Instead of the Thorn Page 20

  “What about breakfast, ma’am?” inquired Mrs. Cotton.

  “I—well, to tell the truth, I forgot about breakfast. I—I’ll bring in some eggs.”

  “Well, as long as I know,” Mrs. Cotton said. “Thompson, the greengrocer up the road, ’as very nice eggs. Very nice indeed they are. P’raps you’ll be dealing with ’im, ma’am?”

  “Yes, if—if he’s reliable. I don’t know the shops in this district. Can you advise me?”

  “I’m sure I shall be very pleased to do anything I can to ’elp,” Mrs. Cotton said obligingly. “There’s Dimson, the butcher. I always ’ave said and I always shall say that barring accidents you couldn’t do no better than to go to ’im. As to grocers, well, there you are! You’ve got Sainsbury’s just around the corner, or the ’Ome Colonial, though I must say their new man what comes down this way is not at all what I’d call a gentleman. ’Owever, that’s neither ’ere nor there, and I ’ope I knows ’ow to keep a man in ’is place. No, realy, I should say you couldn’t do better than to try the ’Ome Colonial. And Mr. Williams, I’m sure ’e’d be only too glad to supply you with bread, an’ flour an’ that. ’E’s a very obliging man, ma’am.”

  “All right,” Elizabeth said. “Perhaps you’d ask him to call for orders?”

  “Certainly,” said Mrs. Cotton.

  Elizabeth unpacked, and tried to make her sitting-room look more like home. The thought that she must dine out depressed her, but if there was no food in the house there was nothing else to be done. As she was getting ready to go, Mrs. Cotton appeared again, with a latch-key.

  “The gentleman as used to ’ave these rooms was very pertickler about ’aving a key,” she remarked, standing half in and half out of the doorway. “I just popped up to ask if you’d like to ’ave it now ’e’s gorn. It saves me ’aving to come up them basement stairs every time you come in, and reely what with my ’eart and my rheumatics, well, there! You know what it is, ma’am!”

  “Thank you; I should like to have a key,” Elizabeth said, taking it. “Thanks very much.”

  “It’s a great convenience,” said Mrs. Cotton.

  Elizabeth partook of a frugal meal at a tea-shop in the near vicinity. She bought an evening paper to read; she had never before known what a number of divorces there were. She read one case till her face grew hot as she pictured herself in the witness-box. After that she studied the racing news and the report of the debate in the Commons.

  She spent the evening alternately staring into the fire and reading what seemed to be a very dull book.

  “It will be better later,” she thought. “When I’m more used to being by myself—and when I’ve got something to do.”

  Miss Arden came to see her next morning. She found Elizabeth composing a list of groceries.

  “Oh, my darling!” she said, for no particular reason.

  “Hullo, Auntie! Sit down,” Elizabeth said. She had been feeling miserable and helpless, but she would not let Miss Arden see this. “I’m making a list. Such an awful job! I’ve no idea what quantities of everything I’ll want!”

  “If only you would come home!” Miss Arden sighed. “I can’t bear to think of you all by yourself. It’s not fitting. You’re so young and inexperienced. When I think of that man—”

  “Please don’t let’s talk about Stephen!” Elizabeth said. “I’m enjoying myself no end. How many pounds of sugar shall I order?”

  “Two of each sort. Oh, my dear child, I don’t know how you can be so cheerful! It’s such a dreadful thing to happen! In our family, too! If your poor mother could but see—”

  “Do you think I’ll need any rice? I never eat it, but is it used for anything but puddings?”

  “No. And if you had to live by yourself—but I cannot see why you want to—you might at least have come to South Kensington. Being here is nearly as bad as being out of town. ’Bus 30 is always full, and it means I have to take the Underground and then change. Really, Elizabeth, I don’t understand you. I should have thought that you’d have wanted to be with us at such a time.”

  Elizabeth was silent.

  “You’ve changed, Elizabeth. I said so to your father as soon as I saw you after your honeymoon. Only of course he couldn’t see it. Men are so blind. So selfishly blind. They only care for themselves. Poor child, you’ve found that out.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said. “No. Stephen—hasn’t been— selfish. He—he was—anything but that.”

  “It’s sweet of you to stand up for him, my dear, but I know what husbands are.”

