He went downstairs again and did some more thinking about Rosalind’s point of view … Of course he’d apologize!
6
Growing Up
She was back sooner than he expected but he was already on the look-out, intending to have the front door open for her. As she came up the steps he said: ‘I didn’t want you to ring the bell in case it disturbed Miss Whitecliff She’s lying down.’
‘Good. I don’t want to see her,’ said Rosalind. ‘I just want a word or two with you.’
Her tone now was casual but neither rude nor threatening. He followed her into the drawing-room, closed the door and turned to make his apology. But before he could speak she said: ‘Sit down, do you mind? Over there,’ indicating a chair opposite the one she flung herself into. She then favoured him with a long, cool, speculative stare. As a response to such a stare an apology would, he felt, seem like crawling, so he merely stared back, gravely but with a readiness to smile.
At last she said: ‘I was told to look at you. Well, I’ve looked.’
‘Yes, I did notice it,’ said Drew.
‘Mr Severn said no one could blame me for thinking the worst before I met you, but I ought to have seen at once that I was wrong. He’s probably right. Anyway, I do see it now. I suppose I owe you an apology.’
He was surprised she could say this and still remain unsmiling. No doubt she was proud – in which case the apology meant all the more. Smiling himself, he said regretfully: ‘Ah, you got in ahead of me. I was going to apologize to you.’
‘What for? Oh, for threatening to put me out of the house? Damn cheek, still … Do you know what Mr Severn said when I told him that? You haven’t half made a hit with old man Severn. He said: “Good. Shows the boy has a temper. I did think he might be a bit too saintly.” Are you saintly? I’ve always imagined saintly youths were dull.’ There was the faintest hint of a smile in her eyes now
‘Dull I may be,’ said Drew. ‘But saintly, no.1 assure you.’ At last she smiled fully and it was as if a light had been turned on to her fine-boned beauty, illuminating its resemblance to Miss Whitecliff’s. For a moment they sat silently, looking into each other’s eyes. And while the moment lasted Drew was utterly happy. It had come right, just as he had known it would.
It was she who broke the silence. Still smiling, she said:
‘You’ve got it wrong. Dull you aren’t – but you are a bit saintly. Don’t worry. It’s curable.’
She changed her position, crossing one long leg over the other and drawing her tight skirt upwards. Something about the action surprised him … yes, of course: Clare and Merry, when crossing their legs, either left their skirts alone or twitched them downwards. He had never before seen a girl deliberately pull her skirt above the knee – and some considerable way above. Perhaps the skirt was too tight to pull down; anyway, it was pleasant to see a little more of such elegant legs and he was in no way shocked. All the same, he quickly raised his eyes from Rosalind’s legs to Rosalind’s face.
Her expression had changed. She was now looking at him through half-closed eyes and her smile, which he had thought of as particularly frank, had become provocative. But that word was too innocuous. Her expression was tentatively licentious and becoming, every second, less tentative and more confident, expressive of a sexual conceit he found far more shocking than the sexual invitation. But what shocked him most of all was an intuitive certainty that she was not attracted by him but by the idea of his supposed saintliness and the prospect of ‘curing’ it.
He felt no embarrassment, merely a cold revulsion – and one which must have shown plainly in his eyes, for her own eyes grew cold. Then she looked away and he saw that she had flushed deeply. He now became embarrassed, on her account as well as his own. He must ignore what had happened, let her ignore it. Forcing himself to speak with merely casual politeness he said: ‘I believe you have to leave early. Would you like tea now?’
She rose, saying, ‘No, thanks. Too soon after that excellent lunch. And I ought to start now.’
Her tone was so normal that for an instant he hoped he had made a mistake, misinterpreted her expression or, at worst, been wrong in thinking she had seen his revulsion. But he was quickly undeceived when she continued, ‘You can tell my aunt that I quite understand the situation now and I’m sure you’ll make her an ideal companion.’ The last words were spoken with such crude venom that he could not pretend to be unaware they were meant to be insulting. Again their eyes met and this time with unveiled antagonism. Then she walked out of the room and out of the house, slamming the front door behind her.
