particularly with Heloise slumped against me like a fur-covered
furnace. I opened the book to find the Fox-Cottons" number -And then I remembered. You need pennies to telephone from a public call-box.
"You'll laugh at this one day," I told myself, "you'll laugh like anything." And then I leaned against the call-box wall and began to cry--but I soon stopped when I remembered that my handkerchief was in Rose's evening bag. I stared at the box you put the pennies in and
thought how willingly I would rob it, if I knew how.
"Oh, please, God--do something!" I said in my heart.
Then a person who didn't seem to be me put my hand up very quickly and pressed Button B. When the pennies came out, my inner voice said: "I knew they would."
And then, in memory, I heard the Vicar talking of prayer, faith and the slot machine.
Can faith work backwards his Could the fact that I was going to pray
have made someone forget to take their pennies back? And if it was
really prayer that did it, couldn't Button B have saved me from
troubling Stephen by giving me a pound?
"Though, of course, it would have had to be in pennies," I thought.
I prayed again, then pressed the button, wondering how I could cope
with a shower of two hundred and forty pennies--but I needn't have
worried. So I got on with telephoning the Fox-Cottons.
Leda answered--sooner than I had expected.
She sounded furious. I told her I was dreadfully sorry to disturb her but that I simply couldn't help it. Then I asked her to get Stephen.
She said: "Certainly not. You can't talk to him now."
"But I've got to," I told her.
"And I know he won't mind if you wake him- he'd want you to, if he knew I was in difficulties."
"You can stay in difficulties until tomorrow morning," she said.
"I won't let you bother Stephen now.
It's disgusting the way "
She broke off, and for an awful second I thought she had hung up the
receiver. Then I heard voices, though I couldn't distinguish any
words- until she suddenly yelled out:
"Don't you dare do that!"
Then she gave a shrill little squawk- and the next second, Stephen was speaking to me.
"What's happened, what's wrong?" he cried.
I told him as quickly as I could--leaving out the quarrel with Rose, of course. I said I had meant to go home by a late train.
"But there isn't any late train his "Yes, there is," I said quickly,
"there's one you didn't know about.
Oh, I'll explain it all later. All that matters now is that I'm
stranded here and if you don't come along quickly I shall get
arrested."
"I'll start at once was he sounded terribly upset.
"Don't be frightened. Go back to your table and order something else
--that will stop them suspecting you. And don't let any men talk to
you-or any women either, especially hospital nurses."
"All right--but do be as quick as you can."
Afterwards, I wished I hadn't said that about being arrested, because I knew he would believe it- as I never quite had done myself.
But being stranded like that in a London restaurant can be very
panic-striking, particularly in the middle of the night, and I did want to make sure he would come. I was wringing wet when I hung the
receiver up. I had to roll Heloise off my feet and simply drag her
back to my table. Her eyes were just two pink slits. She was
practically sleepwalking.
I told the waitress my friend would arrive very soon, and ordered a
chocolate ice-cream soda. Then I sat back and just wallowed in
relief--it was so great that I forgot how unhappy I was and began to
take an interest in my surroundings. There were some people at a
near-by table who were connected with a new play--one of them was the author--and they were waiting for the morning papers with the notices of it to come out. It was funny how nice and interesting almost
everyone looked once my panic was over--before, there had been just a sea of noisy faces. While I was having my ice-cream soda (it was
glorious), a hospital nurse came in and sat at the very next table. I almost choked through my straw--because knew what poor Stephen had been driving at.
Miss Marcy had a story that fake nurses rush about drugging girls and shipping them to the Argentine to be what she calls, "Well-daughters of joy, dear." But as I picture the Argentine, it has plenty of its own joyful daughters.
Stephen didn't arrive until after three o'clock-he said he'd had to
walk nearly a mile before finding a taxi. He had an odd, strained
look, which I put down to his having been so frightened about me.
I made him have a long, cold lemonade.
"Did you snatch the telephone from Leda?" I asked.
"It sounded like that. What luck for me that you overheard her
talking! Is their telephone on the upstairs landing or something?"
"There's one in the studio--we were in there," he said.
