“No, I just dropped in,” I said lamely. “Well, come and have a glass of sherry,” he suggested, “and see how well the collie dog rug looks on my sofa.”
But I told him I had to talk to Miss Marcy, and hurried after her; seeing her was my real reason for coming, of course.
She obligingly dived straight into the subject to which I had meant to lead up.
“Isn’t it splendid about Stephen,” she said, blinking delightedly.
“Five guineas for just one day—nearly six, if he saves the money that was sent for taxis! So thoughtful—how kind Mrs.
Fox-Cotton must be!”
I didn’t find out anything interesting. Stephen had come to her for a guide to London; there isn’t one in the library but she had helped him with advice. When I left her she was still burbling about the wonderful chance for him, and Mrs.
Fox-Cotton’s kindness.
Miss Marcy isn’t the woman of the world Topaz and I are.
Stephen didn’t come home until late in the evening.
“Well, how did you get on?” asked Topaz-much to my relief because I had made up nay mind not to question him. He said he had taken the right ‘bus and only been lost for a few minutes, while he was looking for the house. Mrs. Fox-Cotton had driven him back to the station and taken him round London on the way.
“She was nice,” he added, “she looked quite different—very businesslike, in trousers, like a man. You never saw such a huge great camera as she has.”
Topaz asked what he had worn for the photographs.
“A shirt and some corduroy trousers that were there. But she said they looked too new—I’m to wear them for work and then they’ll be all right for next time.” “So you’re going again.” I tried to make it sound very casual.
He said yes, she was going to send for him the next time she had a free Sunday, probably in about a month. Then he told us about the broken bits of statues he had been photographed with and what ages the lighting had taken and how he had lunched with Mr. and Mrs. Fox-Cotton.
“The studio’s at the back of their house,” he explained.
“You wouldn’t believe that house. The carpets feel like moss and the hall has a black marble floor. Mr. Fox-Cotton asked to be remembered to you, Mrs. Mortmain, ma’am.”
He went to wash while Topaz got him some supper.
“It’s all right,” she said.
“I misjudged the woman.”
I talked to him when he came back and everything seemed natural and easy again. He told me he had wanted to buy me a present but all the shops were closed, of course.
“All I could get was some chocolate from a slot-machine on the station platform, and I don’t suppose it’s special London chocolate.”
He was too tired to eat much. After he had gone to bed, I thought of him falling asleep in that dank little room with pictures of the studio and the Fox-Cottons” rich house dancing in front of his eyes.
It was odd to think he had been seeing things I had never seen—it made him seem very separate, somehow, and much more grownup.
Next morning, I had something else to think about.
Two parcels arrived for me! Nobody has sent me a parcel since we quarreled with Aunt Millicent. (the last one she sent had bed socks in it, most hideous but not to be sneezed at on winter nights. They are finishing their lives as window-wedges.) I could hardly believe it when I saw my name on labels from two Bond Street shops, and the things inside were much more unbelievable.
First I unpacked an enormous round box of chocolates and then a manuscript book bound in pale blue leather, tooled in gold; the pages—two hundred of them, I counted —have dazzling gilt edges and there are blue and gold stars on the end papers (topaz said it must have cost at least two guineas.) There was no card in either of the parcels, but of course I remembered Simon had promised me a box of “candy” if I let him look at my journal.
And he had sent me a new journal, too!
There was nothing for Rose.
“He can send me presents because he thinks of me as a child,” I pointed out.
“He’s probably afraid you wouldn’t accept them.”
“Then he’s a pessimist,” she said, grinning.
“Well, eat all you can, anyway,” I told her.
“You can pay me back when you’re engaged—you’ll get dozens of boxes then.”
She took one, but I could see that it was the idea of owning them that mattered to her, not the chocolates themselves. She didn’t eat half as many as Topaz and I did; Rose never was greedy about food.
We had scarcely recovered from the excitement of the parcels when the Scoatney car arrived. Only the chauffeur was in it. He brought a box of hot-house flowers and a note from Simon asking us all to lunch the next day even Thomas and Stephen. The flowers weren’t addressed to anyone and the note was for Topaz; she said Simon was being very correct, which was a good sign. She gave the chauffeur a note accepting for all of us but Thomas and Stephen, and saying she was uncertain about them—she didn’t like to refuse for them without knowing how they felt; which was just as well because Thomas insisted on cutting school and coming.
Stephen said he would sooner die.
I ought to have recorded that second visit to Scoatney immediately after it happened, but describing May Day had rather exhausted my lust for writing. Now, when I look back, I mostly see the green of the gardens, where we spent the afternoon-we stayed on for tea.
It was a peaceful, relaxed sort of party— I never felt one bit nervous, as I did when we went to dinner. (but the dinner-party was more thrilling; it glows in my memory like a dark picture with a luminous centre—candlelight and shining floors and the night pressing against the black windows.) Mrs. Cotton was still away and Simon was very much the host, rather serious and just a bit stately, talking mainly to Father and Topaz. Even with Rose he was surprisingly formal, but he was jolly with me. Neil took a lot of trouble with Thomas, encouraging him to eat a great deal and playing tennis with him Neil asked Rose and me to play, too, but she didn’t want to as she hasn’t had any practice since she left school. So she and I wandered around on our own and drifted into the biggest greenhouse.
