Instead of the Thorn Page 19

  “But it’ll be there. Surely I’m not as hateful to you as that?”

  “No—but—I couldn’t!”

  There was a pause.

  “Shall your things be sent to you here?” Stephen asked.

  “Yes, p-please. I—I think I shall go away—for a time. To the sea, perhaps. By myself.”

  His eyelids flickered.

  “Take Sarah,” he said. “You’re such a—babe.”

  “I—I’d rather go alone. I shan’t come to any harm. I—I don’t want to see anyone—for a bit.”

  He was frowning. He looked down at her.

  “May I give you the address of some rooms? I know the landlady. I’d feel happier about you, ’Lisbeth.”

  “Oh—if you like! Thank you.”

  He drew out his pocket-book and wrote an address.

  “At Torquay,” he said, giving the slip of paper into her hand. “I think you’ll like it.” He rose, and she saw that his face was almost haggard. “I think—that’s all. Except—Goodbye.”

  She rose also.

  “And—and thank you. I do—appreciate—what you’re doing for me. I’m—I’m sorry for—everything. I suppose—my people—know?”

  “No. I rang up to ask if you were there—but I was careful not to—let them suspect. ... You see, I thought then that—well, never mind.”

  “I shall have to tell them,” she said. Then she put out her hand. “Goodbye, Stephen.”

  He took her hand and kissed it for a long moment.

  “No, ’Lisbeth. Only— au revoir.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Elizabeth left London almost immediately for Torquay. Mentally she was bruised. All these months of strain had preyed on her nerves, so that now her whole system cried out for peace and rest. She left most of her baggage at Baker Street, and with one small trunk journeyed west.

  Before she left she wrote to her aunt and to her father, a joint letter. She was amazed at her own curtness when she read the letter over; it seemed as though all the softness and affection had gone out of her. Baldly, reticently she told her family what had happened. She would say nothing that was disloyal to Stephen; it was just “a mistake,” and they had agreed to part “at any rate for a time.” She begged that neither Lawrence nor Miss Arden would follow her to Torquay; she wanted to be alone, but when she returned to London she would come to see them.

  She thought, How strange that I should write like this to my people! Only a year ago I could not have done it. I thought that I adored them. Was I pretending then, or have I changed?

  Their answers reached her at Torquay. A wail ran through Miss Arden’s six-paged letter, a wail against the brutality and selfishness of men, a wail for her niece’s unhappiness. Without hearing the facts she ranged herself on Elizabeth’s side. Men were beasts; men cared only for themselves; men were everything that was loathsome. Elizabeth must come home, and “forget all about it.” Elizabeth must surely want her aunt at such a time. She at least understood and sympathised.

  Elizabeth read it through slowly, dispassionately. Yes, Aunt was being kind, but it was too late. She was left far behind; she belonged to the past, that other world. She didn’t understand. The letter went on to the fire, not in anger or impatience, but in sadness.

  Lawrence began, My dear little girl. That jarred. Lawrence took her parting from Stephen as a personal insult to himself. He was astonished, grieved; he was sure he did not know what his little girl was thinking about. He had approved Stephen as a husband for her; she must return to Stephen at once. Really, he thought she had taken leave of her senses.

  That letter followed Miss Arden’s into the fire. They couldn’t understand; they didn’t even see how much they were to blame.

  Torquay soothed her. She, who had never been by herself before, now gloried in her freedom. Stephen wrote briefly that he was going abroad for a time, but that letters addressed to his agent would find him. Elizabeth felt that she could breathe more freely now that there was no fear of meeting her husband.

  Her landlady was sometimes rather trying. She would come up to Elizabeth’s sitting-room on some pretext or other, and would stand there by the door, her hands under her apron, indulging in reminiscence. Mostly it was, Fancy now! To think of Mr. Stephen—I should say Ramsay—being grown up and married, as you might say.

  Elizabeth smiled always, and answered,

  “It must seem strange.”

  “Well, it do, ma’am, an’ that’s a fact. Why, it seems only yesterday they was ’ere—’im and ’is ma, an’ Miss Cynthia. Lor’, an’ she’s married too! Well, reely, I find it ’ard to believe, ma’am.”

