How on earth did Rose get him to shave, I wondered, as I collected Neil’s things. I guessed she had dared him to.
I must say I was astonished at him—it seemed so undignified, using Father’s shaving tackle and my little enamel basin. (but then, the dignified, stately Simon seems to have vanished with the beard-I find it hard to believe now that I was ever even a little bit in awe of him;
not that I think the change is merely due to the beard having gone, it is far more due to his being so much in love with Rose.) When I went into the kitchen, Neil was standing so close to the fire that his bathing-shorts were steaming.
“Why, I thought you’d forgotten me,” he said, turning to smile at me.
“Isn’t it splendid?” I cried.
“Rose and Simon are engaged.”
His smile went like an electric light switched of.
I said: “You don’t look exactly pleased.”
“Pleased!” For a second he just stood glaring; then he grabbed the towel.
“Clear out and let me get dressed,” he said—in a very rude tone of voice indeed.
I dumped his clothes down and turned to go, then changed my mind.
“Neil—please-was I tried to sound very friendly and reasonable.
“Why do you hate Rose so his You have from the beginning.”
He went on drying his shoulders.
“No, I haven’t. I liked her a lot at first.”
“But not now? Why not, Neil?”
He stopped drying himself and looked me full in the face.
“Because she’s a gold-digger. And you know it, Cassandra.”
“I do not,” I said, indignantly.
“How dare you say a thing like that?”
“Can you honestly tell me she isn’t marrying Simon for his money?”
“OF course I can!” I said it with the utmost conviction-and really believed it for that second. Then I felt my face go scarlet because, well “You darned little liar,” said Neil.
“And I thought you were such a nice honest kid! Did you take me swimming deliberately?”
I was suddenly angry on my own account as well as Rose’s.
“Yes, I did,” I cried.
“And I’m glad I did. Rose told me you’d interfere if you could—just because you want Simon to go back to America with you! You mind your own business, Neil Cotton!”
“Get the hell out of here!” he roared, looking so furious that I thought he was going to hit me. I went up the kitchen stairs like a streak, but paused on the top step and spoke with dignity:
“I’d advise you to pull yourself together before you see Simon.”
Then I whisked inside and bolted the door—I wouldn’t have put it past him to have come after me.
One good thing about feeling so angry was that it had made me much warmer, but I was glad to get out of my wet bathing-suit and dry myself on Topaz’s bedspread. I was just finishing dressing in Buffer when I heard the Belmotte party coming across the courtyard.
Simon, next door, said: “Let’s go and tell them, Rose.” So I ran in and we all went down together.
We met the others in the hall. Mrs. Cotton was close to the little lamp on the bracket so I could see her expression clearly. She looked astonished enough when she saw Simon’s beard was gone and got as far as “Simon I” Then he interrupted, “Rose is going to marry me,” and her mouth just fell open. I was almost sure she was dismayed as well as surprised—but only for a second; then she seemed perfectly delighted. She kissed Rose and Simon—and thanked her for getting him to shave. She kissed Topaz and me— I thought she was going to kiss Father! And she talked— I once wrote that her talk was like a wall; this time it was more like battleship with all guns blazing. But she was very, very kind; and the more one knows her, the more one likes her.
In the middle of the congratulations Neil came in-I was glad to see his dress shirt had got pretty crumpled while I lugged it about. No one would have guessed that he had lost his temper only a few minutes before. He said:
“Congratulations, Simon—I see the beard has gone! Rose dear, I’m sure you know all that I’m wishing you.”
I must say I thought that was rather neat; but it didn’t seem to strike Rose as having any double meaning. She smiled and thanked him very nicely, then went on listening to Mrs. Cotton.
The Vicar said he had some champagne in his cellar and Neil offered to drive to the vicarage for it—and actually had the nerve to ask me to go with him. I refused just as coldly as I could without making it conspicuous.
