It was much more difficult than I imagined, disguising myself as a boy. Shakespeare makes it sound so simple. I remember distinctly that there was no trouble at all. One moment the girl in his play was wearing dresses and being called by her name (how strange that I cannot recall it, even though we all have such names). And the next moment she has on—I don’t know—a doublet and hose, I imagine, and she is someone else entirely. No one suspects. Hose! There is no explanation of what she does with her hair, and I know they wore their hair quite long in those days. Longer than mine. But I have spent the last hour locked in my bedroom trying to achieve a convincing disguise with Philip’s outgrown clothes, and I do not feel at all confident about it.
The first obstacle to be overcome is the sheer impropriety of it. I cannot remember that Shakespeare’s heroine even considered this I know if I am to be a real writer I must be ready to learn all sorts of scandalous things, and I am. But somehow actually taking off one’s gown and stays and putting one’s leg into riding breeches is extremely unsettling. It was twenty minutes before I felt I might be able to venture out the door in such a garment, and I still have not managed any ease of movement. I know I shall be completely unconvincing.
The second thing is all the fastenings (I shouldn’t think of discussing such things except in my private journal, Mama). Having no little brothers, I have never had to learn how a boy’s clothes go together, and it has taken me ages to deduce how to keep the stockings up. And I cannot tie a neckcloth; I get only great bulky knots that nearly choke me. I shall have to be a very unfashionable boy and wear a kerchief.
If, that is, I can ever get my hair all up under a cap. I do not believe that the woman in Shakespeare did so, either. I have decided that he had no concern for verisimilitude. It took me dreadfully long even to find a cap. I was almost late for dinner. I suppose Philip didn’t care for them when he was young, since he rarely wears a hat now. The one I found is an ugly shapeless thing of gray tweed with a little stiffened visor in the front, and, when I push my hair into it, it bulges and flops about on my head in the stupidest way. Not only that, but tendrils of hair will slip out in front. It is obvious, looking at me, that I have hidden long hair. I shall have to find another sort of hat.
The final indignity is that these clothes itch (I almost wish I could see Mama’s face). They are made of much coarser cloth than I am used to, and I am continually driven to scratch my legs and my neck. Of course, I can resist, but it is hideously uncomfortable. How do boys endure it? I have heard people talk of the greater freedom of men’s clothes, and perhaps I will find I can move about better in breeches (!), but I shan’t envy them any longer after this. Unless perhaps pantaloons…? Oh, it would almost be worth leaving this journal about for Mama to find, to see her read that.
At any rate, after all my labors, when I look in the mirror, I see a slender boy with drooping stockings and clothes a bit too large for him, with a soft, girlish face and an odd cap. In fact, he has a girl’s face; there’s no denying it. The costume, I might carry off, but I must do something about the head before I let anyone see me in this guise.
It is vastly irritating. I long to resume my investigations, but in order to do so I must move freely about the village. And I can’t do that in my normal dress. I will search for another sort of cap tomorrow.
No, not tomorrow. I had forgotten we are to go and see Lindisfarne tomorrow, at the command of Philip and Alan. I am so angry at them that I can scarcely write it. They came to dinner after having been shut up together for hours, and of course they said nothing about what they had discussed. But Alan looked so pleased with himself that it was all I could do not to hit him. He was detestably jolly all through dinner, chatting to Rosalind and laughing at his own so-called witticisms until I thought I should shriek. At least Philip did not laugh. Indeed, he seemed much as usual—brooding and, it now seems to me, unhappy. What can be the matter? I feel I shall burst if I do not find out soon.
I do not even want to visit Lindisfarne, which is what Papa would call most ironic, since only yesterday I would have been in ecstasies at the plan. But now I want only to discover the mystery, and old ruins seem much less interesting to me than before. After all, even in a novel, it is the adventures that take place in the ruins that are important. But I shall have to go. If I plead illness, it will just be put off, since the whole expedition is being arranged for my enjoyment. And, if I say I do not wish to go at all, everyone will suspect something. It is all vastly annoying. Why does nothing ever go as one wishes? Just look at this list:
I begged to go to Rome, and Mama and Papa refused.
I found out all kinds of important things to help my sister, and now I am not to be allowed to help her at all. (We shall see about that!)
I thought of a splendid disguise, and it looks merely odd.
I at last managed to meet a man outside my family (at least my immediate family) and try a little flirtation (only in anticipation of my come-out, naturally), and he turns out to be an odiously arrogant, unfeeling beast! If Alan asked me to stand up with him at the most opulent ball of the Season, I would refuse and sit by the wall. If he sent me a bouquet, I would throw it in the gutter. If he offered for my hand in marriage, I should tell Papa that I preferred a nunnery.
Not that he is likely to do any of those things. I could tell by the way he laughed at dinner that he thinks I am a silly, romantic schoolgirl whose head is full of ridiculous fancies. Well, I have said I was most likely wrong about Philip. And I suppose Forbes, too (though I am not so certain about him). Has Mr. Alan Creighton never made a mistake? I’m sure he thinks so. But I shall show him that, this time, he most certainly has.