He found himself thinking she was unbelievable. People just didn’t behave like that. It wasn’t only her awfulness that amazed him. He was almost as astonished by the instantaneousness of her reactions; her enmity and rudeness on her first arrival had been as sudden as her recent, very opposite behaviour. Was there something admirable in such a complete lack of façade? Did it indicate unusual honesty? Had he still found her attractive he might have thought so but as things were … no, her directness was just arrogance. And good God, what had she expected? That he’d jump up and grab her? More likely she’d hoped he’d blush and stammer and become shyly adoring. How dare this creature be called Rosalind?
Well, he must pull himself together. No doubt the slammed door would have awakened Miss Whitecliff. He must go up to her.
She smiled at him as he looked in. ‘I’ve been awake some time. I heard Rosalind’s voice but I kept quiet because I wanted her to go without seeing me. Did she behave any better?’
Instead of answering directly he gave her Rosalind’s message about himself but minus Rosalind’s intonation. As he expected, she took it at its face-value and was delighted.
‘Did she really say you’d make me an ideal companion? There, now, I knew Cyril would cope with her. And I did quite a bit myself. I told her she wasn’t to come again without being invited and if she wrote me worrying letters I might make a new will and cut her out of it. You see, she was so rude about you and I thought she needed frightening. Though I don’t think I would cut her out, really, because she is my only relation. Anyway, I promised her the will should stay as it is, provided she leaves us in peace – and I was able to promise it quite truthfully. Oh, I’ve been very, very clever!’ She looked like a child proud of a happy secret.
‘Splendid,’ said Drew, with a heartiness that was slightly histrionic. Obviously it hadn’t entered her head that she might put him in her will. The money didn’t matter but it would have been pleasant to think she wished him to have some little legacy. And why not be honest and admit that the money did matter? That is, it would if one stayed on and on – and it was hard to imagine being cruel enough to leave her …
She was continuing to chatter. ‘I was telling Cyril how much you do for me and yet I somehow feel more independent, not less. He says that’s because you’re making me believe in my own importance. Yes, that was how he put it. I was thinking about it before I fell asleep and I had such a ridiculous idea. I thought: “Not my own importance, exactly. It’s more that I’m beginning to feel grown-up.” Oh, dear, how silly that sounds – at my age!’
Touched and interested, he had already dismissed thoughts about her will. Returning her smile, he said: ‘Perhaps you couldn’t feel fully grown-up while your mother was alive. You were such a dutiful daughter.’
‘I didn’t think of myself as dutiful – it was just the way things were. Naturally one had to do as Mother wished, when she was so near death. That is, she felt she was, for so many years. But she had such wonderful strength of character. Even when she was, well, really near death, she still decided every detail of our life. There was never any trouble with Annie and Lizzie when Mother was alive.’
‘But there isn’t any trouble with them now,’ said Drew. ‘May I ask you something? Why did you tell me they were fiends?’
She looked startled, then evasive. ‘Did I tell you that? Perhaps it was a joke.’
‘Yes,
I see.’ Better leave it at that.
But she didn’t let him. Still avoiding his eyes, she said, ‘No. It wasn’t a joke. They were fiendish – I mean after Mother died. They kept wanting me to decide things, and how could I when there was no one to tell me? And I was frightened of them sometimes. I thought they were punishing me.’
‘For what?’ Even if it distressed her he must get the truth.
‘Well, just for being me – especially when I was young and they were young. I had so much, parties and pretty dresses and Cyril. And they had nothing. They never went anywhere because they had nowhere to go. And Mother warned me never to be familiar with them in case they got out of hand.
‘We’d never had young maids before. And – well, it stands to reason they must have hated me.’
‘It would have been mote natural to hate your mother.’