  “That’s rather clever of you, Aunt, considering that you’ve never had one,” Elizabeth said smoothly. She was surprised at herself; it was the sort of thing Stephen might have said.

  “It is not necessary to be married to know these things,” Miss Arden said, with heightened colour. “And if Stephen was not selfish, I should like to know why you have left him.”

  “We won’t discuss it,” Elizabeth said. “Did I tell you that Mr. Hengist has found an amusement for me?”

  The bait was successful; Miss Arden followed it into fresh waters.

  “Oh, that man! I really don’t know how I have been able to put up with him all these years. I daresay he means well, but his manners leave much to be desired and he is far too fond of interfering in what doesn’t concern him.”

  “At all events,” Elizabeth interrupted, “he’s solved my difficulty.”

  “What difficulty? If you wanted advice or help, darling, I think you might have come to me. I know it is the fashion nowadays to go to anyone sooner than one’s nearest and dearest, but I am not quite a fool, Elizabeth.”

  “I didn’t want help. At least, I didn’t know that I wanted it until Mr. Hengist came to see me.”

  “Oh, so he has been to see you? He said so little when I told him what had happened that I could hardly make out whether he was interested or bored.”

  “I expect he was bored,” said Elizabeth audaciously. “Anyway, he suggested that as I must have occupation of some kind I should learn to type.”

  “If that isn’t just like a man!” Miss Arden exclaimed; “Learn to type, indeed! Oh, yes, I know very well what that means! Stuffing indoors all day over a noisy typewriter! I hope to goodness you won’t do anything so foolish.”

  It was so long since Elizabeth had been in the habit of obeying her aunt’s orders and listening to her disapproving criticism, that she was irritated now and impatient. It was not thus that she had been criticised during the past year.

  “I’m certainly going to learn. Then I’m going to take in work—literary work. It’ll be great fun and I shall enjoy it.” She expected strenuous opposition; she was surprised and interested to see Miss Arden collapse.

  “Well, I think it’s great nonsense, and most injudicious of Mr. Hengist to suggest it. I shall tell him so when next I see him. And pray, have you considered how you are to afford a typewriter?”

  “Mr. Hengist is giving me one.”

  “Oh, indeed! He takes a great deal on himself, I must say. It’s not even as though he were related to us. I should have thought you might have consulted your father or me.”

  “I don’t think either of you would be much good,” Elizabeth said. “You don’t know people who’d want typing done, do you?”

  “That’s entirely beside the point, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth said nothing.

  “Aren’t you going out this morning?” Miss Arden asked. “A beautiful day like this! You mustn’t mope about indoors. It’s not good for you.”

  How dreadful it was to feel that you would like to wring your aunt’s neck! You must be getting more depraved than you knew.

  “Yes, I’m going out to do my shopping. If you’ll wait while I put my hat on we might walk along together.”

  “I’ll come and see your bedroom,” Miss Arden said. “Oh, it leads out of this? That’s convenient, at any rate.”

  While Elizabeth searched in her wardrobe for a hat, Miss Arden inspected the dressi
ng-table.

  “Dear me, Elizabeth, where did you get this lovely powder-bowl?”

  There was a pause.

  “Stephen gave it to me,” Elizabeth said shortly.

  “Oh!” Miss Arden put it down as though it were red-hot. “Is that a photograph of Mrs. Ramsay? I wonder that you have that on your mantelpiece.”

  “I’m very fond of her.”

  “Are you, my dear? You know, I never really cared for her. We always thought she was rather extraordinary. If only one could look ahead! That terrible sister too! What is she doing now?”

  “I’ve no idea. I’ve not met Cynthia for some time. I see she brought out another book of poems the other day.”

  Miss Arden said, “Oh!” very coldly, and inspected a pile of books.

  “Those are going in the other room,” Elizabeth said. “I’m having some shelves put up.”

  “Ah, the old favourites!” Miss Arden said, opening a copy of “Little Dorrit.” “I see you have some new ones. Who is Rose Macauley, my dear? I don’t think I have read any of her books.”

  “She’s clever. Beyond me.”

  “And what is this? Shelley! I’m afraid his poems would not appeal to me.”

  “I love them,” Elizabeth said. “Just the sound of them. Cynthia sent me that on my birthday. I’d never read Shelley before. Are you ready, Aunt?”

