Once Stephen grasped her shoulders and said stormily,
“You drive me mad! What is this queer elusive air of yours?”
She shivered, and was still under his hands. The grip loosened.
“Sorry, ’Lisbeth. Forgetting myself.”
She tried to say the words that were in her heart. They would not be spoken; she could only run from the room, furious with herself, and with him.
The book was nearing its end. When it is finished, Elizabeth thought, I will tell him.
But she hoped that he would see before that. Curled on the sofa in the evening, a rose-shaded light behind her, she watched Stephen at work, and could almost find it in her to be jealous of the woman in his book who occupied his thoughts. Time wore on, and in the hall the old grandfather clock struck midnight, but she would not go up to bed. Stephen would send her there if he remembered her presence, but he was absorbed in his writing; he had forgotten time and her.
An hour later he pushed the work away and stretched mightily, yawning. He rose, and saw Elizabeth, fast asleep among the silken cushions, her hair a little ruffled, and one hand lying palm upwards upon her lap. He stood very still, looking down upon her, drinking in her beauty till his hands clenched hard at his sides, and his mouth went awry at the pain of it.
Gently he slipped his arms under her; she stirred but did not awake; her cheek lay now against his shoulder, rosy in sleep; she was in his arms, yielding and sweet.
He carried her out into the beamed hall, where shadows lay, mysterious and soft, and up the shallow stairs to the floor above. He would not let himself look into her face, but set his teeth against the leaping flame within him, and went on.
On the bend of the stair she sighed, and opened drowsy eyes. He stopped and spoke quietly to her.
“It’s all right, ’Lisbeth. I’m carrying you up to bed, you naughty babe.”
But she had not been startled, or afraid; he expected a struggle, perhaps shrinking. Sleepily she said,
“Thank you, Stephen! How comfy!”
He thought she was only half awake, which accounted for this trust. He would not take advantage of her unconscious pliancy. Swiftly he went on.
Elizabeth nestled a little closer, looking up into his set face. Her hand tucked itself into his coat.
“Aren’t I very heavy?” she murmured.
“No.”
He crossed the landing and put her down, just inside her room.
“Good night, my darling,” he said huskily, and went quickly out.
She was left standing by her bed, gazing blankly at the shut door. Like a child she rubbed her eyes, and her mouth drooped.
The stairs creaked; Stephen had gone down again. Listlessly she began to undress, and because she was tired and wanted his arms about her still, one or two big tears welled over her eyelids and rolled unheeded down her cheeks.
She thought, If only he would come back! I shouldn’t be frightened; it’s when he isn’t here that I’m frightened.
Presently she heard him run up the stairs and go into his dressing-room. She stood by her dressing-table, fidgeting with the handle of her brush, blinded by tears. Then, obeying an impulse which would not be gainsaid, she stumbled to the door between their rooms, and knocked on it.
“Come in!” Stephen’s voice was surprised.
She managed to open the door, and stood drooping upon the threshold. Stephen was in his shirt-sleeves, staring at her. He saw the tears, and was at her side in an instant.
“My darling!” Consternation sounded in his voice, and throbbing anxiety. “’Lisbeth, what is it?”
Words crowded in her throat, but would not be said; another big tear rolled down her cheek, and a little, lonely sob came.
Stephen drew her gently into the room, his arm comfortingly about her.
“Sweetheart, what is it? Why are you crying? I—I can’t bear to see you— Have I done something to upset you? Tell me, dearest! Please tell me!”
Into his shoulder she said, between sobs,
“I’ve—t-tried to—sh-show you—but you w -won’t see!”
“Tried to show me what, precious? You poor little thing, what is it?”
She wanted him to see for himself. She sank closer to him and buried her face in his shirt. He stiffened, and said hoarsely,
“’Lisbeth—I can’t— You’d better go— I won’t answer for myself if you—”
“I don’t want—to go.”
Almost roughly he pushed her from him, and held her so, at arm’s length.
“Elizabeth, what are you saying? I’m—I can’t bear much more. What is it that you want?”
So she would have to say it after all; it was a tiresome thing, his honour.
“I—want—you,” she whispered.
The hands fell from her shoulders; Stephen made her look full into his eyes.
“Do you know what you’ve said?” he asked, unnaturally calm. “Do you—mean it—or is it just—”
Her eyes were dark, and bright with tears; she put up her little hands and grasped his shirt. Almost she shook him.
“Oh, can’t you see, can’t you see?” she cried, quivering. “Haven’t I—shown you, my dear? I w-want you so much that it’s tearing me in two! I want you! Won’t you —take me?”
His arms were tight about her at last, crushing her against himself, his lips were on her hair, for her face was hidden again. She clung to him, laughing and crying, and heard his voice above her, broken and strange.
“Oh, my darling, my darling, my darling!”
Her hands went up to his neck; she turned her face upward, and he saw her lips expectant.
“I want—another honeymoon,” she said softly. “I— love—you.” She pulled his head down, and his kisses fell on her eager lips.
Instead of the Thorn Page 31