"Do you mean she was still photographing you?"
He said no, it was the other studio--"The one where the big photographs are. We were just sitting talking."
"What, till two in the morning?" Then I saw that he was avoiding my eyes, and went on quickly: "Well, tell me about your interview with the film people."
He told me, but hardly a word of it sank in-I was too busy picturing
him in the studio with Leda. I was sure she had been making love to
him. I imagined them sitting on the divan with only one dim light
burning, and the great naked Negro looking down.
The thought was horrible, yet fascinating.
I came back to earth as Stephen was saying:
"I'll take you home and pack up my clothes--though Leda says I shall have to buy some better ones. And I'll see Mr.
Stebbins. He said he wouldn't stand in the way of my career."
"Career" sounded a funny word for Stephen.
"What will Ivy say ?" I asked.
"Oh, Ivy-was he seemed to be remembering her from a long way back.
"She's a good girl, is Ivy."
Somebody brought the morning papers to the people who were waiting for them. All the notices seemed to be very bad. The poor little author
kept saying again and again, "It isn't that I mind for myself, of course... was And his friends were all very indignant with the critics and said notices didn't mean a thing, never had and never would.
"I suppose you'll be getting notices soon," I said to Stephen.
"Well, not notices exactly, but my name's going to be in print.
There's to be a piece about me under the photograph Leda's getting into the papers--saying how I'm a young actor of great promise.
After this one picture where I keep coming on with goats, I'm to go on a contract and be taught to act. But not too much, they say, because
they don't want to spoil me."
There was actually a note of conceit in his voice.
It was so unlike him that I stared in astonishment--and he must have
guessed why I did, because he flushed and added: "Well, that's what they said;
And you wanted me to do it. Oh, let's get out of this place."
I was glad to go. My relief at being rescued had worn off; and there
seemed to me a stale, weary, unnatural feeling about the
restaurant--the thought that it never closed made me feel exhausted
for it. Most of the people now seemed tired and worried the poor
little author was just leaving looking utterly downcast.
The hospital nurse looked pretty cheerful, though; she was having her second go of poached eggs.
We sat on a bench in Leicester Square for a while, with Heloise lying across both our laps. Her elbows dug into me most painfully;
and I didn't like the feel of the Square at all -it isn't a bit like
most London squares--so I said: "Let's go and have a look at the Thames, now that it's getting light."
We asked a policeman the way. He said: "You don't want to use it for jumping in, do you, miss?" which made me laugh.
It was quite a walk- and Heloise loathed it; but she perked up after we bought her a sausage roll from a coffee stall. We got to Westminster
Bridge just as the sky was red with dawn.
I thought of Wordsworth's sonnet but it didn't fit--the city certainly wasn't "All bright and glittering in the smokeless air"; there was a lurid haze over everything. And I couldn't get the feeling of "Dear God!
the very houses seem asleep" because half my mind was still in the Corner House, which never gets a sleep at all.
We stood leaning against the bridge, looking along the river.
It was beautiful, even though I didn't get any feeling of peace. A
gentle little breeze blew against my face--it was like someone pitying me. Tears rolled out of my eyes.
Stephen said: "What is it, Cassandra? Is it--something to do with me?"
For a second I thought he was harking back to his having kissed me in the larch wood. Then I saw the ashamed expression in his eyes. I
said: "No, of course not."
"I might have known that," he said bitterly.
"I
might have guessed that nothing I've done tonight could matter to
you.
Who are you in love with, Cassandra? Is it Neil?"
I ought to have told him he was talking nonsense, that I wasn't in love with anyone, but I was too tired and wretched to pretend.
I just said: "No. It isn't Neil."
"Then it's Simon. That's bad, that is--because Rose will never let him go."
"But she doesn't love him, Stephen. She admitted it was I found myself telling him about our dreadful quarrel in her bedroom, describing how I had crept out of the flat.
"You and your late trains!" he put in.
"I
knew right well there wasn't one."
I went on pouring it all out. When I told him I had realized how
wrongly I had behaved to Rose, he said:
"Don't you worry about that. Rose is bad."