It was lovely moving through the hot, moist, heavily scented air and it felt particularly private—almost as if we were in a separate world from the others. Rose suddenly said:
“Oh, Cassandra, is it going to happen—is it?”
She looked as she used to on Christmas Eve, when we were hanging up our stockings.
“Are you really sure you want it to?” I asked —and then decided it was a wasted question when she was so obviously determined. To my surprise, she considered it a long time, staring out across the lawn to where Simon was talking to Father and Topaz.
A pink camellia fell with a little dead thud.
“Yes, quite sure,” she said, at last, with an edge on her voice.
“Up to now, it’s been like a tale I’ve been telling myself. Now it’s real.
And it’s got to happen. It’s got to.”
“Well, I feel as if it will,” I told her—and I really did. But greenhouses always give me a waiting, expectant sort of feeling.
Neil pressed another ham on Thomas and six pots of jam-Father raised a protest but it was very mild; he was in a wonderfully good temper. He borrowed a lot of books from Simon and retired to the gatehouse with them as soon as we got home.
The next exciting day was when we went for the picnic -they called for us unexpectedly. Father had gone to London again (without any explanation) and Topaz made an excuse not to come, so only Rose and I went. We drove to the sea.
It wasn’t like an ordinary English picnic, because Neil cooked steak over the fire—this is called a “barbecue”; I have been wondering what that was ever since I read about Brer Rabbit. The steak was burnt outside and raw inside, but wonderfully romantic.
Simon was at his youngest and most American that day. He and Neil kept remembering a picnic they had been on together when
they were very little boys, before their parents separated. I suppose they are only gradually getting to know each other again, but I feel sure Neil is already fond of Simon; with Simon one can’t tell, he is so much more reserved. They are both equally kind but Neil’s nature is much warmer, more open. He was nice even to Rose that day —well, most of the time; not that I see how anyone could have helped being, because she was at her very best. Perhaps the sea and the fun of cooking the steak did it—something changed her into a gloriously real person again. She laughed and romped and even slid down sand hills on her stomach. We didn’t bathe because none of us had brought suits—a good job, too, as the sea was icy.
Simon seemed more fascinated than ever by Rose.
Late in the afternoon, when she had just been particularly tomboyish, he said to Neil:
“Did you ever see such a change in a girl?”
“No, it’s quite an improvement,” said Neil. He grinned at Rose and she pulled a little face at him; just for that minute I felt they were really friendly to each other.
“Do you think it’s an improvement?” she asked Simon.
“I’m wondering. Shall we say it’s perfect for the sea and the sunlight—and the other Rose is perfect for candlelight? And perhaps what’s most perfect of all is to find there are several Roses?”
He was looking straight at her as he said it and I saw her return the look. But it wasn’t like that time at the Scoatney dinner table-her eyes weren’t flirtatious; just for an instant they were wide and defenseless, almost appealing. Then she smiled very sweetly and sad: “Thank you, Simon.”
“Time to pack up,” said Neil.
It flashed through my mind that he had felt it was an important moment, just as I had, and didn’t want to prolong it. After that, he was as off-hand to Rose as ever and she just ignored him.
It was sad, when they had been so friendly all day.
Neil had driven coming out, so Simon drove going home, with Rose at the front beside him. I didn’t hear them talking much; Simon is a very careful driver and the winding lanes worry him. It was fun at the back with Neil. He told me lots of interesting things about life in America—they do seem to have a good time there, especially the girls.
“Do Rose and I seem very formal and conventional, compared with American girls?” I asked.
“Well, hardly conventional,” he said, laughing, “even madam with her airs isn’t that,”—he jerked his head towards Rose.
“No, I’d never call any of your family conventional, but—oh, I guess there’s formality in the air here, even the villagers are formal; even you are, in spite of being so cute.”
I asked him just what he meant by “formality.”
He found difficulty in putting it into words, but I gather it includes reserve and “a sort of tightness.”
“Not that it matters, of course,” he added, hastily.
“English people are swell.”
That was so like Neil—he will joke about England, but he is always most anxious not really to hurt English feelings.
After that, we talked about America again and he told me of a three-thousand-mile car-drive he made from California to New York.
He described how he would arrive in some little town at sunset, coming in through residential quarters, where there were big trees and green lawns with no fences round them and people sitting on their porches with lighted windows behind them; and then drive through the main street with the shops lit up and the neon signs brilliant against the deep blue sky-I must say I never thought of neon lighting as romantic before but he made it sound so. The hotels must be wonderful, even in quite small towns there is generally one where most of the bedrooms have a private bath; and you get splendid food in places called Coffee Shops. Then he told me about the scenery in the different States he passed through —the orange groves in California, the cactus in the desert, the hugeness of Texas, the old towns in the South where queer gray moss hangs from the trees— I particularly liked the sound of that.
He drove from summer weather to winter—from orange blossom in California to a blizzard in New York.
