In May Miss Arden wrote to beg Elizabeth to come and see her soon. Elizabeth did not want to go at all, but she replied that she would love to come to the Boltons for a week if Aunt Anne would have her. It was not Elizabeth-Anne who wrote that letter, but herself, in the spirit of coquetry that had come to her.
She told Stephen of the invitation, and demurely asked, Can I go?
Stephen sat up very straight in his chair; through her lashes she watched a blank look come into his face.
“But, ’Lisbeth, when I asked you to come to town with me last month, you refused!”
“I feel different now, you see,” she explained. “I’d like to see Auntie and Father again. Besides the chicks were too young to be left last month.”
“Damn the chickens!” Stephen growled.
Elizabeth played with her wedding-ring.
“I won’t go if you’d—if you’d rather I stayed. If—if you—want me.”
He squared his shoulders; the frown went out of his eyes.
“No. Of course you must go if you feel you’d like to. Only—how long will it be, Elizabeth?”
“Not more than a week,” she assured him.
“Not more—! Yes, of course. I—I hope you’ll enjoy yourself, darling.”
She rose, looking strangely down at him. She was near to stamping her foot at his density.
“When do you depart?” Stephen asked, with studied coolness.
“The day after to-morrow,” Elizabeth replied.
There was a pause.
“I see. You might look the Mater up while you’re in town. Not unless you want to, of course.”
“Sometimes,” Elizabeth said breathlessly, “I’d—I’d like to hit you!”
He got up, slowly.
“What have I done? Why are you fed up with me? I didn’t know that I’d—”
“You haven’t done anything,” Elizabeth answered:. “You don’t.”
He was puzzled and anxious.
“Don’t? Elizabeth, what is it? Please tell me! What’s the matter?”
She gave a funny little laugh that was also a sob.
“You—you silly old thing, Stephen! Nothing’s the matter. Nothing at all!”
He took a. step towards her, but she turned quickly and fled.
Ten minutes later, from her bedroom window, she saw him stride away across the fields, with his hands deep in the pockets of his old shooting jacket and his head bare to the spring breezes.
She watched him go, the dogs leaping about him, and her heart swelled with pride of his fine shoulders and great height, and the even swing of his walk. She blew him a kiss from the tips of her fingers. He was hers; her man, clever and stupid, strong and so weak.
“Stephen!” she said softly. “I love you, I love you!”
But she went away on Thursday to stay with her father.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Oh, my darling!” Miss Arden sighed. “After all these months. I’ve so longed to have you with me again!”
Elizabeth was touched. She slipped her arm about Miss Arden and hugged her slightly.
“I’m sorry, auntie, but I couldn’t come before. You and Father must come down to the Halt this summer when the roses are in bloom. You will, won’t you?”
“Oh, my dear, of course! Elizabeth, you’re fatter!”
“She is looking the picture of health,” Lawrence said complacently.
“I’ve never seen you so well-covered!” exclaimed Miss Arden, stepping back to survey her niece. “Never!”
“It comes of associating so much with the lady in Stephen’s new book,” laughed Elizabeth. “Stephen informs the world in three places that she’s deep-bosomed. Isn’t it an awful expression? I’m growing like her.”
“Elizabeth dear! And—and how is—Stephen?”
Elizabeth went to the looking-glass and removed her hat.
“Rather peevish. He doesn’t like being left alone, poor old thing.”
“My dear Elizabeth, surely you must have known that our invitation included him?” Lawrence said.
“Oh yes, father! I just—didn’t want him. How is Mr. Hengist?”
Miss Arden compressed her lips.
“Very well, I believe. That man is never ill. He is coming to dine with us to-night, I am sorry to say. I should have liked to have you to myself, but your father had already invited him. I hope you don’t mind, Elizabeth?”
“Of course I don’t. Mr. Hengist is my oldest friend. I want to see him.”
“In that case, it’s all right then,” Miss Arden said, in a voice that told Elizabeth that it was not all right at all, but all wrong.
