Instead of the Thorn

by Georgette Heyer

  “Beautiful litter,” he agreed.

  “Perhaps you’d like to have a pup out of her next one?” Mrs. Gabriel suggested.

  “Oh, yes, I would! How lovely!” Elizabeth cried.

  “Well, it’ll give you something to do, won’t it, my dear?”

  Elizabeth looked at her.

  “How did you know I—wanted that?”

  “I sort of guessed, dearie. If you’ve no babies, have a dog. It’s nice to have something to love and do for.”

  “No—I haven’t any—children,” Elizabeth said.

  “I knew that. It’s not in your face. They’ll come, maybe.”

  Elizabeth thought it unlikely—not impossible, but improbable. During her visit to Wood End she fought her battle, as Mr. Hengist had thought she would fight it. The problem of her future was turned over and over; she argued this way and that, striving desperately to be honest with herself, excusing herself never, but rather exaggerating the blame that was due to her.

  Mrs. Gabriel was a help; she was ready to talk or to be silent, whichever you wished, and when she talked stray scraps of her life’s philosophy came out. In a manner free from impertinence she asked where Elizabeth’s husband was. She spoke as a woman more than double Elizabeth’s age, and Elizabeth told her that Stephen was abroad. They had parted.

  Mrs. Gabriel nodded, banging the rolling-pin down upon the pastry. Her shapely arms were bare to the elbow; Elizabeth marvelled at the fine texture of the skin, and the plump firmness of the flesh beneath. There was kindness in the grey eyes that regarded Elizabeth; it impelled her to speak, almost against her will.

  “It was all too—difficult,” she said haltingly. “I—I made a mess of it.”

  “I daresay,” Mrs. Gabriel answered. “There’s a deal of give and take in marriage, and girls don’t realise it.” She rested her rolling-pin up on end, and smiled across at Elizabeth. “The man takes and the woman gives. Leastways, I’ve always found it so.”

  Elizabeth, seated on a small table against the wall, munching apples, said wistfully,

  “Have you, Mrs. Gabriel?”

  “It comes more natural to us, you see, and a man’s a great weak creature when all’s said and done, without much more understanding than a baby. You’re to humour a man. Lord, that’s what we’re here for! It’s a poor woman who’s got no man to manage.”

  “If he can be managed.”

  The rolling-pin went vigorously to and fro. Mrs. Gabriel chuckled; it was a comfortable sound, full of wisdom.

  “You can take it from me, my dear, the man that can’t be managed don’t exist. I never met one that couldn’t be twisted round the finger of some woman, if she had the mind to do it.” She looked up, and her smile embraced Elizabeth. “Bless you, I’ve been through it, too. We most of us have, only there’s some as takes it harder than others. You start off thinking everything’s like a feather-bed, and you find that it isn’t.”

  “No. More like a bed of—of thorns.”

  “Oh, not always, dearie. When you’re courting, of course, you’ve got it all your own way, and your man’s on his best behaviour. He brings you flowers and what-not, and pets you and cossets you as though you was made of china. You’re the weak one, then, and you think it’ll always be the same. But when you’re married, it changes. Men can’t keep up their best behaviour for long. It seems kind of exhausting. The best thing you can do is to remember that he’s a baby in most things, and start feeling motherly as soon as may be.”

  “Motherly?” Elizabeth offered the core of her apple to Nellie, who politely accepted it and placed it under the table. “Can one?”

  “The best wives do, dearie. It’s a great help to you if you can keep it in mind. My gracious, don’t I know what a worriting creature a man can be? But, Lord, they don’t mean anything! It’s the way they’re made, and to make allowances for them is the way we’re made.”

  “It—it isn’t the way I’m made,” Elizabeth said sadly. “I didn’t seem able to—make allowances.”

  “Girls don’t. They grow into it, though. You see, dearie, a man’s selfish. He can’t help it; he don’t have to bear what we bear. At the best he’s stupid when it comes to understanding how we women feel. We don’t really like him any the less for that.”

  “Are men selfish?” Elizabeth asked. “All of them?”

