ruthlessness.
Yes, yes, if she says she's in love, she is --and her manner last night was quite compatible with it, given Rose's nature."
He put down his empty glass so I was able to take it to the sink and
keep my back to him.
"What was her manner like ?" I asked.
"So damned unresponsive--and so obviously sure of her power over him.
Oh, I daresay she can't help it--she's one of the women who oughtn't to be loved too kindly; when they are, some primitive desire for brutality makes them try to provoke it. But if she's really in love, it'll work out all right. Simon's so intelligent that he'll adjust the balance,
eventually--because he isn't weak, I'm sure;
it's simply that being so much in love puts a man at a disadvantage."
I managed to say: "Oh, I'm sure things will turn out right," and then concentrated on the glass- I never dried a glass so thoroughly in my
life. Father started off to the gatehouse again, to my great relief.
As he passed me, he said: "Glad we've had this talk. It's eased my mind considerably."
It hadn't eased mine. I suppose I ought to have been pleased at
hearing him talking so rationally, but I was much too submerged in my own troubles- for that was when misery engulfed me, and guilt too.
Everything he said about Simon's feelings for Rose was such agony that I suddenly knew it wasn't only the wonderful luxury of being in love
that had been buoying me up: deep down, in some vague, mixed way I had been letting myself hope that he didn't really care for her, that it
was me he loved and that kissing me would have made him realize it.
"You're a fool and worse was I told myself, "you're a would-be thief."
Then I began to cry and when I got out my handkerchief it smelt of
Rose's scent and reminded me I hadn't written to thank her for it.
"Before you do, you've got to get your conscience clear," I said to myself sternly, "and you know the way to do it. Things you let
yourself imagine happening, never do happen; so go ahead, have a
wonderful daydream about Simon loving you, marrying you instead of
Rose-and then he never will. You'll have given up any hope of winning him from her."
That made me wonder if I could have put up any opposition to Rose in
the early days, when it would have been quite fair. I thought of the
chance I missed on May Day when Simon and I walked to the village
together. If only I could have been more fascinating! But I decided
my fascination would have been embarrassing --I know Simon didn't care much for Rose's until he had fallen in love with her beauty; after
that, of course, he found the fascination fascinating.
Then I remembered Miss Marcy once saying "Dear Rose will lead men a dance," and it struck me that Father meant much the same thing when he spoke of Rose showing her power over Simon. Suddenly I had a great
desire to batter her, and as I was going to imagine away any chance of getting Simon, I decided to have a run for my money and batter Rose
into the bargain. So I stoked up the kitchen fire and put the stew on for lunch, then drew the arm-chair close and gave my imagination its
head- I was longing to, anyhow, apart from its being a noble gesture.
I visualized everything happening at Mrs.
Cotton's flat--I gave it a balcony overlooking Hyde Park. We began
there, then moved indoors. Rose came in while Simon was kissing me and was absolutely livid--or was that in a later imagining? There have
been so many that they have gradually merged into each other. I don't think I could bring myself to describe any of them in detail because, though they are wonderful at the time, they give me a flat, sick,
ashamed feeling to look back on. And they are like a drug, one needs
them oftener and oftener and has to make them more and more
exciting--until at last one's imagination won't work at all. It comes back after a few days, though.
Goodness knows how I can ever look Rose in the face after the things I have imagined saying and doing to her- I got as far as kicking her
once. Of course I always pretend that she isn't in love with Simon,
merely after his money. Poor Rose! It is extraordinary how fond I can feel of her really, not to mention guilty towards her--and yet hate her like poison in my imaginings.
Coming back to earth after that first one was particularly awful,
because it was the one which gave Simon up irrevocably --the others
didn't have the same tampering-with-fate feeling (but it is always
dreadful when the pictures in front of one's eyes become meaningless, and the real world is there instead and seems meaningless, too). I
certainly wasn't in any mood for writing to Rose, but in the afternoon I forced myself to- it was like making up a letter for a character in a book to write. I told her how pleased I was with the bottle of scent, and put in bits about Hcl and About and the miserable weather- the rain was useful as a lead into: "How lucky it was fine on Midsummer Eve. It was so nice that Simon was here for it--tell him I enjoyed every
minute--" It was glorious writing that--almost like telling him I was glad he had kissed me.
