Another man would not have denounced her as Wendell had done, but Wendell was right in much that he said. Only she hadn’t realised what she was doing until he spread the facts before her eyes, and made her see.
In her overwrought condition she saw herself in her worst colours, and exaggerated her faults until it seemed to her that she had no virtue left, no honour or decency. In shame she thought, I almost believed that I loved Charles. If his love-making had been more gentle, if hot temper had not overmastered him, who knew but that she might have given way to his pleading, cheating herself into thinking that she loved him because she was lonely and helpless? In her innermost self she had speculated on her chance of happiness with such a man as Wendell. She must have been mad. If she had not been able to bear Stephen’s love, how could she have borne the passion of a man sensual where Stephen was controlled, brutal and crude where Stephen was gentle? The instant Wendell’s lips had touched hers she knew that she hated him, and was afraid. She had known before, when he had said things calculated to offend her. She had known it when he invaded her bedroom, and laughed at her intimate possessions. Only she had not chosen to acknowledge the instinctive dislike.
All those jokes Wendell had made. . . . She hadn’t understood them, but she had known that they were vulgar. He had thought her coarse enough to enjoy them from his lips because she had left her husband. Probably he put a false construction on that too.
That brought her back to Stephen. She saw now, in face of Wendell’s turbulent ardour, that Stephen had been exceptional in his treatment of her. It seemed funny to think that she had been afraid of him on that awful day of their quarrel and parting. She had thought him a monster; compared with Wendell he had been a lamb.
And now people were coupling her name with that of Wendell: sniggering probably, exaggerating surely. They were saying, My dear, have you heard? Stephen Ramsay’s wife has gone off with another man! Gloating over it . . . glad of an excuse to be scandalous. That was what Stephen would have to bear when he came home. Nudges, and whispering, and side-long glances cast in his direction. It wasn’t only on herself she had brought shame, but on him too. And he’d been generous in letting her go. This was how she had repaid him.
Wendell had said, He’s far more likely to set detectives on to you. Would he do that? She felt very cold. No, he was too chivalrous, too generous. He’d hear her explanation first. He’d believe her, too. She thought that he would believe her.
She became conscious of cigarette smoke lying heavy on the air. Wendell’s Turkish cigarettes. She dragged herself up and went to the window, throwing it open to let out this reminder of his presence. Her head was aching, her cheeks still hot. She stood at the open window, letting the cool air sweep into the room.
The next day brought a long letter from Wendell, abjectly apologising for his “unpardonable behaviour,” imploring her to forgive him and let things be as they were. He had not meant a word he had said; he was kicking himself for his caddishness; it was Betty’s beauty and his love for her that had made him lose his head.
She wrote carefully in answer. Their friendship was at an end; it would be impossible to pick up the. threads again. She realised that she had been at fault; she was sorry, but it would be better for them not to meet again.
He called, bringing flowers; Elizabeth sent them back. Again he wrote; she did not answer his letter. A last letter came telling her that she had broken his heart and that he was going to Scotland for the shooting.
Lawrence and Miss Arden were back in town, Lawrence with tanned cheeks and a country manner. Miss Arden wrung her hands over Elizabeth’s poor health, and said again and again, Why didn’t you send for me?
Miss Arden tried to discover Elizabeth’s plans for the future; Elizabeth, whose mind was in a chaotic state, hardly knew herself.
“Darling,” Miss Arden said, “you must see that this sort of an existence is impossible. I’m not suggesting for an instant that you return to that man, but you’re far too young to live alone.”
“I expect I shall go into a tiny flat,” Elizabeth said vaguely. “I could quite well afford it now that I’ve got on so with my typing.”
“My dear child,” Miss Arden said flatly, “it’s not to be thought of. Really, when you’ve got a home waiting for you, I can’t understand this attitude of yours. Anyone would think you disliked your old home. I’m sure I don’t know what has happened to you. You never used to be like this.”
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth sighed. “I’m not going to live at home again. I can’t.”
