“An eyelash in my eye,” I called back.
He asked if he could help but I said I could manage, and fidgeted with my handkerchief until the blush died down—I don’t believe he ever noticed it. As I walked back to him he said:
“It’s odd how that dress changes you. I don’t know that I approve of your growing up. Oh, I shall get used to it.” He smiled at me.
“But you were perfect as you were.”
It was the funny little girl he had liked-the comic child playing at Midsummer rites; she was the one he kissed. Though I don’t think I shall ever quite know why he did it.
After that I talked easily enough, making him laugh quite a bit—I could see he was liking me again. But it wasn’t my present self talking at all; I was giving an imitation of myself as I used to be. I was very “consciously naive.” Never, never was I that with him before; however I may have sounded, I always felt perfectly natural. But I knew, as I sat there amusing him while the band played “Lover,” that many things which had felt natural to me before I first heard it would never feel natural again.
It wasn’t only the black dress that had made me grow up.
Rose and Neil came back when the music stopped; then Neil went off to order us some drinks.
“That was a good tune that last one,” she remarked.
“What’s it called?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t notice it,” said Simon.
“Nor I,” I said.
Rose sat down in the opposite alcove and put her feet up.
“Tired?” Simon asked, going over to her.
She said: “Yes, very,” and didn’t offer to make room for him; so he sat on the floor beside her.
“Would you like me to take you home as soon as we’ve had our drinks?” he asked, and she said she would.
Neil would have stayed on with me, but I said we couldn’t keep dancing without shoes in that corridor.
“It does begin to feel like a padded cell,” he admitted.
I shall never forget it—the thick carpet, the brocade-covered the bright lights staring back from the gilt mirrors;
everything was so luxurious—and so meaningless, so lifeless.
When we reached the entrance to the flats Neil said he wouldn’t come up, but he walked along to the lift with us and managed so that he and I were well behind the others.
“This looks like being good-bye for us,” he said.
I felt a sadness quite separate from my personal ton of misery.
“But we’ll meet again someday, won’t we?”
“Why, surely. You must come to America.”
“Won’t you ever come back here?”
He said he doubted it—then laughed and added:
“Well, maybe I will, when I’m a rich old man.”
“Why do you dislike us so, Neil?”
“I don’t dislike you,” he said quickly.
“Oh, I don’t dislike any thing. But I’m just all wrong over here.”
Then the others called that the lift was waiting for me, so we shook hands quickly. I hated to think it might be years and years before I saw him again.
There was a message from Stephen for me at the flat —I had quite forgotten that he was going to telephone me. Rose read aloud:
“For Miss C. Mortmain from Mr. S. Colly. The gentleman asked to say that he was completely at your service if required.”
“I do call that a nice message,” said Simon.
“Hadn’t you better call him back?”
“Oh, leave it till the morning,” said Rose, “and let’s go to bed.
I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you yet.”
Just then Topaz came out of her bedroom and said she wanted to speak to me.
“Can’t you wait until tomorrow?” asked Rose.
Topaz said she didn’t see why she should.
“It’s only half-past ten and I came back early on purpose.”
“Well, hurry up, anyway,” said Rose.
Topaz took me up to the roof-garden.
“You never know if you’re going to be overheard in that flat,” she said. It was nice on the roof, there were lots of little trees in tubs, and some pretty garden furniture. No one but us was about. We sat down on a large swinging seat and I waited for her to say something important; but, as I might have guessed, she only wanted to talk about Father.
“I hardly had a minute with him when he stayed here,” she said.
“My room’s too small to share. And Mrs.
Cotton kept him up talking very late both nights.”
I asked if she was still worried about them.
“Oh, not in the way I was. Anyway, there’s certainly nothing on her side. I see now it’s not the man she’s interested in, but the famous man—if he’ll oblige her by being one again.
She hopes be will and she wants to have a hand in it. So does Simon.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?” I said.
“You know they mean it kindly.”
“Simon does; he’s interested in Mortmain’s work for its own sake —and for Mortmain’s sake. But I think Mrs.
Cotton’s just a celebrity collector—she even values me now that she’s seen some of the paintings of me.”
“She asked you to stay with her before she saw them,” I said.
I like Mrs. Cotton; and her kindness to our family has been little short of fabulous.
“Go on—tell me I’m unjust.” Topaz heaved one of her groaning sighs, then added: “I know I am, really. But she gets on my nerves until I could scream. Why doesn’t she get on Mortmain’s? It’s a mystery to me. Talk, talk, talk—and never did I see such vitality.
I don’t believe it’s normal for a woman of her age to be so healthy.
If you ask me, it’s glandular.”
I began to laugh, then saw she was perfectly serious; “glandular” has always been a popular word with Topaz.
“Well, come back to the castle and take a rest,” I suggested.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Has Mortmain showed the slightest sign of needing me?”
I tried to think of a tactful way to say “No.” Fortunately, she went straight on: “I’ve got to be needed, Cassandra—I always have been. Men have either painted me, or been in love with me, or just plain ill-treated me-some men have to do a lot of ill-treating, you know, it’s good for their work; but one way or another, I’ve always been needed.
