Instead of the Thorn Page 16

  “Rather outspoken, of course,” he said. “Personally I like to hear a spade called a spade, though.”

  “Undoubtedly,” Cynthia replied, “but it is not always necessary to call it a ‘bloody shovel.’”

  That was awful of Cynthia; even Stephen looked annoyed. Elizabeth began to talk quickly about the electric-light signs in Piccadilly Circus.

  “Cyn, you are the limit,” Stephen told her, aside.

  “Sorry. Treacle-eyes arouse the worst in me.”

  Stephen’s shoulders began to shake.

  “Apt little devil! I never noticed them till you mentioned it.”

  “You’re often rather blind,” said Cynthia calmly.

  A few days later, Mr. Hengist, who had been abroad on business, returned, and lunched with Stephen at his club. He went on afterwards to see Elizabeth, and found her sewing in her private room.

  “Well, child?” he said.

  Elizabeth jumped up.

  “Mr. Hengist! How nice of you to come! Did Stephen bring you?”

  He kissed her, clumsily.

  “No; he went on to the City. How are you, my dear?”

  “Very well indeed, thanks,” she answered. “And you?”

  “Not so young as I was. Are you reading this?” He picked up a book from the table.

  “No; Stephen is. I can’t get on with Yeats.”

  “A pity,” he said. “Still reading Victoria Cross and Charles Garvice?”

  “Oh, I never did!” she protested. “How unfair! Anyway, I shouldn’t dare to with Stephen in the offing. The cigarettes are in that box at your elbow. Do have one!”

  “I’d rather have a pipe, if you don’t mind the smell of it.”

  She laughed at him.

  “You know I don’t mind! You’re very polite to me all at once.”

  His eyes twinkled.

  “It’s a nice change, isn’t it? It’ll wear off, Elizabeth. I’m shy just at the moment. How do you like Stephen now you’re married to him?”

  “Very much, thank you,” she smiled. “How do you like him?”

  “I always did. I think he’s a man in a thousand.”

  She opened her eyes at that.

  “Do you? Why?”

  “To have put up with you all this time,” he parried. “Tell me about your home. I don’t trust your father’s description.”

  “It’s perfectly lovely,” she answered. “Tudor, you know, with an enchanting garden. Will you come down to stay with us in the spring?”

  “Certainly, if you ask me. And don’t invite me to come when your father and aunt are with you. I see them any day of the week.”

  It was just what she had intended to do; already she had begun to plan.

  “Not? But— Anyone would think you didn’t like them!”

  “Your aunt and I don’t hit it off very well, as you know. I’d rather come alone to see you.”

  She did not quite know what to say. She had known that Miss Arden did not always approve of Mr. Hengist, but it had never occurred to her that Mr. Hengist did not like her aunt. She decided to change the subject.

  “I saw my first Rugger-match just lately,” she said. “A friend of Stephen’s took me. It was so exciting.”

  Mr. Hengist’s eyes gleamed suddenly, and he took his pipe out of his mouth.

  “Still at it, Elizabeth,” he said drily.

  She did not understand at all. She was glad that the page-boy came in at that moment. Mr. Hengist was so queer.

  The page told her that Wendell had called to see her. She said, “Ask him to come up, please,” and turned once more to Mr. Hengist.

  “Funnily enough it was Mr. Wendell who took me to Twickenham. He was with Stephen at the Front.”

  “Oh, really?” said Mr. Hengist, politely but not with any great show of interest.

  Wendell came in; mentally Mr. Hengist said, Dresses too well; don’t like his eyes.

  “Hullo, Charles!” Elizabeth said vivaciously. “How nice of you to come and see me! Mr. Hengist, may I introduce Mr. Wendell?”

  Both men murmured something inaudible.

  “Look here, Betty, what I really came round for was to ask you if you’d care to run out with me in the car and have tea somewhere. Topping day, an’ all that. If you wrap up well don’t you know ...?”

  “It’s very kind of you, Charles, but I’m afraid I can’t. Stay and have tea here instead. Stephen will be in very soon.”

  Mr. Hengist rose.

  “Don’t refuse on my account,” he said. “I must be going. I only just dropped in to see you.”

  “Oh, don’t go!” she cried. “I should so like you to stop to tea! I can go motoring with Charles any day of the week!”

  Mr. Hengist thought, Can you indeed? but aloud he repeated that he must go.

  On the way home he did some hard thinking. He had never seen Elizabeth so sprightly, or so coquettish. And all for a man who dressed too well.

  “Gaiety male chorus,” said Mr. Hengist to a lamp-post.

  But in the first week of January Stephen took Elizabeth home, and left Wendell with no more than a casual invitation to come and visit them some time or other.

  At Queen’s Halt Stephen, whose fingers had itched for a pen during the past weeks, drew forth his manuscript and set to work on it once more. Elizabeth tried to read William Morris, curled up beside the fire. Outside everything was damp and cold, the garden bare, the trees gaunt and shimmering against a grey sky.

  The wonder of it was that Stephen could see beauty even in this dripping landscape. Elizabeth could not; she could only see that it was dreary and cold. The beds, stripped of their flowers, depressed her; the sky above was uniformly drab, lowering and chill.

  Lady Ribblemere invited her to Afternoon Bridge. Elizabeth refused the invitation, saying that she did not really play. Lady Ribblemere said, Never mind, we are none of us good. In a misguided moment Elizabeth went. She had always absented herself from her aunt’s bridge-parties; she did not know the evil spell which Bridge casts over people; she had no idea that Bridge could transform a kindly, good-natured woman into a shrewish harpy. She was appalled to see how polish and good manners fell from Lady Ribblemere and her guests.

  They cut for partners; everyone smiled and was polite. Elizabeth said nervously that she must warn them that she was a beginner. They were so encouraging that she took heart. Her partner was Mrs. Edmondston, the Vicar’s wife.

  As soon as the hands were dealt round an air of gloom, of despair, and of suspicious secrecy descended on the three other women. Lady Ribblemere said, in an Oh-if-I-must-declare voice, One spade.

  Then Elizabeth said, No, in quite the wrong tone of voice. She discovered soon that if you said No, you must say it wearily, and as though you were bored and wanted to stop playing and go home.

  Mrs. Ffolliot, who had seemed at first a gay little woman with laughing eyes, also said No, very crossly. Elizabeth’s partner shrugged and proclaimed, One No Trump. Everyone said No to that, which made Mrs. Edmondston look more annoyed than ever. The game was played; that was easy. The worst came afterwards, when Mrs. Edmondston told Elizabeth that she had absolutely given the game away with that idiotic lead in the second round.

  “I should have thought you must have known from my lead that I had the ace, queen, knave!” she snapped.

  Elizabeth could only falter, I’m sorry. The worst thing of all, though, was when, at the end of the three rubbers, she found herself a winner. Mrs. Edmondston was pleased; their opponents were not.

  “Never seen such cards!” Mrs. Ffolliot exclaimed peevishly. “Why, in that last hand I’d hardly one court card! Even then if you hadn’t thrown away your king, Lady Ribblemere, we might have had a chance.”

  “You over called my hand in the previous round,” Lady Ribblemere retorted with dignity. “But our opponents had all the luck. I always think it so strange how the luck favours one side. Really, a very poor game to-day. So unequal. Dear me, all those honours, Mrs. Edmondston? I do not r
ecollect— Oh, no doubt you are right! Yes, a very poor game.”

  Yet all Elizabeth said to Stephen was, I didn’t enjoy it very much.

  That was the end of her career as a Bridge Player; thereafter she steadfastly refused all invitations; it was too alarming, and too unpleasant.

  Stephen still occupied the bed in his dressing-room; a slight attack of influenza furnished Elizabeth with an excuse to keep him there. She began to dread the finish of his book; nothing would serve her as an excuse then. She did not know what she would do; she dared not think of that.

  Nina was more often than ever at Queen’s Halt, for she too was writing a book. Elizabeth felt that it was purely competitive, or perhaps just a reason to come and talk to Stephen. Nina stood on no ceremony; she never rang the front-door hell, hut walked straight into the hall and shouted to Elizabeth, or to Stephen. After all, she thought, it was her house, not Nina’s, and she had not asked her to treat it as her own.

  Nina insisted on reading chapters to Stephen. Elizabeth listened in growing bewilderment, to the haze of words. To her they were meaningless, sometimes even Stephen could not understand them.

  “Look here, what is this supposed to be?” he demanded once. “Burlesque, tragedy, or satire?”

  “What do you think?” Nina asked.

  “Good lord, I don’t know! Cut out the talk and get down to facts. If only you wouldn’t try and be so damned clever in every second sentence!”

  “You don’t like it?” Nina became defensive, ready to fight.

  “Oh yes, parts of it! I can’t stand that maundering Edwin-person, though. Mixture of Voltaire and Destoievsky.”

  “I believe I have been influenced by the Russian school.”

  “Judging by the morbidity I should say you have. Come off the roof, Nina, and leave the Russians alone, God help them!”

  Then they would argue, banteringly, intimately, till Elizabeth could have screamed. Sometimes Nina grew heated over the argument, furious with Stephen for his imperturbable teasing. Then he would shake her, or pinch her nose, and call her a silly little ass, and tell her to shut up.

  “What do you think of the blasted book?” he asked Elizabeth, when Nina had departed.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t use such language, Stephen. I daresay the book is all right, but I get very tired of hearing nothing but books, books, books all day long.”

  He was hurt by the acidity in her voice, and drew back.

  “Sorry if I’ve bored you,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t object to hearing ‘book’ from you!” she said.

  “Thanks very much,” Stephen answered drily.

  Her nerves were on edge; every little thing jarred upon her; she began to think herself neglected, miserable, and to long for congenial companionship. Stephen never was in time for meals; he ignored both gongs; she had always to go and fetch him.

  “Stephen dear, I wish you’d try and be more punctual!” she would sigh. “Or say when you’d like to have dinner. It’s not fair to the servants if you’re always late. It upsets everything.”

  No one had ever expected him to be punctual; no one had worried him, or cared at what hour he dined.

  “My dear girl, the servants are used to my ways. It never has upset them and I don’t see why it should now.”

  “It keeps everything back,” she complained. “It makes it very difficult for me, too.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, ’Lisbeth,” he said. There was finality in his voice. Elizabeth remembered that Mrs. Ramsay had said it was she who would have to do the adapting.

  “Yes, that’s all very well,” she said, “but I do think you might consider me sometimes.”

  He looked at her, then came and sat down beside her.

  “What is it, darling? Why so cross?”

  “I’m not cross.”

  He tried to draw her on to his knee, but she shrank from him, and slipped away. He rose quickly.

  “Elizabeth!”

  She was trembling; she did not want him to touch her, yet she could not face the difficulties and the terrible trouble that would come if she told him so.

  “I—I’ve got a headache. Pm tired.”

  “But why did you flinch?”

  “I didn’t! I didn’t!”

  “You did. It’s not the first time either. For God’s sake, tell me, Elizabeth. What is it?”

  No, she could not bear it. It was all so hard and so awful. The easiest thing was to smother your feelings, and to keep up the wretched pretence. She went to him.

  “Oh, Stephen, how silly you are! I just feel out of sorts and otherwise-minded.”

  The anxious look in his eyes, the little worried frown, aroused her pity, and the mother in her. She tiptoed, to kiss him, and stroked his cheek.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Stephen dear.”

  His arms went round her.

  “Oh, my darling! Angry with you!”

  Cynthia came down for the week-end, with Christopher; she was polite and friendly towards Elizabeth, but there was antipathy between them. Christopher was adorable, and Elizabeth loved him. He was so fat and seraphic, and so determined. When you did something to amuse him he chuckled, and said, Again! He went on saying, Again, louder and louder, until you obeyed him. Cynthia sat in a big armchair, and Elizabeth played with Christopher at her feet.

  “You ought to have one of your own,” Cynthia said, quite gently.

  Elizabeth pretended not to hear. How blunt Cynthia was!

  But Stephen wanted it; Elizabeth knew that, and it frightened her. Once he spoke of it; she said, Not yet; I couldn’t. She was too young, she was not in very good health: so she evaded him.

