felt I couldn’t bear doing anything Peter didn’t like,
and I was wild at people talking, and upsetting him, so I pushed
off poor Gervase and became cold and unfriendly.”
“Is that why he’s given up coming here on Sundays?”
“No—not exactly. We had rather a scene when he last came, just
before his holiday, and he said he wouldn’t come back. You see he
cares, Father—he cares dreadfully. I’m ever so sick with myself for
not having realised it. I was so wrapped up in Peter.... I thought it
was only a rave, like what the Fawcett boy had—but now I’m sure
he really cares, and it must be terrible for him. That’s why I want
to go away, for I’ll never be able to care for anyone else while I feel
for Peter as I do.”
“But, my dear, it’s just as well you shouldn’t fall in love with
Gervase. He’s a nice boy, but he’s much too young.”
“Yes, I know—it isn’t that. It’s being sure that however much he
was the right age I couldn’t have cared—not because of anything
lacking in him—but because of what’s lacking in me ... because of
all that I’ve given to Peter, and that Peter can’t take.... Oh, Father,
I’ve made some discoveries since Gervase went. I believe I refused
Tom Barlow because of Peter. The reason I’m single now is
because for years I’ve been in love with a man I can’t have. And
that’s wrong—I know it’s wrong. It sounds ‘romantic’ and ‘faithful’
and all that—but it isn’t really—it’s wrong. Not because Peter’s a
married man, but because I’m an unmarried woman. He’s keeping
me unmarried, and I ought to get married—I don’t like Spinsters—
and I know I was meant to be married.”
“So do I; and I’m sure that one day you will be.”
“But I can’t fall in love with anyone while I love Peter ... that’s
why I must go away. I ought to go somewhere really far, out of the
country perhaps. I feel dreadful leaving you, daddy, but I know I
must go. It’s even more necessary than it was the first time. And
there’s no good saying I could help Peter if I stayed—I don’t help
him—I can see that I only make him unhappy; I’m not cold enough
to be able to help him. A calm strong dignified woman might be
able to help him, but I’m not that sort. I want his love, his kisses,
his arms round me.... I want to give.... O Father, Father....”
She sobbed breathlessly, her face hidden in the back of her
chair. Dr. Mount stood beside her in silence; then he touched her
gently and said—
“Don’t cry like that my dear—don’t—I can’t bear it. You shall go
away—we’ll both go away. I’ve been in this place twenty years, and
it’s time I moved on.”
“But you don’t want to go, and you mustn’t. You’re happy here,
and I’d never forgive myself if you left because of me.”
“I’d like to see a bit more of the world before I retire. This isn’t
the first time I’ve thought of a move, and if you want to go away,
that settles it. I might get a colonial practice....”
Stella thought of some far away country with flat roofs and dust
and a devouring sun, she thought of hundreds of miles of forest
and desert and ocean lying between her and Peter, and her tears
were suddenly dried up as with the hot breath of that far land. Dry
sobs tore her throat, as she clutched the back of the chair. She
pushed her father away—
“Go, dear—don’t stay—when I’m like this.”
He understood her well enough to go.
For a few seconds she sobbed on, then checked herself, and
perfunctorily wiped her eyes. The four o’clock sun of early
November was pouring into the room, showing all its dear faded
homeliness, giving life to the memories that filled it. Long ago
Peter had sat in that chair—she had sat on the arm ... she seemed
to feel his warm hand on her cheek as he held her head down to
his shoulder. O Peter, Peter—why had he left her when he loved
her so?... Oh, yes, she knew he had treated her badly, and had only
himself to blame. But that didn’t make her love him less. She felt
now that she had been in love with him the whole time—all along
—all through and since their parting. All the time that she thought
she was indifferent, and was happy in her busy life—driving the
car, seeing her friends, talking and writing to Gervase, cooking
and sewing and going to church, wearing pretty frocks at the
winter dances and summer garden-parties—all that time her love
for Peter was still alive, growing and feeding itself with her life. It
had not died and been buried as she had thought but had entered
a second time into its mother’s womb to be born. She had carried
it secretly, as a mother carries her child in her womb, nourishing it
with her life, and now it was born—born again—with all the
strength of the twice-born.
 §2

It would be difficult to say how the rumour got abroad in

Vinehall and Leasan that the Mounts were going away. It may
have been servants’ gossip, or the talk of some doctor come down
to view the practice. But, whatever the source, the story was in
both villages at the end of the month, and in the first week of
December Rose Alard brought it to Starvecrow.
She had come to have tea with Vera, and Peter was there too.