He said a trip like that gives you the whole feel of America marvelously—and even to hear him describe it made America more real for me than anything I have read about it or seen on the pictures. It was still so vivid for him that though each time we drove through a beautiful village he would say “Yes, very pretty,” I could tell he was still seeing America. I told him I was trying to see it too; if one can sometimes get flashes of other people’s thoughts by telepathy, one ought to be able to see what their minds’ eyes are seeing.
“Let’s concentrate on it,” he said, and took my hand under the rug. We shut our eyes and concentrated hard. I think the pictures I saw were just my imaginings of what he had described, but I did get the strangest feeling of space and freedom—so that when I opened my eyes, the fields and hedges and even the sky seemed so close that they were almost pressing on me. Neil looked quite startled when I told him; he said that was how he felt most of the time in England.
Even when we stopped concentrating he went on holding my hand, but I don’t think it meant anything; I rather fancy it is an American habit. On the whole, it felt just friendly and comfortable, though it did occasionally give me an odd flutter round the shoulders.
It was dark when we got to the castle. We asked them in, but they were expecting Mrs. Cotton to arrive that evening and had to get back.
Father came home while I was describing our day to Topaz. (not one word did he say about what he had been doing in London.) He had travelled on the same train as Mrs.
Cotton and asked her to dinner on the next Saturday-with Simon and Neil, of course. For once, Topaz really got angry.
“Mortmain, how could you?” she simply shouted at him.
“What are we to give them—and what on? You know we haven’t a stick of dining-room furniture.”
“Oh, give them ham and eggs in the kitchen,” said Father, “they won’t mind. And they’ve certainly provided enough ham.”
We stared at him in utter despair. It was a good thing Rose wasn’t there because I really think she might have struck him, he looked so maddeningly arrogant. Suddenly he deflated.
“I—just felt I had to—” all the bravado had gone out of his voice.
“She invited us to dine at Scoatney again next week and My God, I think my brain’s going—I actually forgot about the dining-room furniture. Can’t you rig something up?”
He looked pleadingly at Topaz. I can’t stand it when he goes humble—it is like seeing a lion sitting up begging (not that I ever did see one). Topaz rose to the occasion magnificently.
“Don’t worry, we’ll manage. It’s fun, in a way—a sort of challenge-was she tried to use her most soothing contralto, but it broke a bit. I felt like hugging her. “Let’s just look at the dining-room,” she whispered to me, while Father was eating his supper. So we took candles and went along.
I can’t think what she hoped for, but anyhow we didn’t find it-we didn’t find anything but space. Even the carpet was sold with the furniture.
We went into the drawing-room.
“The top of the grand piano would be original,” said Topaz.
“With Father carving on the keys?”
“Could we sit on the floor, on cushions? We certainly haven’t enough chairs.”
“We haven’t enough cushions, either. All we really have enough of is floor.”
We laughed until the candle wax ran down on to our hands.
After that we felt better.
In the end, Topaz got Stephen to take the hen-house door off its hinges and make some rough trestles to put it on, and we pushed it close to the window-seat, which saved us three chairs.
We used the gray brocade curtains from the hall as a tablecloth—they looked magnificent, though the join showed a bit and they got in the way of our feet. All our silver and good china and glass went long ago, but the Vicar lent us his, including his silver candelabr
a. Of course we asked him to dinner too, and he came early and sat in the kitchen giving his possessions a final polish while we got dressed. (rose wore Topaz’s black dress; we had found it didn’t look a bit conventional on Rose—it suited her wonderfully.) Our dinner menu was:
Clear soup (made from half the second ham-bone) Boiled chicken and ham Peaches and cream (the Cottons sent the peaches—just in time) Savory: Devilled ham mousse Topaz cooked it all and Ivy Stebbins brought it in; Stephen and Thomas helped her in the kitchen. Nothing unfortunate happened except that Ivy kept staring at Simon’s beard.
She told me afterwards that it gave her the creeps.
Mrs. Cotton was as talkative as ever but very nice—so easy; I think it was really she who made us feel the dinner was a success.
Americans are wonderfully adaptable—Neil and Simon helped with the washing-up. (they call it “doing the dishes.”) I rather wished they hadn’t insisted, because the kitchen looked so very un-American. It was wildly untidy and Thomas had put all the plates on the floor for Heloise and Abelard to lick—very wrong indeed, because chicken-bones are dangerous to animals.
Ivy washed and we all dried. Then Stephen took Ivy home. She is the same age as I am but very big and handsome. She obviously has her eye on Stephen—I hadn’t realized that before, I suppose it would be an excellent thing for him if he married her, because she is the Stebbins’s only child and will inherit the farm. I wondered if he would kiss her on the way home. I wondered if he had ever kissed any girl. Part of my mind went with him through the dark fields, but most of it stayed with the Cottons in the kitchen. Neil was sitting on the table, stroking About into a coma of bliss; Simon was wandering round examining things. Suddenly the memory of that first time they came here flashed back to me. I hoped Rose had forgotten Simon’s shadow looking like the Devil-I had almost forgotten it myself. There surely never was a more un-devilish man.
Soon after that we were into the exciting part of the evening. It began when Simon asked if they might see over the castle; I had guessed he would and made sure that the bedrooms were tidy.