Tips worried her more than anything. Everyone who did something for you seemed to require a tip. The “gal” required many; if they were not forthcoming she became slow in answering the bell, and lazy in sweeping Elizabeth’s rooms.
The worst of it was, you couldn’t ask advice about these things. They were too silly. People would laugh, and think you a fool, or they would say wisely, Ah, now you see how unfitted you are to live alone. Aunt Anne would say that; that was why Elizabeth was so anxious never to let Aunt Anne know how lost she felt, and how lonely.
When Wendell came again she was overjoyed. He seemed to be the only real friend she had, excepting Mr. Hengist, who was so old.
Wendell exclaimed at her wan looks and thin frame. He behaved as though it were his fault that she had been ill; he blamed himself for having been away all this time.
“You couldn’t have done anything, Charles,” she said, smiling.
“Oh, I don’t know! Might have sent some flowers to cheer you on. Might have hotted up your landlady a bit, too. I say, Betty, you do look rotten! Tell you what! You must let me tool you round in the car. Do you good, what?”
She yearned to be out of town, if only for a few hours.
“Oh, I’d love to! How good you are to me, Charles!”
“I could be a lot better if you’d let me,” he said.
“I’m sure you couldn’t,” she answered, in innocence.
He took her to the river, and punted her up it one hot afternoon. She lay blissfully upon many cushions, watching Wendell’s brown, muscular arms at work with the long pole. He looked nice in flannels, she thought. It was wonderful that the creases in his trousers remained so straight and new. He wore a silk shirt, open at the neck, and where the tan left off, his skin gleamed very white.
He was tidy, always. In his place Stephen’s hair would be ruffled and wild. Wendell’s remained sleek and shining, brushed severely back from his forehead. His shoe-laces never came untied, either, and as he never thrust his hands into them, his coat-pockets retained their slim shape.
Wendell looked down at Elizabeth, drawing the pole clear of the water.
“Comfy?”
“Awfully,” she murmured lazily.
“That’s good. You’re just the right figure for lying in a punt. Most women either look all leg, or—or like bolsters. You look top hole. So jolly graceful an’ all that sort of thing.”
She laughed, but secretly she was delighted at the compliment. The punt glided forward; Wendell spoke again, looking across the water to the farther bank.
“Heard from Ramsay lately, Betty?”
She was started out of drowsiness.
“No. Why?”
“What I mean is—is your separation permanent, or— or only temporary?”
“Permanent,” she said.
“Yes—well, you’ll be getting a divorce I s’pose?”
She had not thought of it; the word had an ugly sound.
“I really don’t know. How lovely those swans are over there!”
He took the hint and said no more. But he had disturbed Elizabeth.
They were slipping almost imperceptibly into a greater intimacy. It seemed natural to Elizabeth that Wendell should visit her as often as he did; she hardly realised how much of his time was spent with her, and certainly had no suspicions that he was taking advantage of her loneliness and depressed spirits to insinuate himself further into her confidence.
Mr. Hengist, meeting Wendell in Elizabeth’s room, afterwards said, Be careful, Elizabeth. I do not like that young man. Elizabeth was indignant on Wendell’s behalf. Wendell was kind, and jolly; he was after all quite young.
For how much had his youth to account! Little things that he did or said Elizabeth excused on this score. But she could not excuse his behaviour when he called to take her out to dinner and found her still dressing in her bedroom. He knocked on the door and asked, Can I come in? Elizabeth answered, No; I am just coming.
“Oh, rot!” Wendell said, and opened the door.
Elizabeth was fully dressed, but the clothes she had shed were scattered about in disorder. She stood before the mirror, gazing in open-eyed astonishment at Wendell.
“Charles!”
“Betty, you are a little prude!” he said, laughing. His glance wandered round the room; he strolled forward. “Do buck up, you adorable little idiot! Where’s your cloak?”
She was deeply affronted. Speechless she watched him finger the pots on her dressing-table.
“Betty, what topping scent you use! Hullo, is this rouge? Oh, sold again!”
