bottle of white wine (three shillings), coffee and another nine penny cigar.
And about an egg-cup full of port which I still had in the medicine
bottle.
We carried it all out on trays just as Godsend church dock struck
seven. It was a glorious, peaceful evening. Soon after we crossed the bridge we could hear Father yelling.
"Have you been wearing yourself out by shouting all afternoon ?"
I said, when Thomas had opened the door.
"Pretty nearly," said Father--his voice sounded very hoarse.
"Someone's bound to pass through the fields sooner or later."
"I doubt it," said Thomas.
"The hay's all in and Mr. Stebbins isn't cutting his wheat for some weeks yet. Anyway, your voice doesn't carry beyond the mound. If
you'll re-pack the lunch basket, I'll haul it up and send your dinner down."
I expected Father to rave but he didn't even reply; and he at once
began to do what Thomas had suggested. His movements were very awkward and jerky. He had taken off his coat and undone his collar, which gave him a pathetic look--rather as if he were ready to be led out to
execution.
"We must bring him pajamas and a dressing-gown for tonight," I whispered to Thomas.
Father heard me and jerked his head upwards.
"If you leave me here all night I shall go out of my mind--I mean it, Cassandra.
This -this sense of imprisonment, I'd forgotten how shocking it can
be. Don't you know what it does to people- being shut up in small
spaces his Haven't you heard of claustrophobia ?"
"There's plenty of space upwards," I said, as firmly as I could.
"And you never suffer from claustrophobia when you lock yourself in the gatehouse."
"But it's different when someone else locks you in."
His voice cracked.
"Oh you damned little idiots--let me out! Let me out!"" I felt dreadful, but Thomas seemed quite unconcerned. He hauled up the basket Father had filled, took out the plates and dishes, and put the dinner in. I think he knew I was weakening, because he whispered: "We've got to go through with it now. You leave it to me." Then he lowered the basket and called down, firmly:
"We'll let you out just as soon as you've written something- say fifty pages."
"I never wrote fifty pages in less than three months even when I could write," said Father, his voice cracking worse than ever. Then he flopped into the arm-chair and gripped his head with his hands.
"Just unpack your dinner, will you?" said Thomas.
"You'd better take the coffee-pot out first."
Father looked up and his whole face went suddenly scarlet. Then he
made a dive at the dinner basket, and the next second a plate flew past my head. A fork whizzed through the door just before we got it closed.
Then we heard crockery breaking against it.
I sat down on the steps and burst into tears. Father croaked: "My God, are you hurt, Cassandra?" I put my face close to the crack under the door and called: "No, I'm perfectly all right. But please, please don't throw all your dinner dishes until you've eaten what's on them.
Oh, won't you just try to write, Father?
Write anything-write "The cat sat on the mat" if you like.
Anything, as long as you write!"
Then I cried harder than ever. Thomas pulled me to my feet and steered me down the steps.
"We ought never to have done it," I sobbed as we went down the mound.
"I shall let him out tonight even if he kills us."
"No, you won't--remember your oath." We had sworn not to give in until both of us agreed to it.
"I'm not weakening yet. We'll see how he is after dinner."
As soon as the daylight began to fade, Thomas got the pyjamas and
dressing-gown, and lit a lantern. There wasn't a sound as we
approached the tower.
"Oh, Thomas--suppose he's dashed his head against the wall!"
I whispered. And then a faint, reassuring smell of cigar smoke was
wafted to us.
When we opened the door, Father was sitting at the table with his back towards us. He turned round with the cigar in one hand and a pencil in the other.
"Your brilliant idea's done the trick!" he cried, hoarsely but happily.
"The miracle's happened! I've begun!"
"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 all 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."