But later on, when we were all standing talking in the courtyard before the Cottons went out to their car, he walked me away from the others so firmly that I let myself go with him. He took me as far as the big bed of stocks by the moat; then said:
“Make it up?”
I said: “I don’t think I’m keen to. You called me a liar.”
“Suppose I apologize?”
“You mean you don’t think I am one?”
“Won’t you settle for a straightforward apology?”
I felt in the circumstances that I would, but didn’t see how I could say so without its reflecting on Rose. So I didn’t say anything.
Neil went on: “Suppose I add that I wouldn’t blame you for lying—if you did his And that I admire you for defending Rose. You don’t have to say anything at all, but if you forgive me just squeeze my hand.”
He slid his hand down from my elbow. I answered his squeeze.
He said, “Good”—then, in a more serious voice than I ever heard him use: “Cassandra, it isn’t that I want him to come back to America with me, honest it isn’t. Of course, I’d like it from a selfish point of view—” “I oughtn’t to have said that,” I broke in.
“It’s my turn to apologize.”
“Apology accepted.” He squeezed my hand again, then let it go and sighed deeply.
“Oh, maybe I’ve got her all wrong—maybe she really has fallen for him. Why not his any girl in her senses would, I guess.”
I guessed he guessed wrong about that—it seemed to me that lots of girls wouldn’t be attracted by Simon, in spite of his niceness; and that most of them would be by Neil. The moonlight was shining on his hair, which was drying curlier than ever.
I told him there was still a bit of duck-weed in it, and he laughed and said:
“That was a darned good swim anyhow.” Then Mrs.Cotton called:
“Come on, you two.”
After we had seen them off, the night suddenly seemed very quiet.
I think we were all a little self-conscious. When we were back in the house Father said with a false kind of casualness: “Er -happy, Rose dear?”
“Yes, very,” said Rose, with the utmost briskness, “but rather tired.
I’m going straight to bed.”
“Let’s all go,” said Topaz.
“We shall wake Stephen if we wash the glasses tonight.”
Stephen had been in quite a while—though I must say he had taken his time seeing Ivy home. I had asked him to come in and drink Rose’s health in the Vicar’s champagne but he wouldn’t. He smiled in the most peculiar way when I told him about the engagement; then said, “Oh, well, I’m not saying anything,” and went off to bed. Goodness knows what he meant.
I had a feeling that he had kissed Ivy.
I was longing to get Rose to talk, but I knew she wouldn’t until the trek to and from the bathroom was finished; and Father and Topaz seemed unusually slow about their washing.
When they were shut in their room at last, Rose made sure that both our doors were firmly closed; then jumped into bed and blew the candle out.
“Well?” I said, invitingly.
She began to talk fast, just above a whisper, telling me everything. It turned out I had been right in guessing that she dared Simon into shaving.
“At first he thought I was joking,” she said.
“Then he thought I was trying to make a fool of him and went all dignified. I didn’t take a
ny notice-I just had to see him without that beard, Cassandra; I’d worked up a sort of horror about it. I went close to him and looked up and said: “you’ve got such a nice mouth -why hide it?”
and I traced the outline of his lips with my finger.
Then he tried to kiss me but I dodged and said: “No—not while you’ve got that beard,” and he said: “Will you if I shave it?”
I said: “I can’t tell till it’s off” -and then I ran and got Father’s shaving things and Topaz’s manicure scissors and a jug of hot water from the bathroom. We were laughing all the time but there was a queer, exciting feeling and I had to keep stopping him from kissing me. He had an awful job with the shave and I suddenly went embarrassed and wished I’d never made him start. I could tell he was furious.
And heavens, he was a sight after he chopped off the long hair with the scissors! I bet I looked horrified because he shouted:
“Go away—go away! Stop watching me!” I went and sat on the window-seat and prayed—I mean I kept thinking “Please God, please God—”’ without getting any further. It seemed ages before Simon dried his face and turned round. He said: “Now you know the worst,” in a funny, rueful sort of voice; I could see he wasn’t angry any more, he looked humble and touching, somehow—and so handsome! Don’t you think he’s handsome now, Cassandra?”
