“Well, I like her. I think it was very kind of her to come and call.”
“Elizabeth, don’t talk such damned rot! I’m willing to admit that she’s kind, but you can’t possibly like her! There’s nothing to like.”
“I don’t agree at all. I think you’re very fault-finding and quarrelsome.”
He softened.
“Sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to quarrel with you. Pretend that you like Lady Ribblemere, if you want to. It doesn’t really matter.”
She reddened.
“I am not pretending. Why do you always say that?”
He put his arm round her waist.
“Because you do, ’Lisbeth. You know you do.”
She did not know it, but he had discovered it long ago, and it irritated him. For as long as she continued to shrink from crude facts, and honesty, there could be no real intimacy between them. That he did not quite realise, but he could not help feeling that her extreme delicacy bordered on prudery. A dozen times a day he made her blush. He was at first amused, then slightly impatient.
“Elizabeth, you really can’t be shy with me!”
“I don’t think one need talk about such things,” she said repressively.
That always baffled him; he wished he understood her better, or had the power to break through her reserve. Because she wanted it, he gave her some of his manuscript to read. When she had finished he asked her opinion. After a tiny pause she said,
“It’s very good.”
That drove the artist in him to a frenzy.
“Good? Yes, but what else? How does it strike you?”
“Oh—I like it—quite!”
“You mean you don’t like it. Well, why not?”
“Oh, no, Stephen! Of course I don’t mean that!”
“My dear girl,” he said sharply, “say what you think, for God’s sake, and don’t bother about being polite.”
“But, Stephen, I— It’s only perhaps that I don’t quite understand some of it. And—and sometimes—I expect I’m old-fashioned—isn’t it rather—broad?”
“It’s perfectly straight-forward, if that’s what you mean. What of the style? Do you like it, or not? I shouldn’t ask for your criticism if I didn’t want it, Elizabeth.”
“Oh, the style!” she said, wondering what was the proper thing to say about it. “Yes, that’s very good, I think.”
He seemed to shrug his shoulders, then turned away. She knew that she had failed him, and was wretched.
Nina and her parents came to call. Elizabeth liked Mrs. Trelawney, who was quiet and full of common-sense. Mr. Trelawney did just what his daughter had said he would do. He walked with Stephen round the garden, and said, Charming! in an absent-minded way many times. He offered to send them some cuttings from a rare plant; Elizabeth thanked him, and said that she would love to have them. When the Trelawneys had departed Stephen asked her what on earth she had said that for?
“Well, what else could I say?” she demanded, wide-eyed.
“Why, that you didn’t really understand horticulture, and it would be waste to give his rarities to you.”
She was aghast.
“Stephen! But how rude!”
“No, not a bit. You could have said it so that he would have understood perfectly.”
“I wouldn’t have hurt his feelings for worlds!”
“They wouldn’t have been hurt. He’s far more likely to feel hurt when he sees those cuttings withering in an alien soil. For you don’t know anything about ’em, ’Lisbeth, and they’re sure to die. Besides which, sooner or later he’ll discover that you aren’t a gardener, however much you pretend. Then he’ll be annoyed.”
“I had to try to take an interest in his hobby,” she protested. It was strange how often she seemed to do the wrong thing; strange and sad.
He laughed, kissing her hair.
“Yes, but you carried it to excess, darling. I was convulsed with inward amusement when you nodded wisely at his botanical terms.”
Other people called, some nice, some negligible, others definitely nasty. Then began the wearisome ordeal of returning calls. To Elizabeth, who had never visited without her aunt, it was a terrifying ceremonial. She was overcome with nervousness, and could never think of anything to say. And«after the calls came invitations, some to tea, others to dinner. She preferred the dinner invitations, for Stephen was present then, to support her. He refused to accompany her out to tea; he said that his work was sufficient excuse. She could not agree; she had always imagined that a novelist had plenty of spare-time on his hands. Stephen seemed to have none. Even when he did cease work she knew that he was thinking of his book; thinking and planning. It was extraordinary that he could be so absorbed so soon after their marriage. She feared he was working too hard; when he sat up until three and four in the morning she worried, and often went downstairs to make him come to bed.