  “More or less, mostly more. Because they don’t understand. So the woman’s got to be unselfish. Stands to reason she must be, or how would she fit in? A man doesn’t fit, ever. He doesn’t know how to. You go out and look at our cock. He makes a deal of noise when he finds a fat grub to eat, but when the hens come fluttering round to see what it is, he gobbles it up himself.”

  “Y-es. It seems rather hard—and unfair.”

  “My dear, don’t you get thinking this is a fair world for women, because it isn’t. I’m not saying that if we could start all over again we wouldn’t have things different, but seeing as how they are as they are, we’ve made the best of ’em, and we’ve learned to fit in as quickly as possible. You’ve got to put up with a lot, the Lord knows! but it’s worth it in the long run.”

  Elizabeth chose another apple from the basket on her knees.

  “I wonder—did Mr. Hengist—send me to you—on purpose?”

  “That’s telling,” smiled Mrs. Gabriel. “Maybe he did. He told me you hadn’t got a mother, my dear, and p’raps he thought it would be a good thing if you could have a talk with someone that was a mother. He knows my life hasn’t been all honeysuckle. It’s no good talking to someone as hasn’t been through any of your sort of trouble.”

  “No. I—please, go on. No one’s ever—spoken to me like this before. Not—sensible—and—and helpfully.”

  “People don’t. I remember when I quarrelled with Gabriel there was a lady living down at the White Cottage who came and talked a heap of nonsense about duty and love and I don’t know what beside. She’d come and sit here and talk by the hour, until my mother told me not to listen to her rubbish, but to get on with my cooking. I remember too, one thing my mother said to me.”

  “What was it?” said Elizabeth.

  “She said, ‘Don’t get thinking Gabriel’s a brute because he doesn’t always understand the way you feel.’ That’s sound advice, my dear. Men want a lot, and the best way is to let ’em have it, as much as you can. It’s easier then to get your own way when you want it.” She paused, and her smile grew. “And don’t forget to let him think it’s his way. It doesn’t matter to us whether we seem to be ruling or not, as long as we are, but it does matter to a man. He’s a pernickety, difficult creature, and it doesn’t do to let him see who’s cock of the walk. Let him think he is, and the bigger he talks, the smaller he acts. Let him talk. He likes it, and it makes him feel good. You see, a man’s got to feel good and masterful, or he’s only half a man.”

  Elizabeth folded her hands over the basket. Gravely she looked at Mrs. Gabriel.

  “You know an awful lot,” she said.

  “I ought to. I’ve reared a husband and three boys, and that’s enough for any woman. They’ve all leaned on me till it’s a wonder I’m not worn to a skeleton!”

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “No, I’m still fat, thank goodness. People used to talk to me about woman leaning on man. My goodness, you soon find out who does the leaning! A man needs propping up more times than you can count, the great, helpless zany! When things go wrong a man turns to his wife, and it’s her job to bolster him up a bit, and keep cheerful. He don’t bear troubles in silence: he tells ’em to his wife, like when his little finger aches. Leastways, he does if his wife’s a good one. We keep most of our troubles to ourselves, because a man wouldn’t understand, though he’d try hard, bless him! And that’s another thing, my dear! All through your life you’ve got to listen to your man’s upsets, but don’t you worrit him with yours. He’ll soon get tired of it, and you’ll most likely lose him.”

  “That’s one-sided, too,” Elizabeth said.
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br />   “In a way, my dear. Still, most women want to hear their man’s troubles. They coax ’em out of him; he likes it better that way. It’s the motherly feeling I told you about. You want to be always running behind to pick him up when he falls down, and start him off again.”

  “That’s what I didn’t do,” Elizabeth said slowly. When

  Stephen had torn up his work in exasperation she had done nothing to start him off again. She had felt that she didn’t know enough about writing novels. She saw now how little that mattered.

  In just the same way she should have borne with him when he was late for meals, or irritable because some tiny thing had annoyed him. She ought never to have defended herself; that led to fruitless quarrels. She should have let him “talk big,” and coaxed him back to good-humour.

  “I see,” she said. “I—I wish I’d met you before. I —always thought myself so helpless—beside my husband.”