“Yes, very handsome. What happened next?”
“I said: “That’s wonderful, Simon. I like you a thousand times better. Thank you very, very much for doing it for me.”
And then he asked me to marry him.”
I didn’t tell her I’d heard. I shouldn’t like anyone to hear me being proposed to.
She went on: “Then—it was queer, really, because I’m sure I didn’t hear you in the tower—I suddenly thought of you. I remembered your saying I wouldn’t know how I felt about him until I’d let him kiss me. And you were right—oh, I knew that I liked him and admired him, but I still didn’t know if I was in love. And there was my chance to find out with the proposal safe in advance! So I asked him to kiss me. And it was wonderful—as wonderful as—” Her voice dwindled away. I guessed she was re-living it and gave her a minute or so.
“Well, go on,” I urged her at last, “as wonderful as what?”
“Oh, as ever it could be. Heavens, I can’t describe it! It was all right, anyway—I’m in love and I’m terribly happy. And I’m going to make things splendid for you, too. You’ll come and stay with us and marry someone yourself. Perhaps you’ll marry Neil.”
“I thought you hated him.”
“I don’t hate anyone tonight. Oh, the relief -the relief of finding I’m in love with Simon!” I said: “Supposing you hadn’t found it, would you have refused him?”
She was a long time before she answered, then her tone was defiant: “No, I wouldn’t. Just before he kissed me I said to myself:
“You’ll marry him anyway, my girl.” And do you know what made me say it his Beyond him, on the dressing table, I could see my towel I’d lent him for the shave-all thin and frayed and awful. Not one spare towel have we in this house—” “Don’t I know it?” I interrupted with feeling.
“I won’t live like that. I won’t, I won’t!”
“Well, you’ll be able to have all the towels you want now,” said Miss Blossom’s voice.
“Ever such congratulations, Rosie dear.”
“And all the clothes I want,” said Rose.
“I’m going to think about them until I fall asleep.”
“Would you like the four-poster so that you can gloat in style?” I offered.
But she couldn’t be bothered to change.
While I was lying awake re-swimming the moat I noticed my enamel jug and basin silhouetted against the window; it was queer to think they had played a part in Simon’s shave.
I kept seeing him with two faces—with the beard and without. Then it came to me that there was some famous person who shaved because of a woman.
I tried and tried to think who it was but I fell asleep without remembering.
In the very early morning I woke up and thought “Samson and Delilah”—it was as if someone had spoken the words in my ear.
Of course, it was Samson’s hair that got cut, not his beard, so the story didn’t quite fit. But I did think Rose would rather fancy herself as Delilah.
I sat up and peered across at her, wondering what she was dreaming. While I watched, it grew light enough to see her bright hair stretched across the pillow and the faint pink flush on her cheeks.
She was looking particularly beautiful—though no one could say Aunt Millicent’s nightgown was becoming. It’s strange how different Rose seems with her eyes closed—much more childish and gentle and serene. I felt so very fond of her. She was sleeping deeply and peacefully, though in a most uncomfortable position with one limp arm hanging out of the iron bedstead-you have to lie on the extreme outside to avoid the worst lumps in the mattress. I thought what a different bed she was certain to come by. I was terribly happy for her.
XI
I am sitting on the ruins beyond the kitchen-where I sat with Neil, three weeks ago all but a day, after swimming the moat. How different it is now, in the hot sunshine! Bees are humming, a dove is cooing, the moat is full of sky. Heloise has just gone down to take a drink and a swan is giving her a glance of utter disdain.
Abelard went into the tall green wheat a few minutes ago, looking rather like a lion entering the jungle.
This is the first time I have used the beautiful manuscript book Simon gave me-and the fountain pen which came from him yesterday.
