“So glad you’ve come,” Cynthia said, shaking hands. “Where would you like to sit?”
Elizabeth chose the sofa, and at once wished that she had not, for it was so deep and soft that she could not sit upright as she would have liked to have done. She had the uncomfortable feeling that her knees were higher than her chin, and wondered why it was that she could never look graceful or at ease in a lounging position. Other girls did, and they didn’t seem to feel at a disadvantage either.
Cynthia curled up again in her original chair, sitting sideways to face Elizabeth.
“Awfully decent of you to come and see me.” she was saying. “It’s quite impossible to get to know anyone at a dance.”
“I know,” said Elizabeth. “And there’s never time, somehow, to talk to other girls.”
“Quite so. You’re looking rather fearfully at my pictures. Do you like them?”
“They’re very striking,” said Elizabeth politely. “Of course I don’t really understand Futurism.”
“My dear girl, they’re not Futurist pictures!” Cynthia said, amused. “What you’re looking at is a Beardsley.”
“Oh—is it?” Elizabeth had no idea what a Beardsley was, but she did not like to confess her ignorance. She changed the subject. “I love your yellow curtains, and the black carpet.”
“So do I,” said Cynthia. “My mother says they make her feel bilious, but then she’s addicted to flowered chintzes and pink lampshades.”
Elizabeth laughed, but she knew that she too liked pink lampshades.
“Does your mo—Mrs. Ramsay—live in town,” she asked.
“Officially. She drifts from Stephen to me, and from me to my uncle, and so on. She’s rather a delightful person, not in the least like Stephen or me. One of those incurably vague women, you know, with a gift for saying the opposite to what she means.”
“How amusing!” Elizabeth said. She would have liked to make a witty remark, but as usual she could not think of one.
“Most, but trying to live with. She has a habit of getting her affairs into a muddle, and then Stephen or I have to try and unravel them. Anthony’s rather more successful than either of us. He’s a business man, so he ought to be, I suppose. Here’s tea.”
Close behind the tea came Stephen, with his monocle screwed firmly into his eye, and his hair waving in a fashion which Elizabeth admired and he thought detestable.
“Hul-lo!” Cynthia drawled.
“Don’t sound so pleased!” he answered. “How d’you do, Miss Arden? Been to any more dances since I saw you?”
“Only one,” she said, withdrawing her hand from his.
He bent to pick up the plate of hot cakes from the hearth, and offered it to her, smiling irresistibly.
“Do ask me to partner you at the next club-meeting! Or is that cheek?”
Elizabeth’s dimples came into play; she looked up at him with a hint of roguishness.
“I thought you didn’t like dancing,” she said.
“I don’t—always,” he answered. “Can I be your partner?”
“Squash him,” Cynthia advised. “Milk or lemon?”
“Milk, please. I don’t know whether I’m going to the next club-dance or not yet.”
“When will you know?” demanded Stephen. “I think you’re being rather beastly to me. How’s the heir, Cynny?”
“Rather pleased with himself,” she answered. “He pulled the coffee-pot over at breakfast, and the coffee ran all over Anthony’s new trousers. You ought to have heard him swear.”
“Oh, have you got a baby?” cried Elizabeth.
“I don’t wonder you’re surprised,” Stephen said. “She doesn’t look as though she had, does she? As a matter of fact the kid does her credit. Topping little animal.”
Cynthia bit deep into a cake.
“I’m rather surprised myself when I look at him,” she said reflectively. “Clever of me to have produced anything so exactly what it ought to be. Nice sentence that.”
Elizabeth was rather horrified at Cynthia’s attitude towards her baby, and was glad that Aunt Anne was not present to hear her.
“I love babies,” she said. “Can I see yours?”
“Certainly, if he won’t bore you,” Cynthia said, with uplifted eyebrows. “Do you really like babies?”
The idea of not liking babies had never occurred to Elizabeth. Aunt Anne was always sentimental when confronted with one, and Elizabeth had unconsciously adopted the same attitude. The adoration of babies was an instinctive enthusiasm that every girl was supposed to have in her. If you didn’t like babies you would either be considered hard and unfeminine, or affected.