“Can’t? Nonsense! You don’t want to!”
The old Elizabeth started to say, Oh, Auntie, it’s pot that at all! The new Elizabeth intervened and with an effort said,
“No, I don’t. Not now. Things have changed.”
“Well, really, Elizabeth! They certainly have changed if those are your feelings. I’m sure I don’t know what your poor father and I have done to deserve this coldness from you.”
Elizabeth was silent; she was too tired to explain or to reassure.
“Am I to understand,” Miss Arden continued, “that you propose to spend the rest of your life in this indefinite fashion?”
The rest of her life. ... It had a sinister ring. Elizabeth shivered.
“No. I’ve got till March to—to make up my mind.”
Miss Arden raised her brows.
“Indeed? March? What do you mean?”
“Stephen said—I might have a year.”
Miss Arden achieved a shudder at the mention of Stephen’s name.
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it! Do you mean to say that you are thinking of returning to that man?”
“Don’t you want me to?” Elizabeth asked curiously.
“I? My darling, of course not! You’ve never seen fit to confide in me, but I know that he must have treated you abominably.”
Somehow that jarred. Did Aunt Anne tell all her friends that Stephen had treated his wife abominably?
“I never said that, Aunt.”
“Oh, my dear, give me credit for some intuition! I could see it in your face!”
“Then my face lied—like the rest of me!” Elizabeth said bitterly.
Miss Arden stared at her.
“Dear child, what is the matter with you?” she inquired anxiously.
“Stephen didn’t treat me badly. If—if anyone is to blame it’s myself. I can’t go into all that now. If I don’t—if I feel I can’t—go back to him—I suppose we shall have to get a divorce.”
Miss Arden had never dreamed of anything so dreadful.
“Elizabeth, what on earth are you thinking about? Divorce! Pray have a little consideration for your father’s feelings and mine! You may not know it, but divorce is a very disgraceful thing.”
“Oh, I know it,” Elizabeth answered. “I’ve read case after case. What else can I do?”
“There is such a thing as agreeing to remain apart,” Miss Arden said sarcastically, and with the air of having solved the problem. “It is not necessary to fly to spectacular extremes.”
“It wouldn’t be fair,” Elizabeth said. “Stephen might want to—to marry again!” It was difficult to say that, horrible to think of it. But it was something that had to be faced.
“H’m! I should like to meet the girl who would marry a divorce Miss Arden remarked.”
That aspect had never struck Elizabeth; she sat very still, thinking.
When Miss Arden had gone she went to her desk, and from the bottom of the drawer in it, pulled out a photograph of Stephen. She stood it on the table and looked at it for a long time. It had lain in the drawer all these months, because she had never dared to look at it. That was rather queer, since she had been able to look upon Wendell’s face, in the flesh. Subconsciously she compared them, and again thought, I must have been mad ever to have preferred Charles to Stephen. His mouth should have warned me. His eyes, too.
She sank her chin into her hand, and still watching the picture, mused o
n her married life.
She hadn’t appreciated the good in Stephen, the forbearance and the tenderness; she hadn’t tried to understand him. He was clever; in his work she had failed him. She was his wife, and yet she hadn’t allowed him to be intimate with her; she had held herself apart and thought him coarse when he spoke of things which Elizabeth had been taught to consider unmentionable. Things about which she had permitted Wendell to make jokes; Wendell, who was nothing to her. Yet it was Wendell who had taught her to listen to sex-matters without a blush; he had spoken in innuendoes, Stephen would have spoken bluntly. Stephen’s way, of the two, was best.
She hadn’t liked his friends. They were all so different to anyone she had met before. In time, perhaps, she could have learned to tolerate them, only she hadn’t given herself time.
