Instead of the Thorn Page 21

  It was in July that she met Wendell. She was walking on Regent Street when his car came up behind her, and stopped.

  “Betty! I say, old girl! Betty!”

  She turned swiftly, flushed, and stood still.

  “Oh—hullo, Charles,” she said nervously.

  Wendell opened the door of the car for her to enter.

  “By Jove, what a splash of luck, what? Get in, Bets; I haven’t seen you for ages. Where are you living now?”

  So he knew? She wondered how, and whether everyone knew.

  “I—I haven’t time, Charles. I—I’ve got some shopping to do.”

  “Rot!” he said. “No, come on, Betty, you must!”

  She got into the car. It slid forward, up the street.

  “My dear old thing, I’m simply delighted to see you!” Wendell said. “Awfully sorry to hear that you and Stephen have separated, an’ all that sort of thing. Where are you living?”

  “Just off Baker Street. How did you hear about— about Stephen and me?”

  “Well, really, I don’t know,” he said. “How does one hear these things? Rumour, what? Soon gets about, you know.”

  She did not know. She thought it horrible.

  “I see,” she said. “What have you been doing since I last saw you?”

  “Oh, the usual sort of things. Just got back from a month’s fishing. Topping good sport. Look here, Betty, I’m damned glad to see you again! What about a dinner to-night and a show?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—thank you very much!”

  “Why not? Going out already?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well, that’s settled then. Mustn’t go into retirement, Betty. Not at all good for you.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “Only I don’t really feel much like—”

  “Oh, I say, Betty, do come! Be a sport! Why won’t you?”

  “It’s awfully nice of you, Charles, but—”

  “Do!” he coaxed, laying one hand on hers. “I haven’t seen you for such ages!”

  She wanted to go. She liked Wendell, and, after all, what harm was there in it?

  “Very well, I will. Thanks very much.”

  “I’ll call for you at seven then,” he said promptly. “What’s the address?”

  She told him. How nice it was to think she was going to dinner and a theatre again!

  She enjoyed the evening; Wendell made her laugh, and the dinner was exceedingly good. He took her home in a taxi afterwards, and parted from her on her doorstep, saying that he’d be round to see her to-morrow. He wasn’t going to lose sight of her again.

  He came in time for tea, and found her typewriting. Mrs. Cotton conducted him to Elizabeth’s sitting-room, because it was “the gal’s” afternoon out.

  “Oh, Lord, what are you doing?” he exclaimed, throwing his hat on to a chair. “Betty, fancy you grinding over a blasted typewriter! What’s the joke?”

  “No joke at all,” she said, giving him her hand. “I love it. Sit down, won’t you? I must just finish this off. Can we have tea soon, please, Mrs. Cotton?”

  “Certainly, ma’am,” Mrs. Cotton said graciously. “The kettle’s just on the bile, as one might say.”

  “Priceless old bean,” Wendell remarked as soon as Mrs. Cotton had departed. “Hope you weren’t awfully tired after last night, Betty?”

  “No, not a bit. I loved every moment of it.”

  “Oh, splendid! Well do it again, what? Am I going to have tea with you?”

  “Not if you talk to me while I’m busy,” she smiled, typing harder than ever.

  “Can’t help it,” he said. “However d’you manage to do that so fast? I love to see your sweet little fingers dodging about the keyboard like that.”

  She looked up gravely, reproof in her eyes. He was not abashed.

  “Well, I do, Bets,” he said.

  Elizabeth typed on until grampus-breathing without heralded the approach of Mrs. Cotton. She came in with the tea-tray and proceeded to lay the table:

  “I cut some extry bread an’ butter,” she informed Elizabeth. “If you want anything else just ring the bell an’ I’ll pop up.”

  “Thanks,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t think we shall want anything.”

  “Well, you never know,” Mrs. Cotton said philosophically, and went out.

  “You couldn’t be dull with her about the place,” Wendell said.

  “One can have too much of a good thing,” Elizabeth answered. “She’s told me about every illness she’s ever had, and all her relations’ illnesses.”

  “Jolly gruesome. Is Stephen down at Queen’s Halt, or is it true that he’s buzzed off abroad?”

