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The Economics
of Immigration

This book, in its second edition, introduces readers to the economics of immigration,
which is a booming field within economics. The main themes and objectives of the
book are for readers to understand the decision to migrate, the impacts of immigra-
tion on markets and government budgets and the consequences of immigration pol-
icies in a global context. Our goal is for readers to be able to make informed economic
arguments about key issues related to immigration around the world.
This book applies economic tools to the topic of immigration to answer questions
like whether immigration raises or lowers the standard of living of people in a country.
The book examines many other consequences of immigration as well, such as the
effect on tax revenues and government expenditures, the effect on how and what
firms decide to produce and the effect on income inequality, to name just a few. It also
examines questions like what determines whether people choose to move and where
they decide to go. It even examines how immigration affects the ethnic diversity of
restaurants and financial markets.
Readers will learn how to apply economic tools to the topic of immigration.
Immigration is frequently in the news as more people move around the world to work,
to study and to join family members. The economics of immigration has important
policy implications. Immigration policy is controversial in many countries. This book
explains why this is so and equips the reader to understand and contribute to policy
debates on this important topic.

Cynthia Bansak is the Charles A. Dana Professor of Economics at St. Lawrence

University. She holds a BA from Yale University and an MA and PhD in Economics
from the University of California, San Diego. She considers herself an applied
microeconomist with research interests in labor economics, international immigra-
tion, remittances, educational attainment and business cycles. Bansak is a research
fellow at IZA.

Nicole Simpson is the W. Bradford Wiley Professor of Economics at Colgate University.

She holds a BA in Economics from the University of St. Thomas in Minnesota and an
MA and PhD in Economics from the University of Iowa. She is a macroeconomist
who focuses on labor issues. Her research areas include the determinants of immi-
gration, the Earned Income Tax Credit (EITC) and education. Simpson is a research
fellow at IZA.

Madeline Zavodny is a Professor of Economics at the University of North Florida. She

holds a BA in Economics from Claremont McKenna College and a PhD in Economics
from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Before joining UNF, she taught at
Agnes Scott College and Occidental College and was an economist with the Federal
Reserve System. Zavodny is a research fellow at IZA.


The Economics
of Immigration
Second Edition

Cynthia Bansak, Nicole Simpson and Madeline Zavodny

Second edition published 2021
by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
and by Routledge
52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business
© 2021 Cynthia Bansak, Nicole Simpson and Madeline Zavodny
The right of Cynthia Bansak, Nicole Simpson and Madeline Zavodny to be
identified as authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with
sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised
in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or
hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information
storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.
Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks,
and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe.
First edition published by Routledge in 2015
British Library Cataloguing-​in-​Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data
A catalog record has been requested for this book
ISBN: 978-​0-​367-​43442-​7 (hbk)
ISBN: 978-​0-​367-​41616-​4 (pbk)
ISBN: 978-​1-​003-​00323-​6 (ebk)
Typeset in Scala Sans
by Newgen Publishing UK
Visit the eResources: www.routledge.com/9780367416164
Contents

List of illustrations xii

Preface xvii

PART I BACKGROUND ON IMMIGRATION 1

1 Why study the economics of immigration? 3

Types of immigrants 5
Immigration is controversial 8
Immigration versus international trade 8
Immigration policy 9
Economics of immigration terminology 10
A basic model of immigration 12
A global overview of immigration 15
An overview of U.S. immigration 18
The rest of this book 18
What this book does not cover 19
Appendix 23
Supply and demand 23
Elasticity 25
Consumer and producer surplus 26
Present value 27
2 Patterns of international migration 29
Where are immigrants from? 29
Where do immigrants go? 31
Immigrant destinations within countries 31
Measuring immigrant concentration and dispersion 34
Immigration to poor countries 36
Do immigrants stay? Return and repeat migration 36
Circular migration 39
The role of immigration policy 39
Refugees and asylum seekers 41
Unauthorized immigrants 43
Concluding thoughts 47

3 Determinants of immigration 52
Push and pull factors 52
The migration decision 56
Family decision-​making 59
Uncertainty 61
The role of immigration policy 62
The gravity model of migration 62
Empirical evidence 64
The role of economic conditions in the origin 64
The role of economic conditions in the destination 67
The role of migration costs 69
The role of migrant networks 71
The role of immigration policy 72
Evidence for specific groups of immigrants 73
Determinants of immigrant destinations within countries 74
Determinants of return migration 75
Immigration paradigms 76
Conclusion 78
Appendix 85

PART II IMMIGRANT SELECTION AND ASSIMILATION 87

4 Selection in immigration 89
The Roy model 90
The direction of selection 92
Refugees and selection 95
Intermediate selection 96
Summing up the model 97

vi Contents
vii
Implications for the returns to migration 97
Empirical evidence on selection 99
Measuring the return to skill 99
Global patterns of selection 100
Effects of migration costs and other factors 104
Effects of immigration policy 105
Selection among Mexico–​U.S. immigrants 108
Selection on health 109
Selection in return migration 110
The Roy model and return migration 111
Empirical evidence on selection in return migration 116
Final thoughts on selection 117
Appendix 122

5 Assimilation 124
Labor market assimilation 125
Cohort differences in assimilation 128
Gender issues in immigrants’ labor market assimilation 134
Accounting for return migration 135
Immigrant types and assimilation 135
Participation in public assistance programs 138
Location choice and enclaves 139
Education 140
Language 142
Marriage and fertility 143
Health 145
Naturalization 146
Final thoughts on assimilation 149

6 The second generation 155

Measuring intergenerational mobility 156
Intergenerational transmission and intergenerational
elasticities 156
Intergenerational mobility among immigrants in the labor market 158
Transition matrices in Switzerland 160
Intergenerational transmission 161
Issues in measuring intergenerational mobility among immigrants 164
Intergenerational mobility in education 165
Language proficiency 169
Marriage and fertility 171
Ethnic identity 172
Final thoughts on the second generation 174

Contents vii
PART III LABOR MARKET EFFECTS OF IMMIGRATION 181

7 Labor market effects of immigration: theory 183

Immigration model 184
Immigration model with costs 188
Upward-​sloping labor supply when immigrants and natives are
perfect substitutes 189
Labor demand 191
Upward-​sloping labor supply when immigrants and natives are
complements 193
Unskilled and skilled labor 194
Elasticity of substitution between different types of workers 197
Physical capital 198
Open versus closed economy 200
Final thoughts on theoretical labor market effects 200
Appendix 203
Production function 203
Natives and immigrants as perfect substitutes 203
Natives and immigrants as imperfect substitutes 204
Unskilled and skilled labor 205
Physical capital 206
Elasticity of substitution between different types of workers 206

8 Labor market effects of immigration: evidence 208

Brief review of theory 209
Empirical approaches 210
Approach #1: Spatial correlations 211
Approach #2: Natural experiments 215
Approach #3: Skill cells 220
Approach #4: Structural models 223
Concluding remarks regarding wage effects 226
Other channels of labor market adjustment 227
Job upgrading by natives 227
Complementarities among highly educated workers 228
Changes in input and output mix 229
Productivity gains 229
Effects on previous immigrants 230
Concluding thoughts 230
Appendix 237
Basic regression analysis and common biases 238
Identification strategies 242

viii Contents
ix
PART IV OTHER EFFECTS OF IMMIGRATION 247

9 Effects on other markets in the destination 249

Housing 249
Prices of goods and services 253
Product diversity 254
International trade 256
Financial markets 258
Physical capital investment 259
Technology, innovation and self-​employment 260
Income 263
Income inequality 264
Growth accounting 266
The Solow model 267
Final thoughts 270
Appendix 274

10 Fiscal effects 275

Measuring the fiscal impact 276
Fiscal costs and benefits 276
Conceptual issues 277
Accounting methods 280
Estimates of the fiscal impact of immigration: United States 282
Static estimates 283
Dynamic estimates 284
State-​level results 286
Estimates of the fiscal impact of immigration: OECD countries 289
U.S. immigrants’ participation in government-​funded programs 291
Welfare 291
Education 293
Health care 293
Social Security 295
Final thoughts on fiscal effects 296