  “She has a son—a dear little chap,” Elizabeth said.

  “Has she reely, ma’am? Well, I do declare! An’ how’s Mrs. Ramsay, if I may ask?”

  “Very well, I believe. I—I haven’t seen her for some little time.”

  “Ah, well, she were what I call a real lady. Not one of your C3 ladies. I remember she were always losing something, an’ the nurse an’ Master Stephen—I should say Mr. Ramsay—was always runnin’ round after her. Well, I must say she did make me laugh.” Then Mrs Benson would draw a deep breath and start off again.

  “And now Mr. Stephen—I should say Mr. Ramsay—has got a wife of his own! I read ’is book what came out a year ago. If I may pass the remark I should say that it was a very pretty tale, I’m shore. When I think of ’im sitting in this very room with ’is ma—well, he couldn’t ’ave bin moreen twelve—lookin’ after ’er, quite the man, as I says to Mrs. Ramsay—well, reely, it does make you think, don’t it?”

  Elizabeth agreed that it did.

  “I took quite a fancy to ’im, I must say. Well, ’e ’ad such a way with him an’ all. I’m the man o’ the fam’ly, ’e says to me. I got to look after me mother and Cynthia. Well, I thought, if that isn’t touching! An’ so ’es married. Will ’e be coming down ’ere at all, ma’am, if I may make so bold as to ask?”

  “Er—no,” Elizabeth said. “I—I’ve come—by myself, on a—rest-cure.”

  That always aroused Mrs. Benson’s sympathy and interest. She told Elizabeth all about her own ailments, and how her pore ’usband used to suffer somethink cruel, ’e did, from ’is inside. A floating kidney, ’e ’ad, and she could assure Elizabeth it weren’t no joke, because you couldn’t ever tell where it ’ud get to next, as one might say.

  Elizabeth usually terminated these gruesome recollections by going out for a walk. Nothing else would stop Mrs. Benson, once she had got into the swing of her narration.

  She remained at Torquay for a month, leading a life of indolence and much thought. Then loneliness came to her, and she longed for companionship. Whose companionship she did not know. Not Miss Arden’s, certainly, or her father’s.

  She went back to London, to the little south room that had been kept for her. You could hear the roar of the traffic in Baker Street from it, not aggressively, but as from a great distance. That in itself was company. If you craned out of the window and looked along the street you could see the gay red omnibuses pass the end of the road. But it was lonely in the hotel. Save for one old lady, who objected to all newcomers, she was by herself there all day. The other people snatched hasty breakfasts early in the morning, and did not appear again until dinner-time.

  Miss Arden was upset that Elizabeth would not come back to live at home. In that resolve Elizabeth was unshakeable. She could give no reasons, because they would have hurt Miss Arden; she could only repeat that she wanted to live alone.

  Lawrence fumed and was aggrieved. It was impossible that his little girl should do such a thing. If she refused to return to her husband—really, he would never have believed that Elizabeth could be so selfish and unreasonable— she must live under the shelter of her father’s roof. That was his last word.

  It wasn’t his last word by any means, but his arguments made no impression on Elizabeth. She listened wearily, and when he had finished, said,

  “I’m sorry, father. I
prefer to stay where I am.”

  “And pray what am I to say to Stephen?” Lawrence inquired. “Do you suppose he will approve of this—this independence? I never heard of such a thing. I’m most disappointed in you, Elizabeth. I can’t get over your behaviour.”

  “I’m sorry. Stephen knows what I am doing. He quite approves.”

  “I don’t know what the world’s coming to!” Lawrence said. “I should have thought the least Stephen could do would have been to come and see me. Instead of that he writes me a letter, stating the facts in what I can only call a very curt way. The whole affair is most disgraceful and uncalled for. If you want my opinion, there it is.”

  She didn’t want it. He was futile and tiresome. If only he would leave her alone! If only Miss Arden would not say, Oh, my dear, I’m not surprised! I felt it coming! Miss Arden wanted to hear the full story; she worried Elizabeth to tell her everything. In desperation Elizabeth said,

  “It’s between Stephen and me. I can’t tell anyone. Please leave me alone!”

