fulfilled our election promise to live at Kinghamstead, Isabel would
turn up in a state of frank cheerfulness, rejoicing at us, and talk
all she was reading and thinking to me, and stay for all the rest of
the day. In her shameless liking for me she was as natural as a
savage. She would exercise me vigorously at tennis, while Margaret
lay and rested her back in the afternoon, or guide me for some long
ramble that dodged the suburban and congested patches of the
constituency with amazing skill. She took possession of me in that
unabashed, straight-minded way a girl will sometimes adopt with a
man, chose my path or criticised my game with a motherly solicitude
for my welfare that was absurd and delightful. And we talked. We
discussed and criticised the stories of novels, scraps of history,
pictures, social questions, socialism, the policy of the Government.
She was young and most unevenly informed, but she was amazingly
sharp and quick and good. Never before in my life had I known a
girl of her age, or a woman of her quality. I had never dreamt
there was such talk in the world. Kinghamstead became a lightless
place when she went to Oxford. Heaven knows how much that may not
have precipitated my abandonment of the seat!
She went to Ridout College, Oxford, and that certainly weighed with
me when presently after my breach with the Liberals various little
undergraduate societies began to ask for lectures and discussions.
I favoured Oxford. I declared openly I did so because of her. At
that time I think we neither of us suspected the possibility of
passion that lay like a coiled snake in the path before us. It
seemed to us that we had the quaintest, most delightful friendship
in the world; she was my pupil, and I was her guide, philosopher,
and friend. People smiled indulgently-even Margaret smiled
indulgently-at our attraction for one another.
Such friendships are not uncommon nowadays-among easy-going,
liberal-minded people. For the most part, there's no sort of harm,
as people say, in them. The two persons concerned are never
supposed to think of the passionate love that hovers so close to the
friendship, or if they do, then they banish the thought. I think we
kept the thought as permanently in exile as any one could do. If it
did in odd moments come into our heads we pretended elaborately it
wasn't there.
Only we were both very easily jealous of each other's attention, and
tremendously insistent upon each other's preference.
I remember once during the Oxford days an intimation that should
have set me thinking, and I suppose discreetly disentangling myself.
It was one Sunday afternoon, and it must have been about May, for
the trees and shrubs of Ridout College were gay with blossom, and
fresh with the new sharp greens of spring. I had walked talking
with Isabel and a couple of other girls through the wide gardens of
the place, seen and criticised the new brick pond, nodded to the
daughter of this friend and that in the hammocks under the trees,
and picked a way among the scattered tea-parties on the lawn to our
own circle on the grass under a Siberian crab near the great bay
window. There I sat and ate great quantities of cake, and discussed
the tactics of the Suffragettes. I had made some comments upon the
spirit of the movement in an address to the men in Pembroke, and it
had got abroad, and a group of girls and women dons were now having
it out with me.
I forget the drift of the conversation, or what it was made Isabel
interrupt me. She did interrupt me. She bad been lying prone on
the ground at my right hand, chin on fists, listening thoughtfully,
and I was sitting beside old Lady Evershead on a garden seat. I
turned to Isabel's voice, and saw her face uplifted, and her dear
cheeks and nose and forehead all splashed and barred with sunlight
and the shadows of the twigs of the trees behind me. And something-
an infinite tenderness, stabbed me. It was a keen physical
feeling, like nothing I had ever felt before. It had a quality of
tears in it. For the first time in my narrow and concentrated life
another human being had really thrust into my being and gripped my
very heart.
Our eyes met perplexed for an extraordinary moment. Then I turned
back and addressed myself a little stiffly to the substance of her
intervention. For some time I couldn't look at her again.
From that time forth I knew I loved Isabel beyond measure.
Yet it is curious that it never occurred to me for a year or so that
this was likely to be a matter of passion between us. I have told
how definitely I put my imagination into harness in those matters at
my marriage, and I was living now in a world of big interests, where
there is neither much time nor inclination for deliberate love-
making. I suppose there is a large class of men who never meet a
girl or a woman without thinking of sex, who meet a friend's
daughter and decide: "Mustn't get friendly with her-wouldn't DO,"
and set invisible bars between themselves and all the wives in the
world. Perhaps that is the way to live. Perhaps there is no other
method than this effectual annihilation of half-and the most