“Please wait for me in the other room,” she said stiffly.
He turned to look at her.
“Why— Good Lord, Betty, I should think we’d got far enough for me to come into your room without you turning up your nose about it!”
“What do you mean? Far enough? I don’t understand you!”
He hesitated, then shrugged, and went to the door.
“Funny kid. All right, I’ll go. Don’t be haughty, Betty. After all . . .” Then he went out.
He was changing, she thought. Something in him made her nervous, and yet she liked him. She knew that, because when he came to see her she was conscious of elation and a certain breathlessness. She wondered, Is it possible that I can love this man? The suspicion frightened her; she put it from her at once. She thought, I must not see so much of him; perhaps it is wrong.
Only how difficult it was to put a check on their intimacy. It seemed to have grown out of hand; she had allowed it to go too far.
People were talking: Mr. Hengist, for instance. He put a wrong construction on her friendship with Wendell; it was horrible of him, but did others think as he thought? Elizabeth felt herself to be impotent, a straw in a whirlpool, swirled away against her will.
She tried, tactfully, to warn Wendell that they must be more discreet. He took her by the shoulders and said, “Damn the scandal-mongers! Are you giving me the chuck, Betty?”
All his kindnesses leaped to her mind.
“Oh, no!” she said, in distress. “How could you think that? Only ...”
“There aren’t any ‘onlys.’ I’m—I’m—dashed fond of you, old thing.”
She wanted to say, You are too fond of me, but she could not.
“We must be more careful,” she murmured.
She was not looking at him, or she would have seen the light that sprang to his eyes and realised the interpretation he put on her words.
“I wish you’d make up your mind to get a divorce,” he said under his breath. “Sometimes I don’t understand you, Betty.”
She did not understand herself; she smiled, wanly, and turned away.
Mrs. Cotton’s manner was changing, too. She said aggrievedly,
“Of course, ma’am, I have to be careful. Well, what I mean is in my position, you’ve got to be. I must say, a nicer spoken gentlemen than Mr. Wendell I never met, but what with ’im cornin’ ’ere so late an’ all—well, what I say is, I’ve got my good name to think of, haven’t I?”
Elizabeth was humiliated. Her cheeks burned when she realised to the full Mrs. Cotton’s insinuation. That anyone should think her that kind of woman was a sickening shock. In agitation she told Wendell, haltingly, and begged him not to visit her so often.
He listened, frowning.
“You’ll say I’m compromising you next!” he said, sneering.
“Oh, you don’t mean to! I—I know that—- Only people think such—awful things!”
“I like that! I compromise you! I don’t see what right you’ve got to be injured at this stage, I must say.”
She shrank from him.
“Why—what do you mean?”
He was angry, but he managed to laugh.
“Oh, I don’t mean anything. Matter of fact—I didn’t mean to let it go—as far as this. But you damn’ well go to my head—and— Oh, Betty, you know I love you! I’m —I’m mad about you. Get a divorce—Ramsay’ud give it to you, wouldn’t h
e? Or if he won’t, come away with me! Betty, I— Oh, my God, I can’t stand this sort of thing much longer! You don’t know what it means to me to wait like this.”
“Stop!” she whispered. “For heaven’s sake, stop! You don’t know what you’re saying— You—I don’t— I never thought—you felt like that!”
His cheeks were dark; she was frightened all at once, and clung to a chair-back, staring up at him.
“You must have known! Good Lord, you’re not as innocent as all that, Betty! You never thought I was just being a ‘friend’! A man wants more than friendship from a girl like you! You know it! What are you backing out of it for now? Because I asked you to come away with me? You surely didn’t think— Betty, I’m asking you to marry me! I don’t care a hang what people say! If you ’ll get a divorce I’ll wait. Only—if Ramsay refuses—”
“Charles, you must stop! You must stop! I couldn’t possibly! I—I’m awfully fond of you—but I don’t love you! I—I’m sorry if you ever thought I did, but—”
“If I ever thought it! Look here, Betty, it’s no good pretending like this! Why did you encourage me to come here if you never meant anything more than friendship?”
