Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

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

astonishes me.

Perhaps all the good food he has had lately has flown to his brain.

After we had played the Bach records he suddenly said:

"Do you remember Rose wishing on the stone head?"

I asked what on earth had made him think of that.

"Oh, listening to Simon's gramophone, I suppose--it's part of the difference the Cottons have made to our lives. It never struck me

before that Rose wanted to sell herself to the Devil, wished and then in they walked."

I stared at him.

"But Rose isn't selling herself --she's in love with Simon. She told me so and you know she never lies."

"That's true," said Thomas.

"Then perhaps she managed to kid herself--because I know she isn't in love. And she's all wrong for Simon."

"But how can you possibly know that she isn't in love?"

"Well, for one thing, she hardly ever mentions Simon. Harry's sister's in love and she never stops talking about her fiance. Harry and I make bets about it. That last week-end I stayed there she mentioned him

fifty-one times."

"That's nonsense," I said.

"Rose happens to be more reticent."

"Reticent? Rose? Why, she always talks her head off about anything she's keen on. Do you know that in the letter I had from her there

isn't one word about Simon ?"

"When did you have a letter?" I asked.

"Couldn't I see it?"

He said he had happened to meet the postman in the lane a few days

ago.

"And I didn't show you the letter because she asked me not to--but for a very silly reason, so I don't see why I shouldn't.

I'll get it now."

It was a most peculiar letter. There was certainly nothing about Simon in it--but there was nothing about anyone else, not even Rose herself, really. It was just one enormous list of things that had been bought

for her and how much everything cost. At the end, she wrote: "I would rather you didn't show this to Cassandra, because it seems awful that I have so many lovely things when she has so few.

You won't be envious as you are not a girl And it is nice to be able to tell someone."

"And I bet I know why she made that list," said Thomas.

"It was to convince herself that marrying for money is worth it.

Oh, I wouldn't worry about it too much; women are always marrying for money, you know. Anyway, it's a godsend for us, all right, even if

it's a bit of a devil send for Rose."

"And what about Simon ?" I demanded.

"Simon? Oh, he's past help. Do you remember our last visit to

Scoatney -before they all went up to London?

He mentioned Rose's name forty-two times while we were walking round

the stables--I counted. The horses must have been sick of the sound of her."

I told him he hadn't any real evidence about Rose's feelings; but a

wild hope was rising in my heart--for surely it is strange that there is nothing about Simon in her letter, surely one wants to write about the person one is in love with his Why, I even write Simon's name on

scraps of paper! (and then get fits of nerves that I haven't really

torn them up.) After Thomas had gone off to do his homework, I got out the only letter Rose has written to me. At first it sent my hopes down to zero--for what could be more definite than: "It's so wonderful that I can be in love with Simon as well as everything else." But suppose she really is "kidding herself," as Thomas suggested his There is so little about Simon. And part of the letter seems so sad--she writes of loneliness, of having to sit in the bathroom until she cheers up.

Heavens, if I had Simon I could never be lonely!

I have been lying in bed trying to imagine the kind of letter I would have written had I been Rose. I don't think I would have said much

about my deepest feelings--I can quite understand Rose keeping those to herself. But I know I would have said which dresses Simon liked, what he thought about theatres-I know he would have been the most important thing in the letter.

Am I making it all up--believing what I want to believe? And even if

she doesn't love him, I know he loves her. But perhaps if she gave him up ...... Oh, it is so hot in this room! I dar en open the window wide in case Heloise takes a flying leap out of it--one of her suitors, the sheep-dog from Four Stones, is prowling round the castle. Heloise,

darling, he would be a most unsuitable match. I wonder if he has gone

...... No, he hasn't. There are two dogs now, just the other side of

the moat; I can see four eyes glowing in the darkness.

I feel terribly sorry for love-lorn dogs.

I can't say Heloise is minding much, though--she is looking rather smug

...... I have just decided what to do. Somehow I have got to find out the truth. If Rose really loves him I will never try to take him from her, even in my thoughts. I will go away--perhaps to college, as she

suggested. But I must know the truth. I must see her.

I will go to London with Stephen on Saturday.

XIV

I AM BACK. It wasn't any good.

Nothing will ever be the same again between Rose and me.

All the time that Stephen and I were cycling to Scoatney station very early yesterday, I kept remembering the start of my last trip to

London, when she was with me. I found myself talking to her as she was then; even asking her advice about what I should say to the new Rose.

The Rose with the thousand-pound trousseau seemed an utterly different person from the Rose in the skimpy white suit who set out with me that bright April morning. How fresh the countryside was then! It was

green yesterday, after the rain, but there was no hopeful, beginning

feeling. The sun was hot, and though I was glad the bad weather was

over, I found it rather glaring. High summer can be pitiless to the

low spirited.

Being alone with Stephen was far less difficult than I had expected.

We talked very little and only about the most ordinary things. I felt guilty towards him and, most unfairly, slightly annoyed with him

because I did. I resented being worried about him on top of everything else.

While we were waiting at the station, Heloise arrived, exhausted

--having eluded Thomas and raced after our bicycles. She is out of

purdah now, and we didn't like to leave her on the platform, because

once when we did that she stowed away on the next train and ended up at King's Crypt police station. So Stephen got her a dog-ticket and the

stationmaster gave her a long drink and found some string to make a

leash. She behaved beautifully on the journey, except that after we

changed into the London train she took a little boy's cake away from

him. I quickly thanked him for giving it to her and he took my word

for it that he had meant to.

Stephen insisted on escorting me all the way to Park Lane. We arranged to telephone each other about what train we would go home by, and then he dashed off to St. John's Wood.

I walked Heloise round the block of flats, then went in. It was a most palatial place with bouncy carpets and glittering porters and a lift

you work yourself. There is a queer, irrevocable feeling when you have pressed the button and start to go up.

Heloise got claustrophobia and tried to climb the padded leather walls.

It didn't do them any good.

I have never seen any place look so determinedly quiet as the passage leading to the flat; it was hard to believe anyone lived behind the

shining front doors. When Mrs.

Cotton's was opened to me it came as quite a shock.

I asked for Rose and told the maid who I was.

"They're all out," she said.

I suddenly realized I ought to have let them know I was coming.

"When will they be back, please ?" I asked.

"Madam said six-thirty--in time to dress for dinner. Won't you come in, miss ?"

She offered to get water for Heloise, who was panting histrionically, and asked if I would like anything. I said perhaps some milk and might I tidy up his She showed me into Rose's bedroom. It was superb- the

carpet was actually white; it seemed awful to walk on it. Everything

was white or cream, except a great bunch of red roses in a marble vase on the bedside table. By it was a card sticking out of an envelope

with "Good morning, darling," on it, in Simon's writing. While I was staring at the roses the maid came back with my milk, and water for

Heloise; then left us alone.

Rose's bathroom looked as if it had never been used--even her

toothbrush was hidden away. She had said in her letter that there were clean towels every day, but I hadn't visualized there being so many-three sizes, and the most fetching monogrammed face cloths When I had washed, I went back to the bedroom--and found Heloise blissfully