She longed to see Mr. Hengist; she put on a wispy black evening frock for his benefit, having found that in most men’s eyes black found favour. She spent much time in the arrangement of her hair and when at last she was ready looked keenly at her reflection in the mirror.
“I’ve matured,” she thought. “I used to be pretty. I’m more than that now. I’m different. I’m Elizabeth-pure-and-simple.”
She went down to the drawing-room and stood for a moment against the white door, smiling. Mr. Hengist, rising, thought that her great eyes were like stars. She looked older, but infinitely more beautiful.
She came forward.
“By Jove!” thought Mr. Hengist. “She’s suddenly grown into a woman. She’s got poise at last! Poise and assurance.”
“I’m so sorry if I’ve kept everyone waiting,” Elizabeth said. “Mr. Hengist, I am so very, very glad to see you.”
He kissed her, and patted her shoulder.
“My dear child,” he said gruffly. “Yes, and yes, and yes.”
She laughed up at him.
“Is it yes, Mr. Hengist?”
“It looks like it,” he answered.
“Aha! You see, I’ve got a new name for myself.” Her eyes danced; he thought her transfigured.
“Well, what is it, rogue?”
“Elizabeth-pure-and-simple.”
“That’s excellent,” he said. “What chased the lady away?”
She shook her head.
“I shan’t tell you.”
Mr. Hengist looked at her.
“I believe I know,” he said.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Miss Arden asked. “Come along in to dinner. ...”
“And how,” said Mr. Hengist, shaking out his table-napkin, “is the magnum opus?”
“Ah yes!” Lawrence interjected. “The great book! Does it progress?”
“Fast,” Elizabeth answered. “It’s had some ups and downs, but I think all is plain sailing now.”
“Quite an inspired writer,” Lawrence said meditatively.
Elizabeth thought of the many times she had had to encourage Stephen to go on with the book, and had discussed it with him, and had coaxed away his fits of dissatisfaction. She smiled to herself.
Mr. Hengist was watching her.
“Does he need much inspiration, Elizabeth?”
“Sometimes,” she nodded.
“I don’t quite follow you,” Lawrence said. No one offered to enlighten him, so he changed the subject, and asked Mr. Hengist how he thought Elizabeth was looking.
“Buxom,” Mr. Hengist replied promptly, and there was an outcry. When it had subsided, he said, “All right, I retract. Is Stephen anywhere in the offing, or are you alone, child?”
“I’m alone. I’ve come up to see Auntie and Father, and to do some shopping. I—just thought I’d leave Stephen behind.” Her dimples peeped out.
“Will you have time for anything else?” Mr. Hengist asked.
“It depends on what it is,” she answered.
“Come and dine with me and go to a theatre afterwards.”
“I’d love to. When, please!”
“When you like. What about Saturday?”
“I will. Thank you very much.”
She went to tea with Mrs. Ramsay, the next day, and was welcomed with open arms. Cynthia came in the middle of tea, and
although she was not very cordial she did not say anything unkind, nor did she sneer to her mother when Elizabeth had gone.
“Cynny, she’s blossomed forth.”
“Urn! Well?”
“Darling, I’m feeling incurably sentimental. She’s in love with Stephen.”
Cynthia threw the end of her cigarette into the fire.
“Is she really? Why has she left him at the Halt then?”
“I think she’s flirting with him,” smiled Mrs. Ramsay. “Trying to make him come part of the way to meet her.”
“What if he doesn’t? He may not understand.”
“Then,” said Mrs. Ramsay, “I believe she’ll go all the way. Probably in a rush.”
“Not she.”
“She will, Cyn, she will. I think I want to cry. I’m— I’m thinking of the awful strained look in Stephen’s eyes.”
Cynthia put out her hand quickly, and laid it over one of Mrs. Ramsay’s.
“If what you say is true, mater; it’ll go.”
“Well, young lady,” said Mr. Hengist, “you’re very gay. How’s Elizabeth-Anne?”