Vera was within three months of the heir, and displayed her
condition with all the opulence of her race. Not even her purple
velvet tea-gown could hide lines reminiscent of Sarah’s and
Hannah’s exulting motherhood. Her very features seemed to have
a more definitely Jewish cast—she was now no longer just a dark
beauty, but a Hebrew beauty, heir of Rebecca and Rachel and
Miriam and Jael. As Jenny had once said, one expected her to
burst into a song about horses and chariots. She had for the time
lost those intellectual and artistic interests which distinguished
her from the other Alards. She no longer seemed to care about her
book, for which she had so far been unable to find a publisher, but
let it lie forgotten in a drawer, while she worked at baby clothes.
Nevertheless she was inclined to be irritable and snap at Peter,
and Peter himself seemed sullen and without patience. Rose
watched him narrowly—“He’s afraid it’s going to be a girl.”
Aloud she said—
“Have you heard that the Mounts are leaving Vinehall?”
Her news caused all the commotion she could have wished.
“The Mounts leaving!”—“When?”—“Why?”—“Both of them?”
“Yes, both. I heard it at the Hursts; they seemed quite positive
about it, and you know they’re patients.”
“But where are they going?” asked Vera.
“That I don’t know—yet. The Hursts said something about a
colonial appointment.”
“I’m surprised, I must say. Dr. Mount’s getting old, and you’d
think he’d want to stay on here till he retired—not start afresh in a
new place at his age.”
 “If you ask me, it’s Miss Stella’s doing. She’s lived here nearly all
her life and hasn’t got a husband, so she thinks she’ll go and try
somewhere else before it’s too late.”
“Then they’d certainly better go to the Colonies—there are no
men left in England. But I’m sorry for Dr. Mount.”
“I suppose you know it’s all over between her and Gervase?”
“Oh, is it—at last?”
“Yes—he hasn’t been there since his holiday in September. He
has his dinner on Sundays either at the Church Farm or alone with
Mr. Luce.”
“Rose, how do you find out all these things?”
“The Wades told me this. They say she’s been looking awful.”
“Peter!” cried Vera irritably, as a small occasional table went to
the ground.
“No harm done,” he mumbled, picking it up.
“But you’re so clumsy. You’re always knocking things over....”
She checked herself suddenly, pleating angry folds in her gown.
Peter got up and went out.
“I’m glad he’s gone,” said Rose—“it’s much easier to talk without
a man in the room. I really do feel sorry for Stella—losing her last
chance of becoming Lady Alard.”
“You think it’s Gervase who’s cooled off, not she who’s turned
him down?”
“Oh, she’d never do that. She’s much too keen on getting
married.”
“Well, so I thought once. But I’m not so sure now. I used to
think she was in love with Gervase, but now I believe she only kept
him on as a blind.”
“To cover what?”
“Peter.”
“You mean....”
“That they’ve been in love with each other the whole time.”
“Vera!”
Excitement at the disclosure was mingled in Rose’s voice with
disappointment that she had not been the one to make it.
“Yes,” continued her sister-in-law in a struggling voice—“they’ve
always been in love—ever since he married me—ever since he gave
her up. They’ve never been out of it—I know it now.”
“But I always thought it was all on her side.”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t. Peter was infatuated with her, for some
strange reason—she doesn’t seem to me at all the sort of girl a man
of his type would take to. Being simple himself, you’d think he’d
like something more sophisticated.”
“But Stella is sophisticated—she’s artful. Look how she got
Gervase to change his religion, and break his poor brother’s heart.
I often think that it was Gervase’s religion which killed poor
George, and Stella was responsible for that. She may have
pretended to be in love with him just to get him over. You see she
can be forgiven anything she does by just going to confession.”
“Well, she needs forgiveness now if she never did before. So it’s
just as well she knows where to get it.”
“But, Vera, do you really think there’s anything—I mean
anything wicked between them?”
“I don’t know what you call wicked, Rose, if keeping a man’s
affections away from his wife who’s soon going to have her first
child ... if that isn’t enough for you.... No, I don’t suppose he’s
actually slept with her”—Vera liked shocking Rose—“She hasn’t
got the passion or the spunk to go so far. But it’s bad enough to
know Peter’s heart isn’t mine just when I need him most—to know
he only married me just to put the estate on its legs, and now is
bitterly regretting it”—and Vera began to cry.
“But how do you know he’s regretting it? He doesn’t go about
with Stella, I can tell you that. I’d be sure to have heard if he did.”