She could not speak; her knees were trembling; it seemed as though he were stripping decencies away and imputing evil to her.
He took a quick step towards her.
“You were just playing with me, were you? Never meant anything? And then when I—couldn’t hold myself in any longer you behave like a plaster-saint. That’s rich, by God! That’s really rich!”
“Don’t, oh don’t! You—you can’t mean what you’re saying! I—I thought you were just—being kind to me— because I was unhappy! I never dreamed—”
“Never dreamed I was in love with you! And you expect me to believe that?”
Her eyes sank. She had suspected; she had thought the suspicion ugly, fearful, and she had turned her back on it. She had pretended that Wendell’s attentions were those of a friend only; she had wanted to believe that, so she had believed it.
He laughed shortly.
“It won’t wash. You knew all right. Well, what’s the matter now? Why have you suddenly turned cool? What have I done? Strikes me I’ve been pretty patient! You showed me clearly enough what you wanted.”
“Oh, I didn’t, I didn’t!” she cried passionately. “How dare you say such a thing? How dare you?”
“You led me on! You know jolly well that you did! I don’t know what your game was—I don’t want to know! Pretty low-down, it seems. I suppose you just wanted an exciting flirtation? Well, you chose the wrong man to play that game with, I can tell you.”
She was gripping the chair-back with all her might; there was not a vestige of colour in her face, but her eyes were flaming.
“You’re—insulting me! You wouldn’t—dare—if my husband was here!”
“Your husband! I like that! You’d better leave him out of the discussion. You chucked him, you encouraged me to dance attendance on you, and then you talk about insults! Yes, and you’re the injured saint! You know well enough that this is your own fault. I’d never have ‘insulted’ you if you hadn’t shown me that you wanted me to. Your talk of ‘being more careful’! What did that mean, my lady?”
“You’re horrible, horrible!” she panted. “That you should think that of me!”
“And what did you suppose I’d think? When a woman leaves her husband and allows another man to take her about and visit her every day, what is a man to think?”
“I asked you not to!” she flashed. “You know I did!”
“Yes, in a way that meant you’d be jolly disappointed if I obeyed you!”
So that was how he read her anxiety not to wound his feelings? She felt sick, disgusted.
“If I’d known what you were really like, I’d never have let you speak to me!” she said.
“All I can say is, if you imagined that I’d be content with a thus-far-and-no-further arrangement, you were a fool. You’re one of those women who play with fire and then blame the fire when it burns them! You got what you asked for, and this outraged virtue air you’re putting on is a bit out of place! Good Lord, what do you suppose people are thinking?”
She started.
“Thinking?” she echoed numbly.
“Yes, thinking. You’ve been everywhere with me for months. What did that damned Ruthven woman think when she saw you with me? What did Caryll think when he met us at Ripley? And old Johnson, at Ranelagh? They thought what I thought—what anyone’ud think! And you pretend to be perfectly innocent and blameless!”
Her body seemed on fire; she saw Wendell through a mist.
“What—do they—think?” she whispered.
“They think I’m your lover,” he said brutally. “Everyone thinks so. What else are they to think? You can bet your life Ramsay thinks so too. If you’re not jolly careful he’ll divorce you. That’ll upset your damned virtue a bit!”
“And you—” she tried to steady her voice— “And you—knowing this—deliberately—compromised me! Please—go!”
His eyes fell; colour crept into his face, and he laughed uneasily.
“I wanted you,” he said. “I was mad for you. How was I to know you were so guileless? You’re not a schoolgirl. You’re a married woman—who’s left her husband.”
“Is that an excuse for you to insult me like this?”
“A woman in your position,” he retorted, “who behaves as you’ve behaved—”
“Go away!” she cried, between quivering lips. “You’ve no right to speak to me like that! Stephen would kill you if he could hear! You only do it because you know I’m alone! You coward, you coward!”
