“Oh, how wonderful!” I gasped.
Thomas said in a level, most un exuberant voice: “That’s splendid, Father. May we see what you’ve written?”
“Certainly not—you wouldn’t understand a word of it. But assure you I’ve made a start. Now let me out.”
“It’s a ruse,” Thomas whispered.
I said: “How many pages have you written, Father?” “Well, not many—the light’s been very bad down here for the last hour his “You’ll be all right with the lantern,” said Thomas, beginning to lower it.
Father took it, and then said in a perfectly reasonable tone:
“Thomas, I give you my word I have begun work-look, you can see for yourself.” He held a sheet of paper close to the lantern, then whisked it away.
“Cassandra, you write yourself, so you’ll under stand that one’s first draft can be—well, not always convincing.
Damn it, I’ve only started since dinner! An excellent dinner, by the way; thank you very much. Now hurry up with that ladder
—I
want to get back to the gatehouse and work all night.”
“But you’re in an ideal place to work all night,” said Thomas.
“Moving to the gatehouse would only disrupt you. Here are your pajamas and dressing-gown. I’ll come along early in the morning.
Good night, Father.” He threw the clothes down, shut the door, and took me firmly by the elbow.
“Come on, Cassandra.”
I went without argument. I didn’t believe Father was bluffing, I believed our cure really had begun to work; but I thought it ought to have time to “take.” And with Father in that sane, controlled mood, I was quite willing to leave him there for the night.
“But we’ve got to keep guard,” I said, “in case he sets fire to his bedding, or something.”
We divided the night into watches. I slept -not very well-until two; then took over from Thomas. I went up the mound every hour, but the only thing I heard was a faint snore round about five o’clock.
I woke Thomas at seven this morning, intending to go up with him for the first visit of the day; but he slipped off on his own while I was in Windsor Castle. I met him coming back across the bridge.
He said all was well and Father had been pleased with the bucket of nice hot water he had taken up.
“And I’m beginning to believe he really is working—he was certainly writing when I opened the door. He’s calm, and he’s getting much more co-operative- he had all his dinner things packed in the basket ready for me. And he says he’d like his breakfast now.”
Each time we have gone up with meals today, he has been writing like mad. He still asks to be let out, but without wasting much breath on it. And when we took the lantern this evening, he said:
“Come on, come on-I’ve been held up for that.”
Surely, surely he wouldn’t carry on a bluff for so long? I would have let him out tonight, but Thomas says he must show us some of his work first.
It is now nearly four o’clock in the morning.
I didn’t wake Thomas at two because I wanted to bring this entry up to date;
and the poor boy is sleeping so exhaustedly-he is on the sofa here.
He didn’t think there was any need for us to keep watch tonight, but I insisted—apart from the fear of anything happening to Father, the barometer is falling. Could we remain adamant if it rained heavily?
Thomas is firmer than I am. He sent an umbrella down with the lantern.
I have looked out of the south window every hour—our main reason for choosing the gatehouse to spend the night in is that we can see Belmotte Tower through one window and keep a watch on the lane through the other. Though who would come to the castle in the middle of the night? No one, no one. And yet I feel like a sentinel on guard. Men must have kept guard in this gatehouse six hundred years ago …… I have just had another look at the tower. The moon is shining full on it now. I had a queer feeling that it was more than inanimate stones. Does it know that it is playing a part in life again-that its dungeon once more encircles a sleeping prisoner his Four o’clock now. Mother’s little clock is beginning to seem alive in its own right—a small, squat, busy person a few inches from my hand.
How heavily Thomas is sleeping! Watching sleeping people makes one feel more separate than ever from them.
Heloise is chasing rabbits through her dreams—she gives little nose-whimpers, her paws keep twitching. About honored us with his company till midnight; now he is out hunting under the moon.
Surely we must let Father out tomorrow—even if he still won’t show us his work? His upturned face looked so strange as he took the lantern from us last night—almost saint like as if he had been seeing visions.
Perhaps it was only because he needed a shave.
Shall I wake Thomas now this journal is up to date? I don’t feel at all sleepy. I am going to put the lamp out and sit in the moonlight…… I can still see well enough to write. I remember writing by moonlight the night I started my journal. What a lot has happened since then!
I shall think of Simon now. Now? As if I didn’t think of him all the time! Even while I have been so worried about Father, a voice in my heart has kept saying: “But nothing really matters to you but Simon.” Oh, if only Rose will break her engagement off, surely he will turn to me someday? There is actually a car on the Godsend road! It is strange to watch the headlights and wonder who is driving through the night.
Oh, heavens! The car has turned into our lane!
Oh, what am I to do? Keep calm, keep calm—it has only taken the wrong turning.
It will back out, or at worst turn round when it gets to the castle.
But people who get as far as the castle usually stop to stare at it and if Father has heard the car, could his voice possibly carry? It just might, in the still night air. Oh, go back, go back!
It is coming on and on. I feel like someone keeping a journal to the last second of an approaching catastrophe.
The catastrophe has happened. Simon and Topaz are getting out of the car.
