revolting in the brilliant sunshine. I had a sudden idea.
“Let’s wear our old white suits,” I said.
Aunt Millicent had them made for us just before the row about Father marrying Topaz. They are some kind of silky linen, very plain and tailored. Of course they have had very hard wear and mine is too short, though it has been let down to the last quarter-inch; but they are much the nicest things we have and, by a miracle, had been put away clean.
“They’d be all right if it was midsummer,” said Rose, when we tried them on.
“But in April!” Still, we decided to wear them if the fine weather held. And when we woke up yesterday it was more like June than April. Oh, it was the most glorious morning!
I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.
Mr. Stebbins lent Stephen his cart to drive us to the station and even the horse seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Did you ever see the sky so high?” I said. And then I felt ashamed to be so happy, knowing that I couldn’t have been if Aunt Millicent had stayed alive—and it probably hurt her to die, poor old lady. We were driving through Godsend and the early sun was striking the moss-grown headstones in the churchyard.
I tried to realize that I shall die myself one day; but I couldn’t believe it-and then I had a flash that when it really happens I shall remember that moment and see again the high Suffolk sky over the old, old Godsend graves. Thinking of death—strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off—made me feel happier than ever. The only depressing thing was seeing Scoatney Hall through the trees—and that only damped me on Rose’s account for what care I for Cottons his (anyway, what cared I then?) I was careful to avoid her eye until we were well past the park, spending two tactful minutes buttoning a one-buttoned shoe.
We got to Scoatney station in good time. Rose thought we should take first-class tickets as the lawyers would pay.
“But suppose they don’t pay at once?” I said. We had Stephen’s wages to see us through the day, but Topaz was counting on getting them back. In the end, we just took cheap day-tickets.
Stephen kept begging me to be careful of the traffic;
he even ran along with the train to remind me again. Then he stood waving, smiling but a bit wistful-looking. It struck me that never in his life has he been to London.
It was queer how different things felt after we changed from our little toy train, at King’s Crypt. The feel of the country went—it was as if the London air was trapped in the London train. And our white suits began to look peculiar. They looked much, much more peculiar when we got to London; people really stared at us. Rose noticed it at once.
“It’s because they admire our suits,” I said, hoping to soothe her —and I did think they looked nicer than most of the drab clothes women were wearing.
“We look conspicuous,” she said, with deepest shame. Little did she know how much more conspicuous we should look before we got home.
It was three years since we had been in London. We never knew it well, of course; yesterday was the first time I ever walked through the City. It was fascinating, especially the stationers’ shops-I could look at stationers’ shops for ever and ever. Rose says they are the dullest shops in the world except, perhaps, butchers’.
(i don’t see how you can call butchers’ shops dull; they are too full of horror.) We kept getting lost and having to ask policemen, who were all rather playful and fatherly. One of them kindly held up the traffic for us, and a taxi-driver made kissing noises at Rose.
I had hoped the lawyers’ office would be old and dark, with a Dickensy old lawyer; but it was just an ordinary office and we only saw a clerk, who was young, with very sleek hair. He asked us if we could find our way to Chelsea by “bus.
“No,” said Rose, quickly.
He said: “Ok. Take a
“Let’s wear our old white suits,” I said.
Aunt Millicent had them made for us just before the row about Father marrying Topaz. They are some kind of silky linen, very plain and tailored. Of course they have had very hard wear and mine is too short, though it has been let down to the last quarter-inch; but they are much the nicest things we have and, by a miracle, had been put away clean.
“They’d be all right if it was midsummer,” said Rose, when we tried them on.
“But in April!” Still, we decided to wear them if the fine weather held. And when we woke up yesterday it was more like June than April. Oh, it was the most glorious morning!
I suppose the best kind of spring morning is the best weather God has to offer. It certainly helps one to believe in Him.
Mr. Stebbins lent Stephen his cart to drive us to the station and even the horse seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Did you ever see the sky so high?” I said. And then I felt ashamed to be so happy, knowing that I couldn’t have been if Aunt Millicent had stayed alive—and it probably hurt her to die, poor old lady. We were driving through Godsend and the early sun was striking the moss-grown headstones in the churchyard.
I tried to realize that I shall die myself one day; but I couldn’t believe it-and then I had a flash that when it really happens I shall remember that moment and see again the high Suffolk sky over the old, old Godsend graves. Thinking of death—strange, beautiful, terrible and a long way off—made me feel happier than ever. The only depressing thing was seeing Scoatney Hall through the trees—and that only damped me on Rose’s account for what care I for Cottons his (anyway, what cared I then?) I was careful to avoid her eye until we were well past the park, spending two tactful minutes buttoning a one-buttoned shoe.
We got to Scoatney station in good time. Rose thought we should take first-class tickets as the lawyers would pay.
“But suppose they don’t pay at once?” I said. We had Stephen’s wages to see us through the day, but Topaz was counting on getting them back. In the end, we just took cheap day-tickets.
Stephen kept begging me to be careful of the traffic;
he even ran along with the train to remind me again. Then he stood waving, smiling but a bit wistful-looking. It struck me that never in his life has he been to London.
It was queer how different things felt after we changed from our little toy train, at King’s Crypt. The feel of the country went—it was as if the London air was trapped in the London train. And our white suits began to look peculiar. They looked much, much more peculiar when we got to London; people really stared at us. Rose noticed it at once.
“It’s because they admire our suits,” I said, hoping to soothe her —and I did think they looked nicer than most of the drab clothes women were wearing.
“We look conspicuous,” she said, with deepest shame. Little did she know how much more conspicuous we should look before we got home.
It was three years since we had been in London. We never knew it well, of course; yesterday was the first time I ever walked through the City. It was fascinating, especially the stationers’ shops-I could look at stationers’ shops for ever and ever. Rose says they are the dullest shops in the world except, perhaps, butchers’.
(i don’t see how you can call butchers’ shops dull; they are too full of horror.) We kept getting lost and having to ask policemen, who were all rather playful and fatherly. One of them kindly held up the traffic for us, and a taxi-driver made kissing noises at Rose.
I had hoped the lawyers’ office would be old and dark, with a Dickensy old lawyer; but it was just an ordinary office and we only saw a clerk, who was young, with very sleek hair. He asked us if we could find our way to Chelsea by “bus.
“No,” said Rose, quickly.
He said: “Ok. Take a
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