Simon's everywhere, even if it broke my back). I suppose I overdid it because he interrupted and said:
"It's all right, you know."
I looked at him quickly. He tried to smile reassuringly, but didn't
quite let his eyes meet mine.
"Oh, Stephen!" I cried.
"It was a much bigger present from you.
Simon didn't have to save--or work for it."
"No, that was my privilege," he said quietly.
That seemed to me a most beautiful way for him to have put it.
It made me sorrier for him than ever--so sorry that I found myself
almost wishing I had fallen in love with him instead of with Simon.
Just then he added, very softly, "My dear." And that second, a wild idea flashed into my mind. Oh, why did it his Was it something in his voice awoke that feeling in me? Or was it because we were passing the larch wood and I remembered how I once imagined going into it with
him?
I stopped walking and stared at him. His face was golden from the
sunset. He asked me if I wanted to turn back.
I said, "No. Let's see if there are any late bluebells in the wood."
He looked at me quickly, right into the eyes at last.
"Come on," I said.
As we pushed aside the first green trails of larch I thought, "Well, this will disprove my theory that things I've imagined happening never really do happen." But it didn't- because everything was so different from my imagining. The wood had been thinned out, so it wasn't cool
and dark as I expected; the air was still warm and the rays of the
sinking sun shone in from behind us. The tree trunks glowed redly.
There was a hot, resinous smell instead of the scent of bluebells- the only ones left were shriveled and going to seed.
And instead of a still, waking feeling there was a choking
excitement.
Stephen didn't say any of the things I once invented for him; neither of us spoke a word. I led the way all the time and reached the little grassy clearing in the middle of the wood before he did. There I
turned and waited for him. He came closer and closer to me, then stood still, staring at me questioningly. I nodded my head and then he took me in his arms and kissed me, very gently. It didn't mean a thing to
me--I know I didn't kiss him in return. But suddenly he changed, and
kissed me more and more, not gently at all-and I changed, too, and
wanted him to go on and on. I didn't even stop him when he pulled my
dress down over my shoulder. It was he who stopped in the end.
"Don't let me, don't let me!" he gasped, and pushed me away so violently that I nearly fell over. As I staggered backwards I had a
wild feeling of terror and the minute I regained my balance I plunged blindly back through the wood. He called after me, "Mind your
eyes--it's all right, I'm not coming after you." But I went on
thrusting my way through the larches, shielding my face with my arm. I ran all the way to the castle and dashed up the kitchen stairs meaning to lock myself in my room, but I slipped when I was half-way up,
banging my knee badly, and then I burst into tears and just lay there, sobbing. The awful thing is that something in me hoped that if I
stayed there long enough he would come in and see how wretched I was-
though I still can't make out why I wanted him to.
After a little while, I heard him at the kitchen door.
"Cassandra, please stop crying," he called.
"I wasn't coming in, but when I heard you Please, please stop."
I still went on. He came to the foot of the stairs.
I began to pull myself up by the banisters, still crying. He said:
"But it's all right- really it is. There's nothing wrong in it if we love each other."
I turned on him fiercely: "I don't love you. I hate you."
And then I saw the look in his eyes and realized how dreadful it all
was for him--until then I had only been thinking of my own misery. I
gasped out, "No, no- I don't mean that but .... Oh, I'll never be able to explain." And then I dashed through to my room and locked both doors. I was just going to fling myself on the bed when I caught
sight of Simon's present, on the window-seat. I went over, closed the gramophone part and lay with my head and arms on it. And for the first time in my life I wished I were dead.
When it was quite dark I pulled myself together enough to light a
candle and begin to go wretchedly to bed. A few minutes later, there
was a knock on the door to the landing and Stephen called out:
"I don't want to come in, but please read the note I'm pushing through to you." I called back "All right," and saw the note coming under the door. As I picked it up I heard his footsteps going downstairs, and
then the noise of the front door shutting.