XVI
I went into the kitchen just as Topaz was striking a match to light the lamp. I heard Simon’s voice before I saw his face.
“Is Rose here?”
“Rose?” I must have sounded utterly blank.
“Oh, my God!” said Simon.
The lamp shone out and I caught his look of utter misery.
“She’s disappeared,” said Topaz.
“Now don’t be frightened—it’s not an accident or anything;
she left a note for Simon. But was she looked at him quickly, then went on: “It didn’t really explain anything. Apparently she went off this morning. Simon was away driving his Mother to stay with some friends-Rose hadn’t felt like going with them. He stayed there for dinner so didn’t get back to the flat until late. I was out all day sitting for Macmorris and went to a theatre with him-I only got home as Simon was reading Rose’s note.
We thought she might have come here to be with you—so we drove straight down.”
“Well, she’s safe, anyway,” I said to Simon.
“I had a telegram from her—though it only said she’d write when she could and would I please try to understand.” It had just dawned on me that the bit about understanding didn’t refer to our quarrel at all, but to her running away.
“Where was the telegram handed in?” said Topaz.
“I didn’t notice. I’ll get it and see.”
It was in my bedroom. As I dashed off to the front stairs I heard Topaz say: “Fancy Mortmain sleeping through all this!” I was afraid she would go up to wake him before I got back, but she didn’t.
I spread the telegram out under the lamp.
“Why, it’s from that little seaside place where we went for the picnic!” I said to Simon.
“Why on earth would she go there?” said Thomas.
“And why couldn’t the silly ass explain in her note?”
“She explained a
ll right,” said Simon.
“Thanks for trying to spare my feelings, Topaz, but it’s really rather pointless.” He took the note from his pocket and put it down by the telegram.
“You may as well see what she says.”
It was just a penciled scribble:
DEAR SIMON,
I want you to know that I wasn’t lying in the beginning.
I really thought I loved you. Now there is nothing I can do but beg your forgiveness.
Rose “Well, that’s that,” said Thomas, shooting me a private “I told you so” look.
“But it’s not final,” said Topaz, quickly.
“I’ve been telling Simon it’s just a fit of engagement nerves—she’ll feel differently in a day or two. She’s obviously gone to this place to think things out.”
Simon looked at his watch.
“Would you be too tired to start right away?” he said to Topaz.
“You mean, go after her? Oh, Simon, are you sure that’s wise? If she wants to be on her own for a bit? “I won’t worry her. I won’t even see her, if she doesn’t want me to. You can talk to her first. But I must know a little more than I do now.”
“Of course I’ll come, then. Let me just have a word with Mortmain first his She moved towards the kitchen stairs, but I got in front of her.
“It’s no use going up,” I said.
“What, is he in London again?”
“No-was I shot a look at Thomas, hoping he would help me out.
“You see, Topaz-was “What is it? What are you hiding from me?” She was so scared that she forgot to be a contralto.
I said hastily: “He’s perfectly all right, but he’s not upstairs. It’s good news, really, Topaz-you’ll be terribly pleased.”
Then Thomas took over and said calmly: “Father’s been in Belmotte Tower for two days. We locked him up to make him work-and if we’re to believe him, we’ve done the trick.”
I thought he had put it with admirable dearness, but Topaz asked a great many frantic questions before she took it in. When she finally did, her rage was terrific.
“You’ve killed him!” she screamed.
“Well, he was alive and kicking last night,” I said.
“Wasn’t he Thomas his “Not kicking,” said Thomas.
“He’d quite settled down. If you’ve any sense, Topaz, you’ll leave him there for a few more days.”
She was already at the dresser, where the key to the tower usually hangs.
“Where is it? Give it me at once! If I don’t get that key in two minutes I’ll hack through the door with an axe!”
And wouldn’t she have enjoyed that I could tell she had stopped being really frightened because her voice was most tragically sepulchral.
“We shall have to let him out now,” I said to Thomas.
“I would have tomorrow, in any case.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Thomas.
“It’s going to wreck the whole experiment.” But he went to get the lantern.
The moon was down, but the stars were still bright when we went out into the courtyard.
“Wait, I’ll get my flashlight from the car,” said Simon.
“I do apologize,” I told him, as we followed the others across Belmotte bridge.
“We’ve no right to drag you into our family troubles when you’re so worried.”
He said, “Worried or not, I wouldn’t miss this.”
No sound came from the tower as we climbed the mound.
“Now don’t go yelling that you’re coming to rescue him,” I said to Topaz.
“You know what it’s like being wakened up suddenly.”
“If he ever does wake!
his I could have slapped her-partly for being at her most bogus and partly because I was nervous myself. I certainly didn’t think that Father would be dead, but I did have a slight fear that we might have unhinged him-the state of his hinges being a bit in doubt even before we started.
Still no sound when we got to the foot of the steps.
“Give me the key,” Topaz whispered to Thomas.
“I want to face it alone.”
“If you’re not careful, you’ll face it headfirst down fifteen feet,” he told her.
“Let Cassandra and me get the door open and the ladder fixed, and then you can descend like a ministering angel.”
The ministering angel idea fetched her.