“No, I daresay he doesn’t go about with her. I shouldn’t mind if
he did, if only his manner was the same to me. But it isn’t—every
time we’re together I can see he doesn’t love me any more. He may
have for a bit—he did, I know—but Stella got him back, and now
every time he looks at me I can see he’s regretting he ever married
me. And if the baby’s a girl ... my only justification now is that I
may be the mother of an heir ... if the baby’s a girl, I hope I’ll die.
Oh, I tell you, Stella may be Lady Alard yet.”
She threw herself back among the cushions and sobbed
unrestrainedly. Rose felt a thrill. She had always looked upon Vera
as a superior being, remote from the commonplaces of existence
in Leasan; and here she was behaving like any other jealous
woman.
 “Oh, I wish I’d never married,” sobbed Vera—“at least not this
sort of marriage. My life’s dull—my husband’s dull—my only
interests are bearing his children and watching his affair with
another woman. I’m sick of the County families—they’ve got no
brains, they’ve got no guts—I’d much better have married among
my own people. They at least are alive.”
Rose was shocked. However, she valiantly suppressed her
feelings, and patted the big olive shoulder which had shrugged
abandonedly out of the purple wrappings.
“Don’t worry, dear,” she soothed—“you’re upset. I’m sure Peter’s
all right. It’s often rather trying for men in times like these ...” she
heaved on the edge of an indelicate remark ... “so they notice other
women more. But I’m quite sure there’s nothing really wrong
between him and Stella; because if there was,” she added
triumphantly, “Stella wouldn’t be going away.”
“Oh, wouldn’t she!”
“No, of course not. I expect she’s going only because she knows
now definitely that she’ll never get Peter back.”
“Nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense, dear. Don’t be so cross.”
“I’m sorry, Rose, but I’m ... anyhow Dr. Mount can’t go before
I’m through, and that’s three months ahead. I’ve half a mind not
to have him now. I feel sick of the whole family.”
“That would be very silly of you, Vera. Dr. Mount’s the best
doctor round here for miles, and it would only be spiting yourself
not to have him. After all he’s not responsible for Stella’s
behaviour.”
“No, I suppose not. Oh, I daresay I’m an ass, going on like this.”
She sat up, looking more like the author of “Modern Rhymes.”
Rose, who had always been a little afraid of her, now had the
privileged thrill of those who behold the great in their cheaper
moments.
“You’ll be all right, dear,” she said meaningly “in three months’
time.”
“All right, or utterly done in. O God, why can’t someone find out
a way of deciding the sex of children? I’d give all I possess and a
bit over to be sure this is going to be a boy. Not that I want a boy
myself—I like girls much better—but I don’t want to see Peter go
off his head or off with Stella Mount.”
 “I don’t believe she’s got a single chance against you once you’re
yourself again. Even now I could bet anything that it’s all on her
side.”
“She’s got no chance against me as a woman, but as an Ancient
Habit she can probably do a lot with a man like Peter. But I’m not
going to worry about her any more—I’ve given way and made an
utter fool of myself, and it’s done me good, as it always does. Rose,
you promise not to say a word of this to anyone.”
“Of course I won’t. But I might try to get at the facts....”
“For God’s sake don’t. You’ll only make a mess.”
As she revived she was recovering some old contempt for her
sister-in-law.
 §3

The post arrived just as Stella was setting out with the car one
day early the next month to meet her father in Ashford. He had
been in Canterbury for a couple of days, attending a dinner and
some meetings of the Medico-Chirurgical Society, and this
afternoon she was to meet him at Ashford Station and drive him
home. She was in plenty of time, so when she saw Gervase’s
writing on the envelope handed to her, she went back into the
house and opened it.
It was now three months since she had spoken to Gervase or
heard anything directly from him. He still came over to Vinehall
on Sundays and to certain early masses in the week, but he never
called at Dr. Mount’s cottage, nor had she seen him out of church,
not heard his voice except in dialogue with the Priest—“I will go
unto the Altar of God” ... “Even unto the God of my joy and
gladness”....
She wondered what he could have to say to her now. Perhaps he
had recovered, and was coming back. She would be pleased, for
she missed his company—also it would be good to have his letters
when she was out in Canada.... But Stella knew what happened to
people who “recovered” and “came back,” and reflected sadly that
it would be her duty to discourage Gervase if he thought himself
cured.
But the letter did not contain what she expected.
Conster Manor
Leasan.
Sussex.

“Jan. 2, 1922
“My dear Stella,

“I’m writing to tell you something rather funny which has happened to me. I don’t
mean that I’ve fallen out of love with you—I never shall and don’t want to. But I’m going
to do something with my love which I never expected.