He had written:
DEAREST CASSANDRA
Please do not be unhappy. It will come right. It is just that you are so young. I forget that sometimes, because you are so clever. I
cannot explain because I think it would make you feel worse and anyway I do not know how. But there was nothing wrong happened. It was all
my fault. It you forgive me for shocking you so, please write YES on a piece of paper and put it under my door. I am going out now and will
not come back until your light is out so you need not be frightened of meeting me. And I will go to work before you are up in the morning.
We won't talk about it--anyway, not for a long time. You say when.
Truly it is aa right, With love from X X X X X X but not until you want them.
On a separate sheet he had written: "Perhaps this will help you to understand. Of course it is only for when we are married"--and then he had copied out four lines from "Love's Philosophy."
Nothing in the world is single, All things by a law divine In one
another's being mingle-Why not I with thine his By Percy Bysshe
Shelley. (born t79, died r82.) I guessed he had put Shelley's name and dates so that I wouldn't think he was stealing poetry again. Oh,
Stephen--I know so well why you used to steal it! I long and long to
express my love for Simon and nothing of my own is worthy.
I wrote YES and put it under his door. I couldn't bear not to-and, of course, it was true in a way; I did forgive him. But it let him
believe a lie- that I was upset just because he had shocked me.
Since then, we haven't been alone once. We talk fairly naturally in
front of the others, but I never look straight at him. I suppose he
just thinks I am shy.
Of course the honest thing would be to tell him it will never any good but, even if I could bear to hurt him so, I doubt if I could convince him without owning that I care for someone else because I certainly
showed every sign of its being some good while he was making love to
me. Oh, why did I let him his Let him his You encouraged him, my girl!
But why, why? When my whole heart was longing for Simon! Perhaps I
could understand myself better if I didn't so loathe remembering
it--even now I haven't quite put down everything that happened.
I know this: asking him to go into the wood was a wicked thing, wicked to him and wicked to myself. Truly, being so sorry for him had
something to do with it, but it was mostly sheer wickedness.
And it was only due to Stephen that it didn't turn out much wickeder.
I have really sinned. I am going to pause now, and sit here on the
mound repenting in deepest shame ...... Oh dear, that was a great
mistake! My mind wandered from repenting to thinking it wouldn't have been sin if Stephen had been Simon. And changing them over has made me realize more and more how I have spoilt the memory of Simon's kiss. Oh, how can I face my wretched future his I shall have to be Rose's
bridesmaid, see her living with Simon at Scoatney year after year,
watch him worshipping her. And how am I going to hide my feelings,
when I see them together?
If only I could go away! But the one thing I live for is to see Simon again.
I have just remembered I once wrote that I didn't envy Rose, that I
thought a happy marriage might be dull.
Heavens, what a fool I was! ...... Father is cycling along the lane,
after spending the day at Scoatney again, and the boys will be home any minute now. I suppose I must go down and get tea; tinned salmon would cheer me up most, I think. It is most strange and wretched coming back to the present after being in this journal so long--I have been writing all day with only one break when I took Heloise indoors for her dinner and gave myself a very few cold sausages.
One of my worst longings to cry has come over me.
I am going to run down the mound grinning and singing to fight it
off.
Nine o'clock--written in bed.
Something has happened. Oh, I know I mustn't build on it--but I know I am building.
While we were at tea, a telegram came for Stephen from Leda Fox-Cotton; she wants him to go up to London next week-end. So he went back to the farm to ask if they can spare him on Saturday morning. As soon as he
had gone out, I turned off his wireless and went upstairs to play
Simon's--I never play it when Stephen is in the house. Thomas came
too, and asked me to put the Bach Preludes and Fugues on the
gramophone--he particularly likes them. We lay on the beds listening
companionably. It seems to me that Thomas has been getting much more
grown-up and intelligent lately. He was always bright about his school work, but I never found him interesting to talk to. Now he often