“All right, but let me be the first one he sees.”
“Be as quiet as you can,” I whispered to Thomas as we got the ladder.
“I’d like to have one look at him before he wakes up. I’ve borrowed Simon’s torch.”
We got the door open almost noiselessly, then I shone the torch down into the blackness.
Father was lying on the bed-so utterly still that for a moment I was terrified. Then a little curling snore relieved my mind. It did look peculiar down there. In the light from the torch the tall, sun-starved weeds were white as skeleton leaves. The legs of the old iron bedstead were sticking out oddly-evidently it was only just standing up to Father’s weight. Beside it lay the umbrella, opened; I felt his brain must be all right to be capable of such forethought. And my spirits rose still more when I shone the torch on the rustic table.
As well as the big pile of unused paper there were four small ones, carefully weighted down with stones.
Thomas and I lowered the ladder quietly—Topaz was behind us simply panting to descend. She had to go down backwards, of course, which was most unlike a ministering angel, but she made up for that when she got to the bottom. Holding the lantern as high as she could, she cried: “Mortmain, I’ve come to rescue you! It’s Topaz, Mortmain, You’re safe!” Father shot up into a sitting position, gasping: “Great God! What’s happened?” Then she swooped on to him and the bed went down wallop, its head and foot very nearly meeting over them.
Choking with laughter, Thomas and I dodged out of sight and down the steps. From there we could hear a perfect hullabaloo-Father was managing to curse, make waking-up noises, and laugh all at the same time, while Topaz did a sort of double-bass cooing.
“Hadn’t you better leave them together for a while?”
said Simon.
“Yes, let her work off her worst histrionics,” I said to Thomas.
We waited in the courtyard until we saw the lantern coming down the mound. Then Simon tactfully decided not to be seen and went to wait in his car.
“Shall we vanish, too?” said Thomas.
“No, we’d better get the meeting over.” We ran towards them as they crossed the bridge. Topaz was hanging on to Father’s arm—I heard her say: “Lean on me, Mortmain, lean on me” -like little Lord Fauntleroy to his grandfather.
“Are you all right, Father?” I called brightly.
“My dear young jailers,” said Father, rather exhaustedly.
“Yes, I think I shall survive if Topaz will stop treating me as if I were both the little princes in the Tower.”
As he went into the kitchen Topaz hung back, grabbed my arm and did one of her most endearing quick changes into hard-headedness.
“Cut back and see what he’s written,” she whispered.
We dashed up the mound; luckily I still had Simon’s torch.
“Heavens, this is a thrilling moment,” I said as we stood in front of the rustic table.
“Perhaps one day I shall be describing it in Father’s biography.”
Thomas took the stone off the first pile of paper.
“Look, this is the beginning,” he said as the torch lit up a large “Section A.” He snatched the top sheet off, then let out a gasp of astonishment.
The whole of the page underneath was covered with large block capitals—badly formed ones, such as a child makes when learning to write. As I moved the torch along the lines, we read: THE CAT
SAT ON THE MAT. THE CAT SAT
ON THE MAT. THE
CAT SAT ON THE MAT… on and on, to the end of the page.
“Oh, Thomas!” I moa
ned.
“We’ve turned his brain.”
“Rubbish. You heard how sanely he was talking—” “Well, perhaps he’s recovering but—don’t you see what’s happened?” Suddenly it had come back to me.
“Don’t you remember what I shouted under the door when I was so upset?
“Write anything you like as long as you write,” I told him.
“Write “The cat sat on the mat.”” And he’s written it!”
Thomas was turning over more pages. We read: THE CAT BIT THE FAT RAT, and so on, still in block capitals.
“It’s just second childhood,” I wailed.
“We’ve brought it on prematurely.”
“Look, this is better,” said Thomas.
“He’s growing up,” At last we saw Father’s, normal handwriting, at its neatest and most exquisite. “But what on earth-good Lord, he’s been making up puzzles!”
There was an easy acrostic, a rebus, some verses with the names of animals buried in them—every kind of childish puzzle that is in our old bound volume of Little Folks. Then came a page of simple riddles. On the last page of all, Father had written:
Investigate:
Old Copybooks Samplers Child’s Guide to Knowledge Jig-saw Puzzles Toys in the London Museum “That’s sane enough,” said Thomas.
“I tell you this stuff means something.”
But I didn’t believe him. Oh, I had got over my first fear that Father had gone insane; but I thought all the childish nonsense was a way of passing the time—something like the game he plays with the Encyclopedia.
Thomas had taken the stone off Section B. “Well, there’s nothing childish about this,” he said after a few seconds.
“Not that I can make head or tail of it.”
There were a lot of numbered sentences, each about two or three lines long. At first I thought they were poetry; there were beautiful combinations of words, and though they were mysterious I felt there was a meaning behind them. Then my new-born hope died suddenly.
“They’re the clues to a crossword puzzle,” I said disgustedly.
“He’s just been amusing himself -I’m not going to read any more.” It had just struck me that if I didn’t hurry back to the castle, I might not see Simon again before he went.
“Here, come back with that torch,” shouted Thomas, as I started up the ladder.