11 Effects on source countries 302

Labor market consequences of emigration for the source country 302
Emigration and human capital: brain drain or brain gain? 304
The extent of high-​skilled emigration 307
Models of brain drain and brain gain 309
Channels of brain drain and brain gain 312

Contents ix
 Growth accounting 315
Policy issues and responses to high-​skilled emigration 315
Remittances 316
Reasons for remitting 321
Remittances in the labor market model 323
Evidence on the impact of remittances 324
Remittances and economic growth 324
Remittances and poverty 325
Remittances and development 325
Remittance policy 326
Impacts on political, economic and social institutions 327
Impact on political institutions 327
Impact on economic institutions 328
Impact on social institutions 329
Final thoughts on source countries 330

PART V FRONTIERS IN IMMIGRATION RESEARCH 339

12 Frontiers in the economics of immigration 341

Environmental migration 341
Voting, electoral outcomes and attitudes toward immigration 342
Crime 343
Human trafficking 349
Education 351
Health 356
Fertility 357
Happiness 358
Final thoughts on frontiers 361

PART VI IMMIGRATION POLICY 369

13 U.S. immigration policy 371

The evolution of U.S. immigration policy 373
Shifting from national origins to preference categories 375
Addressing unauthorized immigration 377
Current immigration policy 380
Legal permanent resident visas 380
Temporary visas 384
Unauthorized immigration and enforcement 385
U.S. refugee/​asylee policy 389
State and local policies 391

x Contents
xi
Failed attempts at federal immigration policy reform 393
Immigration initiatives in the Trump era 394
Final thoughts on U.S. immigration policy 395

14 Immigration policy around the world 401

Brief recap of U.S. immigration policy 401
Point-​based systems 402
Canada 403
Australia 405
Other point-​based systems 407
Drawbacks of a point system 409
European Union 410
Guest worker programs 413
Germany 416
Spain 416
Other countries 417
Refugee and asylee policies 417
Refugee crisis in Europe 421
Labor market outcomes of refugees 424
Legalization policies 426
Policies regarding immigrants after arrival 427
Introduction programs 427
Language training 427
Active labor market programs 428
Anti-​discrimination policies 428
Final thoughts 429

Author index 434

Subject index 441

Contents xi
Illustrations

Figures
1.1 The labor market in the destination and origin countries before and
after migration 13
1.2 Immigrant shares around the world, 2019 16
1.3 Emigrant shares around the world, 2019 17
A1.1 Supply and demand in the product market and in the labor market 24
A1.2 Consumer and producer surplus 26
2.1 Annual net migration to the United Kingdom, 2009–​2018 41
2.2 Estimated U.S. unauthorized immigrant population, 1990–​2017 44
2.3 The market for smuggling services 46
3.1 Immigration push and pull factors 55
3.2 Immigration under joint decision-​making 60
3.3 Emigration rate and source country GDP, 2017 65
3.4 Immigrant share and destination country GDP, 2017 67
4.1 The direction of selection in a normal distribution of skill 93
4.2 Relative returns to skill and the direction of selection 94
4.3 The effect of changes in the relative return to skill or average
income in the destination 95
4.4 Intermediate selection on skill 96
4.5 Emigration rates for adults by source country and education, 2010 101
4.6 Relative earnings and emigration rates to the United States for
tertiary-​and primary-​educated adults, by origin country 102
xiii
4.7 The direction of selection in permanent and return migration if the
relative return to skill is higher in the destination 113
5.1 Employment and earnings among U.S. immigrants by years since
migration, 2017 126
5.2 Employment and earnings assimilation among U.S. immigrants, 2017 127
5.3 Cross-​sectional data can give a misleading picture of assimilation 128
5.4 Wage gap between immigrants and U.S. natives, by arrival cohort 129
5.5 Distribution of immigrants and U.S. natives by educational
attainment, 1980–​2010 131
5.6 Naturalized citizenship rates for immigrants 147
6.1 Hypothetical transition matrix 157
6.2 Transition matrices for natives and immigrants in Switzerland 162
7.1 Welfare effects of immigration in the destination and the origin 185
7.2 Adding migration costs to the basic immigration model 189
7.3 The effect of increased enforcement on wages 190
7.4 Effects of immigration in the destination with upward-​sloping
labor supply 190
7.5 Welfare effects of immigration in the destination 192
7.6 Effects of immigration that increase labor demand and labor supply 193
7.7 Effects of immigration when immigrants and natives are complements 194
7.8 Effects of immigration with skilled and unskilled workers 195
7.9 Effect of immigration on relative supply and demand for
communication versus manual skills 196
7.10 Labor demand is more elastic as physical capital adjusts in the long run 199
8.1 The relationship between the immigrant share and less-​skilled natives’
wages for U.S. cities, 2018 212
8.2 Effect of out-​migration in response to immigration 214
8.3 The relationship between the immigrant share and wages in the
skills cells approach, 1960–​2010 221
8.4 Differences in average skills used by native-​born and foreign-​born
workers by education level, 2010 228
A8.1 Regression line 239
A8.2 The difference-​in-​differences method 244
A8.3 The instrumental variable method 245
9.1 Effects of immigration on the housing market 250
9.2 Housing market in the destination when natives respond to
immigration by moving out of the area 252
9.3 Market for landscaping services with immigration 253
9.4 Market for ethnic food with immigration 255
9.5 Market for physical capital in the short run 260
9.6 Self-​employment among U.S. natives and immigrants, 1980–​2017 262
9.7 Change in self-​employment by education level, 2000–​2017 263
9.8 Various channels through which immigration affects national income 264
9.9 Solow growth model 267

List of illustrations xiii

9.10 Solow growth model steady state 268
9.11 Solow growth model with population growth and TFP increase 269
10.1 Age profiles of taxes paid, benefits received and net fiscal impact 281
10.2 Static net per capita fiscal impacts of 1st, 2nd and 3rd-​plus generation
immigrants and their dependents in the United States, 2013 283
10.3 Dynamic 75-​year net present value flow of an immigrant who arrives
in the United States at age 25 and a U.S. native followed from age 25,
by education 286
10.4 First-​generation fiscal impact across U.S. states 287
10.5 Second-​generation fiscal impact across U.S. states 288
10.6 Net fiscal contribution, immigrant and native-​born households,
2007–​2009 average 290
11.1 Labor market effects of migration in the source country 303
11.2 Labor market effects of migration in the source country with decreased
demand 304
11.3 Model of brain drain 311
11.4 Model of brain gain 312
11.5 Total worldwide remittances, 1970–​2019 317
11.6 Labor market effects of migration and remittances in the source country 323
12.1 Crime rates and immigrant shares in the United States, 2000–​2010 345
12.2 The market for smuggling services in the context of human trafficking 352
12.3 Effects of immigration on the market for higher education 355
12.4 Total fertility rate and GDP per capita, 2017 357
13.1 The foreign-​born population in the United States, 1850–​2018 372
13.2 Share of U.S. legal permanent residents by region and decade 376
13.3 Number of persons granted legal permanent residence, 1820–​2018 377
13.4 Apprehensions along the Mexico–​U.S. border, 1960–​2019 378
13.5 U.S. Federal spending on border security and immigration enforcement 388
13.6 Marginal costs and marginal benefits of enforcement 389
13.7 U.S. refugee ceiling and admissions, 1980–​2019 390
14.1 Migrant population shares, European countries, 1990–​2019 410
14.2 Model of a labor shortage 414
14.3 Model of labor supply increase in response to labor demand increase 415
14.4 Ratio of temporary labor migrants to permanent migrants, 2017 416
14.5 IKEA Better Shelter 420
14.6 Common European Asylum System 422
14.7 Asylum applications in EU-​28 (in thousands), 1998–​2019 422
14.8 Gap in employment rates between refugees and other immigrants 425
14.9 Wages of refugees compared to other immigrants 426