She would find him in the library, his head bent over the paper, his hand travelling fast, across and across. He would be dishevelled, totally abstracted, sometimes not noticing her entrance.
“Stephen dear, do come up to bed!” she would say softly. “I’m sure it isn’t good for you to work so late.”
“All right, darling. In a minute.”
Sighing she would seat herself on the arm of a chair, watching and waiting. The patience she displayed irritated him more than any petulance would have done. The feeling that she was there preyed upon his nerves; the flow of words came less easily, then stopped. In exasperation he would fling down his pen.
“Oh, darling, please don’t sit and wait for me! It worries me to distraction.”
“It worries me to know that you’re sitting up so late,” she would answer gravely.
“Very well, dear; I’ll come.”
It ended in him sleeping for the time in his dressing-room so that he should not disturb her. That showed her how great a hold his work had over him. While the mood for writing was on him he had no thought for anything else, no other passion, no other love.
But when, reluctantly, he suggested the change, her heart leaped within her. Once again she could be private, and alone. Only when she slept by herself did she realise to the full how she hated to have Stephen with her. She had borne it because she had not the courage, morally, to protest; she felt now that she could never resume the old relations.
And yet, dual to this feeling, came the wave of jealousy whenever Nina visited them. That was often; it seemed that Nina was more intimate with this house, and with Stephen, than she could ever be. Nina wanted to be friends; she wanted Elizabeth to come and see her as often as she came to Queen’s Halt. It was not in Elizabeth’s nature to do so. She could not be friends with Nina; they were not akin, and Nina knew so much. She could not even take part in a general conversation when Nina was there. She did not understand Nina’s conversation, she could not follow her allusions. She tried; she even pretended that she recognised some obscure quotation, but she knew, miserably, that Nina was not deceived.
Nina seemed to be necessary to Stephen, too. He had always some question to put to her, some point on which he wanted her advice. He read passages to Elizabeth, and asked which she preferred. She did not know. When Nina came Stephen put them before her, and the result was very different.
“Nina, I want your opinion. This—or this?”
Then Nina would read, and as soon as she had read she knew which variant was best.
“My dear old Stephen, are you going in for Euphuism?” she would say mockingly, flipping one sheet towards him.
It was extraordinary how his face could light up.
“You think that? Yes, you’re right. Good lord, why didn’t I see it?”
Nina was always ready with her criticism; evidently Stephen respected it. Nina would look up from the manuscript, point to a word and say,
“I almost think I’d prefer the Norman word here, old man. You’ve scratched it out, but it’s a nicer rhythm.”
Sometimes he disagreed, and they w
ould argue; sometimes they would discuss situations in the book which Elizabeth thought too frank to be mentioned. And always Nina embraced her in the discussion.
“Elizabeth, can you convince Stephen that no girl would behave as Caroline does with Carlyle?”
That aspect of it had never struck Elizabeth; she only knew that Caroline’s behaviour shocked her.
“I don’t care for that part of the book, I must say,” she answered.
“No, because it’s false. Norman’s misdemeanours aren’t great enough to make her go off with Carlyle, Stephen. Do you think so, Elizabeth?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “Because Caroline didn’t seem to be that sort of girl. I thought at first that she was quite nice.”
“Elizabeth loves a book full of thoroughly nice people— or black-dyed villains,” Stephen said teasingly.
“So do I, upon occasion. I think you’re in danger of becoming a decadent, Stephen. Bilious Byronism. Oh, Elizabeth, what a brilliant thought! Isn’t Stephen Byronic?”
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “I don’t read Byron.”
“Oh, but you should! He’s not at all without merit.”
“I don’t think I should care for his poems,” Elizabeth said primly.