  Then Miss Arden would look hurt, and shake her head.

  “How you’ve changed, Elizabeth!” she would sigh.

  Elizabeth’s visits home grew less and less frequent. Often when Miss Arden came to her hotel she told the porter to say that she had gone out. Aunt Anne meant to be kind, but she made matters worse.

  Then, one afternoon when she was darning stockings in her bedroom, Mr. Hengist’s card was brought up to her. That drove the colour from her cheeks; she felt she could not face him, and yet that she must. She went down to the lounge and stood against the door, looking at him in unhappy defiance, at bay.

  “Hullo, Elizabeth,” he said, coming forward. “You’re not looking very fit, my dear. I didn’t come to see you before as I thought you’d want to be alone.”

  The defiance went out of her; gratefully she touk his hand.

  “It’s so—nice of you to come,” was all she could say. “Sit down—there’s only one horrid old lady in at the moment, and she lives in the drawing-room. You’ll stay to tea, won’t you?”

  “No, I want you to come out to tea with me,” he said.

  She sat down opposite him, on the other side of the fireplace.

  “Thank you very much. I’m—I’m afraid I’m in disgrace, though.” She smiled, rather pitifully.

  “My dear child, your father’s a nice old stick, but he’s a fool.”

  She gasped.

  “Good gracious, Mr. Hengist!”

  “You know that as well as I do,” he said. “Your aunt too. Well-meaning, which makes it worse. Where’s Stephen?”

  “I think—in Spain.”

  He nodded.

  “Seen any of his relations?”

  “Oh, no!” she shuddered. “I daren’t! I couldn’t!”

  “Um! Well, you’ve made a fairly good mess of things, Elizabeth.”

  “Don’t say, I told you so!” she begged. There was a catch in her voice.

  “It’s the last thing in the world I should say. What I want to know is, Are you any happier now that you’ve chucked Stephen and started out on your own?”

  She looked down at her wedding-ring, and twisted it in silence for a moment.

  “I think—I shall be.”

  “But you’re not at present?”

  “Oh ...! I’m glad to be free. If Father and Aunt Anne—wouldn’t—wouldn’t make things so hard—I should he very happy, I think.”

  He started to fill the inevitable pipe, but she saw the twinkle in his eye.

  “All right. We’ll see. Question is, what are you going to do?”

  “Do?” She looked startled.

  “Yes, do. Going to live an aimless life in a hotel?”

  “Oh, no, of course not! I—I’m afraid I haven’t thought about it much just yet.”

  “Well, I suggest that you do think about it. You’ll soon get bored if you’ve no occupation.”

  He was unexpected and cheerful; she felt that he was her best friend. He was very outspoken, of course, but how kind!

  “What can I do?” she asked. “I don’t think I have any special qualifications.”

  “Not one,” he agreed candidly.

  “I can drive a car,” she pointed out, rather piqued.

  “I shouldn’t, recommend a job as chauffeuse. Too tiring.”

  “I can tell you what I would rather like to do,” she said suddenly, “I’d like to help in a creche. Children, you know.”

  “Not a bad idea,” he said. “Two days a week stunt. Not at all bad.”

  “Of course, one doesn’t get paid for that sort of work,” she said.

  He blew a cloud of smoke.

  “Oh! Want money?”

  “Well, yes. I—I shall want some.”

  “Haven’t you an allowance?”

  She flushed.

  “I won’t touch a penny of it!”

  “Quite right,” said Mr. Hengist. “Don’t.”

  She looked up eagerly.

  “Oh, you do see that I can’t?”

  “Certainly. If you let a man down you can’t live on his money.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Do you—think—that, Mr. Hengist?”

  “What, that you’ve let Stephen down? Yes. What do you think?”

  “I—you don’t quite—understand.”

  “My dear child, don’t start that parrot-cry. It means nothing. You married Stephen, you found marriage wasn’t quite as jolly as you thought it was going to be, so you chucked it up. However, I didn’t come to talk about that. It’s nothing to do with me. You can settle your own differences.”