  They went out, and on the stairs met Mrs. Cotton who was on her way up to ask Elizabeth whether she wanted the spinach cooked for lunch or dinner. Also, could “the gal” get into Elizabeth’s sitting-room to sweep yet?

  “I don’t know how you can stand that woman,” Miss Arden said as soon as the front-door closed behind them. “I don’t think you’ll like living by yourself for long, Elizabeth. It’s a miserable sort of existence.”

  “We shall see,” Elizabeth answered lightly.

  Mr. Hengist came round with the Remington that evening, and stayed for an hour, helping Elizabeth to move some of the .furniture. He showed her how to work the typewriter, and, very thoughtfully, brought a sheaf of paper with him, which he left with her. After he had departed, Elizabeth sat down to master her new toy until nearly eleven o’clock. A decided bang on the floor above made her remember the time, and she put the machine away, hoping that she had not kept the top-floor lodger awake for very long.

  She soon learned to type creditably, and to show Mr. Hengist how she had progressed she typed him a letter.

  Another week, she thought, would see a marked improvement both in speed and correctness.

  Mrs. Cotton came up to her room every morning after breakfast to hear Elizabeth’s menu for the day. Elizabeth discovered that her culinary powers were limited. Mrs. Cotton had two stock dishes which she suggested to Elizabeth every day. One was, “a nice dish of tripe with onions to suit,” and the other a treacle tart. Elizabeth did not think that the two synchronised.

  On one of these visitations Mrs. Cotton ventured to inquire into Elizabeth’s history.

  “Mrs. Pearson, what lives in the ’ouse next door, she says to me yesterday, ‘Well, Mrs. Cotton,’ she says, ‘so I see you’ve got a new visitor.’ ‘Yes, Mrs. Pearson,’ I says, ‘I ’ave. A Mrs. Ramsay,’ I says. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘she do look young to be married an’ all. And is ’er ’usband alive?’ she says. Well, I answers her pretty sharp, ma’am. ‘I’m not one to be prying into what don’t concern me,’ I says. She looked very silly at that, ma’am.”

  “Oh?” said Elizabeth. “I think perhaps I’ll order cutlets for to-night.”

  “Cutlets?” Mrs. Cotton said dubiously. “Of course, it’s just as you like, ma’am, but if you’d asked me I’d ’ave suggested a nice piece of steak with mash. You see, you don’t ’appen to care for tripe an’ onions, do you?”

  “No, thank you,” Elizabeth said hurriedly. “I think I’ll stick to cutlets.”

  “Well, if that’s what you fancy, ma’am . . . And what would you like to follow? I was thinking a treacle tart ’ud go well after the steak.”

  “Cutlets,” Elizabeth corrected. “With tomatoes.”

  “Yes, ma’am. An’ some mash.”

  “Can you do Scotch woodcock?” Elizabeth asked. “I think I’ll have a savoury instead of pudding.”

  Mrs. Cotton looked vacant.

  “Oh, yes, I can do it,” she said. “Only the kitchener’s difficult when it comes to them little knick-knacks.”

  “I see,” Elizabeth said. “What about Welsh Rare-hit?”

  Mrs. Cotton brightened.

  “Yes, that ’ud be just the thing, ma’am. It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest it, as you might say. Cutlets and a nice bit of Welsh Rarebit to follow.” She lingered in the doorway, and Elizabeth wondered what she wanted. “My ’usband ’e used to be very partial to Welsh Rarebit, ’e did. But then there’s no knowing what fancies a man’ll take to, is there, ma’am?”

  “No,” said Elizabeth.

  “You’ll pardon the liberty, ma’am, but you looking so young an’ all, an’ Mrs. Pearson passing the remark like she did, I do ’ope as ’ow you ’aven’t lorst your ’usband. Not seeing ’im an’ you not mentioning ’is name— Well, there it is. I’m not one for poking an’ prying into what don’t concern me, but I’ve ’ad a bit of trouble myself, what with my pore ’usband ’aving a stroke in the Strand, and ’im being carried straight away to the ’rspital—well, what I mean is, I know what it is to ’ave trouble one way and another.” She paused for breath. Elizabeth dipped her pen in the ink.

  “My husband is quite well, thank you. He is in Spain —on business.”

  Mrs. Cotton seemed to be much relieved at this piece of intelligence. She prepared to depart.

  “Ah, well, I daresay as ’ow we shall be seeing ’im before very long then,” she said optimistically.

  Elizabeth wanted to throw something at her, something very hard and sharp.

  “How criminal I’m getting!” she thought. “First I want to kill Aunt Anne, and now Mrs. Cotton. Either I’ve changed—or I was always like it, only more controlled. I wanted to kill Father the other day, too. I think I’d better go for a walk.” Then she thought how like Aunt Anne that was, and smiled. “Funny. It’s only just lately that I’ve begun to notice those—idiosyncrasies in her. I’m getting critical. Critical and bad-tempered.” She paused, staring out of the window. “Over-critical. About my people. They’re nice. Really nice. It’s just the little, outside things that make me want to kill them. Not seeing things as I see them. Annoying. Awfully annoying. Well ... if I criticise them like that—Aunt Anne especially, because I love her—did I—was I over-critical of Stephen’s friends and—and him? Did I let the outward things get on my nerves? . . . But it wasn’t only that. It was the other thing. Fear. Repulsion. Because I didn’t love him. Only as a friend. Other girls can’t feel as I felt about that physical side. There wouldn’t be any marriages if they did. So if I’d loved him it would have been all right. I didn’t love him. I didn’t know what love was. I still don’t know. Perhaps I was too young. I was too young. I didn’t know anything about men, or about marriage. I didn’t even know what my own feelings were. I was—oh, I was just a child! How could I know? And no one could see it. Aunt Anne, Father—Stephen himself. Yes, Mr. Hengist knew. Mr. Hengist knew everything. He tried to warn me that day when I was so angry. He was the only one. Nobody else thought, or cared, or prepared me in the least. Couldn’t Aunt Anne see that I wasn’t fit to be married? Couldn’t she have told me what it meant?

  . . . No. Of course she couldn’t. She didn’t know. You can’t know if you’ve no experience. But you might guess a little. Enough to see that it isn’t fair to let a girl as innocent as I was be married. It’s worse than unfair; it’s cruel and wicked. Girls ought to be told. Just as soon as possible. So that you can get used to it—the idea of it—and know what you’ve got to face. It isn’t surprising that things went wrong. My honeymoon ... I don’t know how I bore that. I must have been dazed. Numb. Then when I came home the numbness wo
re off. It was as if I’d had an awful blow and the bruise took some time before it showed itself. It was my nerves, I think. In pieces. All the little silly things that made me cross. The Tyrells. Stephen being late for meals. Idiotic things. That was nerves. Then the row. That finished it. It was just as well that happened. It made me realise. If I’d gone on much longer something worse might have happened. It was awful, but it put an end to it. Put an end to everything. Spoiled Stephen’s life. Mine was spoiled before that. Spoiled before I’d begun to live. I’ve nothing now. Only a typewriter. And I might have had—oh, I might have had so much!” Her gaze fell from the roof-tops opposite. Tears came, and rolled unheeded down her cheeks.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The weeks dragged by, it seemed to Elizabeth, inch by inch. By June with the aid of Mr. Hengist she had obtained a small clientele for whom she typed. That was interesting sometimes, sometimes instructive, and occasionally dull. One man sent her magazine stories, very illegibly written. Elizabeth was amused by the series that came from his pen. They were called “The Adventures of Colin Cardew,” and there seemed to be no reason why they should ever come to an end. Elizabeth followed Colin into Chinatown, where he escaped death by two inches, or into a gang of gentlemen-crooks where he escaped death by one inch, and watched with a cynical eye his efforts to win the heart of a perverse lady who rejoiced in the name of Griselda Gordon. Colin became a part of Elizabeth’s life. She told her family or Mr. Hengist that Colin has got himself into another mess. I really don’t see how he can escape this time. But of course he will.” Miss Arden thought it all very silly, and said so. Mr. Hengist said, “Thank God she’s learning to be silly!” which Miss Arden thought sillier than ever.

  Another man sent Elizabeth articles on abstruse subjects. He wrote very neatly, which was just as well, for he filled his pages with archaeological names. Elizabeth was appalled at first, but she grew accustomed to it.

  Stephen’s book was published in June. Elizabeth bought a copy, and went every week to a Free Library to look for reviews. Although she did not love Stephen she could still be interested in his work.