Soon after that she suggested to Stephen that she should invite Lawrence and Miss Arden down for the week-end.
“And perhaps Auntie would stay on longer.”
It was the last thing in the world that Stephen desired just then, and he tried, selfishly, to postpone the invitation.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we waited until I’m through with my book?” he asked, thinking what death to inspiration Lawrence would be.
“But it would only be for a week-end, Stephen! And if Auntie stayed on longer she wouldn’t interfere with you.”
“Just as you like, darling.”
“Of course, if you don’t want them—”
“Rot, ’Lisbeth! If you’d like to have them to stay now, I’m perfectly agreeable.”
“I’ll write at once,” she said.
The invitation was accepted; the visit passed quite pleasantly. Stephen laid aside his work from Friday till Monday, and gave himself up to Lawrence. Miss Arden sat with Elizabeth in secluded corners, and talked little nothings.
When they had gone, other people, Stephen’s friends, began to invite themselves. The Tyrells drifted in quite unexpectedly one afternoon; Elizabeth was completely flustered, and somewhat annoyed. Stephen, on the other hand, was delighted. It did not matter to him that the visitors’ beds were not aired, or sufficient food provided for them. It did not seem to matter much to the Tyrells either, who were the maddest, most happy-go-lucky pair Elizabeth had ever met, but it drove the poor hostess to a frenzy. They dropped cigarette-ash on the carpet, they sat up late talking drama, poetry, and art till Elizabeth nearly dropped asleep from sheer boredom. Luckily the marmoset had met with an accident and died, so she was spared that intrusion into her neat home. She wondered what Aunt Anne would think could she but see Bertie Tyrell cross-legged on the floor, dangerously waving a coffee-cup in mid-air the better to point his arguments. She could hardly believe that it was really herself who entertained these oddities from another world. How much rather would she have held a quiet, sedate tea-party, where no guest would talk of Azurism, or Exposition of the Nude, or Gothic style of writing. What it was all about she had no idea. When she begged enlightenment of Stephen, he laughed, and assured her that no one knew, least of all the Tyrells.
“Are they talking nonsense, then?” she asked, puzzled.
“Not exactly. They’re striving after something, but they don’t yet know what it is. It’s interesting, I think. I like to hear them propound their views.”
“I find them rather boring,” she sighed.
“Poor little sweetheart! You must just learn to laugh at them, as I do. Then they become funny.”
After the Tyrells came Mrs. Ramsay, with Thomas. Elizabeth dreaded a dog-fight, but she was assured that Thomas was well acquainted with Hector, and Jerry, and Flo. Mrs. Ramsay sprang from her cart into her son’s arms, and hugged him.
“My darlings, I’m so pleased to see you again! How beautifully the trees have turned! Elizabeth, does the Halt hold an awful fascination for you? It does for me— especially when I’m away from it. Dear Nana, I think I’ve lost my hat-box. Do you suppose it can have jumped out of the car?”
“No, madam. You’ve left it behind,” Nana said with conviction.
“Perhaps I have. How tiresome! Stephen, have you grown, or is it because I haven’t seen you for over a month?”
They took her into the house; she noticed little changes, and remarked on them, approvingly. But when Elizabeth went with her upstairs she walked straight to Elizabeth’s room, and then checked, laughing.
“How silly of me! Please, where am I to go?”
“It must seem very funny—for you to come to your own home—with me here,” Elizabeth said. “I prepared the Blue room for you. I thought that would be nicest.” She opened the door for Mrs. Ramsay to pass through.
“My dear, this is positively thrilling!” Mrs. Ramsay said. “I’ve never slept here before. Thank you for putting those flowers on the table. Oh, here’s Nana! Nana, must I unpack, or will you?”
“It would be a nice thing if I let you do it, madam! If you go along down to tea I’ll see to your things. Have you lost your keys, or shall I find them in your handbag?”
“I don’t know at all,” Mrs. Ramsay said brightly. Then she took Elizabeth’s arm, and went out with her.
