Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  She lifted her shaking hands and looked with dilated eyes at her bruised wrists. That was Stephen. Brutal, ruthless. She had not known. All this time she had never so much as guessed at the presence of a Monster in Stephen. Were all men like that? Not gentle and admiring and kind as they showed themselves at first, but coarse and hard, like brutes. You could not fight; you were weak and helpless. A man could do what he liked with you; yes, with one hand tied behind him. Life was a nightmare, no longer a romance, a nightmare from which there was no escape.

  Escape. . . . That checked her thoughts. Escape. She started up, looking at the clock. Her knees were trembling. Suppose he returned suddenly? Before she had had time to go. To go. Right away. Alone. Leaving all this horror behind. Only she must be quick. What was it Stephen had said?—“You shall yield or you shall be made to yield. I mean that.” If she had found it hard to bear him before when he was gentle, how much harder would it be now that he was angry and a stranger?

  She straightened her hair. It would not do to let the servants see her panic. She must be calm. Not let them suspect.

  Jenkins was polishing the brass-work on the car. How surprised he looked! but respectful, sympathetic. He was sorry madam had had bad news. Yes, if madam could be ready at once he thought he could drive her to Tonbridge in time to catch the four-ten to London. Only he’d have to put the car along a bit.

  That didn’t matter. If there were an accident and she were killed, so much the better. She went indoors, up to her room.

  Rose was there dusting. Rose was sympathetic too, and helped her to pack a suit-case. Nana came; how she hated Nana!

  “I did not hear the telephone bell ring, madam.”

  Nana suspected. Let her, then. She would be done with them all soon. Let them think what they liked.

  It was strange that she could think so coolly when every nerve was stretched to breaking-point. Money. She’d drawn a cheque on Wednesday. That was all right. Her cheque-book. She’d have to have her account transferred to London. That didn’t matter now. And the rest of her clothes. Something would have to be done. No good worrying about that now. Nana’s impassive face. What was Nana to tell the master? Nothing. She would write a note. He’d understand.

  She wrote in the library, at Stephen’s desk, with the car waiting for her outside. How did one begin a letter like this? “Dear Stephen”—how silly that would be! Better to start straight away.

  “I’ve gone. I couldn’t stop. I’ve told the servants I’d had a telephone call from home. You needn’t worry about me, I’ve got plenty of money. I’m sorry if it’s been my fault. Elizabeth.”

  She put it in an envelope and sealed it. An apology for a letter. Stephen would have done it better, probably. Only she wasn’t a novelist. It would have to stand as it was. There was no time to re-write it.

  She went out to the car, and got in.

  “I do ’ope it’s nothing serious, ma’am!” Rose said.

  Nothing serious! If only they knew! Well, they would know soon.

  “No, I hope not. Ready, Jenkins.”

  “We shall be seeing you again in a few days, madam?” That was Nana. Never. Never again.

  “Oh, yes, I expect so!” Lying. That was lying, real lying. Stephen could accuse her with justice now. Liar and cheat. Stephen, Mr. Hengist. Liar and cheat, liar and cheat.

  Chapter Nineteen

  There was a hotel off Baker Street, quite a small one. Someone had told her about it, and the name stuck in her mind. She told the taxi-driver to take her there. All the way up to town she had wondered where to go, or what to do. The first thought had been home. She had no home. She had left the Boltons for Queen’s Halt. Now she had left that, and there was no home. She could not go back to the Boltons. She thought of her aunt’s horror and distress, Lawrence’s anger. They would not understand. They would try to make her go back to Stephen. They might even say that she had disgraced them. Well . . . She supposed she had, only how much were they to blame? She didn’t want to see them. If she had been an innocent, pretending fool, it was their fault. They had taught her to pretend to be ignorant. They had reared her in a rose-mist, and given her, like that, into a man’s power. Aunt Anne would never see that it was all her fault. She would talk meaningless platitudes. She could not see Aunt Anne yet. Not until she had become calm after this awful storm.