  Neither was happy, neither could speak of their unhappiness to anyone. Stephen knew now that Elizabeth was fighting to keep him away from her; that hurt almost unbearably. There seemed to be pitfalls all about him; one wrong step, he felt, would land him in one of them. He clung to the hope that Elizabeth was suffering from the depressing after-effects of influenza. She would get over it in time, if he were inconsiderate now, and forced her to yield to him, something terrible might happen to their marriage. He was not a fool; he could feel that disaster was hovering about them. If he were gentle and kind, they might come safely through this stormy period. Elizabeth was so young and so fragile, so easily scared; he could only wait, he thought. She should not be forced into submission; she made it impossible for him to talk to her, reasonably, as he would have liked to have done.

  As for Wendell, it was easy to see that he was attracted to Elizabeth. That Elizabeth had, or could ever have, a more tender feeling towards him than friendship was impossible. That conviction was deeply rooted. Stephen could see no danger in allowing Wendell to visit them, if Elizabeth wanted it. Of all men, he, with his too-soft eyes, and too-full lips, was the least likely to exercise fascination over Elizabeth. When she awoke to a full realisation of love it would be for her husband, never for Wendell. You could not think of Elizabeth and Wendell together: it was loathsome, yes, ludicrous too. It was not as though Elizabeth’s code of morals was elastic; it was rigid and strict. Wendell, Stephen felt, could never be a danger.

  So when, in March, he invited himself to Queen’s Halt for a long week-end, Stephen said,

  “What do you feel about it, darling?”

  “Oh—I don’t really care!” she said. “Just as you like, Stephen.”

  “No, just as you like. If you think it’ll be a nuisance we’ll put him off.”

  “I don’t think we ought to do that—I’d rather like to see him again. He’s fun.”

  “Righto, ’Lisbeth,” he said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wendell arrived on Friday, in a new car. He said that he had had her all out last week and she touched seventy. Not bad for a little bus like that, was it? He brought Elizabeth an enormous box of chocolates, and some hothouse roses. She took them as graceful gifts to the hostess, and thanked him very much. Then he said, By Jove, topping place this, what? and admired the w
hat-you-may-call it in the hall.

  “Oh, the warming-pan!” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes. Jolly picturesque and quaint, an’ all that. Hullo! Nice little spaniel, that. Envy you this place, Ramsay, ’pon my word I do. ’Spose you’re a great gardener, Betty, what?”

  “No, I’m very stupid about it,” Elizabeth said. “The gardener says I pick the wrong flowers. Are you fond of the country?”

  “Oh, rather! Country in winter—jolly nice, you know. Hunting, an’ all that. Had a very good day a month ago with the Quorn. Pal o’ mine belongs. D’you hunt?”

  “I don’t ride at all. Stephen does, only he doesn’t care for hunting.”

  Wendell stared at Stephen.

  “What, not really?”

  “I’m a conscientious objector,” Stephen said.

  “Oh—fox gets a damn fine run for its money,” Wendell said vaguely. “Even chances, don’t you know?”

  “I wasn’t really thinking about the fox, but about the mere human.”

  Wendell was nonplussed. Queer chap, Ramsay.

  “Human? Don’t quite get you.”

  “I like to discourage the primeval instinct,” Stephen said.

  “Oh—er—quite, quite!” Wendell answered, totally at sea. “You writing chaps always have funny notions. I say, Betty, I brought my golf clubs. You promised to take me round, remember?”

  “I think you’d better go with Stephen,” she smiled. “My golf is very little better than my billiards.”

  “Then it’s jolly good,” he said stoutly. “Stephen’s got to write his book.”

  Next morning she did take him round the golf-course, to prepare him, he said, for his round with Stephen in the afternoon. They did not play very seriously, but they talked a lot.

  Wendell, striding along beside Elizabeth, said,

  “Not looking awfully fit, are you, Bets? Tired, I mean, and a bit thin.”

  She thought how kind it was of him, and how sympathetic, to ask her.

  “I had ’flu in January, and I haven’t really got over it yet.”

  “Should think it’s pretty dull for you, buried down here, with Stephen writing all day,” he remarked.