“Yes, of course I do,” Elizabeth said, opening her eyes wide.
Stephen watched that innocent look and thought it charming.
“I’m awfully glad to hear you say that,” he told her. “Most modern girls swear they loathe babies. A form of swank, I think.”
“I don’t think I’m really a modern girl,” Elizabeth said wistfully.
“Most girls honestly dislike babies,” said Cynthia trenchantly. “And always have disliked them. The only difference is that nowadays they don’t pretend to like them, whereas fifty years ago they did. I hated them before Christopher appeared upon the scene.” She nodded towards Elizabeth. “You’re an exception to the rule. Stephen, if you’ve finished tea you might go and collect your nephew.”
Stephen departed, and returned presently with Christopher in his arms. He carried the babe in a manner peculiar to his sex, holding him very tightly, with the short frock well rucked up under his arm. Christopher, who was chubby and blue-eyed, grasped a strand of Stephen’s hair, and stared solemnly at Elizabeth.
“What a pet!” Elizabeth cried, and rose, advancing towards him.
Christopher promptly dug his head into Stephen’s shoulder and gave a protesting kick.
“Chuck it!” advised his uncle. “That happens to be me.”
“Is he shy?” Elizabeth asked.
Cynthia rescued Christopher from Stephen’s clutch.
“No, it’s a new accomplishment, that’s all. Sit up, Colombus, and be polite.”
However, Christopher refused to have anything to do with Elizabeth, and made manifest his desire to go back to his uncle. Since he showed a tendency to roar when denied this wish he had his way and sat on Stephen’s knee making sundry pleased but unintelligible remarks.
“I wonder what he sees in you?” said Cynthia. “Funny thing, Miss Arden, but he finds Stephen most fascinating.”
“I can understand his admiration for me,” Stephen answered, dodging to avoid a poke in the eye, “but I wish it would find expression in a less strenuous way. Yes, that’s my tie, young sir, and you needn’t bother to undo it.”
“Quite a family man,” Cynthia remarked.
Christopher formed the topic of conversation until Elizabeth rose to go. Then Stephen handed him back to his mother, and asked that he might be allowed to drive Elizabeth home in his car.
“Oh, but won’t that be taking you out of your way?” she protested.
“No, rather not. Lord, the kid’s going to howl!”
“Not at all,” said Cynthia, hastily distracting Christopher’s attention. “Don’t, Cherub, I implore you!
Your papa’ll be home soon and you know he’s far nicer than Stephen.”
Christopher appeared to consider this gravely, and evidently came to the conclusion that there was something in it, for he abandoned his intention of roaring, and instead smiled seraphically.
Elizabeth shook hands with Cynthia, and hoped that she would come to tea with her one day next week. Then Stephen took her out and tucked her into his shining car.
The drive home was all too short; since she had seen Stephen with Christopher Elizabeth thought him nicer than ever, besides it was most thrilling to be on such intimate terms with so famous a novelist.
As luck would have it, Lawrence was just letting himself into the house when Stephen’s car pulled u
p outside. He turned at once, and when he saw Elizabeth, came down the steps again.
“Well, well, so here you are!” he said, and looked inquiringly at Stephen.
“Yes, here I am. This is Mr. Ramsay—my father.”
“That’s a very well-known name,” said Lawrence, shaking Stephen warmly by the hand. “You see in me a humble admirer. Come in for a few minutes, won’t you?”
“Thanks, sir. I’d like to if I may. Can you extricate yourself, Miss Arden?”
“Yes, just,” Elizabeth answered, emerging from her wrappings. She got out of the car, and they waited for Lawrence to open the front-door.
Aunt Anne was in the drawing-room, and she welcomed Stephen with rather less hostility than was usually apparent in her manner when a man was introduced to her.
Stephen exerted himself to please both her and Lawrence; with both he was successful. Lawrence talked very learnedly about books, and since he was evidently determined to discuss Stephen’s latest novel, Stephen gave way after the very shortest of struggles and managed to look as though he were enjoying the discussion.
“A very skilful piece of work,” Lawrence said warmly. “Now tell me, had you anyone in mind when you created ‘Francis’?”
“Oh, just a type!” Stephen answered evasively.