  “He’s in Spain. At least, I think so.”

  “Romantic, what? When did you leave him? Long ago?”

  “March.” Elizabeth wished that he would not talk about it. “Sugar?”

  “Three lumps, please. Well, I’d never have thought it of you, Betty. Very fine effort, what?”

  She was silent; it had not struck her in that light.

  “Tell you what we must do,” Wendell said. “Run down to Roehampton and see some polo. Ever seen any?”

  “Yes, several times. At Hurlingham. I’d like that, Charles. Only you mustn’t spoil me.”

  “Couldn’t.” Then he started to tell her about his newest car, and how he had taken the little ’bus down to Brooklands last week to see what she could do. He did not go until past six, and it did not seem as though he would have gone then if Elizabeth had not promised to go for a motor-drive with him on Sunday.

  Sarah and her old friends she had shunned. They looked at her with curious eyes, and were inquisitive. Wendell was different. You couldn’t possibly be offended by him. And after these long weeks of loneliness, what bliss it was to meet someone again who liked you, and didn’t disapprove of your conduct. There was another thing: it was pleasant to enjoy a man’s company again. There were things men did for you, like helping you into your coat, and holding doors for you to pass through, that your own sex did not do. When you were with a man, too, he looked after everything; it was his job. All you had to do was to sit still and let him wait on you.

  So she allowed Wendell to come to see her, and she allowed herself to go out with him. Stephen had introduced him to her; he was Stephen’s friend, and hers. His high spirits refreshed her. Sometimes they impelled him to say things that he should not have said, but she told herself that was merely his natural effervescence. He took her snubs well; she thought him easy to manage.

  She found herself leaning on him for support and advice. She was not made to stand alone. Little disturbances worried her out of all proportions; it was misery to be by herself, bliss to know that there was a cheerful friend at hand to turn to. There was Mr. Hengist, but his business occupied most of his time. Elizabeth wanted a man who was always free, and always ready to help.

  Wendell put up her bookshelves and hung her pictures; he went out to buy cake when she found there was none for tea; he was like an elder brother, full of fun, only more admiring. She liked his admiration, she was pleased when he brought her chocolates or flowers. She thought the friendship purely platonic, as it had always been. Her marriage protected her. When you were married you could entertain men; she believed that firmly. Moreover she had been told so many times that she was a prude. She would not be prudish now.

  They motored out to Burford Bridge, and Elizabeth cried how lovely the trees were against the blue of the sky. Wendell said, “Yes, rather. See that new Crossley over there? By Jove, she was a fine car!” Elizabeth was impatient; she felt that nice as he was Wendell had no appreciation of beauty. He laughed at her, and tried to admire as she admired. Sometimes he said things to her which she did not quite understand; then he would laugh again, and change the subject. Or he would make some remark that had the effect of making her draw back. He would say, I love those stockings of yours, Betty. There was nothing in it, she thought. Only the way he said it made her shy. Occasionally he
was not delicate in the choice of a subject for conversation; he said things that made her blush. Nothing, really. Only you felt that there was a meaning behind, something you did not want to understand. That was his modernity, she thought. Men were free in their talk to women nowadays.

  Once he told her an anecdote, and at the end waited for her to laugh. She did not see the point; she shook her head and that made him laugh, in rather a silly way.

  “Haven’t you seen it, Betty? Good Lord, and you’re a married woman!”

  “No, I haven’t seen it. What is it?” she asked, gravely dignified.

  “Oh, my dear girl, I can’t explain a joke of that kind!”

  “I see. Then please don’t try.”

  “You runny little prude!” he exclaimed. “Are you really Innocent Isobel from the country, or are you Pitting it on?”

  She was deeply affronted.

  “Don’t talk to me like that, Charles. I don’t know why you should find my ‘innocence’ so hard to understand.”

  “Don’t you? By Jove, I should have thought the reason was pretty obvious.”

  She got up, pale, and with furious eyes.

  “Really? Perhaps you’ll tell me, then?”

  “Well, hang it all, when a girl leaves her husband—”

  “I think you’d better go, Charles.”

