and found him ready to start.
"He was very calm and collected," she said.
"I
asked him if he wasn't afraid of getting lost and he said that if he
did, he'd get a taxi; but he hardly thought he would need to, as Miss Marcy had told him exactly which "buses to take."
I was suddenly furious at his asking Miss Marcy, when he had been so
secretive with us.
"I hate that Fox-Cotton woman," I said.
"Well, I warned him to keep his eyes open," said Topaz.
"And of course, her interest really may be only professional. Though I must say I doubt it."
"Do you mean she might make love to him ?" I gasped- and for the first time really knew just why I minded his going.
"Well, somebody will, sooner or later. But I'd rather it was some nice girl in the village. It's no use looking horrified, Cassandra. You
mustn't be a dog in the manger."
I said I shouldn't mind if it was someone good enough for him.
She stared at me curiously.
"Doesn't he attract you at all his At your age I couldn't have resisted him for a minute--not looks like that.
And it's more than looks, of course."
"Oh, I know he has a splendid character," I said.
"That wasn't what I meant," said Topaz, laughing.
"But I've promised your Father not to put ideas into your head about Stephen, so let's leave it at that."
I knew perfectly well what she had meant. But if Stephen is physically attractive, why don't I get attracted--really attracted?
Or do I his After breakfast, I went to church. The Vicar spotted me
from the pulpit and looked most astonished. He came to talk to me
afterwards, when I was waking Heloise from her nap on one of the oldest tombstones.
"Does this delightful surprise mean you have any particular axe to grind with God?" he enquired. It didn't, of course--though I had taken the opportunity to pray for Rose; I don't believe that church
prayers are particularly efficacious, but one can't waste all that
kneeling on hard hassocks.
"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 green-houses 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
defenceless, 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.