“You know that in September, I went ‘into retreat’ for four days at Thunders Abbey. I
was sure I’d hate it—and so I did in a way—but when I’d got there I saw at once that it
was going to be more important than I’d thought. At first I thought it was just a dodge of
Father Luce’s for making me uncomfortable—you know he looks upon me as a luxury-
loving young aristocrat, in need of constant mortification. I don’t know what it was
exactly that made me change—it was partly, I think, the silence, and partly, I know, the
Divine Office. At the end of my visit I knew that Office as the great work of prayer, and
Thunders Abbey as just part of that heart of prayer which keeps the world alive. And,
dear, I knew that my place was in that heart. I can’t describe to you exactly what I felt—
and I wouldn’t if I could. But you’re a Catholic, so you won’t think I’m talking nonsense
when I say that I feel I belong there, or, in plainer language, that I have a vocation. You
don’t believe that vocations come only to priggish maidens and pious youth, but much
more often to ordinary healthy, outdoor people like you and me. Of course I know that
even you will think (as Father Luce and the Father Superior have thought) that my
vocation may possibly be another name for disappointment in love. I’ve thought it
myself, but I don’t believe it. Anyhow it’s at last been settled that I’m going to be allowed
to try. As soon as I’ve finished at Gillingham’s I shall go. You know the Community, of
course. It’s an order for work among the poor, and has houses in London, Birmingham
and Leeds. At Thunders Abbey there’s a big farm for drunkards, epileptics, idiots, and
other pleasant company. I’d be useful there, as they’ve just started motor traction, but I
don’t know where they’ll send me. Of course I may come out again; but I don’t think so.
One knows a sure thing, Stella, and I never felt so sure about anything as about this—and
it’s all the more convincing, because I went in without a thought of it. I expect you will be
tremendously surprised, but I know you won’t write trying to dissuade me, and telling
me all the good I could do outside by letting out taxis for hire and things like that. You
dear! I feel I owe everything to you—including this new thing which is so joyful and so
terrifying. For I’m frightened a bit—I’m not just going in because I like it—I don’t know if
I do. And yet I’m happy.
“Don’t say a word to anyone, except your father. I must wait till the time is ripe to
break the news to my family, and then, I assure you, the excitement will be intense. But I
felt I must write and tell you as soon as I knew definitely they’d let me come and try,
because you are at the bottom of it all—I don’t mean as a disappointment in love, but as
the friend who first showed me the beauty of this faith which makes such demands on
us. Stella, I’m glad you brought me to the faith before I’d had time to waste much of
myself. It’s lovely to think that I can give Him all my grown-up life. I can never pay you
back for what you’ve done, but I can come nearest to it by taking my love for you into
this new life. My love for you isn’t going to die, but it’s going to become a part of prayer.
“May I come and see you next Sunday? I thought I would write and tell you about
things first, for now you know you won’t feel there are any embarrassments or regrets
between us. Dear Stella, I think of you such a lot, and I’m afraid you must still be
unhappy. But I know that this thing I am going to do will help you as much as me.
Perhaps, too, some day I shall be a Priest—though I haven’t thought about that yet—and
then I shall be able to help you more. Oh my dear, it isn’t every man who’s given the
power to do so much for the woman he loves. I bless you, my dear, and send you in
anticipation one of those free kisses we shall all give one another in Paradise.”

“G .

P.S. There is a rumour that you are going away, but as I can’t trace its succession back
further than Rose, I pronounce it of doubtful validity.
P.P.S. Dear, please burn this—it’s more than a love-letter.
P.P.P.S. I hope I haven’t written like a prig.”
Stella let the letter fall into her lap. She was surprised. Somehow
she had never thought of Gervase as a religious; she had never
thought of him except as a keen young engineer—attractive, self-
willed, eccentric, devout. His spiritual development had been so
like hers—and she, as she knew well, had no vocation to the
religious life—that she was surprised now to find such an essential
difference. But her surprise was glad, for though she brushed aside
his words of personal gratitude, she felt the thrill of her share in
the adventure, and a conviction that it would be for her help as
well as for his happiness. Moreover, this new development took
away the twinges of self-reproach which she could not help feeling
when she thought of her sacrifice of his content to Peter’s jealousy.
But her chief emotion was a kind of sorrowful envy. She envied
Gervase not so much the peace of the cloister—not so much the
definiteness of his choice—as his freedom. He was free—he had
made the ultimate surrender and was free. She knew that he had
now passed beyond her, though she had had a whole youth of
spiritual experience and practice and he barely a couple of years.
He was beyond her, not because of his vocation, but because of his
freedom. His soul had escaped like a bird from the snare, but hers
was still struggling and bound.