xiv List of illustrations

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Mary would suddenly cling to Stephen: ‘Say that you’ll never
leave me, belovèd!’
‘How could I leave you and go on living?’
Thus their talk of the future would often drift into talk of love,
that is always timeless. On their lips, as in their hearts, would be
words such as countless other lovers had spoken, for love is the
sweetest monotony that was ever conceived of by the Creator.
‘Promise you’ll never stop loving me, Stephen.’
‘Never. You know that I couldn’t Mary.’
Even to themselves their vows would sound foolish, because so
inadequate to compass their meaning. Language is surely too small
a vessel to contain those emotions of mind and body that have
somehow awakened a response in the spirit.
And now when they climbed the long hill to the town of old
Orotava on their way to the mountains, they would pause to
examine certain flowers minutely, or to stare down the narrow,
shadowy bystreets. And when they had reached the cool upland
places, and their mules were loosed and placidly grazing, they would
sit hand in hand looking out at the Peak, trying to impress such
pictures on their minds, because all things pass and they wished to
remember. The goat-bells would break the lovely stillness, together
with the greater stillness of their dreaming. But the sound of the
bells would be lovely also, a part of their dreaming, a part of the
stillness; for all things would seem to be welded together, to be one,
even as they two were now one.
They no longer felt desolate, hungry outcasts; unloved and
unwanted, despised of the world. They were lovers who walked in
the vineyard of life, plucking the warm, sweet fruits of that vineyard.
Love had lifted them up as on wings of fire, had made them
courageous, invincible, enduring. Nothing could be lacking to those
who loved—the very earth gave of her fullest bounty. The earth
seemed to come alive in response to the touch of their healthful and
eager bodies—nothing could be lacking to those who loved.
 And thus in a cloud of illusion and glory, sped the last enchanted
days at Orotava.
 BOOK FIVE

CHAPTER 40

E arly in April Stephen and Mary returned to the house in Paris.

This second home-coming seemed wonderfully sweet by reason
of its peaceful and happy completeness, so that they turned to smile
at each other as they passed through the door, and Stephen said
very softly:
‘Welcome home, Mary.’
And now for the first time the old house was home. Mary went
quickly from room to room humming a little tune as she did so,
feeling that she saw with a new understanding the inanimate objects
which filled those rooms—were they not Stephen’s? Every now and
again she must pause to touch them because they were Stephen’s.
Then she turned and went into Stephen’s bedroom; not timidly,
dreading to be unwelcome, but quite without fear or restraint or
shyness, and this gave her a warm little glow of pleasure.
Stephen was busily grooming her hair with a couple of brushes
that had been dipped in water. The water had darkened her hair in
patches, but had deepened the wide wave above her forehead.
Seeing Mary in the glass she did not turn round, but just smiled for a
moment at their two reflections. Mary sat down in an arm-chair and
watched her, noticing the strong, thin line of her thighs; noticing too
the curve of her breasts—slight and compact, of a certain beauty.
She had taken off her jacket and looked very tall in her soft silk shirt
and her skirt of dark serge.
‘Tired?’ she inquired, glancing down at the girl.
‘No, not a bit tired,’ smiled Mary.
Stephen walked over to the stationary basin and proceeded to
wash her hands under the tap, spotting her white silk cuffs in the
process. Going to the cupboard she got out a clean shirt, slipped in a
pair of simple gold cuff-links, and changed; after which she put on a
new necktie.
Mary said: ‘Who’s been looking after your clothes—sewing on
buttons and that sort of thing?’
‘I don’t know exactly—Puddle or Adèle. Why?’
‘Because I’m going to do it in future. You’ll find that I’ve got one
very real talent, and that’s darning. When I darn the place looks like
a basket, criss-cross. And I know how to pick up a ladder as well as
the Invisible Mending people! It’s very important that the darns
should be smooth, otherwise when you fence they might give you a
blister.’
Stephen’s lips twitched a little, but she said quite gravely:
‘Thanks awfully, darling, we’ll go over my stockings.’
From the dressing-room next door came a series of thuds; Pierre
was depositing Stephen’s luggage. Getting up, Mary opened the
wardrobe, revealing a long, neat line of suits hanging from heavy
mahogany shoulders—she examined each suit in turn with great
interest. Presently she made her way to the cupboard in the wall; it
was fitted with sliding shelves, and these she pulled out one by one
with precaution. On the shelves there were orderly piles of shirts,
crêpe de Chine pyjamas—quite a goodly assortment, and the heavy
silk masculine underwear that for several years now had been worn
by Stephen. Finally she discovered the stockings where they lay by
themselves in the one long drawer, and these she proceeded to
unfurl deftly, with a quick and slightly important movement.
Thrusting a fist into toes and heels she looked for the holes that
were nonexistent.
‘You must have paid a lot for these stockings, they’re hand
knitted silk;’ murmured Mary gravely.
‘I forget what I paid—Puddle got them from England.’
‘Who did she order them from; do you know?’
‘I can’t remember; some woman or other.’
But Mary persisted: ‘I shall want her address.’
Stephen smiled: ‘Why? Are you going to order my stockings?’
‘Darling! Do you think I’ll let you go barefoot? Of course I’m
going to order your stockings.’
Stephen rested her elbow on the mantelpiece and stood gazing
at Mary with her chin on her hand. As she did so she was struck
once again by the look of youth that was characteristic of Mary. She
looked much less than her twenty-two years in her simple dress with
its leather belt—she looked indeed little more than a schoolgirl. And
yet there was something quite new in her face, a soft, wise
expression that Stephen had put there, so that she suddenly felt
pitiful to see her so young yet so full of this wisdom; for sometimes
the coming of passion to youth, in spite of its glory, will be strangely
pathetic.
 Mary rolled up the stockings with a sigh of regret; alas, they
would not require darning. She was at the stage of being in love
when she longed to do womanly tasks for Stephen. But all Stephen’s
clothes were discouragingly neat; Mary thought that she must be
very well served, which was true—she was served, as are certain
men, with a great deal of nicety and care by the servants.
And now Stephen was filling her cigarette case from the big box
that lived on her dressing table; and now she was strapping on her
gold wrist watch; and now she was brushing some dust from her
coat; and now she was frowning at herself in the glass for a second
as she twitched her immaculate necktie. Mary had seen her do all
this before, many times, but to-day somehow it was different; for to-
day they were in their own home together, so that these little
intimate things seemed more dear than they had done at Orotava.
The bedroom could only have belonged to Stephen; a large, airy
room, very simply furnished—white walls, old oak, and a wide,
bricked hearth on which some large, friendly logs were burning. The
bed could only have been Stephen’s bed; it was heavy and rather
austere in pattern. It looked solemn as Mary had seen Stephen look,
and was covered by a bedspread of old blue brocade, otherwise it
remained quite guiltless of trimmings. The chairs could only have
been Stephen’s chairs; a little reserved, not conducive to lounging.
The dressing table could only have been hers, with its tall silver
mirror and ivory brushes. And all these things had drawn into
themselves a species of life derived from their owner, until they
seemed to be thinking of Stephen with a dumbness that made their
thoughts more insistent, and their thoughts gathered strength and
mingled with Mary’s so that she heard herself cry out: ‘Stephen!’ in a
voice that was not very far from tears, because of the joy she felt in
that name.
And Stephen answered her: ‘Mary—’
Then they stood very still, grown abruptly silent. And each of
them felt a little afraid, for the realization of great mutual love can at
times be so overwhelming a thing, that even the bravest of hearts
may grow fearful. And although they could not have put it into
words, could not have explained it to themselves or to each other,
they seemed at that moment to be looking beyond the turbulent
flood of earthly passion; to be looking straight into the eyes of a love
that was changed—a love made perfect, discarnate.
But the moment passed and they drew together. . . .

