"Though I'm sure he thinks he's been working," she said, worriedly.
"His mind must be confused-it's all he's been through. I've a few things to say to you, my girl But there's no time for that now;
we must do something about Simon. Cassandra, will you go with him
instead of me his Then I can stay with Mortmain. I don't want him to
know about Rose until he's recovered a bit- he doesn't even know that Simon's here."
My heart gave a leap.
"Yes, of course I'll go."
"And for goodness' sake try to make Rose see sense. I've told Simon I'd rather you went and he thinks it's a good idea- that you may have more influence with her. He's waiting in his car."
I ran upstairs and got ready. It was the wicked est moment of my life, because in spite of believing we had failed with Father, in spite of
the wretchedness I had seen on Simon's face, I was wildly happy. Rose had given him up and I was going to drive with him into the dawn.
It was still dark when I ran out to the car, but there was a vague,
woolly look about the sky and the stars were dimming. As I crossed the drawbridge I heard Heloise howling in the gatehouse room where we had left her shut in. She was up on Father's desk with her long face
pressed close to the dark window.
Seeing her reminded me that my journal was still on the desk, but
luckily Topaz came after me with some sandwiches and promised to put it away without trying to read the speed-writing.
"And give my love to Father and tell him we meant it for the best," I said--I was so happy that I wanted to be kind to every one in the
world. Then off we went--past the barn where I once overheard Simon,
past the cross-roads where we started quoting poetry on May Day, past the village green where we stood counting scents and sounds. As we
drove under the chestnut tree in front of the inn I felt a pang for
Simon--would he remember Rose's hair against its leaves his "Oh, I'll make it up to him," I told myself.
"I swear I can, now that I'm free to try."
We had talked a little about Father soon after we started off. Simon
wouldn't believe that what Thomas and I had found really was nonsense; he said he would have to see for himself.
"Though I must admit it sounds very peculiar," he added. After that, he fell silent.
We were some miles beyond Godsend before he said:
"Did you know how Rose felt about me ?"
I was so long thinking out what to say that he went on:
"Forget it. It's not fair to ask you."
I began, "Simon-was He stopped me.
"I believe I'd rather not talk about it at all- not until I'm sure she really means it."
Then he asked if I was warm enough or if he should close the car; it
had been hot when they left London and Topaz had wanted it open. I
said I did, too. The air was fresh and cool, but not really cold.
It was a queer feeling, driving through the sleeping villages--each
time, the car suddenly seemed noisier, the headlights more brilliant. I noticed that Simon always slowed down; I bet most men feeling as he did would have driven through like fury. In one cottage there was
candlelight beyond the diamond panes of an upstairs window and a car at the door.
"Perhaps a doctor's there," I said.
"Somebody dying or getting born, maybe," said Simon. Gradually the dark sky paled until it looked like far away smoke. There was no color anywhere; the cottages were chalk drawings on gray paper. It felt more like dusk than dawn, but not really like any time of day or night. When I said that to Simon, he told me that he always thought of the strange light before dawn as limbo-light.
A little while after that, he stopped to look at a map. All around us, beyond the hedge less ditches, were misty water-meadows dotted with pol larded willow trees. Very far away, a cock was crowing.
"Pity there isn't a good sunrise for you," said Simon.
But no sunrise I ever saw was more beautiful than when the thick gray mist gradually changed to a golden haze.
"That really is remarkable," Simon said, watching it.
"And one can't actually see any sun at all."
I told myself it was symbolic that he couldn't yet see how happy I
would make him one day.
"Could you fancy a sandwich?" I asked.
I think he only took one to keep me company, but he talked quite
naturally while we ate--about the difficulty of finding words to
describe the luminous mist, and why one has the desire to describe
beauty.
"Perhaps it's an attempt to possess it," I said.
"Or be possessed by it; perhaps that's the same thing, really. I suppose it's the complete identification with beauty one's seeking."
The mist grew brighter and brighter. I could have looked at it for
ever, we drove but Simon on. hid the sandwich paper neatly down the
ditch Before long, there was the feel of the sea in the air. The mist over the salt marshes was too thick for the sunrise to penetrate, but the whiteness was dazzling.
It was like travelling through a tunnel in the clouds.
"Are you sure this is where we came for the picnic ?"
Simon asked as we drove along the main street.
"It looks different, somehow."
I said that was due to the summer-holiday atmosphere.
In May, the village had seemed just like an inland village; now,
children's buckets and spades and shrimping nets were standing outside doors, bathing-suits were hanging over window ledges. I had a sudden
fancy to be a child waking up in a strange bedroom, with a day on the sands ahead of me--though, goodness knows, I wouldn't have changed
places with anyone in the world just then.
We didn't see a soul in the main street, but we found the front door of the one hotel open and a charwoman scrubbing the hall. She let us look at the hotel register.
There was no sign of Rose's name.
"We'd better wait until people are awake and then try every house in the village," I said.
"I suppose she wouldn't be at "The Swan"?"
said the charwoman.
"It's not rightly a hotel but they do take one or two."
I remembered it from the day of the picnic, a tiny inn right down by
the sea, about a mile away; but I couldn't believe Rose would ever stay there.
"Still, it's somewhere to try until the village wakes up," said Simon.
We drove along the lonely coast road. There was no mist over the sea; it was all pale, shimmering gold, so calm that the waves seemed only
just able to crawl on to the shore and spread a lacy film over the
sands.
"Look! That's where we had the barbecue," I cried. Simon only nodded and I wished I hadn't spoken. It wasn't a moment to remind him of a
very happy day.
We could see "The Swan" from far off, it was the only building ahead of us: an old, old inn, rather like "The Keys" at Godsend but even smaller and simpler. The windows glittered, reflecting the early sun.
Simon drew up just outside the door.
"Someone's awake," he said, looking upwards.
A window was open in the gable- a window extraordinarily like the gable window at "The Keys," even to the jug and basin standing there.
Floating out to us came the sound of a girl's voice singing "Early One Morning."
"It's Rose!" I whispered.
Simon looked astonished.
"Are you sure?"
"Certain."
"I'd no idea she could sing like that."
He sat listening, his eyes suddenly alight. After a few seconds, she
stopped singing the words and just hummed the tune. I heard her moving about, a drawer being opened and closed.
"Surely she couldn't sing like that if she wasn't happy?" said Simon.
I forced myself to say: "Perhaps it's all right--perhaps it was just nerves, as Topaz said. Shall I call up to her ?"
Before he could answer, there was a knock on a door inside the inn.