She would never feel for Peter as Gervase felt for her. Her
utmost hope was, not to carry her love for him into a new, purged
state, but to forget him—if she aimed at less she was deceiving
herself, forgetting the manner of woman she was. She had not
Gervase’s transmuting ecstasy—nor could she picture herself
giving Peter “free kisses” in a Paradise where flesh and blood had
no inheritance. Her loves would always be earthly—she would
meet her friends in Paradise, but not her lovers.
 §4

Well, there was no time for reflection, either happy or sorrowful

—she must start off for Ashford, or her father would be kept
waiting. Once again, after many times, she experience the relief of
practical action. Her disposition was eminently practical, and the
practical things of love and life and religion—kisses and meals and
sacraments—were to her the realities of those states. A lover who
did not kiss and caress you, a life which was based on plain living
and high thinking, a religion without good outward forms for its
inward graces, were all things which Stella’s soul would never
grasp.
So she went out to the little “tenant’s fixture” garage, filled the
Singer’s tank and cranked her up, and drove off comforted a little
in her encounter with life’s surprises. The day was damp and mild.
There was a moist sweetness in the air, and the scent of ploughed
and rain-soaked earth. Already the spring sowings had begun, and
the slow teams moved solemnly to and fro over the January fields.
Surely, thought Stella, ploughing was the most unhurried toil on
earth. The plough came to the furrow’s end, and halted there,
while men and horses seemed equally deep-sunk in meditation.
Whole minutes later the whip would crack, and the team turn
slowly for the backward furrow. She wouldn’t like to do a slow
thing like that—and yet her heart would ache terribly when it was
all gone, and she would see the great steam ploughs tearing over
the mile-long fields of the West ... she would then think
sorrowfully of those small, old Sussex fields—the oldest in the
world—with their slow ploughing; she would crave all the more for
the inheritance which Peter might have given her among them....
She was beginning to feel bad again—and it was a relief to find
that the car dragged a little on the steering, pulling towards the
hedge, even though she knew that it meant a punctured tyre. The
Singer always punctured her tyres like a lady—she never indulged
in vulgar bursts, with a bang like a shot-gun and a skid across the
road. Stella berthed her beside the ditch, and began to jack her up.
Well, it was a nuisance, seeing that her father would be kept
waiting. But she ought to be able to do the thing in ten minutes ...
she wished she was wearing her old suit, though. She would make
a horrible mess of herself, changing wheels on a dirty day.... The
car was jacked up, and Stella was laying out her tools on the
running board when she heard a horse’s hoofs in the lane.
It seemed at first merely a malignant coincidence that the rider
should be Peter; yet, after all, the coincidence was not so great
when she reflected that she was now on the lane between Conster
and Starvecrow. She had heard that Peter had lately taken to
riding a white horse—it was all part of the picture he was anxious
to paint of himself as Squire. He would emphasize his Squirehood,
since to it he had sacrificed himself as freeman and lover.
She had never seen him looking so much the Squire of tradition
as he looked today. He wore a broadcloth coat, corduroy breeches,
brown boots and leggings and a bowler hat. Of late he had rather
increased in girth, and looked full his forty years. Unaccountably
this fact stirred up Stella’s heart into a raging pity—Peter middle-
aged and getting stout, Peter pathetically over-acting his part of
country gentleman—it stirred all the love and pity of her heart
more deeply than any figure of romance and youth. She hoped he
would not stop, but considering her position she knew she was
hoping too much.
He hitched the white horse to the nearest gate and dismounted.
They had not been alone together since the summer, though they
had met fairly often in company, and now she was conscious of a
profound embarrassment and restraint in them both.
“Have you punctured?” he asked heavily.
“No, but the tyre has,” said Stella.
The reply was not like herself, it was part of the new attitude of
defence—a poor defence, since she despised herself for being on
guard, and was therefore weaker.
“You must let me help you change the wheel.”
“I can do it myself, quite easily. Don’t bother, Peter—you know
I’m used to these things.”
“Yes, but it’s dirty work for a woman. You’ll spoil your clothes.”
She could not insist on refusing. She went to the other side of
the car, where her spare wheel was fastened, and bent desperately
over the straps. She wondered how the next few minutes would
pass—in heaviness and pertness as they had begun, or in technical
talk of tyres and nuts and jacks, or in the limp politeness of the
knight errant and distressed lady.
The next moment Peter made a variation she had not expected.
 “Stella, is it true that you’re going away?”
“I—I don’t know. It isn’t settled.... Who told you?”