The spring they had left behind in Orotava overtook them quite soon,
and one day there it was blowing softly along the old streets of the
Quarter—the Rue de Seine, the Rue des Saints Pères, the Rue
Bonaparte and their own Rue Jacob. And who can resist the first
spring days in Paris? Brighter than ever looked the patches of sky
when glimpsed between rows of tall, flat-bosomed houses. From the
Pont des Arts could be seen a river that was one wide, ingratiating
smile of sunshine; while beyond in the Rue des Petits Champs,
spring ran up and down the Passage Choiseul, striking gleams of
gold from its dirty glass roof—the roof that looks like the vertebral
column of some prehistoric monster.
All over the Bois there was bursting of buds—a positive orgy of
growth and greenness. The miniature waterfall lifted its voice in an
effort to roar as loud as Niagara. Birds sang. Dogs yapped or barked
or bayed according to their size and the tastes of their owners.
Children appeared in the Champs Elysées with bright coloured
balloons which tried to escape and which, given the ghost of a
chance, always did so. In the Tuileries Gardens boys with brown legs
and innocent socks were hiring toy boats from the man who
provided Bateaux de Location. The fountains tossed clouds of spray
into the air, and just for fun made an occasional rainbow; then the
Arc de Triomphe would be seen through an arc that was, thanks to
the sun, even more triumphal. As for the very old lady in her kiosk—
the one who sells bocks, groseille, limonade, and such simple food-
stuffs as brioches and croissants—as for her, she appeared in a new
frilled bonnet and a fine worsted shawl on one memorable Sunday.
Smiling she was too, from ear to ear, in spite of the fact that her
mouth was toothless, for this fact she only remembered in winter
when the east wind started her empty gums aching.
Under the quiet, grey wings of the Madeleine the flower-stalls
were bright with the glory of God—anemones, jonquils, daffodils,
tulips; mimosa that left gold dust on the fingers, and the faintly
perfumed ascetic white lilac that had come in the train from the
Riviera. There were also hyacinths, pink, red and blue, and many
small trees of sturdy azalea.
Oh, but the spring was shouting through Paris! It was in the
hearts and the eyes of the people. The very dray-horses jangled
their bells more loudly because of the spring in their drivers. The
debauched old taxis tooted their horns and spun round the corners
as though on a race track. Even such glacial things as the diamonds
in the Rue de la Paix, were kindled to fire as the sun pierced their
facets right through to their entrails; while the sapphires glowed as
those African nights had glowed in the garden at Orotava.
Was it likely that Stephen could finish her book—she who had
Paris in springtime with Mary? Was it likely that Mary could urge her
to do so—she who had Paris in springtime with Stephen? There was
so much to see, so much to show Mary, so many new things to
discover together. And now Stephen felt grateful to Jonathan
Brockett who had gone to such pains to teach her her Paris.
Idle she was, let it not be denied, idle and happy and utterly
carefree. A lover, who, like many another before her, was under the
spell of the loved one’s existence. She would wake in the mornings
to find Mary beside her, and all through the day she would keep
beside Mary, and at night they would lie in each other’s arms—God
alone knows who shall dare judge of such matters; in any case
Stephen was too much bewitched to be troubled just then by hair-
splitting problems.
 Life had become a new revelation. The most mundane things
were invested with glory; shopping with Mary who needed quite a
number of dresses. And then there was food that was eaten
together—the careful perusal of wine-card and menu. They would
lunch or have dinner at Lapérouse; surely still the most epicurean
restaurant in the whole of an epicurean city. So humble it looks with
its modest entrance on the Quai des Grands Augustins; so humble
that a stranger might well pass it by unnoticed, but not so Stephen,
who had been there with Brockett.
Mary loved Prunier’s in the Rue Duphot, because of its galaxy of
sea-monsters. A whole counter there was of incredible creatures—
Oursins, black armoured and covered with prickles; Bigorneaux;
serpent-like Anguilles Fumées; and many other exciting things that
Stephen mistrusted for English stomachs. They would sit at their
own particular table, one of the tables upstairs by the window, for
the manager came very quickly to know them and would smile and
bow grandly: ‘Bon jour, mesdames.’ When they left, the attendant
who kept the flower-basket would give Mary a neat little bouquet of
roses: ‘Au revoir, mesdames. Merci bien—à bientôt!’ For every one
had pretty manners at Prunier’s.
A few people might stare at the tall, scarred woman in her well-
tailored clothes and black slouch hat. They would stare first at her
and then at her companion: ‘Mais regardez moi ça! Elle est belle, la
petite; comme c’est rigolo!’ There would be a few smiles, but on the
whole they would attract little notice—ils en ont vu bien d’autres—it
was post-war Paris.
Sometimes, having dined, they would saunter towards home
through streets that were crowded with others who sauntered—men
and women, a couple of women together—always twos—the fine
nights seemed prolific of couples. In the air there would be the
inconsequent feeling that belongs to the night life of most great
cities, above all to the careless night life of Paris, where problems
are apt to vanish with sunset. The lure of the brightly lighted
boulevards, the lure of the dim and mysterious bystreets would grip
them so that they would not turn homeward for quite a long while,
but would just go on walking. The moon, less clear than at Orotava,
less innocent doubtless, yet scarcely less lovely, would come sailing
over the Place de la Concorde, staring down at the dozens of other
white moons that had managed to get themselves caught by the
standards. In the cafés would be crowds of indolent people, for the
French who work hard know well how to idle; and these cafés would
smell of hot coffee and sawdust, of rough, strong tobacco, of men
and women. Beneath the arcades there would be the shop windows,
illuminated and bright with temptation. But Mary would usually stare
into Sulka’s, picking out scarves or neckties for Stephen.
‘That one! We’ll come and buy it to-morrow. Oh, Stephen, do
wait—look at that dressing-gown!’
And Stephen might laugh and pretend to be bored, though she
secretly nurtured a weakness for Sulka’s.
Down the Rue de Rivoli they would walk arm in arm, until turning
at last, they would pass the old church of St. Germain—the church
from whose Gothic tower had been rung the first call to a most
bloody slaying. But now that tower would be grim with silence,
dreaming the composite dreams of Paris—dreams that were heavy
with blood and beauty, with innocence and lust, with joy and despair,
with life and death, with heaven and hell; all the curious composite
dreams of Paris.
Then crossing the river they would reach the Quarter and their
house, where Stephen would slip her latchkey into the door and
would know the warm feeling that can come of a union between
door and latchkey. With a sigh of contentment they would find
themselves at home once again in the quiet old Rue Jacob.

They went to see the kind Mademoiselle Duphot, and this visit
seemed momentous to Mary. She gazed with something almost like
awe at the woman who had had the teaching of Stephen.
‘Oh, but yes,’ smiled Mademoiselle Duphot, ‘I teached her. She
was terribly naughty over her dictée; she would write remarks about
the poor Henri—très impertinente she would be about Henri!
Stévenne was a queer little child and naughty—but so dear, so dear
—I could never scold her. With me she done everything her own
way.’
‘Please tell me about that time,’ coaxed Mary.
So Mademoiselle Duphot sat down beside Mary and patted her
hand: ‘Like me, you love her. Well now let me recall— She would
sometimes get angry, very angry, and then she would go to the
stables and talk to her horse. But when she fence it was marvellous
—she fence like a man, and she only a baby but extrémement
strong. And then. . . .’ The memories went on and on, such a store
she possessed, the kind Mademoiselle Duphot.
As she talked her heart went out to the girl, for she felt a great
tenderness towards young things: ‘I am glad that you come to live
with our Stévenne now that Mademoiselle Puddle is at Morton.
Stévenne would be desolate in the big house. It is charming for both
of you this new arrangement. While she work you look after the
ménage; is it not so? You take care of Stévenne, she take care of
you. Oui, oui, I am glad you have come to Paris.’
Julie stroked Mary’s smooth young cheek, then her arm, for she
wished to observe through her fingers. She smiled: ‘Very young, also
very kind. I like so much the feel of your kindness—it gives me a
warm and so happy sensation, because with all kindness there must
be much good.’
Was she quite blind after all, the poor Julie?
And hearing her Stephen flushed with pleasure, and her eyes
that could see turned and rested on Mary with a gentle and very
profound expression in their depths—at that moment they were
calmly thoughtful, as though brooding upon the mystery of life—one
might almost have said the eyes of a mother.
 A happy and pleasant visit it had been; they talked about it all
through the evening.

