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

With a cry Ismene rose to a sitting position and glared wildly around the room. Flames flickering on a low hearth left the upper portions of the chamber in shadow. Its ceiling was high, its proportions ample. The bed on which she rested had a canopy of rich damask, gathered in folds. Curtains of the same fabric had been drawn back. The woman bent over her, pressing her back, murmuring words of reassurance.

"My sister.'" Ismene cried. "Where is Clara? Oh, heaven, tell me she lives!"

Her eyes fixed on the servant, she did not observe the opening of the door nor note the person who approached till he stood next to the bed.

“Lie still,'' he said gently. “You were overcome by cold and wet when we carried you here, but all is well; and your companion, though in worse case than you, has taken no lasting harm. She lies in the adjoining chamber, tended with loving care. Let me bid you welcome, dear Ismene—for you can be no other than she whom we have long awaited.

Locks of palest silver-gilt framed the countenance now visible to her wondering eyes. It was as beautiful as that of the angel her fainting mind had imagined, the perfection of the sculptured features unmarked by weariness or age.

"But surely," she began, "I am dreaming still, or wandering in delirium. Are you—you cannot be—Mr.]oshua Merrivale?"

"Alas. " He took her limp hand in his and clasped it in a warm, comforting grasp. "It grieves me to greet you with such painful tidings, but I feel sure your fortitude is equal to the dread news. Poor girl, you have lost an uncle as well as a parent—and so have I. I am your cousin Edmund, and I give you my solemn promise that my affectionate care for you and Clara will be at least the equal of that my dear lost father would have rejoiced to provide."

Ismene sank back against the heaped pillows. Clasping her hand yet more closely, her cousin—her cousin!—exclaimed, "You are overcome. I blame myself; I should not have burdened you in your weakened state with this additional cause of grief.

Though still bewildered and confused, Ismene made an effort to respond. "Indeed 1 am sorry, but chiefly on your account, Cousin . . . Edmund . . . Forgive me if my speech falters; it echoes the confusion of my mind, for indeed I knew not that such an individual existed.

Gently, in soft accents, he replied, "The sad estrangement between our parents was deeply regretted by my father. You do not know its cause? Nor do 1; he would never speak of it except with such sighs and signs of grief, 1 could not in kindness pursue my inquiries. Let us forget the sorrows of the past and begin afresh. Think only that you have found a home and a brother; look to the future and prepare for happiness. "

Chapter Five

This is an important book, the critic assumes, because it deals with war. This is an insignificant book because it deals with the feelings of women in a drawing room.

Virginia Woolf,

A Room of One's Own, 1929

Though the manuscript called out to her with a voice as seductive as the aroma of fresh-baked brownies, Karen tore herself from it after she discovered the identity of Ismene's faceless angel. That image had haunted her for weeks. Now that she had satisfied her curiosity, she could concentrate on the tasks that had to be completed before she could leave. Once settled in Virginia, her conscience at ease and all distractions left behind, she could turn her full attention to the manuscript and the equally engrossing question of its author's identity.

The correctness of her decision to skip town was confirmed by a rash of telephone calls on Sunday morning. The only one she responded to was from Peggy.

"It's in the Times," Peggy announced without so much as a preliminary hello.

"I know. Cropsey was the first to call, as you might expect. I didn't pick up, even though he kept yelling, 'I know you're there, Karen; I know you're there!' "

"How'd he figure out it was you? The story didn't mention names."

"Damned if I know." Karen ran distracted fingers through her hair. "Bill might have told him, out of spite. He knows how much I despise the creep. What exactly did the Times say? I haven't had a chance to get a copy."

"It was pretty vague; just reported a rumor that an important manuscript had been found and sold to a professor at an eastern college. But if Cropsey knows or suspects it's you—"

"All the more reason for me to leave tomorrow. I'll call and give you a number once I'm settled. Look, I've got to hang up, I have a million things to do."

The most important of those things had occupied most of Sunday. She had copied the manuscript, page by slow page, on her own machine. The result wasn't as readable as a professional copy would have been, but Meyer's warning (or threat?) had worried her more than she liked to admit. She was afraid to let the original manuscript out of her hands— afraid even to venture out of the apartment with it. Three of the callers had hung up without leaving a message. Three—or the same one? Someone trying to find out whether the apartment was empty before attempting a breakin? Someone who would have responded to her "Hello" with an invitation that would induce her to leave the building? Not that she really believed Dorothea was mad enough to lie in wait for her, knock her down, snatch the manuscript . . . But why take the chance? The parking area in front of the apartment was relatively deserted on a gloomy, rainy Sunday afternoon.

The anonymous caller rang twice more during the evening. Scolding herself for timidity, and cursing Bill Meyer for causing it, Karen double-checked the locks on doors and windows before going to bed.

Next morning she