“Ah, yes, I suppose so. And that bit about ‘Patricia’ and ‘Colonel Longley’—excellent!”
“Tm glad you liked the book, sir,” was all Stephen could think of to say. He contrived to change the subject to motor-cars, and immediately Lawrence launched forth into technicalities.
Undoubtedly Stephen was a success.
Chapter Six
Elizabeth’s friendship with Stephen grew quickly after that; she feared he must be neglecting his work, so often did his yellow car purr to her door and stop there. He had won the approval of Lawrence; more important still, of Aunt Anne, who described him as a remarkably nice young man. Lawrence said that what he liked about Stephen was his lack of conceit and his modesty when forced to speak of his work. From the day when Stephen brought violets to Miss Arden, Elizabeth heard nothing but praise of him in her home. Miss Arden, fluttered by the gift of flowers—a gift that seemed to recall the days of her youth—saw in it only a delicate attention to herself, and not a wily move in the game Stephen was playing whereby he sought to enlist her sympathies and possible influence on his side.
It was some time before Mr. Hengist met Stephen, but Lawrence saw to it that he had little chance of remaining in ignorance of Stephen’s intimacy with the family of Arden. Lawrence formed a habit of dragging Stephen into any conversation, and he introduced his name in a simple and imposing manner. He said, Elizabeth’s great friend, Stephen Ramsay, and waited artistically for his audience to interject, Not the novelist? After that it was easy. Mr. Hengist was the only man with whom this delicate opening produced no satisfactory result. Lawrence started neatly with:—
“Well, I’m inclined to agree with what Elizabeth’s friend, Stephen Ramsay, says on that subject.” He left a pause; Mr. Hengist removed his pipe from his mouth, and inquired:—
“What does he say?”
Lawrence thought this just like Hengist. He had to think very hard to remember what Stephen had said, and even then Mr. Hengist did not ask whether Lawrence was speaking of Stephen Ramsay, the man who wrote “Celandine.”
Miss Arden, in a more direct form of attack, managed to arouse Mr. Hengist’s interest. Brightly she said:—
“I suppose you’ve heard that Elizabeth has made a new friend, Mr. Hengist?”
“No,” he replied. “Who is it?”
“Someone rather famous,” Miss Arden said. “Stephen Ramsay. Of course you’ve heard of him?”
“Yes, I’ve read one of his books. What is he like, Elizabeth?”
“I like him very much,” she answered.
Mr. Hengist looked at her with slight irony.
“I should like to hear you exchanging views with Ramsay,” he remarked.
“I admire his line of thought,” Lawrence said profoundly.
Mr. Hengist cocked a humorous eyebrow in his direction.
“Oh, you do, do you?”
“Certainly I do. What’s your opinion?”
“Well—” Mr. Hengist started in a leisurely way to refill his pipe— “He’s clever, occasionally original, but to my mind he’s too inclined to sacrifice sincerity on the altar of wit.”
“I don’t agree,” Lawrence said flatly.
“Furthermore,” went on Mr. Hengist, “for one who writes on the psychology of woman he knows very little about woman.”
Miss Arden raised severe eyes.
“I’m sure Mr. Ramsay would be quite surprised if he could hear you say that he writes on that subject, Mr. Hengist. I have not yet read his books, but I’m sure—”
“The modern school of novelists,” Lawrence interrupted, “is for ever probing into the character of woman. Stephen is young yet. In any case I think his handling of the subject most skilful and delicate.”
“There seem to me to be too many books written nowadays on those lines,” said Miss Arden. “I consider it most unnecessary.”
When Mr. Hengist at last met Stephen he seemed to like him. He discussed the Novel with Stephen, who grew quite excited, and ran his long fingers through his hair until it became riotous, and curled more than ever. He talked of Petronius Arbiter, and Lawrence coughed, with a warning glance towards Elizabeth. As Elizabeth had never heard of Petronius this precaution was useless. Mr. Hengist then said, take Le Sage, for instance, and once more they were plunged into a discussion. Lawrence informed everybody that he could see nothing in these Satirists, and that he thought that the adventures of Gil Bias de Santillone had better have been left untold.