CHAPTER 41

B urton, who had enlisted in the Worcesters soon after Stephen

had found work in London, Burton was now back again in Paris,
loudly demanding a brand-new motor.
‘The car looks awful! Snub-nosed she looks—peculiar—all tucked
up in the bonnet;’ he declared.
So Stephen bought a touring Renault and a smart little
landaulette for Mary. The choosing of the cars was the greatest fun;
Mary climbed in and out of hers at least six times while it stood in
the showroom.
‘Is it comfortable?’ Stephen must keep on asking, ‘Do you want
them to pad it out more at the back? Are you perfectly sure you like
the grey whip-cord? Because if you don’t it can be re-upholstered.’
Mary laughed: ‘I’m climbing in and out from sheer swank, just to
show that it’s mine. Will they send it soon?’
‘Almost at once, I hope,’ smiled Stephen.
Very splendid it seemed to her now to have money, because of
what money could do for Mary; in the shops they must sometimes
behave like two children, having endless things dragged out for
inspection. They drove to Versailles in the new touring car and
wandered for hours through the lovely gardens. The Hameau no
longer seemed sad to Stephen, for Mary and she brought love back
to the Hameau. Then they drove to the forest of Fontainebleau, and
wherever they went there was singing of birds—challenging,
jubilant, provocative singing: ‘Look at us, look at us! We’re happy,
Stephen!’ And Stephen’s heart shouted back: ‘So are we. Look at us,
look at us, look at us! We’re happy!’
When they were not driving into the country, or amusing
themselves by ransacking Paris, Stephen would fence, to keep
herself fit—would fence as never before with Buisson, so that
Buisson would sometimes say with a grin:
‘Mais voyons, voyons! I have done you no wrong, yet it almost
appears that you wish to kill me!’
The foils laid aside, he might turn to Mary, still grinning: ‘She
fence very well, eh, your friend? She lunge like a man, so strong and
so graceful.’ Which considering all things was generous of Buisson.
But suddenly Buisson would grow very angry: ‘More than seventy
francs have I paid to my cook and for nothing! Bon Dieu! Is this
winning the war? We starve, we go short of our butter and chickens,
and before it is better it is surely much worse. We are all imbeciles,
we kind-hearted French; we starve ourselves to fatten the Germans.
Are they grateful? Sacré Nom! Mais oui, they are grateful—they love
us so much that they spit in our faces!’ And quite often this mood
would be vented on Stephen.
To Mary, however, he was usually polite: ‘You like our Paris? I am
glad—that is good. You make the home with Mademoiselle Gordon; I
hope you prevent her injurious smoking.’
And in spite of his outbursts Mary adored him, because of his
interest in Stephen’s fencing.

One evening towards the end of June, Jonathan Brockett walked in

serenely: ‘Hallo, Stephen! Here I am, I’ve turned up again—not that
I love you, I positively hate you. I’ve been keeping away for weeks
and weeks. Why did you never answer my letters? Not so much as a
line on a picture postcard! There’s something in this more than
meets the eye. And where’s Puddle? She used to be kind to me once
—I shall lay my head down on her bosom and weep. . . .’ He
stopped abruptly, seeing Mary Llewellyn, who got up from her deep
arm-chair in the corner.
Stephen said: ‘Mary, this is Jonathan Brockett—an old friend of
mine; we’re fellow writers. Brockett, this is Mary Llewellyn.’
Brockett shot a swift glance in Stephen’s direction, then he
bowed and gravely shook hands with Mary.
And now Stephen was to see yet another side of this strange and
unexpected creature. With infinite courtesy and tact he went out of
his way to make himself charming. Never by so much as a word or a
look did he once allow it to be inferred that his quick mind had
seized on the situation. Brockett’s manner suggested an innocence
that he was very far from possessing.
Stephen began to study him with interest; they two had not met
since before the war. He had thickened, his figure was more robust,
there was muscle and flesh on his wide, straight shoulders. And she
thought that his face had certainly aged; little bags were showing
under his eyes, and rather deep lines at the sides of his mouth—the
war had left its mark upon Brockett. Only his hands remained
unchanged; those white and soft skinned hands of a woman.
He was saying: ‘So you two were in the same Unit. That was a
great stroke of luck for Stephen; I mean she’d be feeling horribly
lonely now that old Puddle’s gone back to England. Stephen’s
distinguished herself I see—Croix de Guerre and a very becoming
scar. Don’t protest, my dear Stephen, you know it’s becoming. All
that happened to me was a badly sprained ankle;’ he laughed, ‘fancy
going out to Mesopotamia to slip on a bit of orange peel! I might
have done better than that here in Paris. By the way, I’m in my own
flat again now; I hope you’ll bring Miss Llewellyn to luncheon.’
He did not stay embarrassingly late, nor did he leave suggestively
early; he got up to go at just the right moment. But when Mary went
out of the room to call Pierre, he quite suddenly put his arm through
Stephen’s.
 ‘Good luck, my dear, you deserve it;’ he murmured, and his sharp
grey eyes had grown almost gentle: ‘I hope you’ll be very, very
happy.’
Stephen quietly disengaged her arm with a look of surprise:
‘Happy? Thank you, Brockett,’ she smiled, as she lighted a cigarette.