  There was Mrs. Ramsay. She had said, If ever you want help, come to me. Yes, but you couldn’t run away from a man to his mother. Mrs. Ramsay’s sympathies would be with Stephen. You could not possibly go to her; soon she would hate you because you did not love her son.

  That was a fact, and she faced it. She didn’t love Stephen. She had never loved him. Therein had she cheated; that at least was true. She wasn’t cheating now whatever she had done in the past. All those things Stephen had said. . . . True? perhaps they were. She had made an end of it though. She hadn’t been able to pretend any longer. He had made that impossible. In a way, she supposed she had been forced into this, first honest action. She would have gone on pretending if Stephen had not torn down her barricades. It was Stephen who had brought matters to a climax, by his anger and his rebellious passion. She could not look back on that without a shudder. Pretence was over. She had done something dreadful in running away; had she been calmer or more sane she would never have done it: she would not, she thought, have had the courage. But since, in a moment of frightened madness, she had done it, she would never go back. Well, that was being honest. Only how maddening it all was! Stephen had said that honesty was a virtue. Mr. Hengist, too. Running away from your husband wasn’t a virtue, though. It was wicked, and she, Elizabeth Arden, had done it.

  She would try to go on being honest; that, in part, was why she wrote to Stephen on the day after her arrival in town.

  He came to the hotel; she had expected that, and she had braced herself to meet him. She was afraid; she dreaded seeing him, dreaded the inevitable argument. Even now, had her fear of him been less, she would have given in and returned to Queen’s Halt, because it was so awful to quarrel, and so much more natural to her to obey than to stand by her own resolves. Yet there was in her a curious streak of obstinacy. It showed itself sometimes in the details of life, and now it reared up its head to face this great disaster. In madness had she taken the biggest, most momentous step of her life; it would be easier to go on than to turn back; easier after the first struggle.

  She was in her bedroom when Stephen came. The hall-porter fetched her, and immediately her pulses started to race again.

  Stephen was very pale. She found him in the deserted lounge, standing with his back to the fire, tight-lipped, and with hard anxious eyes. There was no trace of the demon in his face, but Elizabeth felt, It is there, covered up. It is always there. I can never go back to him.

  Neither spoke for a long minute. She was trembling; when Stephen stepped forward she shrank.

  “I’ve come to take you home, Elizabeth.”

  She shook her head.

  “I—c-can’t.”

  There fell another silence. The ticking of the marble clock on the mantelpiece dinned in Elizabeth’s ears.

  “Where can we talk without being disturbed?” Stephen asked abruptly.

  Her voice was unsteady; she tried to calm it, and herself.

  “N-no one is likely to c-come in,” she said. “The—the people who live here—go out to work—all day. There— there isn’t anything—to say—really, Stephen! Please don’t—please don’t argue!”

  “There’s everything to say, Elizabeth. You know that.”

  “No, no. Please—oh, please leave me alone! I—I can’t come back to you! I can’t! I—you said I ch-cheated you, and—and I think—it’s true.” She took a deep breath. “I—never really—loved you. I—I’m sorry, Stephen.” It was out. She had said it; she had been frank, but what an effort it had cost her!

  “You did love me once. It was my abominable temper the other day that frightened you. I’ve come to apologise for that. I
f you will—come back to me—it shall be on your—own—terms.”

  “Oh, I can’t, I can’t! Please don’t! Please don’t!”

  “You must come back. In time—you’ll learn—to care, perhaps.”

  “No, no! You—you don’t understand! I can’t! I’d r-rather die!”

  He winced.

  “Elizabeth, we’re not living in a neurotic novel! You can’t leave me like this! It’s unthinkable!”

  “I—I have left you! I— can’t live with you! I didn’t know—I couldn’t— I—I won’t cheat you—any more— so I’ve—I’ve run away.”

  He tried to take her hand; she evaded him.

  “I’d no right to say what I did, Elizabeth. I’ll try to make you happy if only you’ll trust me again! I’ll—I’ll try to be content with your companionship. Can’t you forgive me?”