“Dead,” said Elizabeth, sparkling. “The funeral took place last month.”
“Oh? Why then, exactly?”
Elizabeth looked at him across the table for one fleeting instant.
“She died, you see, when I discovered that I was in love with my husband.”
“I thought as much,” Mr. Hengist said placidly. “Pardon my rudeness, but does Stephen know?”
She shook her head.
“He—he—it’s rather difficult to make him understand.”
“I don’t think I’m qualified to give advice,” said Mr. Hengist.
“Oh, no! This is my own little game. I just thought you’d like to know. I found it all out in a flash, and— everything changed, as you said it would. And I—want to thank you—for all that you’ve done for me—and to tell you—”
“Beyond giving you a typewriter—” began Mr. Hengist more gruffly than ever.
“And the good advice. Oh, you know, Mr. Hengist! I was ungrateful and stupid at the time. I’m awfully grateful now. You did me more good than anybody.”
“That’ll do!” Mr. Hengist said loudly. “That’ll do, Elizabeth!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Stephen was on the station-platform, eagerly scanning each carriage as it passed him. He had sprung forward before Elizabeth could open the door, and had swung it open for her.
“Oh—’Lisbeth!”
She gave him her hands; he thought she looked radiant, and there was that in her smile which made the blood race madly through his veins. They walked down the platform together. Elizabeth’s arm was in his; she squeezed it slightly, and said,
“Are you glad I’m back, Stephen?”
“That’s—a silly question,” he said. “You’ve enjoyed yourself?”
“Yes. Fairly. I—missed you rather.” She was overcome with shyness. “And—and everything,” she added hurriedly.
They got into the waiting car.
“Yes —exactly,” Stephen said. “Did you see the Mater?”
“I did.”
He looked down.
“More secrets?”
“Not—so very secret,” she said. She snuggled down in the car, and looked with contented eyes about her: at the tender green of spring, the grey shadows cast by overhanging trees, and the winding road ahead, dusty, and mottled with the sunlight filtering through the leaves above. “It’s good to be home again,” she said.
“It’s good to hear you—call it home,” he answered. “To me it hasn’t been home—all the week.”
Her head touched his sleeve, caressingly. Then her voice changed.
“My dear, you’re wearing the coat I put aside to give to the gardener.”
He lifted one hand from the wheel, and looked sheepishly down at the rough tweed.
“Am I?” he said.
“You know you are. It’s a horrible old coat, Stephen.”
“Well, but I like it. We can’t both of us wear new clothes on the same day.”
She tilted her head.
“You like it?”
He did not look at the hat, but at her.
“Rather! You look—” He broke off and put the car along faster.
“What do I look, Stephen?”
“Beautiful,” he said curtly.
She resisted the temptation to lay her cheek against his shoulder. She thought, He makes it very difficult. He won’t help me, not-one atom.
“The book, Stephen? How is it?”
“I’ve done very little more,” he confessed. “I—I missed your presence in the room.” He sighed. “I’m a discontented dog, Elizabeth.”
She was silent, waiting.
“The roses are coming on well, aren’t they?” Stephen said.
The car slowed down and stopped before the porch.
“Very,” Elizabeth said dismally. “Oh, Hector, you dear thing, don’t lick my nose!”
She went up to her room and was a long time over her unpacking. When she came down for tea she had changed her frock to one of lilac silk which she knew became her better than any other she possessed. Stephen’s eyes lit up when he saw her, but all he said was, “Tea’s ready, Lisbeth.”
She sat down on the sofa; he sank on to his usual footstool and remarked that she was doing her hair a different way.
“Do you like it?” she asked.
“Very much. It suits you. How were your people?”
“Father had a bit of a. cold, but otherwise they were all right. I saw Mr. Hengist once or twice. He took me to see ‘The Butterfly.’”
“Oh, was it any good?”
“Y-es, I think it was a clever play. I never like the ultra-modern stuff, you know. Oh, Sarah’s engaged to be married!”