But after I posted the letter I was worried in case he guessed what I meant. And as I walked back from the post-office I had the most
agonizing thought; supposing he had told Rose about kissing me and they had laughed about it his It hurt me so much that I moaned out loud. I wanted to fling myself down in the mud and beat my way into the
ground.
I had just enough sense to know what I should look like after trying, so stayed upright; but I couldn't go on walking. I went and sat on a
stile and tried to turn the thought out of my mind- and then worse
thoughts rushed in on me. I asked myself; if it wasn't wrong of Simon to kiss me when he is in love with Rose --if he was the sort of man who thinks any girl will do to kiss his Of all the agonies, the worst is
when I think badly of Simon; not that I ever do for very long.
After I had been sitting there in the rain for a while, I saw that
there was nothing dreadful in his having kissed me. In spite of his
saying it wasn't due to his missing Rose, it probably was. Anyway, I
think Americans kiss rather easily and frequently--Miss Marcy had some American magazines once and there were pictures of people kissing on
almost every page, including the advertisements. I expect Americans
are affectionate, as a nation.
I would certainly never have been surprised if Neil had kissed me and I wouldn't have thought it meant he was seriously in love. Somehow it
seemed unlike Simon but .. . Then I wondered if he had thought I
expected it, if I had somehow invited a kiss. That made me want to die of shame and yet was comforting because it put Simon in the right if
he had done it out of kindness.
Suddenly I said aloud into the rain: "He won't tell Rose and laugh.
And he didn't do anything wrong--whatever his reasons were, they
weren't wrong. If you love people, you take them on trust."
Then I got off the stile and walked home. And in spite of the
drenching rain, I felt quite warm.
That little glow of comfort lasted me right through the evening but was gone when I woke up next morning. Wakings are the worst times-almost
before my eyes are open a great weight seems to roll on to my heart. I can usually roll it off a bit during the day--for one thing, food helps quite a lot, unromantic as that sounds. I have grown more and more
ravenous as I have grown more and more miserable. Sleep is wonderful, too- I never thought of it as a pleasure before, but now I long for it.
The best time of all is before I fall asleep at night, when I can hold the thought of Simon close to me and feel the misery slip away. I
often sleep in the daytime, too.
Surely it isn't normal for anyone so miserably in love to eat and sleep so well? Am I a freak his I only know that I am miserable, I am in
love, but I raven food and sleep.
Another great luxury is letting myself cry--I always feel marvelously peaceful after that. But it is difficult to arrange times for it, as
my face takes so long to recover;
it isn't safe in the mornings if I am to look normal when I meet Father at lunch, and the afternoons are no better, as Thomas is home by five.
It would be all right in bed at night but such a waste, as that is my happiest time.
Days when Father goes over to read in the Scoatney library are good
crying-days.
On the Wednesday of that first week of mud and misery I went to see
the Vicar; he has a lot of old music and I hoped I might find "Sheep May Safely Graze." The rain stopped for a few hours that morning but it was very cold and damp, and the battered countryside looked rather as I felt. As I sloshed along the Godsend road, planning to be careful not to give myself away to the Vicar, I found myself wondering if it
would be a relief to confess to someone, as Lucy Snowe did in Villette.
The Vicar isn't High Church enough for confessions, and certainly most of me would have loathed to tell him or anybody else one word; but I
did have a feeling that a person as wretched as I was ought to be able to get some sort of help from the Church. Then I told myself that as I never gave the Church a thought when I was feeling happy, I could
hardly expect it to do anything for me when I wasn't. You can't get
insurance money without paying in premiums.
I found the Vicar starting to plan a sermon, wrapped in the collie dog carriage rug. I do love his study; it has old green paneling except