“Rose told me—but it can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
“Your father surely would never go away at his time of life—and
Rose spoke of the Colonies. He’d never go right away and start
afresh like that.”
“Father’s heard of a very good billet near Montreal. We haven’t
settled anything yet, but we both feel we’d like a change.”
“Why?”
“Well, why shouldn’t we? We’ve been here more than twenty
years, and as for Father being old, he’s not too old to want to see a
bit more of the world.”
Peter said nothing. He was taking off the wheel. When he had
laid it against the bank he turned once more to Stella.
“It’s queer how I always manage to hear gossip about you. But it
seems that this time I’m right, while last time I was wrong.”
“Everyone gets talked about in a little place like this.”
She tried to speak lightly, but she was distressed by the way he
looked at her. Those pale blue eyes ... Alard eyes, Saxon eyes ... the
eyes of the Old People looking at her out of the Old Country, and
saying “Don’t go away....”
The next minute his lips repeated what his eyes had said:
“Don’t go away.”
She trembled, and stepped back from him on the road.
“I must go.”
“Indeed you mustn’t—I can’t bear it any longer if you do.”
“That’s why I must go.”
“No—no——”
He came towards her, and she stepped back further still.
“Don’t go, Stella. I can’t live here without you.”
“But, Peter, you must. What good am I doing you here?”
“You’re here. I know that you’re only a few miles away. I can
think of you as near me. If you went right away....”
“It would be much better for both of us.”
 “No, it wouldn’t. Stella, it will break me if you go. My only
comfort during the last six hellish months has been that at least
you’re not so very far from me in space, that I can see you, meet
you, talk to you now and then....”
“But, Peter, that’s what I can’t bear. That’s why I’m going away.”
Her voice was small and thin with agitation. This was worse, a
hundred times worse, than anything she had dreaded five minutes
ago. She prayed incoherently for strength and sense.
“If that’s what you feel, you’ve got to stay,” Peter was saying.
“Stella, you’ve shown me—Stella, you still care.... Oh, I’ll own up,
I’ll own that I’ve been a fool, and a blackguard to you. But if you
still care, I can be almost happy. We’ve still something left. Only
you’ll have to stay.”
“You mustn’t talk like this.”
“Why not—if you still care? Oh, Stella, say it’s true—say you still
care ... a little.”
She could not deny her love, even though she was more afraid of
his terrible happiness than she had been before of his despair. To
deny it would be a profaning of something holier than truth. All
she could say was—
“If I love you, it’s all the more necessary for me to go away.”
“It’s not. If you love me, I can be to you at least what you are to
me. But if you go away, you’ll be as wretched as I shall be without
you.”
“No ... if I go away, we can forget.”
“Forget!—What?—each other?”
“Yes.”
The word was almost inaudible. She prayed with all her strength
that Peter would not come to her across the road and take her in
his arms. His words she could fight, but not his arms....
“Stella—you’re not telling me that you’re going away to forget
me?”
“I must, Peter. And you’ll forget me, too. Then we’ll be able to
live instead of just—loving.”
“But my love for you is my life—all the life I’ve got.”
“No—you’ve got Vera, and soon you’ll have your child. When
I’ve gone you can go back to them.”
 “I can’t—you don’t know what you’re talking about. If you think
I can ever feel again for Vera what I felt when I was fool enough
——”
“Oh, don’t....”
“But I will. Why should you delude yourself, and think I’m just
being unfaithful to my wife? It’s to you I’ve been unfaithful. I was
unfaithful to you with Vera—and now I’ve repented and come
back.”
They faced each other, two yards apart in the little muddy lane.
Behind Peter the three-wheeled car stood forlornly surrounded by
tools, while his horse munched the long soaking tufts under the
hedge. Behind Stella the hedge rose abruptly in a soaring crown.
Looking up suddenly, she saw the delicate twigs shining against a
sheet of pale blue sky in a faint sunlight. For some reason they
linked themselves with her mind’s effort and her heart’s desire.
Here was beauty which did not burn.... She suddenly found herself
calm.
“Peter, dear, there’s no good talking like that. Let’s be sensible.
Rightly or wrongly you’ve married someone else, and you’ve got to
stand by it and so have I. If I stay on here we will only just be
miserable—always hankering after each other, and striving for
little bits of each other which can’t satisfy. Neither of us will be
able to settle down and live an ordinary life, and after all that’s
what we’re here for—not for adventures and big passions, but just
to live ordinary lives and be happy in an ordinary way.”
“Oh, damn you!” cried Peter.
It was like the old times when he used to rail against her
“sense,” against the way she always insisted that their love should
be no star or cloud, but a tree, well rooted in the earth. It made it
more difficult for her to go on, but she persevered.