Bridge at Lady Ribblemere’s house. How awful that had been! Yet she hadn’t told Stephen. He had been annoyed at her reticence. He had said, Surely you can say what you really think to me? That was the trouble. She couldn’t. Dimly she felt, If I had told Stephen all about it, it would have been better. All the little things that happened like the Vicar’s wife saying that she feared I was not a conscientious Churchwoman. Stephen would have said, The cheek of the woman! and we’d have laughed, and it wouldn’t have mattered any longer how the Vicar’s wife annoyed me.
If she could have her married life over again, how different would she be! Now that she had known the wretchedness of living alone, in town, she could appreciate Queen’s Halt, and Stephen. It seemed that she could not exist without a husband, even though she did not love him, even though she had been unhappy with him. She supposed that if you had once been married you could not go back to an unmarried state without feeling a void, and a great want.
But if she went back to Stephen it must be as his wife. That was the obstacle that stood in the way. It would need more courage than she possessed. If she could return on platonic terms, she would do so to-morrow. She couldn’t. She thought that if Stephen still loved her and wanted her he would accept those terms, but they would be unfair to him, and the day of unfairness was over. It must be all or nothing; she had put shams and pretence aside. How hard that was only she knew, but she had learned a bitter lesson, and she made up her mind that she would profit by it. If she went back to Stephen she would be frank with him. He should know that she did not love him, so that if he did not want her like that, he might reject her.
He might not want her; he might have ceased to love her. It would be hard to send for him, hard for her pride. And if he did not come, how humiliated would she be! Then she thought, I can’t be more humiliated than I am now.
Wendell had knocked the pedestal from beneath her feet. She had played with Wendell, knowing in her heart of hearts that he was unsafe, knowing too that it was wrong. And Wendell had shown her to herself as she was. Her spirit still writhed under his accusations, for exaggerated though they were, each one contained a grain of truth.
Mr. Hengist came to see her, and pointed a stern finger.
“Knocked yourself up, I hear. You’re losing your looks, child.”
She smiled, but wearily, for she knew that this was so. The glass showed her pallor and her thinness; the glass showed tiny lines upon her forehead. She had aged.
“Have you come to scold me?” she asked. “Please don’t!”
“Not at all. I never scold. I merely offer good advice which you seldom take.”
“Oh!” she protested.
“Quite true. My advice now is, Go away.”
“Where?” she asked listlessly.
“Where would you like to go?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
“The sea?”
“Oh, no! That means crowds of holiday-makers and a horrible band.”
“Um! You never really liked the seaside, did you?”
“No,” she said. “Never.”
“Congratulations,” said Mr. Hengist.
She was puzzled; then she understood.
“Yes, I’m learning,” she said. “It’s a slow business. A year ago I should have said that I loved the sea.”
“I know you would. You’re getting on, Elizabeth. What about a farm-house in the country?”
Her face lit up.
“Oh—I think I should like that! Only—it’s rather difficult. You see I wouldn’t go away with Aunt Anne when she asked me.”
“Certainly not. She’s the last person in the world you want. Go by yourself. Will you?”
“Do you know of a farm-house that would take me in?”
“Yes, and I’ll make all the arrangements.” He rose and laid a clumsy hand on her shoulder. “Go and fight out your battles alone, Elizabeth. I’ve hope of you yet.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Miss Arden’s indignation when it was made known to her that Elizabeth contemplated a change of air, alone, knew no bounds. Elizabeth felt herself to be unkind and ungracious, but she could not bear the thought of taking Miss Arden with her. In this she was supported by Lawrence, who said very aggrievedly that of course it didn’t matter what became of him, but if Elizabeth was going to drag her aunt away he would be made exceedingly uncomfortable, and would probably have to live at his club. However, he said, he was accustomed to having his convenience disregarded, and heaven knew that he was not so selfish that he would expect Anne to deny herself anything for his sake. He begged her not to consider him in the slightest; no doubt Elizabeth’s need of her was greater than his, although Elizabeth had not consulted either of them when she made this new, and really rather unnecessary plan.