“Stephen’s far more likely to set detectives on to you,” he said mockingly.
Up went her head.
“Do you suppose that my husband would believe these —vile tales?” she asked proudly.
“Oh no, of course not!” he sneered. “And you’d be able to deny that you’d been everywhere with me for months, wouldn’t you? You’d be able to deny that I’ve been up in your room until past midnight too! You’d try and cheat him as you’ve cheated me. I hope you succeed, that’s all.”
“Don’t say any more!” she gasped. “Go at once! If you don’t, I’ll ring till Mrs. Cotton comes! Go away, and never, never let me see you again!”
“Yes, that’s it! You’ve had all the fun you want out of me, and now I’m to go. Well, I’m not going yet. Not until I wish to.” With a sudden movement he twisted the chair from between them and then, before she could escape, caught her roughly in his arms and pressed his hot lips against her panting mouth.
His arms clamped hers to her sides; she could not struggle or cry out; she felt that she was suffocating, deadly nausea took possession of her, and her taut muscles relaxed until she lay limp in Wendell’s violent embrace, almost fainting.
Footsteps sounded; someone knocked on the door.
“Are you there, ma’am?” called the “gal.” “There’s a letter for you, just come.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wendell had gone. Elizabeth crouched in one corner of the sofa, sobbing drily, and twisting her crumpled handkerchief between her fingers. The thought dominant in her mind was that of all things she most needed a protector. She saw now, too late, to what risks she had exposed herself; badly she wanted Stephen, who was the only man in the world who was capable of understanding, and helping her. If Lawrence had been different, she thought, she could have turned to him, but Lawrence had never been really a father to her, and would now condemn her indiscretion in triumph. There was Mr. Hengist, but he was after all only a friend, and one of a previous generation. She knew no one but Stephen who would be of use now.
In wonderment she remembered how she had thought Stephen coarse and brutal. It seemed ludicrous, now that she had seen into Wendell’s soul. Wendell had said, I thought what any man would have thought. But Wendell did not know Stephen. In his place Stephen would have had the insight t
o realise the limit of her affections; Stephen would surely not have misconstrued her words as Wendell had done.
She passed her handkerchief across her lips, still trembling. Her mouth was bruised from Wendell’s kisses; there were marks on her shoulder where his fingers had dug into her flesh. That was Horror. Her eyes dilated as she dwelt upon that violent embrace; it was Horror such as she had never known; fear of Stephen’s passion was as nothing beside it. She had felt sick with loathing; she was still sick, at heart.
Self-hatred and shame swept over her. She was not as bad as Wendell thought, but how bad only she knew. It was the old fault, borne in upon her this time with a force that wounded mortally. She had deceived herself as always. She had faced only that which was pleasant and easy. The ugly truth she had shunned, cheating herself into a belief that her friendship with Wendell was orthodox and blameless. He had rudely torn away her illusions, battered through pretence, cruelly and coarsely.
Mr. Hengist had warned her that one day her cheating would lead her into serious difficulties. He could not have foreseen anything so serious as this. Lack of moral courage, inability to look truth in the face when it was unpleasant, had brought her to an unbelievable climax. People were talking about her, scandalously; they believed the worst thing possible of her who had always prided herself on her delicate purity.
She thought now, I am not good at all. I knew that Charles was in love with me. I pretended that I didn’t know.
She had been wrong from the beginning, when she permitted Charles to visit her. She ought never to have done that. She had known that it was wrong even then, for she had been careful never to let her relations guess that Wendell was in town. She remembered her blushing discomfort when Mr. Hengist had discovered them together. If it had been right to entertain Wendell in her room she would have felt no discomfort.
He had said, You must have known. That was the truth. He had wanted to know what her game was. She had let him imagine that she wanted his love. Thinking it over carefully she realised that she had wanted it, or, at least, his admiration. She had liked to feel that he admired her so ardently, but she had wanted to keep him at arm’s length, worshipping. That was unfair, cheating again.
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