“You’ve tried the other thing, Peter—you’ve tried sacrificing
ordinary things like love and marriage to things like family pride
and the love of a place. You’ve found it hasn’t worked, so don’t do
the whole thing over again by sacrificing your home and family to
a love which can never be satisfied.”
“But it can be,” said Peter—“at least it could if you were human.”
Stella, a little to his annoyance, didn’t pretend not to know what
he meant.
“No, it couldn’t be—not satisfied. We could only satisfy a part of
it—the desire part—the part which wants home and children
would always have to go unsatisfied, and that’s as strong as the
rest, though it makes less fuss.”
“And how much satisfaction shall we get through never seeing
each other again?”
“We shall get it—elsewhere. You will at least be free to go back
to Vera—and you did love her once, you can’t deny it—you did love
her once. And I——”
“—Will be free to marry another man.”
“I don’t say that, Peter—though also I don’t say that I won’t. But
I shall be free to live the life of a normal human being again, which
I can’t now. I shan’t be bringing unrest and misery wherever I go—
to myself and to you. Oh, Peter, I know we can save ourselves if we
stop now, stop in time. We were both quite happy last time I was
away—I was a fool ever to come back. I must go away now before
it’s too late.”
“You’re utterly wrong. When you first went away I could be
happy with Vera—I couldn’t now. All that’s over and done with for
ever, I tell you. I can never go back to her, whether you go or stay.
It’s nothing to do with your coming back—it’s her fault—and mine.
We aren’t suited, and nothing can ever bring us together again
now we’ve found it out.”
“Not even the child?...”
“No—not even that. Besides, how do I know.... Stella, all the
things I’ve sacrificed you to have failed me, except Starvecrow.”
“You’ve still got Starvecrow.”
“Yes, but I.... Oh, Stella, don’t leave me alone, not even with
Starvecrow. The place wants you, and when you’re gone I’m
afraid.... Vera doesn’t belong there; it’s your place. Oh, Stella,
don’t say you can live without me, any more than I can live
without you.”
She longed to give him the answer of her heart—that she could
never, never live without him, go without the dear privilege of
seeing him, of speaking to him, of sacrificing to him all other
thoughts and loves. But she forced herself to give him the answer
of her head, for she knew that it would still be true when her heart
had ceased to choke her with its beating.
“Peter, I don’t feel as if I could live without you, but I know I can
—and I know you can live without me, if I go away. What you’ve
said only shows me more clearly that I must go. I could never stop
here now you know I love you.”
“And why not?—it’s your damned religion, I suppose—teaching
you that it’s wrong to love—that all that sort of thing’s disgusting,
unspiritual—you’ve got your head stuffed with all the muck a lot of
celibate priests put into it, who think everything’s degrading.”
She felt the tears come into her eyes.
“Don’t, my dear. Do you really believe—you who’ve known me—
that I think love is degrading?—or that my religion teaches me to
think so? Why, it’s because all that is so lovely, so heavenly and so
good, that it mustn’t be spoilt—by secrecy and lies, by being torn
and divided. Oh, Peter, you know I love love....”
“So much that you can apparently shower it on anyone as long
as you get the first victim out of the way.”
They both turned suddenly, as the jar of wheels sounded up the
hill. It would be agony to have the discussion broken off here, but
Stella knew that she mustn’t refuse any opportunity of ending it.
No longer afraid of Peter’s arms, she crossed swiftly to the
dismantled car.
“Please don’t wait. I can manage perfectly now. Please go, Peter
—please go.”
“I’ll go only if you promise to see me again before you leave.”
“Of course I will—I’ll see you again; but you must go now.”
The wagon of Barline, heavy with crimson roots, was lurching
and skidding down the hill towards them. Peter went to his
standing horse, and rode him off into the field. Stella turned to the
car, and, crouched in its shelter, allowed herself the luxury of
tears.
 §5

She dried her eyes, came up from behind the car, and lost
herself in the sheer labour of putting on the wheel. She was late,
she must hurry; she strove, she sweated, and at last was once more
in her seat, the damaged wheel strapped in its place, all the litter
of tools in the dickie. She switched on the engine, pressed the self-
starter pedal, slid the gear lever into place, and the little car ran
forward. Then she realised what a relief it was to find herself in
motion—some weight seemed to lift from her mind, and her numb
thoughts began to move, to run to and fro. She was alive again.
But it hurt to be alive. Perhaps one was happier dead. For the
thoughts that ran to and fro were in conflict, they formed
themselves into two charging armies, meeting with horrible
impact, terror and wounds. Her mind was a battle-field, divided
against itself, and as usual the movement of the car seemed to
make her thoughts more independent, more free of her control.