“No, really? Do we know the man?”
“No. I’ve only seen his photograph. Not fearfully prepossessing. Rather pudgy-faced.”
“Perhaps he has a good heart,” Stephen grinned. “By the way, I had a letter from Caryll yesterday. He asked me to remember him very particularly to you, and to say that he looked forward to seeing you again as soon as possible.”
Elizabeth’s face lit up.
“Oh, did he say that? How awfully nice of him!”
Stephen set his cup down.
“I scent an intrigue. Out with it!”
Pain came into her eyes.
“Don’t, Stephen! Not—not even in fun. I—I can’t bear it.”
He was on his knees beside her in an instant, an arm protectively about her waist.
“My darling, I never meant to hurt you! I’m awfully sorry, ’Lisbeth. Of course I didn’t think there was anything in it.”
She let her weight rest against his arm; even she inclined her body slightly towards him. He let her go, and went back to his seat. For a time she could not speak for very disappointment, but presently she said,
“You see, I met Mr. Cary one day when—when I was with Charles. He—he said one or two things to me that— made me feel—ashamed and—very small.”
“Oh, did he? D’you mind repeating just what he said?” Stephen demanded grimly.
“Dear, I can’t remember. He was most polite, but— cold. It wasn’t what he said that made me ashamed. It was his manner. Can I ask him down here some day?”
“I don’t know. Not if he was anything approaching rude to you.”
“He wasn’t. Don’t be so silly, Stephen. I shouldn’t want to ask him if he had been rude. You’ve got a hole in your sock.”
“I don’t mind. Oh, Elizabeth, I . . .”
“Yes?” she said softly.
“Nothing. Did Mater send any messages?”
“Crowds. You aren’t to overwork, you’re not to let me overwork, you mustn’t use the word ‘jejune’ in your books more than twice, and—”
“Do I run the word to death?” he asked quickly.
“I haven’t noticed it. Mater says it makes her fe
el tired.”
On those lines went the conversation; Elizabeth ached to feel Stephen’s arms about her, yet could not summon up the courage to tell him. In this new pain, filled with this devastating want; she realized his feelings during the past year. She could not in silence bear her pain for long; he would bear his until of her own free will she gave herself to him. Her love for him was growing bigger and still stronger, but there was her instinct, and the training of a life-time to be overcome before she could bring herself to say to him, Take me; I am yours. If he would break the oath he had sworn to her, never to speak of love until she asked him, how gladly would she go to him. It seemed that he could not understand her new attitude, and would not follow the lead she gave him. He thought, perhaps, that she meant nothing by her little inviting actions. When she tilted her face upwards, standing close, very close, to him, he would not take the offered kiss. Did he think that she offered it out of friendship or compassion? He should be able to read all that was in her mind, and to see that in her glance was not friendship, but love. Yet this obtuseness, this obstinacy, even while it disappointed her, made her love him the more, tenderly and in pity for his blindness. Mrs. Gabriel had said that men didn’t understand. Elizabeth saw now that when you loved, this lack of perception no longer made you angry, but awoke all the mother that was in you, and made you feel how infinitely wiser you were, even though your husband was more clever than you.
In a thousand little ways she wooed him, audacious and shy, terrified lest he should see at last, miserable when he did not. When he called her to come and read some paragraph of his book, she would rest her hand on his shoulder, and bend over him so that her hair brushed his cheek and her breast touched his arm. She could feel the stiffening of his muscles, sometimes hear a quick intake of breath. All her instincts urged flight, but she stayed, hoping. His level voice cast down her hopes every time; she was back at the beginning again, bruised and sad, but still indomitable.
It did more to kill the prude in her than all else through which she had passed. With a tiny smile she reflected that she was not behaving like a “nice” girl at all, but like a minx. Then she thought, I’m not a girl, but a wife. Anything that I do with Stephen is right. Even when I try to vamp him. That made her laugh, for there was nothing of the vamp in her, and she knew it.
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