Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle

"Anyway, we're making too much of it," I told him.

"Let's forget it--and please forgive me for being so silly. Now may I hear the Bach record before I go home?" I felt that would set him at his ease a bit.

He still stood looking at me worriedly I think he was trying to find

words to explain more clearly. Then he gave it up.

"Very well--we'll play it while I put the candles out. You sit

outside, then my moving round won't disturb you.

I'll turn the fountains off so that you'll be able to hear."

I sat on the stone bench watching the dimpled water grow smooth.

Then the music began in the pavilion--the most gentle, peaceful music I ever heard. Through the three tall windows I could see Simon going

slowly round putting out each candle flame with a small metal hood.

Each time, I saw the light on his upturned face and each time, the

golden windows grew a little dimmer until at last they were black. Then the record ended and it was so quiet that I heard the tiny plop of a

fish jumping, far across the pool.

"Well, did I get a customer for Bach ?" Simon called, as he shut the door of the pavilion behind him.

"Yes, indeed! I could have listened to that for ever," I said, and asked the name of the piece. It was "Sheep May Safely Graze." We went on talking about music while we collected Heloise from the kitchen, and all during the drive home. I found it quite easy to carry on a casual conversation; it was as if my real feelings were down fathoms deep in my mind and what we said was just a feathery surface spray.

Godsend church was striking twelve as we drew up in front of the

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.