They moved to the throb and mutter of the engine, as to some
barbaric battle-music, some monotonous drum. She herself
seemed to grow more and more detached from them. She was no
longer herself—she was two selves—the self that loved Peter and
the self that loved God. She was Stella Mount at prayer in Vinehall
church—Stella Mount curled up on Peter’s knees ... long ago, at
Starvecrow—Stella Mount receiving her soul again in absolution ...
Stella Mount loving, loving, with a heart full of fiery sweetness....
Well, aren’t they a part of the same thing—love of man and love of
God? Yes, they are—but today there is schism in the body.
During the last few months love had given her nothing but pain,
for she had seemed to be swallowed up in it, away from the true
richness of life. She had lost that calm, cheerful glow in which all
things, even the dullest and most indifferent, had seemed
interesting and worth while. Love had extinguished it. The
difference she saw between religion and love was that religion
shone through all things with a warm, soft light, making them all
friendly and sweet, whereas love was like a fierce beam
concentrated on one spot, leaving the rest of life in darkness,
shining only on one object, and that so blindingly that it could not
be borne.
 She felt a sudden spasm of revolt against the choice forced upon
her. Why should she have to choose between heaven and earth,
which she knew in her heart were two parts of one completeness?
Why should God want her to give up for His sake the loveliest
thing that He had made?... Why should He want her to burn?
Now had come the time, she supposed, when she would have to
pay for the faith which till then had been all joy, which in its
warmth and definiteness had taught her almost too well how to
love. It had made her more receptive, more warm, more eager,
and had deprived her of those weapons of self-interest and pride
and resentment which might have armed her now. Perhaps it was
because they knew religion makes such good lovers that masters of
the spiritual life have urged that the temptations of love are the
only ones from which it is allowable to run away. It was her duty
to run away from Peter now, because the only weapons with which
she could fight him were more unworthy than surrender. With a
grimmer, vaguer belief she might have escaped more easily—she
might have seen evil in love, she might have distrusted happiness
and shunned the flesh. But then she would not have been Stella
Mount—she owed her very personality to her faith—she owed it all
the intense joy she had had in human things. Should she stumble
at the price?
If only the price were not Peter—Peter whom she loved, whom
the love of God had taught her to love more than her heart could
ever have compassed alone. Why must he be sacrificed? After all,
she was offering him up to her own satisfaction—to her anxiety to
keep hold of heavenly things. Why should he be butchered to give
her soul a holiday? She almost hated herself—hated herself for her
odious sense, for her cold-blooded practicalness. She proposed to
go away not only so as to be out of temptation—let her be honest—
but so that she could forget him and live the life of a normal happy
woman ... which of course meant some other man.... No wonder he
was disgusted with her—poor, honest, simple, unsatisfied Peter.
She was proposing to desert him, sure of interior comforts he had
never known, and secretly sure that the detestable adaptability of
her nature would not allow her to mourn him long once he was far
away. Oh, Peter—Peter!... “I will give you back the years that the
locust hath eaten—I have it in my power. I can do it—I can give
you back the locust’s years. I can do it still....”
She could do it still. She could tell her father that she did not
want to go away after all—and he would be glad ... poor Father! He
was only going for her sake. He would be glad to stay on among
the places and the people that he loved. And she ... she could be a
good, trusty friend to Peter, someone he could turn to in his
loneliness, who would understand and help him with his plans for
Alard and Starvecrow.... What nonsense she was talking. Silly
hypocrite! Both sides of her, the Stella who loved Peter and the
Stella who loved God, saw the futility of such an idea. She could
never be any man’s friend—least of all Peter’s. If she stayed, it
would be to love Peter, to be all that it was still possible for her to
be to him, all that Vera was and the more that she was not.
But could she? Had she the power to love Peter with a love
unspoilt by regret? Would she be able to bear the thought of her
treachery to the Lord whose happy child she had been so long?—to
His Mother and hers—to all His friends and hers, the saints—to all
the great company of two worlds whom she would betray? For her
the struggle contained no moral issue. It was simply a conflict
between love and love. And all the while she knew in the depth of
her heart that love cannot really be divided, and that her love of
God held and sustained her love of Peter, as the cloud holds the
rain-drop, and the shore the grain of sand.
The first houses of Ashford slid past, and she saw the many
roofs of the railway-works. Traffic dislocated the strivings of her
mind, and in time her thoughts once more became numb. They lay
like the dead on the battle-field, the dead who would rise again.