gatehouse.
"Well, I've managed to get Cinderella home by midnight," said Simon, as he helped me out of the car. He saw me into the kitchen and lit the
candle for me, laughing at the unctuous bee-line Heloise made for her basket. I thanked him for my lovely evening and he thanked me for
letting him share in my Midsummer rites--he said that was something he would always remember.
Then, as he shook hands, he asked:
"Am I really forgiven ?"
I told him of course he was.
"I made a fuss about nothing. Heavens, what a prig you'll think me!"
He said earnestly: "I promise you I won't.
I think you're every thing that's nice, and thank you again." Then he gave my hand a brisk little squeeze--and the next second the door had closed behind him.
I stood absolutely still for a minute or so--then dashed upstairs, up through the bathroom tower and out on to the walls. The mist had
cleared away, so I could watch the lights of the car travel slowly
along the lane and turn on to the Godsend road.
Even after they vanished on the outskirts of the village I still
watched on, and caught one last glimpse of them on the road to
Scoatney.
All the time I stood on the walls I was in a kind of daze, barely
conscious of anything but the moving car; and when I pulled myself
together enough to go in and undress, I deliberately held my thoughts away from me. Only when I lay down in darkness did I at last let them flow into my mind. And with them came nothing but happiness--like the happiness I felt when Simon kissed me, but more serene. Oh, I told
myself that he belonged to Rose, that I could never win him from her
even if I were wicked enough to try, which I never would be. It made
no difference. Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I
had ever known.
The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return- that perhaps true loving can never know any thing but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.
And then I happened to catch sight of Miss Blossom's silhouette and
heard her say: "Well, you just hang on to that comforting bit of high-thinking, duckie, because you're going to need it."
And in some strange, far-off way I knew that was true -yet it still
made no difference. I fell asleep happier than I had ever been in my
life.
XIII
OH, how bitter it is to read that last line I wrote little over three weeks ago--now when I cannot even remember what happiness felt like!
I didn't read back any further. I was too afraid of losing the dead,
flat, watching-myself feeling which has come this morning for the first time. It is utterly dreary but better than acute wretchedness, and
has given me a faint desire to empty my mind into this journal, which will pass a few hours. But shall I be able to write about the wicked
thing I did on my birthday? Can I bring myself to describe it fully
his Perhaps I can work up to it.
Heavens, how miserable the weather has been--floods of rain, cold
winds; my birthday was the only sunny day.
Today is warm, but very dull and depressing. I am up on the mound,
sitting on the stone steps leading to Belmotte Tower. Heloise is with me--it is one of those times when she has to retire from society, and she gets so bored if I leave her shut up by herself. Her leash is
safely tied to my belt, in case she takes a sudden fancy to go
visiting. Cheer up, Heloise darling, only a few more days now before
you're free.
The rain began just after I finished my last entry that Sunday in the attic--when I looked out I saw great storm clouds blowing up in the
evening sky. I hurried down to close any open windows. I still seemed perfectly happy then; I remember telling myself so.
As I leaned out to pull the bedroom window in I noticed how motionless and expectant the wheat seemed; I hoped it was young enough not to mind being battered. Then I looked down and saw that my forgotten garland
had drifted round and was lying just below on the gray glass of the
moat. The next second, down came even as I watched it was driven
under.
Heloise was whimpering at the back door--and though I went down at once to let her in, she was soaking wet.
I dried her, then lit the kitchen fire, which had gone out while I was writing in the attic. I had just got it going when Stephen arrived,
back from London.
I sent him off to change his wet clothes; then we had tea together,
sitting on the fender. I told him about my evening with Simon- but
hugging all the secret bits to myself, of course--and then he talked
quite a lot about his trip; he seemed much less selfconscious over
being photographed, though I gathered he had been embarrassed by the
Greek tunic Leda Fox-Cotton had persuaded him to wear. He said he'd
had all his meals with the Fox-Cottons and slept in a room with gold
curtains and gold cupids over the bed.