  “Mr. Hengist—I want you to realize that—whether I’ve behaved badly—or not—I’m not going back—to Stephen.”

  “All right, don’t. I think you’ll be throwing away an exceedingly nice husband, but that’s your lookout. Revenons à nos moutons. What do you propose to do?”

  Mr. Hengist was not taking her seriously; he talked as though she were still a child, not as though she were a woman who had taken a great step in life.

  “I don’t know,” she said peevishly. “I shall have to think about it.” Then an idea occurred to her, and she leaned forward. “Oh, Mr. Hengist, how much ought I to give the waitress here? And the chambermaid, and the porter?”

  He was puzzled.

  “Give them? Give them what?”

  “Tips. I’ve—I’ve never done it, and it is so difficult to know. I—I think one does it regularly, only how much ought I to give?”

  “I’ve no idea,” he said brazenly. “That’s one of the drawbacks of being on your own, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t regret it,” she said quickly. “Only—I’m thinking of going into rooms.”

  “Won’t you be rather lonely?”

  “Oh, no! I’ye—I’ve my friends, and anyway I hardly ever speak to the other people here. I should be much more comfortable in rooms. In fact, I’ve been looking at one or two, and I’ve almost decided to move into some further down the street. They’re very clean and nice, and I liked the landlady. I should be awfully happy in a little place by myself.”

  “Would you?” Again Mr. Hengist’s eyes twinkled. “Then I should move into them by all means. You might take in typewriting.”

  She was dubious.

  “What sort of typewriting? I haven’t got a machine, and they’re awfully expensive to buy. Besides, I don’t know how to type.”

  “Easily learn,” he said. “As a matter of fact I’ve got a machine I don’t want. I’ll bring it along.”

  She looked rather suspicious.

  “You’ve got a machine?”

  “Yes,” he lied cheerfully. “I bought it not long ago, and I’ve hardly used it. A Remington. You can have it.”

  “It’s awfully kind of you,” she said. “You’ll—you’ll let me pay for it—won’t you?”

  “No, I will not!” said Mr. Hengist loudly. “Upon my word, Elizabeth, things have come to a pretty pass if I can’t give you a type
writer if I wish!”

  She laughed.

  “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings!” she said. “I don’t believe you’ve got a typewriter at all. Have you?”

  “Never you mind,” he growled. “Any more nonsense about paying from you, and I wash my hands of you!”

  “Oh, please!” she begged. “I won’t mention the word again! Thank you very, very much!”

  Mr. Hengist struck another match.

  “You learn to typewrite decently—mind you use your brain, Elizabeth!—and then we I’ll see about getting work. I know several people who might be willing to give you a trial. There’s old Chilton, who writes articles for the Cornhill. If you can type literary stuff with intelligence hell recommend you fast enough. He knows a lot of literary people. It would be interesting work, too.”

  “Yes, I think I should like it,” she said. “If I’m not too stupid to learn.”

  “No one’s too stupid to learn,” said Mr. Hengist. “Go and put your things on, child, and come along out to tea.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The removal from the hotel to her new rooms was nervous work. First there was the ordeal of giving notice; then the worse ordeal of tipping the staff, and wondering whether she had given the page-boy enough. The taxi-driver was surly and would not carry her trunks up to her rooms. He and the landlady “had words” and a small crowd gathered round to share in the fun. Only Elizabeth did not think that it was fun; she longed for someone— Mr. Hengist, perhaps—to come and take charge of the situation. When you had a man with you these disturbances did not happen, or if they did you had nothing to do with them. There was no one to come to the rescue; Elizabeth had to bribe a loafer to carry her trunks upstairs. The landlady dogged his footsteps, warning him to wipe them muddy boots and not to knock the paint off the door, or else he’d hear about it.

  Then when the transport had been effected and the improvised porter lavishly tipped, the landlady came up to Elizabeth’s bedroom and asked brightly what she had ordered for her dinner, as nothing had come yet.

  Elizabeth had forgotten to order anything. She said blankly,

  “Oh—er—I am dining out to-night!”