  “No—please, no! Please let me go! It’s not f-fair— you—you couldn’t be con-content and—I—you couldn’t make me happy. I—I’m not a companion to you. I— don’t understand you. Nina does. She can—be your companion. I can’t! I can’t!”

  “Nina! Good God, what is Nina compared with you?”

  “I—I don’t know. I didn’t mean— Don’t be angry! I can’t bear it. It’s—it’s been a mistake. I can’t go on— I can’t go on!”

  “You mean that the sight of me is hateful to you?”

  It was. She could not forget his face when they had quarrelled. Cruelty and desire. Horrible. Horrible.

  “Oh, I—no, no! It’s only— Oh, I’m so tired of it all! I want to be left alone! I want to be—to be able to think! It was a mistake. Everything!”

  “I’ll never believe that. I’ve made you think so with my damned temper. Together we—could make it a success. Ah, Elizabeth, we could! Forget what I said, and let’s start afresh! Elizabeth, you must! I can’t possibly let you go like this! You don’t understand!”

  “Oh, don’t, don’t! Don’t make me! Please don’t make me!”

  Words, arguments rained about her. She listened, quivering, to Stephen’s pleading, his reasoning, even his anger. At last, looking drearily up at him, she said,

  “If—if you make me come back now—I think I shall die. Leave me—just for a little while!”

  That was cheating. Gaining time—putting him off with false hopes. She would never go back, only she could not tell him so. He would find out in time.

  Her words gave him pause. In silence he paced the room, thinking, thinking. He could see that Elizabeth was beside herself; he could see too that for the moment at least she was in deadly fear of him, fear and repulsion. All his thoughts were concentrated on the determination to save this marriage of theirs from the rocks. The look of weakening despair on Elizabeth’s face cut him to the quick, but he realised that she was in earnest. He could not believe that she would always be so. He would not believe that. The other day he had driven her to desperate, incontinent flight by anger, and by precipitate action. He must be careful now; he would do nothing to drive her further from him. In anger he had uttered threats which he would never have carried out. It was not in his nature to coerce the thing he loved most. He would never have done so, only she did not know that and he could not convince her. In her present mood she was capable of any madness; he would not drive her to it. He clung to the hope that time would soften her, and make her wiser. Just now it would be cruel to force her against her will. Cruel and perhaps disastrous. She would come back to him if he insisted; he knew that. But the spiritual part of her would go farther and farther away. That might never come back. How easily could he ruin everything now!

  She was frightened, watching him with great, apprehensive eyes. Pity for her helplessness and her fear took possession of him. After all, she was hardly more than a child. She must be comforted, re-assured.

  He went to her, and sat down beside her, taking her hand. The hardness had gone from his face, and when he spoke his voice was quiet, free from that disturbing passion.

  “All right, Elizabeth. Don’t look so scared. Listen to me, dear.”

  Her hand lay passive in his; her eyes did not waver from his face.

  “If you are set on it you shall stay away from me for a time, as you suggest. I’m not going to force you into anything. I might do it, and we might settle down—quite comfortably. But we shouldn’t ever be happy. Not as I want to be happy. So I’ll let you go. Oh, not for ever, Elizabeth! I couldn’t do that, and you mustn’t ask me to. You don’t hate me; I’m sure of that. It’s only that you— haven’t learned the meaning of Love. You won’t learn it if I make you come back to me against your will. I see that. But I want you to remember, Elizabeth, that if I chose I could make you. Instead of that, I suggest that we—agree to separate for a time. I won’t try to see you or worry you in any way during that time, but if you feel—that you don’t mean, after all, what you’ve said today, I want you to send for me. I want you to promise that you will. If at the end of the time—you still feel the same—I suppose—we shall have to—make some sort of an—arrangement. Will you agree to that? If you won’t, then I shall take you home with me to-day.”

