Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

He made it sound like a royal summons. Karen moved away from the hand that was absently stroking her arm. "Well, give her my best."

"Don't run away. I want to talk to you about . . . about—uh—one of your students. Why don't we have a cup of coffee at the faculty club?"

That was all she needed—a tete-a-tete with Cropsey in full view of their colleagues, most of whom were only too well aware of his unsubtle attentions. She wasn't the first female faculty member he had pursued, and she wouldn't be the last. It was not difficult to understand why he picked on women who were younger and brighter than he.

"Sorry, I'm late for a lunch date," she said, moving away.

"It's only eleven-thirty."

"It's an early lunch."

Though they had arranged to meet at noon, Peggy was already there when Karen arrived. She had dismissed disgusting Joe Cropsey from her mind; her scowl had another cause, one Peggy interpreted accurately.

"No word from Simon yet?"

"No." Karen dropped into a chair. "I'm going to call him. It's been three weeks. He's doing this deliberately. Tantalizing me, making me wait—"

"Some men might do that. Some women, too," Peggy added fairly. "Not Simon. It takes time to talk universities into spending money."

Karen couldn't deny that. If it hadn't been for Peggy's offer, she'd be beating the hedges trying to raise money too. She waved away the menu the waitress offered her. "Taco salad," she said. "And coffee."

"You always have taco salad," Peggy said. "Why don't you try something different?"

"Taco salad is fine," Karen said abstractedly.

"Still brooding over the manuscript?"

"I've practically memorized the few pages I have. I've analyzed every sentence and studied every damn word, looking for parallels and references." Karen smiled sheepishly. "And, to be quite honest, I'm dying to know what happens next."

"It must be pretty good, then. How about giving me a synopsis?"

"You understand," Karen said, "that the beginning pages are missing. I don't know how many pages. She didn't number them."

"Cut the crap," Peggy said impatiently. "You've told me that a dozen times, and I am only too familiar with careful academic disclaimers. Consider me a potential reader, not a critic. I just want to know what's happening."

"Oh, all right. Ismene is telling the story. It's third person, but it is from her viewpoint, at least so far. She and her sister—"

"Name of Antigone.7"

"Name of Clara. There are parallels with the play, though. The girls are orphans. Their father has recently died and they have been sent to live with their uncle, their only living relative. They've never met him. He and Daddy parted company years before, after a violent quarrel the cause of which has not yet been made clear."

Peggy's brow wrinkled. "I read a book like that once. Forget the title; something about wolves."

"It's a variation of one of the three original Gothic plots," Karen said impatiently. "Do you want to hear this, or don't you?" Go on.

"While the girls are traveling to their uncle's home, there is an accident. The coach is overturned, the coachman is killed or injured; I'm not sure exactly what happened, that's in the missing portion. When the text becomes legible, they are walking—staggering, rather—up the long muddy track leading to Ferncliffe, their uncle's house. It's winter. An icy rain is falling. The trees lining the way move and moan under the lash of the wind. Clouds hang low overhead, and as the twilight darkens, veils of mist gather like ghostly figures."

Peggy leaned forward, elbows on the table, lips slightly parted. Karen went on, "Ismene is supporting her younger, slighter sister, who is on the verge of collapse. Their thin slippers are soaked and torn, their skirts are heavy with water. Ismene's head is bare; the long, dank strands of her hair coil around her throat and over her mouth. She can't brush them away because her arms are around Clara. She knows that if Clara collapses she will not have the strength to raise her from the ground.

"Finally the trees fall back and Ismene sees the shadowy shape of the house ahead, darker than the steel-gray sky. There are no lights visible. Gasping words of encouragement to her fainting sister, she drags Clara up a flight of steps to a door. She can do no more; her grip loosens and Clara crumples at her feet. Ismene passes her cold, stiff hands over the wooden panels but fails to find a knocker. She pounds on the door with her fists, but the sound is lost in the wail of the wind, and she has the insane impression that her hands are sinking into the wood instead of striking against it. There is no response, no sound from within. Overcome with despair and a strange dread, she feels herself falling, and with the last of her strength gathers her sister's freezing body into her arms.

"She knows she is dying. The vision that imprints itself upon her failing sight is a vision of the world beyond death. The door that slowly opens, with a sound like muffled thunder, is the gate of Paradise; the figure its opening discloses is angelic, the head surrounded by a silvery nimbus. But where the angel's face should be, there is only an oval of darkness."

She paused, not for effect but to allow the waitress to serve the food they had ordered.

"Not bad," Peggy said. "I've read worse. Is that all you've got?"

"There's a little of the next scene. Ismene wakes to find herself lapped in warmth and in light. She meditates for a page or two on the transcendental but unexpected reality of heaven, and then the truth dawns. Someone is bending over her—a woman, wrinkled and kindly—obviously not an angel but a servant. Ismene realizes she is lying in bed, covered with blankets. Her first thought is for Clara. Rising up, she looks wildly around the room. It is handsomely appointed—I'll spare you the description—with a fire blazing on the hearth, but no sign of