They could not tear themselves away from their home, and that
summer they remained in Paris. There were always so many things
to do, Mary’s bedroom entirely to refurnish for instance—she had
Puddle’s old room overlooking the garden. When the city seemed to
be growing too airless, they motored off happily into the country,
spending a couple of nights at an auberge, for France abounds in
green, pleasant places. Once or twice they lunched with Jonathan
Brockett at his flat in the Avenue Victor Hugo, a beautiful flat since
his taste was perfect, and he dined with them before leaving for
Deauville—his manner continued to be studiously guarded. The
Duphots had gone for their holiday and Buisson was away in Spain
for a month—but what did they want that summer with people? On
those evenings when they did not go out, Stephen would now read
aloud to Mary, leading the girl’s adaptable mind into new and
hitherto unexplored channels; teaching her the joy that can lie in
books, even as Sir Philip had once taught his daughter. Mary had
read so little in her life that the choice of books seemed practically
endless, but Stephen must make a start by reading that immortal
classic of their own Paris, Peter Ibbetson, and Mary said:
‘Stephen—if we were ever parted, do you think that you and I
could dream true?’
And Stephen answered: ‘I often wonder whether we’re not
dreaming true all the time—whether the only truth isn’t in dreaming.’
Then they talked for a while of such nebulous things as dreams,
which will seem very concrete to lovers.
 Sometimes Stephen would read aloud in French, for she wanted
the girl to grow better acquainted with the lure of that fascinating
language. And thus gradually, with infinite care, did she seek to fill
the more obvious gaps in Mary’s none too complete education. And
Mary, listening to Stephen’s voice, rather deep and always a little
husky, would think that words were more tuneful than music and
more inspiring, when spoken by Stephen.
At this time many gentle and friendly things began to bear
witness to Mary’s presence. There were flowers in the quiet old
garden for instance, and some large red carp in the fountain’s basin,
and two married couples of white fantail pigeons who lived in a
house on a tall wooden leg and kept up a convivial cooing. These
pigeons lacked all respect for Stephen; by August they were flying in
at her window and landing with soft, heavy thuds on her desk where
they strutted until she fed them with maize. And because they were
Mary’s and Mary loved them, Stephen would laugh, as unruffled as
they were, and would patiently coax them back into the garden with
bribes for their plump little circular crops. In the turret room that
had been Puddle’s sanctum, there were now three cagefuls of Mary’s
rescues—tiny bright coloured birds with dejected plumage, and eyes
that had filmed from a lack of sunshine. Mary was always bringing
them home from the terrible bird shops along the river, for her love
of such helpless and suffering things was so great that she in her
turn must suffer. An ill-treated creature would haunt her for days, so
that Stephen would often exclaim half in earnest:
‘Go and buy up all the animal shops in Paris . . . anything,
darling, only don’t look unhappy!’
The tiny bright coloured birds would revive to some extent,
thanks to Mary’s skilled treatment; but since she always bought the
most ailing, not a few of them left this disheartening world for what
we must hope was a warm, wild heaven—there were several small
graves already in the garden.
Then one morning, when Mary went out alone because Stephen
had letters to write to Morton, she chanced on yet one more
desolate creature who followed her home to the Rue Jacob, and
right into Stephen’s immaculate study. It was large, ungainly and
appallingly thin; it was coated with mud which had dried on its nose,
its back, its legs and all over its stomach. Its paws were heavy, its
ears were long, and its tail, like the tail of a rat, looked hairless, but
curved up to a point in a miniature sickle. Its face was as smooth as
though made out of plush, and its luminous eyes were the colour of
amber.
Mary said: ‘Oh, Stephen—he wanted to come. He’s got a sore
paw; look at him, he’s limping!’
Then this tramp of a dog hobbled over to the table and stood
there gazing dumbly at Stephen, who must stroke his anxious,
dishevelled head: ‘I suppose this means that we’re going to keep
him.’
‘Darling, I’m dreadfully afraid it does—he says he’s sorry to be
such a mongrel.’
‘He needn’t apologize,’ Stephen smiled, ‘he’s all right, he’s an
Irish water-spaniel, though what he’s doing out here the Lord
knows; I’ve never seen one before in Paris.’
They fed him, and later that afternoon they gave him a bath in
Stephen’s bathroom. The result of that bath, which was
disconcerting as far as the room went, they left to Adèle. The room
was a bog, but Mary’s rescue had emerged a mass of chocolate
ringlets, all save his charming plush-covered face, and his curious
tail, which was curved like a sickle. Then they bound the sore pad
and took him downstairs; after which Mary wanted to know all about
him, so Stephen unearthed an illustrated dog book from a cupboard
under the study bookcase.
‘Oh, look!’ exclaimed Mary, reading over her shoulder, ‘He’s not
Irish at all, he’s really a Welshman: “We find in the Welsh laws of
Howell Dda the first reference to this intelligent spaniel. The Iberians
brought the breed to Ireland. . . .” Of course, that’s why he followed
me home; he knew I was Welsh the moment he saw me!’
 Stephen laughed: ‘Yes, his hair grows up from a peak like yours—
it must be a national failing. Well, what shall we call him? His name’s
important; it ought to be quite short.’
‘David,’ said Mary.
The dog looked gravely from one to the other for a moment,
then he lay down at Mary’s feet, dropping his chin on his bandaged
paw, and closing his eyes with a grunt of contentment. And so it had
suddenly come to pass that they who had lately been two, were now
three. There were Stephen and Mary—there was also David.

CHAPTER 42

T hat October there arose the first dark cloud. It drifted over to
Paris from England, for Anna wrote asking Stephen to Morton
but with never a mention of Mary Llewellyn. Not that she ever did
mention their friendship in her letters, indeed she completely
ignored it; yet this invitation which excluded the girl seemed to
Stephen an intentional slight upon Mary. A hot flush of anger spread
up to her brow as she read and re-read her mother’s brief letter:
‘I want to discuss some important points regarding the
management of the estate. As the place will eventually come to you,
I think we should try to keep more in touch. . . .’ Then a list of the
points Anna wished to discuss; they seemed very trifling indeed to
Stephen.
She put the letter away in a drawer and sat staring darkly out of
the window. In the garden Mary was talking to David, persuading
him not to retrieve the pigeons.
‘If my mother had invited her ten times over I’d never have taken
her to Morton,’ Stephen muttered.
 Oh, but she knew, and only too well, what it would mean should
they be there together; the lies, the despicable subterfuges, as
though they were little less than criminals. It would be: ‘Mary, don’t
hang about my bedroom—be careful . . . of course while we’re here
at Morton . . . it’s my mother, she can’t understand these things; to
her they would seem an outrage, an insult. . . .’ And then the guard
set upon eyes and lips; the feeling of guilt at so much as a hand-
touch; the pretence of a careless, quite usual friendship—‘Mary,
don’t look at me as though you cared! you did this evening—
remember my mother.’
Intolerable quagmire of lies and deceit! The degrading of all that
to them was sacred—a very gross degrading of love, and through
love a gross degrading of Mary. Mary . . . so loyal and as yet so
gallant, but so pitifully untried in the war of existence. Warned only
by words, the words of a lover, and what were mere words when it
came to actions? And the ageing woman with the far-away eyes,
eyes that could yet be so cruel, so accusing—they might turn and
rest with repugnance on Mary, even as once they had rested on
Stephen: ‘I would rather see you dead at my feet. . . .’ A fearful
saying, and yet she had meant it, that ageing woman with the far-
away eyes—she had uttered it knowing herself to be a mother. But
that at least should be hidden from Mary.
She began to consider the ageing woman who had scourged her
but whom she had so deeply wounded, and as she did so the depth
of that wound made her shrink in spite of her bitter anger, so that
gradually the anger gave way to a slow and almost reluctant pity.
Poor, ignorant, blind, unreasoning woman; herself a victim, having
given her body for Nature’s most inexplicable whim. Yes, there had
been two victims already—must there now be a third—and that one
Mary? She trembled. At that moment she could not face it, she was
weak, she was utterly undone by loving. Greedy she had grown for
happiness, for the joys and the peace that their union had brought
her. She would try to minimize the whole thing; she would say: ‘It
will only be for ten days; I must just run over about this business,’
then Mary would probably think it quite natural that she had not
been invited to Morton and would ask no questions—she never
asked questions. But would Mary think such a slight was quite
natural? Fear possessed her; she sat there terribly afraid of this
cloud that had suddenly risen to menace—afraid yet determined not
to submit, not to let it gain power through her own acquiescence.
There was only one weapon to keep it at bay. Getting up she
opened the window: ‘Mary!’
All unconscious the girl hurried in with David: ‘Did you call?’
‘Yes—come close. Closer . . . closer, sweetheart. . . .’