  “And so you are, my dear, if you choose. If you’re one of those as likes to feel your husband’s strong and masterful, so much the better for you. As long as you get your own way I’m not denying that it’s nice to think your man’s a rock. Why, dearie, that’s what all women want to think! It’s Nature, and that’s why we let our men master us on occasion. But they don’t do it except by our consent, and never you believe it!”

  “I don’t think all men are so—weak and—and easily led, Mrs. Gabriel.”

  “Oh, some’s easier than others, of course! There’s times when a man’s strong, and I’m not saying that a man’s arms round you isn’t a safe comfortable feeling. When something comes to frighten you, you’ll run to your husband, and that’s when he’s top-dog. He’s top-dog too when it comes to looking out a train in the A. B. C. That’s a thing women don’t understand; a man’s in his element with a time-table.”

  Elizabeth laughed.

  “Yes, that’s so. One misses one’s husband for those things. It’s nice too—to feel that there’s someone—behind you—to—to back you up, and—and take care of you.”

  “Urn!” said Mrs. Gabriel. “I’ve felt that way myself, of course. You go back to your husband, dearie, and remember that with all his faults he’s necessary to you, same as you are to him. And don’t fuss him, when he’s not in the mood for it. That’s an important thing to remember. Don’t be for ever worriting him to change his wet boots or to come to bed at ten o’clock. He doesn’t like it, and what’s more he won’t do it. Leave him alone; he likes to think he knows best what’s good for him.”

  “But supposing it isn’t good for him? I don’t see how—”

  “Never you mind. It’s better he should take a chill and be laid up than that he should think you a nuisance. Once he takes to his bed you’re top-dog again, because there’s nothing so helpless and dependent as a man when he’s ill. You’ve got it all your own way then, and he’ll do any mortal thing you tell him.”

  “Will he? My husband—never was ill.”

  “More’s the pity, then. When a man’s ill, you feel old enough to be his mother. Once you feel that way, everything’s all right. You go back, my dear, and give up expecting too much. You’ll find you’ve got much more than you thought.”

  Elizabeth slipped down from the table.

  “He may not want me. But if he does—I will go back.”

  *

  Elizabeth told no one of her return to London, but on the day after her arrival she went at last to see Mrs. Ramsay.

  She was taken to the drawing-room; Mrs. Ramsay got up quickly, and seemed to hesitate. It was Thomas who bounded forward and made much of Elizabeth. That relieved the tension; Mrs. Ramsay came forward.

  “How dear of Thomas! Isn’t he getting fat? I’m so glad you’ve come, Elizabeth.”

  Elizabeth took her hand.

  “Mater—I beg your pardon! Mrs. Ramsay, if you can’t bear to—to speak to me—I’ll—I’ll go. I know how you must feel.” That cost her something, but it had to be said.

  “My dear, I’d rather have ‘Mater,’ please. Come and sit down.”

  Elizabeth was pushed to the sofa; she sank on to it and began to stroke Thomas, mechanically. Mrs. Ramsay drew her chair nearer to the fire, and waited.

  It was difficult to know how to begin; Elizabeth plunged headlong.

  “Mater—does—does Stephen—still want me?”

  “Yes, Elizabeth.”

  She looked up; Mrs. Ramsay saw how drawn were her eyes.

  “That’s—true? I—I want the truth, please.”

  “Oh, my darling!” Mrs. Ramsay cried, “Does he want you? If you could but see him!”

  Elizabeth’s mouth twisted; she bent over the dog.

  “Thanks, mater. I’m—sorry. I’m a lot—older than I was, and—I think—a little wiser. N-not very much, perhaps, but enough to see—how wrong I’ve been, and—and how foolish. So—so I thought—I’d come and—ask you —whether Stephen still—wanted me, and—and whether I ought to—to write to him.”

  Mrs. Ramsay got out of her chair and came to sit beside Elizabeth on the sofa.

  “Yes, dear, write to him. He’s in England, at Queen’s Halt.”

  “You—really think—he’ll—come?”

  “Good gracious me, yes! He’ll probably exceed the speed-limit, and be taken to prison. You’ll have to go to him then. How romantic! Or isn’t one put in prison for scorching? No, I think you just have to pay a fine. What a pity!”

  Elizabeth tried to laugh, only Mater’s madness made her want to cry. It sounded so familiar, and, somehow, so precious. The laugh trembled into a sob. Mrs. Ramsay took her hand.