After tea she explored the house. When she saw the made bed in Stephen’s dressing-room she paused for a moment in her flow of conversation, but picked up the thread almost immediately. In Elizabeth’s room she pottered about, looking at photographs, and fiddling with the ornaments upon the mantelpiece. Suddenly she looked up at Elizabeth, and spoke lightly, yet with anxiety in her voice.
“Darling, don’t you sleep together?”
Elizabeth blushed hotly.
“It’s—Stephen thought—while he’s writing—I mean, he sits up so late. He was afraid it—it disturbed me. It’s only—for a time.”
“Yes, of course. I see. You are happy, aren’t you, Elizabeth?”
“Yes, I’m very happy,” Elizabeth said. “Did Stephen tell you that Father and Auntie came to stay with us?”
“No, but how jolly! By the way, has everybody called? Oh, and did Lady Ribblemere ask after all the family in turn?”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Yes. I wanted to laugh rather, but she was really very kind.”
“She’s quite a dear, only so dreadfully tedious. I must go and see her, I think. I heard that the Tyrells came on a surprise-visit! What a shock for you. I always go to bed early when they stay with me.”
“I didn’t like to do that,” said Elizabeth. “I—Mr. Tyrell has some very—queer ideas.”
“Most immoral, my dear. I hope you told him so. Nothing pleases him more. Next time you see him you’ll find that he has dropped Free Love and taken up Christian Science. So volatile. No, I don’t mean that. What do I mean? Let’s go and ask Stephen.”
“I expect he’s writing,” Elizabeth warned her.
“Then he’ll have to stop.” Away went Mrs. Ramsay, downstairs to the library, with Elizabeth at her heels. “Stephen, stop writing and help me!”
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I want to know what the word is I want instead of volatile.”
He laughed.
“Context, please.”
“My dear, I’ve forgotten what it was. Elizabeth, do come to the rescue!”
Elizabeth explained, much to Mrs. Ramsay’s admiration.
“You probably meant versatile,” said Stephen. “Not that it fits at all.”
“Doesn’t it, Stephen? Never mind, let’s pretend that it does. I’m afraid I’m disturbing you, as Lady Ribblemere would say. I’d like to see the fowls, please, Elizabeth.”
“I try to be,” Elizabeth said, warming under the praise. “But it’s difficult sometimes. People drop in without any warning—and things like that.”
“Don’t let it worry you,” Mrs. Ramsay advised. “It’s a mistake. I did, when I was first married, but I grew out of it. One has to do a lot of adapting.”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said slowly. “Yes—one has.”
“If ever you want advice—or help,” Mrs. Ramsay went on, “come to me. Will you?”
“It’s—it’s very kind of you—” Elizabeth stammered.
“No, not a bit. Generally I’m hopelessly unpractical, but I do know a great many things about the Ramsays. Of course, if you had a mother of your own, you wouldn’t need me. But as it is—when—I mean, if—you get in a fix—or you want to talk to someone—come to me. I’m quite safe.”
“Thank you very much indeed,” Elizabeth said. “I will.”
Mrs. Ramsay stayed at Queen’s Halt for a week, and before she left she went for a long walk with Stephen, through the woods. Little by little she coaxed him to talk to her of Elizabeth, and of himself.
“I don’t know, mater. I just—don’t—know,” he said in answer to her question, Were they happy? “I—love Elizabeth, you see. I—I don’t think I could live without her. Only, sometimes—I wonder— She’s such a babe still. It’s something I can’t talk about, mater. It’s between us two alone.”
“Yes, darling. I don’t want you to try to talk about it. Only, Stephen, don’t be too absorbed in your book. That’s only a thing. Elizabeth’s more than that.”
“Oh, come now, mater, I can’t be expected to chuck work just because I’m married! Other men have to be away all day at an office.”
“I know, dear. But they come away from their work, and don’t have to sit up until the small hours at it.”
He was silent for a moment.
Instead of the Thorn Page 14