‘Oh, they never did that. They admired her. But I came to feel they hated me and despised me. And I can see why. I mean I can see it now, this minute, for the first time. I ought to have done more for them, oughtn’t I?’
He said gently, ‘It’s hard to do things for people, or for oneself, when one isn’t quite grown-up.’
‘How clever of you to understand!’ She smiled at him gratefully. ‘Especially when I don’t fully understand, myself. What puzzles me most of all is the way time slid by. Often when I was going to bed, here in this room with Mother, I’d think “But it’s only a minute since last night” – and in another minute, it was the next night, and on and on. Even the years ran into each other – I used to think that, every New Year’s Eve. It was confusing …’
He had read somewhere that a monotonous life passed quickly, even in prison. Should he try to explain? But already she was continuing.
‘And I felt somehow to blame, though I don’t know why. Perhaps being good to Mother wasn’t enough. Perhaps it was a sort of excuse for not making more effort, for just letting life slide by. I’m beginning to see so many things, now when it’s too late.’
‘But it isn’t, said Drew firmly. ‘There’s still heaps of time. And you mustn’t waste any of it in worrying. As for Annie and Lizzie, of course they don’t hate you.’ If they did, he doubted if they were aware of it. Perhaps they suffered from suppressed resentment, just as she had suffered from suppressed guilt; but even so, he felt sure they’d serve her dutifully if not devotedly as long as she didn’t expect them to think. ‘Now let’s forget about it. Shall I bring your tea up here?’
‘Oh, no!’ She sat up quickly. ‘I want to come down and listen to the wireless – and the gramophone, and have you play to me, and I want to look at all the nice magazines. So many, many exciting things!’
‘I’ll go and see to the fire,’ said Drew.
He went downstairs briskly enough but, while poking the fire into a blaze, realized that he was heavily depressed. Just why? Surely not because Miss Whitecliff had no intention of mentioning him in her will? No, that wasn’t what was weighing on him. Her will could not operate until she died – and the very idea of her dying was unbearable, when she had only just begun to live. Was he dreading the fetters of her affection? Did he fear he might become a captive in this house, even as she had been? If so, he would deserve it for writing to her – such a silly schoolboyish trick it seemed to him now; she wasn’t the only one who was growing up. But it was nonsense to think his position here could resemble what hers had been. He would have all the power she had lacked. He could make life interesting for himself as well as for her. Later, they might travel – and for the present, why not ask someone to stay? She had said she would like to meet his family. But Richard couldn’t leave Dome House at present and Clare didn’t like old ladies. (What did poor dear Clare like?) Merry would have been the one, but there was still no news of her …
He put new magazines on a stool by Miss Whitecliff’s chair and a new novel by his own – not that he much wanted to read the novel, any more than he now wanted to write one, particularly one steeped in a golden Edwardian glow; he could no longer visualize the glow. But surely the desire to write something would return, once he stopped putting all his creative energy into creating a new life for Miss Whitecliff? Really, he should be feeling especially happy at seeing her mental state so much improved. It was something he could be proud of – and he’d done quite a bit for her midgets. (His midgets now, he thought, with rueful amusement.) And hadn’t he had a victorious day? The detestable Rosalind had been routed.
He went to the window, wondering if he would draw the curtains already against the gloomy late afternoon, and as he looked across the leaf-strewn garden he at last tracked his depression to its true source. He remembered standing at the window that morning, remembered – most poignantly – his first glimpse of Rosalind as she strode through an autumnal Arden.
He had not fallen in love with her on sight; he had simply been willing to fall in love. Instead, he had hated her. No, hate was too much of a compliment; hate involved one’s emotions. He merely disliked her, coldly and critically. Never again would he be able to feel he had never really disliked anyone. He wondered why this distressed him so much – and found the answer: he was conscious of a loss of innocence far more absolute than if he could have sensually responded to Rosalind’s sensuality. But the distress, he intuitively knew, would not long survive the innocence, for a loss of sensibility follows a loss of innocence, at once a penalty and a compensation.