  “Yes, darling, I know. Just tell me one thing:—Do you love him?”

  There was a pause; there must be no evasions of half-truths now. Elizabeth looked up.

  “No, mater. Not—as I ought to love him.”

  Mrs. Ramsay’s heart cried, Poor Stephen, poor Stephen! but her lips said,

  “You’ll learn, Elizabeth. Only—tell him.”

  “Yes, mater. I—I must do that. He may not want me —when he knows. But I—I haven’t ever been fair to him—and I’ve realised at last—what I owe to him—and I’m—prepared to—to fulfill my—share of the—the contract. Thank you for—for helping me.”

  “My dear, I haven’t done a thing,” Mrs. Ramsay said. “Ring the bell, and we’ll have tea. Then I shall have done something.”

  “I—I ought not to stay. I only came to—”

  “Darling, I shall burst into tears if you go. I’m feeling horribly lumpy, goodness knows why. Don’t cry, Elizabeth. It would be so awful if Mary came with the tea and found us melting on my new carpet. I should like you to kiss me, if you don’t mind.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Elizabeth spent nearly all one day trying to write to Stephen. Each successive letter seemed more impossible than the last, and was destroyed. She could not on paper tell him all that must be told; it was too bald, and her manner of writing too stiff. She longed for his facile pen, her own seemed halting and despicable. She could not in a letter offer to return to him; all that must be spoken. In the end she wrote only a short note, asking him to come and see her that they might discuss the future. Even that was unsatisfactory, but after some hesitation she dispatched it, feeling that she could do no better.

  She was unprepared for his promptness in responding. She expected him to write, suggesting a day for their meeting, yet when she reflected, afterwards, she knew that his instant coming was more in keeping with his character. She sat at the window of her room on the following afternoon, and soon after three o’clock saw the familiar yellow car drive to the house and stop there.

  She rose, breathless. Stephen switched off the engine in the way she knew so well, stepped from the cab and went quickly to the front door, with never a glance upward, to the window.

  Elizabeth heard the vigorous peal of the bell somewhere in the basement, and of instinct flew to the mirror. Nervous hands patted her hair into soft curves over her ears; she turned, and
stood as though on tiptoe, watching the door. A pulse throbbed in her throat, and her fingers twined themselves tensely together. She felt that of her own free will she had courted the worst ordeal of her life; panic threatened to overcome her; if escape had been possible she would have fled from the approaching interview. It was not possible. She had to brace herself to meet it, frightened, desperately embarrassed, and icily cold from head to foot.

  There was heavy breathing on the stairs, a murmur of voices; she heard Mrs. Cotton say how the stairs ketched her in the wind, her having a weak heart and that. A deeper voice, that sent the blood rushing to Elizabeth’s face, answered. Then the knock fell on the door.

  Elizabeth tried to say come in, but could not. Mrs. Cotton came without invitation, and in a voice which breathed rampant curiosity, said,

  “Here’s your ’usband, ma’am. Mr. Ramsay.”

  Elizabeth managed to speak.

  “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Cotton held the door for Stephen to pass through, then, reluctantly, shut it. Stephen came in with his clean stride and stopped just inside the door, facing Elizabeth.

  In that brief moment, when both stood wretchedly tongue-tied, Elizabeth saw the sprinkling of grey in the hair above Stephen’s temples, and the tiny lines about his eyes. He was pale, and his lips were shut tight in a way she knew well. Foolishly, she noticed that he was wearing a suit that she had not seen before.

  Stephen broke the silence, holding out muddied hands. He spoke with unnatural matter-of-factness, in jerks that betrayed his embarrassment.

  “I—beg your pardon, Elizabeth, but—a tire burst. Can I—wash? I’m—so sorry.”

  She thought, What a queer way for our interview to begin! but some of her fright left her, and she stepped forward.

  “Yes, of course. I—I quite understand. C-come into my bedroom.”

  “Thanks.” He waited for her to go first, and then followed her in. She remembered how uncomfortable Wendell had made her feel; it seemed perfectly natural for Stephen to be here. Yet once she had not thought so. She picked up the water-jug; Stephen took it from her.