I’ve got to inspire people, Cassandra—it’s my job in life.” I told her then that I had a faint hope that Father was working.
“Do you mean I’ve inspired him just by keeping away from him?” We both roared with laughter. Topaz’s sense of humor is intermittent, but good when it turns up. When we had calmed down, she said: “What do you think of Aubrey Fox-Cotton?”
“Not much,” I said.
“Does he need inspiring? He seems to be doing pretty well as it is.”
“He could do greater work.
He feels he could.”
“You mean, if you both got divorces and married each other?”
“Well, not exactly,” said Topaz. I suddenly felt it was an important moment and wondered what on earth I could say to influence her. It was no use pretending that Father needed her, because I knew she would find out he didn’t before she had been home half an hour.
At last I said: “I suppose it wouldn’t be enough that Thomas and I need you?” She looked pleased -then came out with a dreadful Topazism:
“Oh, darling! But can’t you see that art comes before the individual?” Inspiration came to me.
“Then you can’t leave Father,” I said.
“Oh, Topaz-don’t you see that whether he misses you or not, a shock like that might wreck him completely? Just imagine his biographer writing: “Mortmain was about to start on the second phase of his career, when the faithlessness of his artist-model wife shattered the fabric of his life. We shall never know what was lost to the world through this worthless young woman ” an
d you never would know, Topaz, because if Father never wrote another line after you left him, you’d always feel it might be your fault.” She was staring at me—I could see I was making a magnificent impression. Luckily it hadn’t struck her that no one will write Father’s biography unless he does do some more work.
“Can’t you see how posterity would misjudge you?” I piled it on.
“While if you stick to him, you may be “this girl, beautiful as a Blake angel, who sacrificed her own varied talents to ensure Mortmain’s renaissance.”” I stopped, fearing I had overdone it, but she swallowed it all. “Oh, darling—you ought to write the biography yourself,” she gasped.
“I will, I will,” I assured her, and wondered if she would consider staying on to inspire me; but I think she only sees herself as an inspirer of men. Anyway, I didn’t need to worry, because she said in her most double-bass tones:
“Cassandra, you have saved me from a dreadful mistake. Thank you, thank you.”
Then she collapsed on my shoulders with such force that I shot off the swinging seat.
Oh, darling Topaz! She calls Mrs.
Cotton’s interest in Father celebrity collecting, and never sees that her own desire to inspire men is just another form of it—and a far less sincere one.
For Mrs.
Cotton’s main interests really are intellectual -well, social-intellectual-while my dear beautiful stepmother’s intellectualism is very, very bogus. The real Topaz is the one who cooks and scrubs and sews for us all. How mixed people are—how mixed and nice!
As we went down from the roof she said she would come home in ten days or a fortnight—just as soon as Macmorris finished his new portrait of her. I said how very glad I was, though it suddenly struck me how hard it would be to hide my troubles from her.
Talking to her had taken my mind off them, but as we went into the flat it was just as if they were waiting for me there.
Everyone had gone to bed. There was a line of light under Simon’s door. I thought how close to me he would be sleeping and, for some reason, that made me more unhappy than ever. And the prospect of seeing him again in the morning held no comfort for me;
I had found out in that glittering corridor off the ballroom that being with him could be more painful than being away from him.
Rose was sitting up in bed waiting for me. I remember noticing how pretty her bright hair looked against the white velvet headboard.
She said: “I’ve put out one of my trousseau nightgowns for you.”
I thanked her and hoped I wouldn’t tear it—it seemed very fragile. She said there were plenty more, anyway.
“Well, now we can talk,” I said, brightly-meaning “you can.”
I no longer had any intention of questioning her about her feelings for Simon—of course she loved him, of course nothing would stop the marriage, my coming to London had been an idiotic mistake.
“I don’t think I want to tonight,” she said.
This surprised me—she had seemed so keen on talking—but I just said: “Well, there’ll be plenty of time tomorrow.”
She said she supposed so, hardly sounding enthusiastic; then asked me to put the roses in the bathroom for the night. As I went to get them, she looked down at Simon’s card on the bedside table and said: “Chuck that in the wastepaper-basket, will you?”
She didn’t say it casually, but with a sort of scornful resentment.
My resolution not to speak just faded away and I said:
“Rose, you don’t love him.”
She gave me a little ironic smile and said:
“No. Isn’t it a pity?”
There it was—the thing I had hoped for! But instead of feeling glad, instead of feeling any flicker of hope, I felt angry—so angry that I didn’t dare to let myself speak. I just stood staring at her until she said:
“Well? Say something.”
I managed to speak quite calmly.
“Why did you lie to me that night you got engaged?” “I didn’t. I really thought I was in love. When he kissed me-Oh, you wouldn’t understand—you’re too young.”
I understood, all right. If Stephen had kissed me before I knew that I loved Simon, I might have made the same mistake—particularly if I had wanted to make it, as Rose did. But I went on feeling angry.
“How long have you known?” I demanded.
