by Dodie Smith
“Oh, Rose, don’t be a fool,” I cried, “we’ll have to explain.”
She grabbed my hands and pulled until I had to jump.
“If you don’t come with me, I’ll never forgive you,” she whispered fiercely.
“I’d die rather than explain.”
“Then you quite probably will die-because lots of people in the country have guns handy .. was But it was no use, she had vanished into the darkness at the back of the train. Passengers were shouting and banging doors—there couldn’t have been many of them, but they were making a devil of a noise; fortunately they were concentrating on the platform side of the train. It suddenly came to me that if I could make Rose take her coat off, we could join in the pursuit as if we had no connection with the bear; so I struggled out of my own coat, flung it up into the van and started after her. But before I had gone a couple of yards, the beam of a torch shone out. I saw Rose clearly. She had got beyond the end of the platform and was scrambling up the little embankment, and as she was on all fours she really did look exactly like a bear. There was a wild shout from the people on the platform. Rose topped the embankment and disappeared over into the fields.
“Foxearth Farm’s over there,” shouted a woman. “They’ve got three little children.”
I heard someone running along the platform. The woman yelled:
“Quick, quick—over to Foxearth.”
There was a thump as someone jumped down on to the line, then Stephen crossed the beam of the torch. The light gleamed on metal and I realized that he was carrying a pitchfork -it must have been in Mr. Stebbins’s cart.
“Stop, Stephen, stop!” I screamed.
He turned and shouted: “I won’t hurt it unless I have to, Miss Cassandra-I’ll head it into a barn.”
Neil Cotton went past me.
“Here, give me that,” he said, grabbing Stephen’s pitchfork. Simon came running along, shooting his torch ahead of him.
The guard and some of the passengers came pounding after him and some body crashed into me and knocked me over. The torch began to flicker on and off; Simon thumped it and then it went out altogether.
“Get the station lanterns,” shouted the guard, scrambling back on to the platform. The passengers waited for him, but Simon and Stephen went on after Neil into the darkness.
Perhaps I ought to have explained at once—but what with the noise and being knocked down I was a bit dazed.
And I knew how ghastly it would be for Rose—not only the Cottons knowing, but all the local people on the train. And I did think she had a good chance to get away.
“Anyway, Neil will see she’s not a bear if he gets close to her,” I told myself. Then they all came thudding past with the lanterns, and the stationmaster had his great black dog on a chain and a stone in his hand. I knew it wasn’t safe to keep quiet any longer.
I started to tell them, but the dog was barking so loudly that nobody heard me. And then, high above everything, I heard the most piercing shriek.
I lost my head completely.
“It’s my sister,” I screamed, “he’s killing her!” And I dashed off along the line. They all came after me, shouting, and someone fell over the dog’s chain and cursed extensively. We climbed over the embankment into the field and the men held the lanterns high, but we couldn’t see Rose or the Cottons or Stephen. Everyone was talking at once, making suggestions. There was a fat woman who wanted the stationmaster to let his dog off its chain, but he was afraid it might bite the Cottons instead of the bear.
“But it’ll hug them to death,” moaned the fat woman, “they won’t have a chance.”
I opened my mouth to make them understand that there wasn’t any bear—and then I saw something white in the distance.
The men with the lanterns saw it too, and ran towards it. And suddenly Neil Cotton walked into the light, carrying Rose, in her suit.
“Rose, Rose!” I cried, running to her.
“She’s all right,” said Simon Cotton, quickly, “but we want to get her to our car.” He grabbed one of the lanterns, lit the way for Neil, and they walked stolidly on.
“But the bear, sir” said the guard.
“Dead,” said Simon Cotton.
“My brother killed it.”
“Are you sure, sir?” said the stationmaster.
“We’d better have a look,” said the fat woman.
“The dog’ll soon “No, it won’t,” said Neil Cotton, over his shoulder.
“It fell in the river and was carried away by the current.”
“Poor thing, poor thing, it didn’t have a chance,” wailed the fat woman.
“Killed first and drowned afterwards, and I daresay it was valuable.”
“You go with your sister,” Simon Cotton told me, and I was only too glad to. He handed the lantern to Stephen and stayed behind urging the people back to the train.
“Well, it’s a rum go,” said the stationmaster.
It was certainly a rum go as far as I was concerned.
“What happened, Stephen?” I asked, under my breath.
Rose suddenly raised her head and whispered fiercely:
“Shut up. Get the trunks off the train.” Then, as Neil was carrying her carefully down the little embankment, I heard her tell him they could get out through the field at the back of the station.
He crossed the line with her and went straight into it—they never went back to the station at all. Stephen lit them with the lantern for a minute or two, then joined me in the guard’s van. Before I could get a word out, he said: “Please, please, don’t ask me any questions yet, Miss Cassandra. I was throwing the beaver coat and the rug and the jacket out on to the platform.
“Well, at least you can tell me where the bear coat is,” I began, but just then the guard came back. Poor man, he couldn’t make out how the bear had got out of the van. I told him Rose had been in there when Neil Cotton slammed the doors and had opened the far-side doors when she heard the bear growling.
“It was after her like a streak,” I said.
That seemed to clear things up nicely.
The stationmaster helped us to get the trunks on to Mr. Stebbins’s cart. The Cottons” car was only a few yards away and there was Rose inside it, talking to Mrs. Cotton.
Simon Cotton came out of the station and said to me:
“We’re driving your sister home-will you come, too?”
But I said I would stay with Stephen; it was partly embarrassment and partly that I was afraid I should say the wrong thing, not having the faintest idea what had really happened. And I couldn’t get anything out of Stephen on the way home. All he would say was:
“Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful. Miss Rose had better tell you herself.
I’m saying nothing.”
I had to wait until she and I were in bed last night for anything like the whole story—oh, she gave us all a brief outline as soon as she got home, but I guessed she was holding things back. All she told us then was that Neil Cotton came rushing at her with the pitchfork; she screamed, and then suddenly he got the hang of things and told Simon and Stephen to pretend there really had been a bear.
“Neil and Simon even pretended it to their Mother,” she said.
“Oh, they were marvelous.”
I never heard Father laugh so much-he said the story would be built up and embroidered on until Rose had been pursued by a herd of stampeding elephants. And he was greatly impressed by the Cottons’ quick-mindedness.
They hadn’t come in—just left Rose in the courtyard.
“Neil said they’d leave me to tell my story in my own way,” she said.
“And now I’ve told it. And you’ll all have to pretend there was really a bear, for ever and ever.”
She was ablaze with excitement, not in the least upset at having been so conspicuous. It was I who was upset; I don’t know why perhaps I was just overtired. I suddenly began to shiver and wanted to cry. Topaz hurried us to bed and brought us cocoa, and hot bricks for our feet, and I soon felt better.
She kissed us in a motherly way that Rose doesn’t appreciate, and told us not to talk too long I think she wanted to stay and talk herself but Father yelled for her to come along to bed. “Let’s finish our cocoa in the dark,” I said, and blew out the candle. Rose is always more confidential in the dark.
The first thing she said was:
“How much did Stephen tell you on the way home?”
I told her how he had said it was too dreadful to tell.
“I wondered if he’d seen,” she said. Then she began to giggle-the first time for months. The giggles became muffled and I guessed she was stifling them in her pillow. At last she came up for air and said:
“I slapped Neil Cotton’s face.”
“Rose!” I gasped.
“Why?”
She said she had looked round and seen him coming, seen the pitchfork against the sky, and let out the scream we heard.
“Then I tried to get out of the coat but I couldn’t find the buttons, so I went on running. He yelled “Stop, stop” -he must have seen by then that I wasn’t really a bear—then he caught up with me and grabbed me by the arm. I said “Let go, damn you” and Stephen heard my voice and called out “It’s Miss Rose.”
Neil Cotton shouted “But why are you running away?” and I said “Because I don’t want to meet you—or your brother either. You can both go to hell!”
And I hit him across the face.”
“Oh, Rose I” I felt all knotted up by the awfulness of it.
“What did he say?”
“He said “Good God!” and then Simon and Stephen came up, and Stephen said all the people on the train were out after me.
“That’s your fault,” I said to Neil Cotton, “you’ve made me the laughing.
stock of the neighborhood.” And he said “Waitbe quiet”—and then he told them to pretend there really had been a bear, as I told you.”
“Don’t you think it was wonderfully kind of him?” I asked.
She said: “Yes, in a way,” then stopped, and I knew she was trying to work out something in her mind. At last she went on: “But it’s all part of his not taking us seriously-not just us, but England generally. He wouldn’t have dared to pretend anything so silly in America, I bet. He thinks England’s a joke, a funny sort of toy-toy trains, toy countryside. I could tell that by the way he talked coming home in the car.”
I knew what she meant—I had felt it a bit that night they first came to the castle; not with Simon, though. And I am sure Neil doesn’t mean it unkindly.
I asked what the Mother was like.
“Beautiful, and never stops talking. Father’ll want to brain her with a brick.”
“If he ever meets her.”
“He’ll meet her all right. We shall be seeing quite a lot of the Cottons now.”
Her tone was so confident—almost arrogant—that I was frightened for her.
“Oh, Rose, don’t be silly with them this time!”-I had said it before I could stop myself.
She simply pounced on it.
“What do you mean’ silly his Did Topaz say I was?”
I said I was merely guessing, but she wouldn’t leave it at that. She battered at me with questions. What with wanting to defend Topaz and being very tired, I wasn’t as strong-minded as I ought to have been-and Topaz had said it might be best to tell if we got another chance with the Cottons. But I felt perfectly dreadful when I had told-mean, both to the Cottons and Rose.
Still, if it does her any good… And I was careful to stress about my being consciously naive. I left out the bit about Father.
She wanted to know which brother had said the worst things. I sorted the remarks out as best I could.
“Well, at least Simon was sorry for me,” she said.
“It was Neil who suggested dropping us. Oh, how I’ll pay them out!”
“Don’t count it against them,” I begged.
“Look how very kind they were tonight. And if you’re sure they want to be friends now” “I’m sure all right.”
“Did they say anything about seeing us again?”
“Never mind what they said.” And then, to my surprise, she started to giggle again—she wouldn’t tell me why. When she stopped, she said she was sleepy.
I tried to keep her talking by being Miss Blossom: “Here, Rosie, have you got something up your sleeve, you naughty girl?”
But she wasn’t having any.
“If I have, it’s staying there,” she said.
“You and Miss Blossom go to sleep.”
But I lay awake for ages, going over it all.
Heavens, Godsend church clock has just struck four-I have been writing up here on the mound for six hours!
Topaz never rang the lunch bell for me; instead, she brought me out some milk and two big cheese sandwiches, and a message from Father that I was to write as long as I liked. It seems selfish when the others are working hard on Aunt Millicent’s clothes, but while we were unpacking them this morning I began to shake again, and when Topaz found out what I felt about them she said I had better write it out of my system. I think I have, because I can now look down on them flapping on the line without any horror-though I don’t feel fond of them yet, as I do of the furs.
Stephen cycled to Scoatney station before he went to work and brought back the bear coat; it was hidden in a ditch.
Father can re member hearing about this coat when he was little. He says most coachmen were lucky if they got a short goatskin cape to wear in the winter; but great-grandmother said that if her husband, who rode inside the carriage, had a beaver-lined coat, the coachman out in the cold ought to be at least as warmly dressed. He was grateful for the bear coat but embarrassed, as little boys used to jeer and ask him to dance. The sealskin jacket was Aunt Millicent’s, in the “nineties, before she turned against furs. Father thinks she kept all these out of family sentiment and perhaps because she was only happy as a child. How queer to think that the old lady in the black military cloak was the Miss Milly who went to the dancing class! It makes me wonder what I shall be like when I am old.
My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing.
I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people—the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in—the me in what is going to happen next. Will the Cottons ask us to Scoatney his Topaz thinks they will.
She says the oddness of the bear incident will fascinate them, just as they were fascinated by the oddness of the first night they came to the castle—and that Rose running away will have undone the damage she did by being too forthcoming. If only she doesn’t forth-come again! Topaz approves of my telling her last night; she had a talk with her herself about it this morning and Rose listened with surprising civility.
“Just be rather quiet and do a lot of listening until you feel at ease,” Topaz advised her.
“And for pity’s sake don’t be challenging. Your looks will do the challenging if you give them the chance.” I do love Topaz when she is in a down-to-earth mood.
Is it awful to join in this planning? Is it trying to sell one’s sister?
But surely Rose can manage to fall in love with them—I mean, with whichever one will fall in love with her. I hope it will be Neil, because I really do think Simon is a little frightening-only it is Neil who thinks England is a joke …… I have been resting, just staring down at the castle. I wish I could find words—serious, beautiful words-to describe it in the afternoon sunlight; the more I strive for them, the more they utterly elude me. How can one capture the pod of light in the courtyard, the golden windows, the strange long-ago look, the look that one sees in old paintings his I can only think of “the light of other days,” and I didn’t make that up …… Oh— I I have just seen the Cottons” car on the Godsend road —near the high crossroads, where one gets the first glimpse of the castle. They are coming here! Do I watch and wait again? No fear!
I am going down.
We are asked to Scoatney, to dinner, a week from today!
And there is something else I want to write about, something belonging to me. Oh, I don’t know where to begin!
I got down from Belmotte in time to warn the others Rose and Topaz were ironing and Rose put on a clean blouse hot from the iron. Topaz just tidied herself and then set the tea tray. I washed and then reckoned I had only enough time either to warn Father or to brush my hair; but I managed to do both by taking the comb and brush to the gatehouse with me. Father jumped up so quickly that I feared he was going to rush out to avoid the Cottons, but he merely grabbed my hairbrush and brushed his coat with it-neither of us felt it was a moment for fussiness.
In the end, we had a few minutes to spare because they left the car at the end of the lane-the mud is dry now but the ruts are still deep.
“Mrs. Cotton’s with them!” I cried, as they came round the last bend of the lane. Father said he would meet them at the gatehouse arch—”It’s not going to be my fault if anything goes wrong this time; I’ve promised Topaz.” Then he looked a bit grim and added:
“I’m glad you’re still on the young side to be marketed.”
I bolted back to Rose and Topaz. They had lit a wood fire in the drawing-room and arranged some daffodils. The fire made the room feel more spring like than ever. We opened the windows and the swans sailed by, looking mildly interested. Suddenly I remembered that first spring afternoon in the drawing-room, with Rose playing her piece. I saw Mother leaning out over the moat—I saw her gray dress so clearly, though I still couldn’t see her face. Something inside me said “Oh, Mother, make the right thing happen for Rose!”—and I had a vision of poor Mother scurrying from Heaven to do the best she could. The way one’s mind can dash about just while one opens a window!
Then Father came in with the Cottons.
Rose thought Mrs. Cotton beautiful but that isn’t how I would describe her. Topaz is beautiful-largely because of the strangeness of her face: that look she has of belonging to a whiter-than-white race. Rose, with her lovely coloring and her eyes that can light up her whole expression, is beautiful. Mrs. Cotton is handsome—no, that makes her sound too big. She is just wonderfully good-looking, wonderfully right-looking. She has exactly the right amount of color. Her black hair is going gray without looking streaky because it has exactly the right number of gray hairs in exactly the right places—and it has exactly the right amount of wave. Her figure is perfect, and so were her clothes—just country tweeds but so much more exciting than I ever thought tweeds could be;