And Aubrey Fox-Cotton had given him a dressing-gown, almost as good as new. I admired it and agreed that they were very kind people- all my
resentment of Leda Fox-Cotton seemed to have vanished.
"Did she show you the photographs she took last time?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I saw them." He didn't sound enthusiastic.
"Well, when am I going to see them his Didn't she give you any ?"
"She told me I could take some, but I didn't like to. They're so large and- well, flattering. I'll ask for some next time if you really want to see them."
"You're going again, then ?"
"Yes, but for something different." He went very red.
"Oh, it's too silly to talk about."
I remembered Rose's letter.
"Does she want you to go on the pictures ?"
He said it was nonsense, really-- "But there was a man came to dinner last night who has to do with them and he thought I'd be all right.
They got me to read a piece aloud. I'm supposed to go and be
tested--that's what they call it. Only I don't know that I'll do
it."
"But of course you must, Stephen," I said encouragingly.
He looked at me quickly and asked if I'd like it if he acted- and I
suddenly saw that I had been wrong in thinking he had lost interest in me. (thought little did I then know how wrong.) I had only been asking him questions out of politeness--nothing but Simon mattered to me in
the least--but I tried to sound enthusiastic:
"Why, Stephen, it would be splendid--of course I'd like it."
"Then I'll try. They said they could teach me."
I thought they probably could--he has such a nice speaking voice though it gets a bit muffled and husky when he feels shy.
"Welt, it's most exciting," I said brightly.
"Perhaps you'll go to Hollywood."
He grinned and said he didn't think he'd count on that.
After we finished tea he helped me with the washing-up and then went
over to Four Stones Farm; the Stebbinses were having a party.
I bet Ivy was thrilled about his going on the pictures. (not that
anything more has happened about it yet.) I went to bed early, still
feeling happy. Even the sound of the rain beating on the roof gave me pleasure, because it reminded me that Simon had had all the leaks
mended for us. Everything in the least connected with him has value
for me; if someone even mentions his name it is like a little present to me--and I long to mention it myself, I start subjects leading up to it, and then feel myself going red. I keep swearing to myself not to
speak of him again- and then an opportunity occurs and I jump at it.
Father came home the next morning with a London telephone directory
sticking out of the carpetbag.
"Goodness, are we going to have a telephone?" I asked.
"Great heavens, no!" He plonked the bag on one of the kitchen chairs--from which it instantly fell to the floor, throwing out the
directory and various other books. Father shoved them back into the
bag as fast as he could, but I had time to notice a very fancy little Language of Flowers, Elementary Chinese and a paper called The Homing Pigeon.
"Where's the willow-pattern plate ?" I asked, trying to make my voice sound casual.
"I dropped it on Liverpool Street Station--but it had served its purpose." He turned to go to the gatehouse, then said he'd like a glass of milk first. While I got it for him, I asked if he had stayed at the Cottons" flat He said: "Oh yes, I had Simon's room-by the way, he particularly asked to be remembered to you; he said you entertained him very nicely."
"Where did you go when he came home yesterday ?"
"I just stayed on in his room. He went to Neil's hotel; very obliging of him. Simon has a charming nature-unfortunately."
"Why "unfortunately" ?" I asked, as I gave him his milk.
"Because Rose takes advantage of it," said Father.
"But then no man ought to be as much in love as Simon is- it makes one resent the whole female sex."
I took the milk jug back to the larder and called over my shoulder:
"Well, I don't see why it should--considering Rose is in love with him."
"Is she ?" said Father- and when I stayed in the larder hoping he would let the subject drop, he called me back.
"Are you sure she's in love with him, Cassandra his I'd be interested to know."
I said: "Well, she told me she was--and you know how truthful she is."
He thought for a minute, then said: "You're right. I can't remember her ever telling a lie. Truthfulness so often goes with