“Weeks and weeks, now—I found out soon after we came to London; Simon’s with me so much more here. Oh, if only he wasn’t so in love with me! Can you understand what I mean? It isn’t only that he wants to make love to me—come minute we’re together I can feel him asking for love. He somehow links it with everything —if it’s a particularly lovely day, if we see anything beautiful or listen to music together. It makes me want to scream. Oh, God—I didn’t mean to tell you. I longed to–-I knew it would be a relief;
but I made up my mind not to, only a few minutes ago, because I knew it would be selfish. I’m sorry you got it out of me. I can see it’s upset you dreadfully.”
“That’s all right,” I said.
“Would you like me to tell him for you?”
“Tell him?” She stared at me.
“Oh, no wonder you’re upset! Don’t worry, darling—I’m still going to marry him.”
“No, you’re not,” I told her.
“You’re not going to do anything so wicked.”
“Why is it suddenly wicked? You always knew I’d marry him whether I loved him or not—and you helped me all you could, without ever being sure I was in love with him.”
“I didn’t understand—it was just fun, like something in a book.
It wasn’t real.” But I knew in my heart that my conscience had always felt uneasy and I hadn’t listened to it. All my unhappiness had been a judgment on me.
“Well, it’s real enough now,” said Rose grimly. My own guilt made me feel less angry with her. I went and sat on the bed and tried to speak reasonably.
“You can’t do it, you know, Rose—just for clothes and jewelry and bathrooms—” “You talk as if I were doing it all for myself,” she broke in on me.
“Do you know what my last thoughts have been, lying here night after night?
“Well, at least they’ve had enough to eat at the castle today”—why, even Heloise is putting on weight! And I’ve thought of you more than anyone-of all the things I can do for you when I’m married his “Then you can stop thinking, because I won’t take anything from you was Suddenly my anger came rushing back and words began to pour out of me.
“And you can stop pretending that you’re doing it for us all—it’s simply to please yourself, because you can’t face poverty. You’re going to wreck Simon’s life because you’re greedy and cowardly was I went on and on, in a sort of screaming whisper—all the time, I was conscious that I might be heard and managed to stop myself shouting, but I lost all of what I said; I can’t even remember most of it. Rose never tried to interrupt —she just sat there staring at me. Suddenly a light of understanding dawned in her eyes. I stopped dead.
“You’re in love with him yourself,” she said.
“It only needed that.”
And then she burst into choking sobs and buried her head in a pillow to stifle the noise.
“Oh, shut up,” I said.
After a minute or two, she stopped roaring into the pillow and began to fish round for her handkerchief. You can’t see a person do that without helping, however angry you are, so I gave it to her-it had fallen on the floor. She mopped up a bit, then said:
“Cassandra, I swear by everything I hold sacred that I’d give him up if I thought he’d marry you instead. Why, I’d jump at it-we’d still have money in the family and I wouldn’t have to have him as husband. I don’t want Scoatney-I don’t want a lot of luxury. All I ask is, not to go back to quite such hideous poverty —I won’t do that, I won’t, I won’t! And I’d have to, if I gave him up, because I know he wouldn’t fall in love with you. He just thinks of you as a little girl.”
r /> “What he thinks of me has nothing to do with it,” I said.
“It’s him I’m thinking of now, not me. You’re not going to marry him without loving him.”
She said: “Don’t you know he’d rather have me that way than not at all?”
I had never thought of that; but when she said it I saw that it was true. It made me hate her more than ever. I started to tear the black dress off.
“That’s right—come to bed,” she said.
“Let’s put the light out and talk things over quietly. Perhaps you only fancy you’re in love with him—couldn’t it be what’s called “calf love,” darling? You can’t really know if you’re in love until you’ve been made love to.
Anyway, you’ll get over it when you meet other men-and I’ll see that you do. Let’s talk-let’s try to help each other. Come to bed.”
“I’m not coming to bed,” I said, kicking the dress away.
“I’m going home.”
“But you can’t -not tonight! There are no trains.”
“Then I’ll sit in the station waiting-room till the morning.”
“But why? “I’m not going to lie down beside you.”
I was struggling into my green dress. She sprang out of bed and tried to stop me.
“Cassandra, please listen-his I told her to shut up or she would rouse the flat.
“And I warn you that if you try to stop me going, I’ll rouse it—and tell them everything. Then you’ll have to break your engagement.”
“Oh, no, I won’t—” It was the first time she had sounded angry. “I’ll tell them you’re lying because you’re in love with Simon.”
“One way and another, we’d better not rouse the flat.” I was hunting everywhere for my shoes which the maid had put away. Rose followed me round, half angry, half pleading.
“But what am I to tell them, if you leave tonight?”
she asked.
“Don’t tell them anything until the morning—then say I had a sudden fit of conscience about leaving Father alone and went by the early train.” I found my shoes at last and put them on.
“Oh, tell them what you damn well like. Anyway, I’m going.”
“You’re failing me-and just when I need you most desperately.”
“Yes, to listen to your woes sympathetically and pat you on the back-sorry, nothing doing!” By then I was pulling all the drawers open, searching for my handbag. When I had unearthed it, I pushed past her.