  “Yes, oh yes!” she breathed thankfully. Then she realised the sacrifice Stephen was willing to make for her sake, and the hope he cherished. Some unknown impulse made her say quickly, “Stephen—I shan’t change! It’s— it’s not fair to you—this arrangement. Let—let me go now—altogether!”

  “I can’t. You wouldn’t be able to understand if I explained. Just believe that I can’t.”

  She was holding fast to her courage. Again she managed to speak frankly.

  “I—don’t want to—lead you on—under false pretences! I’ve—I’ve done enough of that! You’ll—hope—all the time—and it’ll be—no good!”

  “I’m willing to risk that. I’m going into this with my eyes open. Only, Elizabeth, I want you to think it over all the time, sanely. Don’t let—other people—influence you. If you’re happy without me—I’ll—I’ll set you free. But if you’re not, if you’re lonely, or miserable, then send for me. Promise me that!”

  She had tried to make him see how she felt; she had tried to be honest. She could do no more.

  “Yes, Stephen. I—I promise.”

  His hand tightened on hers.

  “You see, ’Lisbeth, we—we can’t end like this. I— That’s not possible. But this is the only way—that I can see—to give our happiness a chance. And we must do that, Elizabeth. We must. I can’t believe that this is the end of our life together. I know it isn’t. It’s—an interlude. We’ll look back on it some day, and smile, and wonder what was the matter with us. I suppose most married people go through a period of—dissension, only with us it’s more acute, more dangerous. So whatever we do, Elizabeth, don’t let us plunge in the dark. You don’t know your own mind yet. A year from now it’ll be different. You’ll know—at least, I think so—one way or the other.”

  She looked curiously up at him.

  “You’re—willing to wait—all that time?”

  “Yes, if eventually—we come together again. It won’t take so long as that. I—I hope it won’t. I don’t know— I may be talking nonsense, but I feel that we’ve got—just a chance.”

  “You—you may change,” she reminded him nervously. “You may find that—that you don’t love me—after all.”

  He smiled, crookedly.

  “No, I shan’t do that. I do love you. That can’t change.”

  “I’m—I’m not a companion to you. A thousand things that I do—or don’t do—irritate you.”

  “But still I love you. It makes all the difference, ’Lisbeth. If you really love, those little irritations don’t matter—except momentarily. You get above them. They do matter to you—because—you don’t—love me. And because I know that you don’t—love anyone else—I feel there’s hope. There’s no other man. You just haven’t learned to love. That’s all.”

  “I don’t think—I shall ever learn,” she said wistfully. “I—I wasn’t
meant to be married.”

  “You were, ’Lisbeth. Only you haven’t grown up yet. I’m beginning to see that. A year will make a difference in you. And, ’Lisbeth, promise me this!—If ever you need me, or want my help, you won’t let pride stand in the way? Send for me. I shan’t come if you don’t, you see.”

  She hesitated.

  “It’s not much to ask, ’Lisbeth,” he said, rather sadly.

  “No, oh no! I—I will promise. Th-thank you. I— suppose I’ve—treated you—very badly. I’m—sorry. It —it hasn’t been all my fault, Stephen.”

  “I know that. A lot of it’s been my fault, and a lot— your upbringing. You haven’t had a fair start. Well, you shall have it now, ’Lisbeth. By yourself. And—I think—we’d better discuss things from the business point of view now.” He paused, fighting the longing to take her in his arms. “Do you propose to stay here, or will you take a little flat somewhere?”

  “I think—I shall stay here. I—I like it. I couldn’t afford a flat.”

  “You can afford what you like, Elizabeth. You don’t imagine I am going to let you provide for yourself? Your allowance will be paid into whatever branch you name.”

  “Oh, please no! I—I couldn’t, Stephen!”

  “You must,” he said. “You’re still my wife.”

  “I shan’t touch it!” she said vehemently. “I couldn’t! You can’t make me do that!”

  He shrugged, but she saw his mouth set obstinately.

  “It will be paid in. Give me credit for some pride too, Elizabeth.”

  Again she gave way.

  “Very well. But—I shan’t touch it.”