Shaken and very greatly humbled, Mary had let Stephen go from her
to Morton. She had not been deceived by Stephen’s glib words, and
had now no illusions regarding Anna Gordon. Lady Anna, suspecting
the truth about them, had not wished to meet her. It was all quite
clear, cruelly clear if it came to that matter—but these thoughts she
had mercifully hidden from Stephen.
She had seen Stephen off at the station with a smile: ‘I’ll write
every day. Do put on your coat, darling; you don’t want to arrive at
Morton with a chill. And mind you wire when you get to Dover.’
Yet now as she sat in the empty study, she must bury her face
and cry a little because she was here and Stephen in England . . .
and then of course, this was their first real parting.
David sat watching with luminous eyes in which were reflected
her secret troubles; then he got up and planted a paw on the book,
for he thought it high time to have done with this reading. He lacked
the language that Raftery had known—the language of many small
sounds and small movements—a clumsy and inarticulate fellow he
was, but unrestrainedly loving. He nearly broke his own heart
between love and the deep gratitude which he felt for Mary. At the
moment he wanted to lay back his ears and howl with despair to see
her unhappy. He wanted to make an enormous noise, the kind of
noise wild folk make in the jungle—lions and tigers and other wild
folk that David had heard about from his mother—his mother had
been in Africa once a long time ago, with an old French colonel. But
instead he abruptly licked Mary’s cheek—it tasted peculiar, he
thought, like sea water.
‘Do you want a walk, David?’ she asked him gently.
And as well as he could, David nodded his head by wagging his
tail which was shaped like a sickle. Then he capered, thumping the
ground with his paws; after which he barked twice in an effort to
amuse her, for such things had seemed funny to her in the past,
although now she appeared not to notice his capers. However, she
had put on her hat and coat; so, still barking, he followed her
through the courtyard.
They wandered along the Quai Voltaire, Mary pausing to look at
the misty river.
‘Shall I dive in and bring you a rat?’ inquired David by lunging
wildly backwards and forwards.
She shook her head. ‘Do stop, David; be good!’ Then she sighed
again and stared at the river; so David stared too, but he stared at
Mary.
Quite suddenly Paris had lost its charm for her. After all, what
was it? Just a big, foreign city—a city that belonged to a stranger
people who cared nothing for Stephen and nothing for Mary. They
were exiles. She turned the word over in her mind—exiles; it
sounded unwanted, lonely. But why had Stephen become an exile?
Why had she exiled herself from Morton? Strange that she, Mary,
had never asked her—had never wanted to until this moment.
She walked on not caring very much where she went. It grew
dusk, and the dusk brought with it great longing—the longing to see,
to hear, to touch—almost a physical pain it was, this longing to feel
the nearness of Stephen. But Stephen had left her to go to Morton
. . . Morton, that was surely Stephen’s real home, and in that real
home there was no place for Mary.
 She was not resentful. She did not condemn either the world, or
herself, or Stephen. Hers was no mind to wrestle with problems, to
demand either justice or explanation; she only knew that her heart
felt bruised so that all manner of little things hurt her. It hurt her to
think of Stephen surrounded by objects that she had never seen—
tables, chairs, pictures, all old friends of Stephen’s, all dear and
familiar, yet strangers to Mary. It hurt her to think of the unknown
bedroom in which Stephen had slept since the days of her
childhood; of the unknown schoolroom where Stephen had worked;
of the stables, the lakes and the gardens of Morton. It hurt her to
think of the two unknown women who must now be awaiting
Stephen’s arrival—Puddle, whom Stephen loved and respected; Lady
Anna, of whom she spoke very seldom, and who, Mary felt, could
never have loved her. And it came upon Mary with a little shock that
a long span of Stephen’s life was hidden; years and years of that life
had come and gone before they two had finally found each other.
How could she hope to link up with a past that belonged to a home
which she might not enter? Then, being a woman, she suddenly
ached for the quiet, pleasant things that a home will stand for—
security, peace, respect and honour, the kindness of parents, the
good-will of neighbours; happiness that can be shared with friends,
love that is proud to proclaim its existence. All that Stephen most
craved for the creature she loved, that creature must now quite
suddenly ache for.
And as though some mysterious cord stretched between them,
Stephen’s heart was troubled at that very moment; intolerably
troubled because of Morton, the real home which might not be
shared with Mary. Ashamed because of shame laid on another,
compassionate and suffering because of her compassion, she was
thinking of the girl left alone in Paris—the girl who should have come
with her to England, who should have been welcomed and honoured
at Morton. Then she suddenly remembered some words from the
past, very terrible words: ‘Could you marry me, Stephen?’
Mary turned and walked back to the Rue Jacob. Disheartened
and anxious, David lagged beside her. He had done all he could to
distract her mind from whatever it was that lay heavy upon it. He
had made a pretence of chasing a pigeon, he had barked himself
hoarse at a terrified beggar, he had brought her a stick and implored
her to throw it, he had caught at her skirt and tugged it politely; in
the end he had nearly got run over by a taxi in his desperate efforts
to gain her attention. This last attempt had certainly roused her: she
had put on his lead—poor, misunderstood David.

Mary went into Stephen’s study and sat down at the spacious
writing-table, for now all of a sudden she had only one ache, and
that was the ache of her love for Stephen. And because of her love
she wished to comfort, since in every fond woman there is much of
the mother. That letter was full of many things which a less
privileged pen had best left unwritten—loyalty, faith, consolation,
devotion; all this and much more she wrote to Stephen. As she sat
there, her heart seemed to swell within her as though in response to
some mighty challenge.
Thus it was that Mary met and defeated the world’s first tentative
onslaught upon them.

CHAPTER 43

T here comes a time in all passionate attachments when life, real

life, must be faced once again with its varied and endless
obligations, when the lover knows in his innermost heart that the
halcyon days are over. He may well regret this prosaic intrusion, yet
to him it will usually seem quite natural, so that while loving not one
whit the less, he will bend his neck to the yoke of existence. But the
woman, for whom love is an end in itself, finds it harder to submit
thus calmly. To every devoted and ardent woman there comes this
moment of poignant regretting; and struggle she must to hold it at
bay. ‘Not yet, not yet—just a little longer’; until Nature, abhorring her
idleness, forces on her the labour of procreation.
But in such relationships as Mary’s and Stephen’s, Nature must
pay for experimenting; she may even have to pay very dearly—it
largely depends on the sexual mixture. A drop too little of the male
in the lover, and mighty indeed will be the wastage. And yet there
are cases—and Stephen’s was one—in which the male will emerge
triumphant; in which passion combined with a real devotion will
become a spur rather than a deterrent; in which love and endeavour
will fight side by side in a desperate struggle to find some solution.
Thus it was that when Stephen returned from Morton, Mary
divined, as it were by instinct, that the time of dreaming was over
and past; and she clung very close, kissing many times—
‘Do you love me as much as before you went? Do you love me?’
The woman’s eternal question.
And Stephen, who, if possible, loved her more, answered almost
brusquely: ‘Of course I love you.’ For her thoughts were still heavy
with the bitterness that had come of that visit of hers to Morton, and
which at all costs must be hidden from Mary.
There had been no marked change in her mother’s manner. Anna
had been very quiet and courteous. Together they had interviewed
bailiff and agent, scheming as always for the welfare of Morton; but
one topic there had been which Anna had ignored, had refused to
discuss, and that topic was Mary. With a suddenness born of
exasperation, Stephen had spoken of her one evening. ‘I want Mary
Llewellyn to know my real home; some day I must bring her to
Morton with me.’ She had stopped, seeing Anna’s warning face—
expressionless, closed; while as for her answer, it had been more
eloquent far than words—a disconcerting, unequivocal silence. And
Stephen, had she ever entertained any doubt, must have known at
that moment past all hope of doubting, that her mother’s omission
to invite the girl had indeed been meant as a slight upon Mary.
Getting up, she had gone to her father’s study.
Puddle, who had held her peace at the time, had spoken just
before Stephen’s departure. ‘My dear, I know it’s all terribly hard
about Morton—about . . .’ She had hesitated.
And Stephen had thought with renewed bitterness: ‘Even she
jibs, it seems, at mentioning Mary.’ She had answered: ‘If you’re
speaking of Mary Llewellyn, I shall certainly never bring her to
Morton, that is as long as my mother lives—I don’t allow her to be
insulted.’
Then Puddle had looked at Stephen gravely. ‘You’re not working,
and yet work’s your only weapon. Make the world respect you, as
you can do through your work; it’s the surest harbour of refuge for
your friend, the only harbour—remember that—and it’s up to you to
provide it, Stephen.’
Stephen had been too sore at heart to reply; but throughout the
long journey from Morton to Paris, Puddle’s words had kept
hammering in her brain: ‘You’re not working, and yet work’s your
only weapon.’
So while Mary lay sleeping in Stephen’s arms on that first blessèd
night of their reunion, her lover lay wide-eyed with sleeplessness,
planning the work she must do on the morrow, cursing her own
indolence and folly, her illusion of safety where none existed.