“Ah, then you are probably no admirer of Smollett either?” Stephen said.
“No, I can’t say that I am,” Lawrence answered with perfect truth, having but the haziest notion of Smollett’s identity.
“Smollett?” grunted Mr. Hengist. “A copyist, Ramsay. No Le Sage, no Smollett.”
“Not entirely, sir,” Stephen maintained.
Elizabeth sat silent, withdrawn into herself, thinking how clever Stephen was, and how delightful it was to know him. She was reading “Celandine” in her spare time and trying to see Stephen in it. That was difficult, even rather perturbing because “Celandine” was a queer book, she thought, and sometimes, if she read it aright, rather broad. Much of it she did not understand; passages of obscure meaning caused her to wrinkle her brow and wonder whether she was dense, or just innocent. Yet it was surely impossible that the Stephen she knew, the man she thought to be the real Stephen, would write of things of which he would not speak to his girl-friends. Or if he wrote them, then he had for the moment assumed a pose, and was no longer himself but perhaps one of his own characters.
Stephen knew that she was reading his book, and although he wanted her to read it and to like it, he was also anxious and strangely diffident.
“You’re wasting your time,” he said once. “It’s mere froth. Don’t bother.”
“You behave as though you don’t want me to read it,” she teased him.
“I don’t. Yes, I do. Oh, lord, I don’t know whether I do or don’t! I’ll write something better, more worthy of your notice. The style of that’s bad—in parts. And it’s muddle-headed too, I think.”
“No, no!” she said. “You mustn’t say that! It’s good, I know it is!”
At that he laughed, but he was pleased, secretly.
“All right, go on with it. Only when you’ve come to the end, be candid with me!”
“Very well.” She looked up at him. “Sometimes it puzzles me because I can’t imagine that you really wrote it. Is it really you?”
He thought for a moment.
“I believe so—most of it. It’s difficult to probe beneath one’s self-deceit, but—yes, I think it’s me. So if you don’t like it after all, it’ll mean you don’t like me.”
She shook her head.
“No, for I shall know that the parts I don’t like aren’t really you.”
“They’re probably more me than the parts you do like,” he said seriously, but again she shook her head.
For him her fascination grew, till it was sweet to see her quietly sitting by the fire with the red light from the coals casting her profile into relief against the dark wall. It was sweeter still to dance with her and to feel her slim body in his arms, young and fragrant, and to look down into her face so near to his. He loved the dark hair bound closely to her head, and her lashes curling upward, or lying still against the cream of her skin, shading her eyes. He was awed in her presence, loving her innocence and the little ingenuous things that she said. Her silences seemed fraught with deep reflection; he wondered what were her thoughts, and what lay behind the softness of her eyes. That they were gentle, like herself, he knew, very young perhaps, and perhaps a little shy.
She was aloof with him, retreating within herself. Sentimental he thought, how virginal! She could never be intimate with him as other girls would be. She would bring everything there was in her, all her thoughts and her fancies, all the places in her soul kept secret, unspoiled to her husband. Then, as he saw her, in imagination, a bride, his hands clenched and his breath came faster, and he thought of the treasures that were hers to unfold, the frailty, and the exquisite purity. Young and immature she was, too young and too sweet to hold strong alien opinions, young enough to be yet plastic, with intelligence to comprehend and to absorb a man’s teaching.
It would be joy to lay a guiding, artist’s hand on her mind still unformed, joy, greater still, to be sure, as he was sure, that no other man’s lips had touched hers, to know that she was wholly his, with no old, forgotten flirtations lying behind her.
That would gall him, he felt; he would never take to wife the girl who was careless of her kisses and flirted with every man who came. He knew many such, liked them, had flirted with them, and knew that there was no harm in them beyond a certain volatility. It was not through Puritan spectacles that he regarded them; he knew them to be products merely of the new age, who had thrown away restraints in the same light-hearted way that they had thrown away their corsets. No doubt this recklessness, this brazen flaunting of charms that were more alluring veiled, was of no more than surface depth, yet he felt, singularly egotistic, that he would not choose a wife from this short-skirted, sleeveless sisterhood, but would rather, Oriental-wise, take a girl like Elizabeth, whom no other man should know.
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