"Not really bad," I said, and began to make excuses for her, telling him she had wanted to help the family as well as herself. He cut me
short by saying:
"But she's bad, really. Lots of women are."
I said: "Sometimes we're bad without meaning to be."
And then I asked him if he could ever forgive me for letting him kiss me, when I knew I was in love with someone else.
"Oh, Stephen, that was bad! And I let you go on thinking I might get to love you."
"I only did for a day or two--I soon saw I was making a fool of myself.
But I couldn't make it out--why you ever let me, I mean. I understand now. Things like that happen when you're in love with the wrong
person. Worse things. Things you never forgive yourself for."
He was staring straight ahead of him, looking utterly wretched.
I said:
"Are you miserable because you made love to Leda Fox-Cotton his It was her fault, wasn't it his You don't need to blame yourself."
"I'll blame myself as long as I live," he said, then suddenly turned to me.
"It's you I love and always will. Oh, Cassandra, are you sure you couldn't ever get to care for me his You liked it when I kissed
you--well, you seemed to. If we could get married his The glow from
the sunrise was on his face, the breeze was blowing his thick fair
hair. He looked desperate and magnificent, more wonderful even than in any of Leda's photographs of him. The vague expression was gone from
his eyes--I had a feeling it had gone for ever.
"I'd work for you, Cassandra. If I'm any good at acting perhaps we could live in London, a long way from--the others. Couldn't I help you through, somehow--when Simon's married to Rose?"
When he said Simon's name, I saw Simon's face. I saw it as it had
looked in the corridor off the ballroom, tired and rather pale.
I saw the black hair growing in a peak on his forehead, the eyebrows
going up at the corners, the little lines at the sides of his mouth.
When first he shaved his beard I thought he was quite handsome, but
that was only because he looked so much younger and so much less odd; I know now that he isn't handsome-compared with Stephen's, his looks
aren't anything at all.
And yet as my eyes turned to Stephen facing the sunrise, Simon in the darkness of my mind, it was as if Simon's had the living face and
Stephen's the one I was imagining --or a photograph, a painting,
something beautiful but not really alive for me.
My whole heart was so full of Simon that even my pity for Stephen
wasn't quite real--it was only something I felt I ought to feel;
more from my head than my heart. And I knew I ought to pity him all
the more because I could pity him so little. I cried out: "Oh, please, please stop! I'm so fond of you--and so deeply grateful. But I could
never marry you.
Oh, Stephen, dear I'm so very sorry."
"That's all right," he said, staring in front of him again.
"Well, at least we're companions in misfortune," I said.
Then Heloise stood up and put her front paws on the parapet, between
us, and my tears dropped down and made gray spots on her gleaming white head.
XVI am writing this at Father's desk in the gatehouse. If it were the King's desk in Buckingham Palace I could not be more surprised.
It is now half-past nine in the evening. (this time last week I was
talking to Simon in that corridor off the ballroom--it feels like years and years ago.) I mean to work at this journal until I wake Thomas at two o'clock. Last night he kept this watch and I took the second one.
And very dreadful I felt during most of it. I am less upset tonight,
but still get nervous sinkings in my stomach every now and then. Oh,
have we accomplished a miracle-or done something so terrible that I daren face thinking about it his I never finished my last entry--the
memory of my tears falling on Heloise so flooded me with self-pity that I couldn't go on. But there wasn't much more to say about the trip to London.
We came back on the first train. I slept most of the way, and slept
again when we got home.
It was the middle of the afternoon when I woke up--to find myself alone in the castle; Stephen had gone over to Four Stones, Father was at
Scoatney and Thomas was spending the weekend with his friend Harry.
Stephen came home around nine o'clock and went to bed without
disturbing me--I was up in the attic writing this journal. As I heard him crossing the courtyard I wondered if I ought to go down and talk to him, but I felt there was nothing helpful I could say. Later on, I
thought I would at least make him some cocoa and chat about his film
job, but by the time I got to the kitchen the light in his room was
out.
He went back to London early on Monday morning, with his will you ?"
"I won't be coming back," he said, quietly, "even if I'm no good as an actor. No, I won't come back."
I said of course he would, but he shook his head.