They soon settled down to their more prosaic days very much as
quite ordinary people will do. Each of them now had her separate
tasks—Stephen her writing, and Mary the household, the paying of
bills, the filing of receipts, the answering of unimportant letters. But
for her there were long hours of idleness, since Pauline and Pierre
were almost too perfect—they would smile and manage the house
their own way, which it must be admitted was better than Mary’s. As
for the letters, there were not very many; and as for the bills, there
was plenty of money—being spared the struggle to make two ends
meet, she was also deprived of the innocent pleasure of scheming to
provide little happy surprises, little extra comforts for the person she
loved, which in youth can add a real zest to existence. Then Stephen
had found her typing too slow, so was sending the work to a woman
in Passy; obsessed by a longing to finish her book, she would
tolerate neither let nor hindrance. And because of their curious
isolation, there were times when Mary would feel very lonely. For
whom did she know? She had no friends in Paris except the kind
Mademoiselle Duphot and Julie. Once a week, it is true, she could go
and see Buisson, for Stephen continued to keep up her fencing; and
occasionally Brockett would come strolling in, but his interest was
centred entirely in Stephen; if she should be working, as was often
the case, he would not waste very much time over Mary.
Stephen often called her into the study, comforted by the girl’s
loving presence. ‘Come and sit with me, sweetheart, I like you in
here.’ But quite soon she would seem to forget all about her. ‘What
. . . what?’ she would mutter, frowning a little. ‘Don’t speak to me
just for a minute, Mary. Go and have your luncheon, there’s a good
child; I’ll come when I’ve finished this bit—you go on!’ But Mary’s
meal might be eaten alone; for meals had become an annoyance to
Stephen.
Of course there was David, the grateful, the devoted. Mary could
always talk to David, but since he could never answer her back the
conversation was very one-sided. Then too, he was making it
obvious that he, in his turn, was missing Stephen; he would hang
around looking discontented when she failed to go out after frequent
suggestions. For although his heart was faithful to Mary, the gentle
dispenser of all salvation, yet the instinct that has dwelt in the soul
of the male, perhaps ever since Adam left the Garden of Eden, the
instinct that displays itself in club windows and in other such places
of male segregation, would make him long for the companionable
walks that had sometimes been taken apart from Mary. Above all
would it make him long intensely for Stephen’s strong hands and
purposeful ways; for that queer, intangible something about her that
appealed to the canine manhood in him. She always allowed him to
look after himself, without fussing; in a word, she seemed restful to
David.
Mary, slipping noiselessly out of the study, might whisper: ‘We’ll
go to the Tuileries Gardens.’
But when they arrived there, what was there to do? For of course
a dog must not dive after goldfish—David understood this; there
were goldfish at home—he must not start splashing about in ponds
that had tiresome stone rims and ridiculous fountains. He and Mary
would wander along gravel paths, among people who stared at and
made fun of David: ‘Quel drôle de chien, mais regardez sa queue!’
They were like that, these French; they had laughed at his mother.
She had told him never so much as to say: ‘Wouf!’ For what did they
matter? Still, it was disconcerting. And although he had lived in
France all his life—having indeed known no other country—as he
walked in the stately Tuileries Gardens, the Celt in his blood would
conjure up visions: great beetling mountains with winding courses
down which the torrents went roaring in winter; the earth smell, the
dew smell, the smell of wild things which a dog might hunt and yet
remain lawful—for of all this and more had his old mother told him.
These visions it was that had led him astray, that had treacherously
led him half starving to Paris; and that, sometimes, even in these
placid days, would come back as he walked in the Tuileries Gardens.
But now his heart must thrust them aside—a captive he was now,
through love of Mary.
But to Mary there would come one vision alone, that of a garden
at Orotava; a garden lighted by luminous darkness, and filled with
the restless rhythm of singing.

The autumn passed, giving place to the winter, with its short, dreary
days of mist and rain. There was now little beauty left in Paris. A
grey sky hung above the old streets of the Quarter, a sky which no
longer looked bright by contrast, as though seen at the end of a
tunnel. Stephen was working like some one possessed, entirely re-
writing her pre-war novel. Good it had been, but not good enough,
for she now saw life from a much wider angle; and moreover, she
was writing this book for Mary. Remembering Mary, remembering
Morton, her pen covered sheet after sheet of paper; she wrote with
the speed of true inspiration, and at times her work brushed the
hem of greatness. She did not entirely neglect the girl for whose
sake she was making this mighty effort—that she could not have
done even had she wished to, since love was the actual source of
her effort. But quite soon there were days when she would not go
out, or if she did go, when she seemed abstracted, so that Mary
must ask her the same question twice—then as likely as not get a
nebulous answer. And soon there were days when all that she did
apart from her writing was done with an effort, with an obvious
effort to be considerate.
‘Would you like to go to a play one night, Mary?’
If Mary said yes, and procured the tickets, they were usually late,
because of Stephen who had worked right up to the very last
minute.
Sometimes there were poignant if small disappointments when
Stephen had failed to keep a promise. ‘Listen, Mary darling—will you
ever forgive me if I don’t come with you about those furs? I’ve a bit
of work here I simply must finish. You do understand?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’ But Mary, left to choose her new furs alone,
had quite suddenly felt that she did not want them.
And this sort of thing happened fairly often.
If only Stephen had confided in her, had said: ‘I’m trying to build
you a refuge; remember what I told you in Orotava!’ But no, she
shrank from reminding the girl of the gloom that surrounded their
small patch of sunshine. If only she had shown a little more patience
with Mary’s careful if rather slow typing, and so given her a real
occupation—but no, she must send the work off to Passy, because
the sooner this book was finished the better it would be for Mary’s
future. And thus, blinded by love and her desire to protect the
woman she loved, she erred towards Mary.
When she had finished her writing for the day, she frequently
read it aloud in the evening. And although Mary knew that the
writing was fine, yet her thoughts would stray from the book to
Stephen. The deep, husky voice would read on and on, having in it
something urgent, appealing, so that Mary must suddenly kiss
Stephen’s hand, or the scar on her cheek, because of that voice far
more than because of what it was reading.
And now there were times when, serving two masters, her
passion for this girl and her will to protect her, Stephen would be
torn by conflicting desires, by opposing mental and physical
emotions. She would want to save herself for her work; she would
want to give herself wholly to Mary.
Yet quite often she would work far into the night. ‘I’m going to
be late—you go to bed, sweetheart.’
And when she herself had at last toiled upstairs, she would steal
like a thief past Mary’s bedroom, although Mary would nearly always
hear her.
‘Is that you, Stephen?’
‘Yes. Why aren’t you asleep? Do you realize that it’s three in the
morning?’
‘Is it? You’re not angry, are you, darling? I kept thinking of you
alone in the study. Come here and say you’re not angry with me,
even if it is three o’clock in the morning!’
Then Stephen would slip off her old tweed coat and would fling
herself down on the bed beside Mary, too exhausted to do more
than take the girl in her arms, and let her lie there with her head on
her shoulder.
 But Mary would be thinking of all those things which she found
so deeply appealing in Stephen—the scar on her cheek, the
expression in her eyes, the strength and the queer, shy gentleness of
her—the strength which at moments could not be gentle. And as
they lay there Stephen might sleep, worn out by the strain of those
long hours of writing. But Mary would not sleep, or if she slept it
would be when the dawn was paling the windows.

One morning Stephen looked at Mary intently. ‘Come here. You’re not
well! What’s the matter? Tell me.’ For she thought that the girl was
unusually pale, thought too that her lips drooped a little at the
corners; and a sudden fear contracted her heart. ‘Tell me at once
what’s the matter with you!’ Her voice was rough with anxiety, and
she laid an imperative hand over Mary’s.
Mary protested. ‘Don’t be absurd; there’s nothing the matter, I’m
perfectly well—you’re imagining things.’ For what could be the
matter? Was she not here in Paris with Stephen? But her eyes filled
with tears, and she turned away quickly to hide them, ashamed of
her own unreason.
Stephen stuck to her point. ‘You don’t look a bit well. We
shouldn’t have stayed in Paris last summer.’ Then because her own
nerves were on edge that day, she frowned. ‘It’s this business of
your not eating whenever I can’t get in to a meal. I know you don’t
eat—Pierre’s told me about it. You mustn’t behave like a baby, Mary!
I shan’t be able to write a line if I feel you’re ill because you’re not
eating.’ Her fear was making her lose her temper. ‘I shall send for a
doctor,’ she finished brusquely.
Mary refused point-blank to see a doctor. What was she to tell
him? She hadn’t any symptoms. Pierre exaggerated. She ate quite
enough—she had never been a very large eater. Stephen had better
get on with her work and stop upsetting herself over nothing.