He wore a martyr-like expression for some days, awaiting Miss Arden’s decision, and frequently implored her to please herself. Then another idea occurred to him, and he remarked that it was most unreasonable of Elizabeth to want her aunt to accompany her to such an out-of-the-way hole as Wood End. He told Miss Arden that there was no need for her to sacrifice her comforts and enjoyment for Elizabeth. She would not like to be buried in the heart of the country at this time of the year; it was sure to be damp, and everyone knew that the autumn was a dangerous season. In fact, speaking perfectly dispassionately, he strongly advised Anne to remain at home. A nice thing it would be if she caught cold in an old-fashioned and draughty farm-house.
So Elizabeth went to Wood End alone and stayed there for a month, until October’s red and gold gave place to November’s sullen grey.
The open-air life, and the great quiet of the country did her good. The livestock on the farm interested her; after some hesitation she learned to milk the cows, under the friendly and amused eye of the farmer, a bluff and direct person with an enormous beard and bright red cheeks.
She was somewhat taken aback by him at first, and a little shocked. As soon as she arrived at the farm a large sheep-dog, bob-tailed and shaggy, bounded up to her and was effusive. She hugged it, a lump in her throat; till now she had hardly realised how much she had missed the dogs at the Halt.
“Oh, you darling!” she cried. “What a beautiful dog!” She looked up at the farmer. “Isn’t he a dear?”
Mr. Gabriel smiled widely down upon her.
“Not a dog, madam. She’s a bitch. Get down, Nellie, get down!”
If your dog was a female you called her a lady-dog. The word bitch fell on amazed ears. Elizabeth hurried away after Mrs. Gabriel to her bedroom.
Mrs. Gabriel was fat and motherly. She took Elizabeth to a long, low-ceilinged room upstairs, with an uneven floor and small casement windows. Chintz curtains framed them, with cottage frills. The bed was a four-poster, all the furniture old and worm-eaten, Jacobean, Elizabeth saw at once.
Outside, the fields stretched away in patchwork to the far woods, and below the window, in the paved yard, some Cochin-China hens searched for grubs in the cracks. There was a partially demolished hay-rick beyond the yard; the scent of it came up to Elizabeth’s room, fragrant and sweet.
“Oh, what a beautiful place!” she exclaimed. “How qua
int and fascinating! Don’t you love it?”
“Yes, madam,” Mrs. Gabriel said simply. “Most people do. Mr. Hengist comes here often.”
“He never told me about it till now. I wish I’d known of it before.”
“Never mind, you’ll come again—often.”
“I shall,” Elizabeth said. “If you’ll have me.”
“We’re always glad to have Mr. Hengist’s friends, madam. I hope you’ll be comfortable. It’s not the right time of year to come to a farm, properly speaking, but there’s always plenty to interest you, if you’re fond of animals.”
“I am, oh I am! I wonder, will Mr. Gabriel take me round?”
“Why, surely!” his wife said, smiling.
Under Mr. .Gabriel’s wing Elizabeth inspected everything, and learned that if a pig drank water it was a sign of illness, and that, of all climates under the sun, England’s was the worst.
Gabriel had tales to tell of nearly all his animals. Elizabeth heard with interest that the Jersey cow, Emily, had had bad trouble in her last calving, and that he and Mrs. Gabriel had almost despaired of saving the calf’s life. She saw the calf, a sturdy young heifer, and soon knew every cow and pig apart. She thought how lovely it would be to have a farm, especially in the spring, when the lambs came. Then she remembered that there was a farm quite near to Queen’s Halt. She had never taken very much interest in it, probably because she had been too much occupied in dwelling upon her grievances. What a fool she had been!
“I wish this were spring-time!” she said impulsively. “Lambs are so sweet!”
“You’d best come again, next year,” Gabriel answered. “There ’ll be lambs and sucking-pigs and chickens. Spring the best time for a lady to come on a farm. If you’d been here earlier in the year you could have helped my wife rear the lamb we had to take from its mother. She had to feed it from a bottle.”
“I wish I had been here! I’d like to have seen Nellie’s puppies, too.”
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