He drew the curtains. Miss Whitecliff, entering, said:
‘Oh, how cosy the room looks!’
Annie brought in the tea.
Interlude Under the Dome
Jane
Jane, returning to Dome House after her first day with Miss Willy, felt cheerful. She suspected the head mistress would be merciless to the inefficient; but as an employer of anyone as efficient as Jane knew herself to be, she seemed likely to prove reasonably considerate. They had got on well and Jane had found the work interesting. She was looking forward to telling someone about it, preferably Drew.
She found the hall deserted. Then Clare came out of her bedroom on to the gallery and called down lugubriously.
‘I’ve been asleep. Isn’t it awful about Drew? He’s gone – after a job. He left a note.’
‘Why is it awful?’
‘Well, it is for me. Drew, Merry, Cook, Edith – and you – getting jobs. Not that we know if Drew and Merry have yet, but I’m sure they will. Everyone will but me. Anyway, I always feel awful if I sleep in the afternoon. Will you light the fire? I’ll come down when I’ve freshened up a bit.’
Jane’s cheerfulness ebbed. She would miss Drew as much as she was missing Merry. And Clare’s lack of vitality was both depressing and irritating. But later, when they were sitting by the fire together, she felt sorry for the pretty, spiritless girl – who could no more help being spiritless than she could help being talentless.
‘I know someone who might help you,’ she told her. ‘A Miss Gifford, who runs an old-established employment agency. She sometimes has jobs which require no training – like doing people’s shopping or seeing schoolgirls across London.’
‘But I always get lost in London. And surely it would cost too much to live there unless one had a full-time job?’
‘Quite true. But there might be something.’
‘I can’t think what. Why am I so … so spineless, compared to most people?’
‘Has it anything to do with your health?’
‘Heavens, I’m as strong as a horse. I think the real trouble is that I’m so conscious of not being good at anything. Years ago I realized I wasn’t clever like the others, and I’d have to be an ordinary, domesticated girl. But I never liked it, not even after Aunt Winifred went. She, of course, was utter hell. Running the house was supposed to be her job but I had to dance attendance on her. And nothing I did ever satisfied her.’
‘I expect she’s to blame for a lot,’ said Jane. ‘Anyway, you’ve somehow got an over-developed sense of inferiority. Well, you’re bound to marr
y eventually. Then everything will come right.’
‘But I don’t fancy marrying. The idea bores me just as books about married people bore me. And I never want any children. I can’t bear babies.’
‘That really is astonishing.’ Again Jane felt irritated. A pretty girl who didn’t hanker for a career ought to fancy being a wife and mother. ‘Well, I shall write to Miss Gifford for you, but I do wish I could tell her some job you’d like.’
‘Sorry,’ said Clare, her expression blank.
‘Except, according to Merry, being a king’s mistress. But you’ve probably outgrown that.’
A flash of humour gave a momentary life to Clare’s prettiness. ‘Oh, no! I’d simply adore it, still. But what a hope!’
‘Well, it’s not a job you’d get from Miss Gifford,’ said Jane, smiling. ‘She’s an ultra-respectable old lady. I’ll write to her now – I want to, anyway, to tell her I’m working for Miss Willy.’
‘I’ve never decided which I dislike most – Miss Willy or Aunt Winlfred. I wish they’d fight each other and both win. Well, I’ll start getting supper. Cook and Edith will be back soon.’
‘Dinner,’ Jane noted, had been degraded to ‘supper’.
She went to her room and nobly refrained from turning on the electric fire, even though she intended to pay her share towards the heating of the house as well as for her board and lodging. It was, she remembered ruefully as she sat down at her desk, exactly a week since she had first entered this room and found the fire full on and the radiators hot, on a day far warmer than today.
Miss Gifford’s reply came by the same post that brought Drew’s postcard from Whitesea saying he had got his job. Jane had to tell all she could remember about Miss Whitecliff before even opening her own letter. When at last she had the chance to, she was astonished by one paragraph: