Instead of the Thorn Read online

  Lawrence decided to ignore the first half of this speech; one had to make allowances for Hengist, poor chap. He was becoming quite a crusty old bachelor.

  “Well, it’s rather difficult,” he said. “The invitation is for Elizabeth and ‘partner.’ I must say, this new custom of expecting a girl to bring her own partner to a dance is a very strange one. I am not at all sure that I approve of it. However, I suppose one must remember autres temps, autres moeurs, and as it happened Elizabeth was able to ask the Benson boy to accompany her. There was no invitation either to me or to Anne. Manners are sadly lacking nowadays. Still, I should hardly think that Mrs. Carfew would object to the presence of an extra man, so I shall go too.”

  “Why?” asked Mr. Hengist. “Elizabeth doesn’t need a chaperon at a private dance—or at any other for that matter.”

  “It is not a question of chaperoning her,” Lawrence explained. “It’s only natural that I should wish to be present at my little girl’s first dance. It’s a great pity that Anne cannot come too.”

  Elizabeth herself was looking forward to the dance with mixed feelings. She wished that she knew the Carfews better, or at any rate, Miss Carfew, who at first sight seemed rather alarming. Smartly dressed athletic girls frightened Elizabeth, who was sure that they despised her, and she could never think of anything to talk about with them. Then, too, she had read in books of girls finding themselves partnerless. How humiliating that would be, but how still more dreadful if she found herself unable to follow a man’s style of dancing! She wondered what you said to your partner; whether you made the conversation or whether he did.

  She was incredibly nervous on the appointed evening, and sat shivering beside Lawrence in the car, thinking that her hair would come down if she tried to move the pin that was sticking into her head. Her hands were cold, and she felt rather sick, as if she were on her way to the dentist. The light-hearted demeanour of her father and of Denis Benson sitting opposite made her feel much worse; she would have liked to tell them how frightened she was so that they could reassure her, but that was quite impossible.

  Some of the nervousness left her when she stood in the ball-room. The orchestra was playing very loudly, and nearly everyone was dancing and did not notice her. Denis took her programme and asked if he might have every third dance.

  Elizabeth thought suddenly how nice Denis was to want all those dances. He looked so pleased when she smiled her consent that she felt it was not mere politeness that had made him ask. She had known him for such a long time too that it would not matter so much if she stepped on him or was heavy.

  “And this one?” said Denis, “before someone else grabs it?”

  No one had been introduced to her yet, so no one was likely to grab it, but it was rather flattering that Denis should think someone might.

  “If you like,” she said. “You know—I don’t dance a bit well. I’ve only had three lessons.”

  “Oh, rot!” Denis said, piloting her carefully round one corner. “You dance toppingly. Light as a feather. Jolly tune, what?”

  It was the first time Elizabeth had been in a man’s arms; she felt bewildered, shy, and unlike herself. Denis held her very close, with one hand over her shoulder-blade; its warmth, through her frock, struck her as being too familiar and just a little horrid. Sometimes his knee touched hers, and that was worse. She thought how she had always hated to be held, even by her father, and wondered whether she would ever grow to like dancing. Occasionally she saw Lawrence, over Denis’ shoulder, and whenever she caught his eye he smiled and nodded at her in a way which showed her that he was pleased.

  The dance came to an end; Elizabeth slipped out of Denis’ arms, panting a little, and flushed. Mrs. Carfew came up, trailing black satin and jet, and murmured names. An alarming kaleidoscope of men scribbled their names on her programme, quite illegibly, and drifted away. Lawrence’s voice sounded in her ear.

  “Is my little girl enjoying herself?” it asked fondly.

  Elizabeth gave him a bright smile, and said yes, it was lovely. Then Denis took her to the room where the refreshments were spread out, and gave her cider-cup which seemed to Elizabeth quite the nicest drink she had ever tasted, and certainly the most daring.

  The respite was brief; they heard the orchestra swing into a one-step, and Denis said that they ought to go back to the ball-room. He left her in the doorway, stranded, and went to claim his partner for the dance.

  Elizabeth tried to make out the name on her programme, unsuccessfully, and wondered how ever she would recognise its owner. A fair man with a monocle came up to her and bowed.

  “I think this is our dance, Miss—Er ...?”

  “Oh, is it?” Elizabeth said, wishing that it was not. The fair man looked supercilious and rather bored; she was sure that he danced in a complicated style.

  She was rather surprised when he said nothing at all for the first few minutes of the dance, and decided that it was for her to open a conversation. Panic seized her; she could think of nothing to say, and all the time he was staring glassily across the room. His dancing was quite extraordinary, for his whole body seemed to move, his shoulders most of all. She felt stiff and unyielding, and wished that he would not twist and turn so violently. She began to grow hot and miserable, thinking herself a fool to be unable to speak.

  But presently the fair man cleared his throat and said something in a weary voice which Elizabeth could not hear.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, knocking her toe against his.

  He took a firmer hold on her and repeated his remark.

  “I suppose you dance an awful lot?”

  “N-no, this is my first dance,” Elizabeth answered.

  This seemed to discourage him, for he said no more for some time. His next observation was made just as they slid past Mrs. Carfew.

  “Not such a bad floor, is it?” he said.

  Elizabeth felt herself blushing for him; he could not have seen Mrs. Carfew.

  “I think it’s awfully good,” she replied.

  “Pity there’s no saxophone,” he remarked. “Rotten to have a band without one, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know—quite—what it is,” Elizabeth confessed.

  He looked at her blankly, and said, “Oh, really?” He did not speak again until after the dance when he asked if he could get Elizabeth a glass of claret-cup or something. She refused the offer, and then wished that she had accepted it: he looked so disappointed.

  “Well, er—better find a place to sit, hadn’t we?”

  They chose a sofa in a secluded alcove, and the fair man cleared his throat once or twice.

  “Ever been to the Hyde Park?” he enquired, after some mental research.

  Elizabeth thought he must have a very short memory if he had forgotten already that this was her first dance.

  “No. Is it nice? I’ve always heard that it was lovely.”

  “Oh . . .” He seemed to deprecate this enthusiasm. “Not so bad.” Again he racked his brain. “Have you seen Buzz?”

  Elizabeth had read a criticism of the revue in the Morning Post; it was evidently a vulgar performance with a good many bare-backed girls in it.

  “No, I haven’t,” she said primly.

  He sighed, and shook his head.

  “Wonderful show!” he said fervently.

  Her next partner was better; he was younger, and a lucky question brought forth the information that he owned a motor-bicycle. He was quite content to talk about it all the time, and although the description of its engine did not interest Elizabeth, at least she was spared the necessity of thinking out a good opening to a conversation.

  Later in the evening Lawrence asked her if she thought him too dull and old to dance. Elizabeth said no, at once, and got up.

  “Nothing at all in this modern dancing!” Lawrence puffed, treading heavily on her toes. “All you have to do is to shift from one foot to the other, and occasionally take a sort of sidestep. ... I beg your pardon!” This to the co
uple with whom he had collided. “Clumsy young bounder!” he whispered in Elizabeth’s ear. “I don’t see anything in it myself. It’s child’s play. You know, this room’s really rather overcrowded, Elizabeth. You can’t move an inch without having someone bang into you. And I can’t say that I admire this jazz-music. There isn’t any tune about it that I can hear, and the way that fellow keeps blowing the motor-horn is really most ridiculous and out of place.”

  Elizabeth had no breath to waste in answering. He swung her violently round and, when she stumbled, said reproachfully and with a touch of superiority that she didn’t seem to be able to fit her steps to his very well.

  Miss Arden was awaiting them at home in a red Pyrenees dressing-gown and with her hair in curl-papers.

  Elizabeth hugged her, feeling that she was back in haven after a storm.

  “Well, darling, and did you enjoy it?” Miss Arden asked, kissing her.

  “Of course she did,” Lawrence said, bustling in. “I can tell you, Anne, she was quite a success. Her programme was full up when I saw it.”

  Aunt Anne was so anxious to hear that Elizabeth had enjoyed herself, you could not possibly tell her how you had hated most of the men you had danced with, or how miserable you had felt when one of those awful pauses fell in the conversation. She would have been distressed, and would think you were blasé or affected.

  “Oh, I loved it, Auntie!” Elizabeth said. “I only wish that you could have been there too.”

  Chapter Four

  Sarah Cockburn was the most amazing girl in the world; all the more so because her mother was so quiet and ordinary. Sarah wore flaming jumpers and tweed skirts which showed a large expanse of check stocking. She smoked innumerable cigarettes, elegantly referred to by herself as gaspers, and swept her hair severely back from her forehead. She was a newcomer to the neighbourhood, and Miss Arden took Elizabeth to call on her mother. Elizabeth wore white kid gloves and sat on the edge of the chair, being seen but not heard, and Mrs. Cockburn, in a satin tea-frock, dispensed tea and talked to Aunt Anne about domestic worries, and the difficulty of finding a house.

  In the middle of the tea-party Sarah came striding into the room in brogue shoes and the woollen jumper and striped skirt of golf enthusiasts. She did not murmur any apologies for her unpunctuality, but went straight to Aunt Anne and shook hands.

  “How d’you do?” she said, and went on to Elizabeth. “B’lieve I saw you in the Brompton Road the other day. I say, you’ve got nothing to eat!”

  Neither Elizabeth nor her aunt knew who Sarah was; Miss Arden looked at her as though she were an escaped lunatic.

  “My daughter Sarah,” Mrs. Cockburn explained. “Darling, this is Miss Arden, and Miss Elizabeth Arden.”

  Sarah offered Elizabeth a plate of cakes.

  “I don’t recommend the pink ones. They usually taste of sawdust,” she said frankly, then sat down on a footstool beside the fire and put her cup and saucer on the floor.

  “I had no idea you had a daughter.” Miss Arden said, and looked inquiringly at Sarah. “I don’t think you were at church on Sunday, were you!”

  “No, I never go to church,” Sarah answered, with a disarming smile. “It bores me horribly, and I come away in a most unholy frame of mind.”

  Elizabeth stared round-eyed. Within less than five minutes this extraordinary girl had committed every breach of social etiquette possible, and now she said that church bored her. She cast a surreptitious glance at Aunt Anne, and saw that her face had assumed the wooden expression it always wore when something had displeased her.

  “You’ve lived here ages, haven’t you!” Sarah said, addressing Elizabeth. “What’s it like!”

  Elizabeth had always been told that the Boltons was the most attractive quarter of London, so central and yet so quiet.

  “Oh, it’s very nice,” she answered. “So convenient, and such a little backwater.”

  Sarah grimaced.

  “Are there any cheery people living here!—or is it frightfully conventional! At first glance it looks rather suburban—the sort of place where people never come to see you unless they’re asked.”

  It was that sort of place, but never before had Elizabeth heard it spoken of in a disparaging way.

  “I think—people—are quite good about calling,” she said timidly.

  Sarah cast her a quick glance, then laughed.

  “I believe I’m shocking you. I’m awfully sorry, but I always say the wrong thing. Don’t I, Mums!”

  “Yes, darling,” Mrs. Cockburn agreed placidly. “Miss Arden has been telling me that there’s quite a large bridge set here.”

  “Then you’ll be happy,” Sarah rejoined. “Mother’s a bridge-fiend,” she told Elizabeth. “I do hope you don’t play?”

  “No, I’m too stupid,” Elizabeth answered.

  “What a heaven-sent excuse! I’m too bad-tempered. If my partner dared to ask me why I’d led a spade in the second round I’m afraid I should chuck something at him. Cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke,” Elizabeth said, rather regretfully. She thought how lovely it would be to breathe out two long spirals from your nostrils, as Sarah was doing.

  She was still dreaming of cigarettes when she walked home with Miss Arden. Miss Arden’s voice intruded on the dream.

  “On the whole, quite nice people. I thought Mrs. Cockburn a very sweet woman.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said.

  “The girl is excessively modern, of course, but she’s young yet. I daresay she is less affected when one knows her better.”

  Elizabeth was surprised; she had expected a severe diatribe against Sarah, and could not imagine why Aunt Anne was being so lenient.

  “Rather a desirable connaissance,” Miss Arden continued. “They seem to be very well connected and to know any amount of interesting people. You must ask Sarah to tea when they have returned my call.”

  “I’d like to,” Elizabeth said, brightening. “I wonder whether she’ll come?”

  Sarah did come; she told her mother that although Elizabeth was as dull as ditch-water, outside, she rather thought there was something more interesting inside, carefully covered up. She inspected all Elizabeth’s books, tried to discuss Galsworthy with her, and ended by asking her to join the private dance-club to which she belonged.

  “Awfully cheery show,” she assured Elizabeth. “A great pal of mine, Lucy Elmsley, runs it, and as she’s a married woman I shouldn’t think your aunt ’ud object to your joining.”

  “I should love to! How kind of you to ask me! The only difficulty is the partner. You see, I don’t know many men.”

  “Well, roll up at the next meeting—it’s on Friday— and I’ll supply a partner. I think you’d enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure I should,” Elizabeth said. “Only I’ll have to ask Aunt Anne. And are you sure it isn’t a dreadful nuisance having to find me a partner?”

  “Shouldn’t have offered to if it were,” Sarah said bluntly.

  It was Lawrence, and not Miss Arden, who objected to the arrangement. He complained that he did not know Mrs. Elmsley, whoever she might be, and he did not like to let his little girl join what might very well prove to be a fast set. However, Mrs. Cockburn and her husband came in that evening to make up a bridge-four, and Lawrence was so pleased by Mrs. Cockburn’s appearance and the excellent game she played that it was only necessary for her to use a very little flattery before he consented graciously to allow Elizabeth to join the club.

  So on Friday Elizabeth was driven in fear and trembling to the Knightsbridge Hotel, where the club met. She was purposely late because she had thought how awful it would be to arrive before any of the others, but now, as she entered the ball-room and saw the dense throng of people, she wondered why ever she had been so stupid, and how ever she was to find Sarah in this crowd. Some of the people circling slowly past her no doubt belonged to the club, others were merely habitues of the Knightsbridge, where a public dance club was held. How to distinguish the party to
which she belonged, and how to find their table?

  Then she saw Sarah in the arms of a very tall man, and Sarah stopped fox-trotting to tell her that their party was sitting in that corner, where those two girls were. She slid back into the throng, and Elizabeth was left to worm her way round the room to where several people were sitting, drinking iced-coffee, and smoking cigarettes.

  Elizabeth sat down shyly beside a fair girl who looked rather less terrifying than anyone else, and murmured that Miss Cockburn had told her to come.

  The fair girl looked at her and smiled.

  “Oh, you must be Elizabeth Arden! So glad you turned up. I’m Lucy Elmsley. How d’you do?”

  Elizabeth, who had expected to find Mrs. Elmsley a responsible dowager, gasped.

  “That’s my husband over there, flirting with May Kimball. Isn’t he the limit? George, come and be introduced to Miss Arden!”

  George came, and as soon as he smiled Elizabeth thought what a dear he was. He introduced her to several men, and one of them asked if she would like to stagger round the room, now, before the band stopped playing this topping tune. So as Lucy Elmsley had drifted away to where a very fat man was standing, Elizabeth squeezed her way out between two tables, and began to dance with Chubby—this appeared to be her partner’s name; he was introduced to her as that.

  By the time she and Chubby, who turned out to be a most amusing youth with a vocabulary quite his own, returned to their corner of the room, nearly all the chairs were occupied by the rest of the party.

  “I don’t think there’d be much wrong with a drink of some sort,” Chubby remarked. “Damn, someone’s pinched the cigarette I left here. What about some iced-coffee, Miss Arden, or cider-cup?”

  Elizabeth thought she would have cider-cup, so Chubby told a waiter to bring it, with two sardines on toast.

  “I couldn’t possibly eat sardines,” Elizabeth protested.

  “Good Lord, no!” Chubby said. “Only it’s after hours, and the rule of this blasted country is that you can’t have intoxicants after hours unless you have supper as well. So you order sardines. Everybody does, an’ nobody eats them. Some cove wafts them away when they get too racy, an’ they travel on to the next table. You’ll see: our sardines’ll be looking pretty weary by the time they reach us.”