A scarlet pen and a blue and gold leather-bound book-what could be more inspiring? But I seemed to get on better with a stump of pencil and Stephen’s fat, shilling exercise book …. I keep closing my eyes and basking—that is, my body basks; my mind is restless. I go backwards and forwards, recapturing the past, wondering about the future—and, most unreasonably, I find myself longing for the past more than for the future. I remind myself of how often we were cold and hungry with barely a rag to our backs, and then I count the blessings that have descended on us; but I still seem to fancy the past most. This is ridiculous. And it is ridiculous that I should have this dull, heavy, not exactly unhappy but—well, no kind of feeling when I ought to be blissfully happy.
Perhaps if I make myself write I shall find out what is wrong with me.
It is just a week since Rose and Topaz went to London. Mrs.
Cotton asked me, too—they are staying at her Park Lane flat-but someone had to be here to look after Father and Thomas and Stephen; besides, if I had accepted she might have felt she had to buy clothes for me, as well as give Rose her trousseau. She is wonderfully generous and wonderfully tactful. Instead of pressing money on us to pay our way here, she insisted on buying the beaver-lined coat for two hundred pounds.
As for the trousseau, she said to Rose: “My dear, I always longed for a daughter to dress-let me have my share of your happiness.”
I was rather surprised that Topaz agreed to go to London, but the night before they left we had an illuminating talk. I came up from the kitchen with some things I had been ironing for her and found her sitting on her bed beside a half-filled suitcase, staring at nothing.
“I’m not going,” she said, her voice quite baritone with tragedy.
“Good heavens, why not?” I asked.
“Because my motives are all wrong. I’ve been telling myself that it’d be good for Mortmain to be here without me for a bit, and that I ought to see some of my friends-renew my artistic interests, make myself more stimulating. But the real truth is that I want to keep an eye on that woman and be sure she doesn’t see him when he comes up to London. And that’s despicable. Of course I’m not going.”
“Well, I don’t see how you can cry off now,” I told her.
“And you can always put things straight with your conscience by not keeping an eye on Mrs. Cotton. Topaz, do you really think that Father’s in love with her his You h
aven’t a scrap of evidence.”
“I’ve the evidence of my eyes and ears. Have you watched them together his He listens to her as if he liked it, and he not only listens, he talks. He talks more to her in an evening than he’s talked to me all this last year.”
I pointed out that he doesn’t talk much to any of us.
“Then why doesn’t he? What’s wrong with us?
I’d begun to think he was temperamentally morose—that he just couldn’t help it—but after seeing him turn on his charm for the Cottons! Heaven knows I didn’t expect an easy life when I married him—I was prepared even for violence. But I do loathe morosity.”
It was no moment to tell her there is no such word;
anyway, I rather liked it.
“Perhaps Mrs. Cotton will go back to America with Neil,” I suggested comfortingly.
“Not she. She’s taken the flat for three years.
Oh lord, what a fool I am-how can I stop her meeting him, even if I do stay with her his There are thousands of places they can go.
He’ll probably renew his interest in the British Museum.”
I must say it was a bit suspicious—he hadn’t been to London once while Mrs. Cotton was at Scoatney.
“In that case, you might as well go,” I said.
“I mean, it doesn’t matter your motive being to spy, if you know very well that you can’t.” “That’s true.” She heaved a sigh that was almost a groan and sounded very histrionic, then began to pack her shroud like night gowns. Suddenly she strode to the window and stood looking at Father’s light in the gatehouse.
“I wonder!” she said sepulchrally.
I obligingly asked her what.
“If I shall ever come back. I’ve got my crossroads feeling—I’ve only had it three or four times in my life. That night in the Cafe Royal when Everard hit the waiter-was She stopped dead.
“Why did he do that?” I asked with the utmost interest. Everard was her second husband, a fashion artist; her first was called Carlo and had something to do with a circus. Rose and I have always longed to know about them.
It wasn’t any good. She turned a faintly outraged stare on me and murmured foggily: “Let the dead bury their dead.” As far as I know, Everard is alive and kicking and I never have seen how the dead can go burying anyone.