  He jumped up, and put his arm round her shoulders.

  “Oh, don’t be snorty, Bets! I was only pulling your leg. Sorry if you’re cross about it. Kiss and be friends.”

  She freed herself from his embrace.

  “I am cross. I’m—hurt that you could think I’d understand a nasty joke.”

  “I say, Betty, live and let live! I didn’t mean anything, you know. Anyway, I’m awfully sorry. Please, teacher, I won’t do it no more! Didn’t know you were so innocent, that was all.”

  She forgave him, but she knew that he did not really believe in her innocence. He thought she was pretending. That side of him was the one she did not like.

  When next they went to a theatre together he was more familiar with her than before, but careful to say nothing which might shock her. He brought her home in a taxi, and took her right up into her sitting-room.

  That worried her; she felt that she ought not to allow it, but how difficult it was to know what to do! She was convinced of his good intentions; his attitude was one of sympathetic friendship. She thought, How kind it is of him to try to cheer me up like this! She had come to believe that she was dull and stupid; even she undervalued her beauty, and the fascination of her smile. That made Wendell’s attentions more kind, more altruistic. To say, You may not come up to my room at this time in the evening, was to insult him. She could not do that. She had no reason to impute evil motives to him; it seemed impossible to part from him on the doorstep without wounding his feelings. He handed her out of the taxi, and said, Give me your latch-key, Betty. She gave it, and he opened the front-door for her to enter. They stood in the hall under a faded oleograph, and Wendell said lightly,

  “I’ll see you up the stairs. Who knows? There might be a bogy round the corner.” He took her arm and led her upstairs. Within her sitting-room, she stood irresolute, hoping that he would say goodnight and go. Instead, he said coaxingly, “Can I stay for a few minutes and talk over the play? It’s not late. Oh, I say, tea?”

  She always made tea for herself before going to bed. The kettle was on the grate, the tray ready upon the table. She could not tell Wendell to go; it would be so rude and so ungracious.

  “Just a few minutes then,” she said. “Do smoke!”

  He sat down and offered his cigarette-case to Elizabeth.

  “Don’t you ever?” he asked.

  “No. Never.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like it?”

  “I’ve never tried,” she confessed.

  “Good Lord! You’d better start, old thing.”

  “I don’t think I dare. Supposing I felt ill?”

  “What rot! Do take one, Betty! It’s so dull to smoke alone!”

  She laughed, and feeling very daring, selected a gold-tipped cigarette. Wendell lit it for her, she tried not to feel distaste at smoking a cigarette his lips had touched, and puffed away valiantly. It was not very nice, she thought, and the smoke would get into her eyes, hut she persevered. Wendell laughed at her, and said that she looked too pricelessly funny for words. He stayed until close upon midnight, entertaining her with anecdotes and the more amusing of his war experiences. Time sped by unheeded, until the aggressive clock on the mantelpiece struck the quarter. Then Wendell jumped up, and said, By George, he’d no idea it was so late. Elizabeth followed him downstairs to bolt the front door. He lingered for a moment on the doorstep; she wondered why, and suddenly felt nervous. Then Wendell said, Well, cherio, old thing; and hurried away. Elizabeth thought, What a fool I am to be nervous of Charles.

  When she entered her sitting-room again she found that Wendell had left his cigarette-case on the table. She determined to smoke again to-morrow.

  Lawrence and Miss Arden came to tea next day, and when Lawrence kissed Elizabeth, he sighed, and shook his head. Miss Arden sat beside Elizabeth on the sofa, and held her hand. When she visited Elizabeth alone, she complained of Elizabeth’s behaviour; when Lawrence was there she was staunch in her championship of Elizabeth’s cause.

  “My darling, you’re looking so tired!” she said. “Quite pale and worn-out. I do wish you would come away with me next week.”

  Mrs. Cotton shaking the tea cloth on to the table, and solicitously patting down the corners, joined in the conversation. She could never resist it; on the days when Elizabeth entertained, the “gal” was not permitted to lay the tea.

  “That’s what I says, ma’am, begging your pardon. Well, reely, Mrs. Ramsay’s such a worker, you’d hardly believe it. I’m shore it fair goes to my ’ea,rt sometimes to see ’er banging away at that typewriter! ‘Well,’ I says, ‘ma’am, I do wish as how you’d go and lay down for a bit on your bed. There’s nothing like a good lay down every afternoon, is there, ma’am?’”

  “No,” Miss Arden said frigidly. “What are you making, Elizabeth? Another jumper?”

  “Rather a pretty colour, isn’t it?” Elizabeth answered. “I like knitting. It’s so restful.”

  Mrs. Cotton waited for a moment, fidgeting with the tray-cloth. Feeling, however, that there was no excuse for remaining any longer, she went out, shutting the door very slowly and softly behind her.

  “A most objectionable woman!” Lawrence said. “Pushing herself into the conversation like that. And why will that class say ‘lay’ instead of ‘lie’? Nothing irritates me more.”

  “It is rather awful, isn’t it?” Elizabeth agreed. “Stephen would say, ‘She must think you’re oviparous.’”

  The mention of Stephen was met with uncomfortable silence. Elizabeth flushed, and spoke again.

  “I hope you’ll have good weather for your fishing, father. Is it next week that you go?”

  “Wednesday,” Lawrence said. Gloom descended upon him. “Whether I shall enjoy it is another matter. I am almost sorry I allowed myself to be persuaded, into accepting the invitation. When I think of my little girl living apart from her husband, and alone in London.”

  “Oh, father, don’t! It sounds like a third-rate novel! ‘Alone in London’ or the ‘Trials of Truda.’”

  “I am glad you can see something funny in the situation,” Lawrence said huffily. “Personally I fail to appreciate the humour you appear to find in it.”

  “Now, Lawrence!” Miss Arden said warningly. “Elizabeth, won’t you reconsider your decision and come with me to Cousin Flora’s? She’d love to have you. You know she said so.”

  “Yes, I know. It’s quite impossible though, and I’ve already written to refuse. It would mean giving up my work, and I don’t want to do that.”

  “Oh, that work!” Miss Arden exclaimed. “You’re ruining your health over it. How I wish that you would listen to older and wiser advice
!”

  “That is the last thing in the world the modern generation thinks of doing,” Lawrence said sarcastically.

  Elizabeth smiled, not pleasantly at all, but in a set, furious way.

  “As far as I remember, father, Mr. Hengist is considerable older than you are. He advised me to take up some sort of work.”

  “Hengist, indeed!” Lawrence snorted.

  A week later they had both left London; in an unholy frame of mind Elizabeth said, Thank goodness!

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Wendell said,

  “Can’t shake hands, Betty, ’cos they’re all over petrol. Can I wash?”

  That was rather difficult, because there was no washbasin in the bathroom. Elizabeth explained.

  “Well, but I must get the petrol off. Can’t I do it in your room?”

  She flushed. Then she thought, I suppose it’s a reasonable request; anyway, why not? She opened the door into her bedroom, and Wendell went in.

  “Lovely view,” he remarked, nodding towards the window. “All mews and chimney-pots. Are you going to pour some water out for me with your own fair hands?”

  She did so, and he picked up her soap.

  “Topping scent. Now I know what makes you smell so heavenly. Betty, I love your sponge!”

  She began to feel uncomfortable.

  “Do you? Here’s a towel.”

  “And your funny little toothbrush. Oh, thanks!” Drying his hands, he wandered to the window, and her dressing-table. “Lots of pots and things. Just like you, Betty. All little and pretty. Have you got one of those priceless powder-puffs? You know—the beaver ones. Girl I know produced one at a dance the other night. Can I look?” He awaited no permission, but lifted the lid of her powder-bowl. She stood in the doorway, fidgeting.

  “Do hurry up, Charles!”

  He came to her, and put his arm round her waist, giving her a quick squeeze.

  “Straight-laced little Puritan. One of these days I really will shock you. Didn’t it like me to admire its powder-puff, then?”

  “Don’t be so idiotic!” she said, but tempered it with a laugh.

  They went back into the sitting-room; Elizabeth was excited; it was so delightfully wicked to let Wendell flirt with her.