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

were thrown open to the soft breezes. The singing of birds was no more musical than Isabella's laughter, and her golden curls shone like sunlight. She and Clara instantly became bosom friends. Ismene found herself spending more and more time with her books, or in the company of Edmund. Like his, her disposition was reflective and withdrawn; but she admitted her jealousy of Isabella even as she struggled to overcome it. Until now she and Clara had been closer than sisters. It was not pleasant to be supplanted.

Isabella's was not the only new face. Her circle of acquaintances was extensive and her nature open; there were visits, callers, social gatherings. So idyllic and light-hearted were the scenes Ismene described that the narrative would have turned into a social novel—an American Pride and Prejudice—had it not been for the hints of dark family secrets and one scene of pure Gothic sensationalism that didn't seem to have any bearing on the plot. It was effective, though, all the more so because of the contrast with what had gone before: To retire after an evening of cheerful social intercourse and encounter "the dark form, swathed in shadows and silence, its arm raised in somber warning," was a shock to the reader as well as to the startled Ismene. She caught one horrifying glimpse of a withered face, a toothless gaping mouth, and a blind eye covered with a white integument, before the apparition retreated into the shadows from which it had emerged. Convinced that unhealthy imagination, stimulated by too much reading—"dangerous to the delicate brains of females"—was responsible for this horrific vision, Ismene had not mentioned it to anyone in the household. Not for worlds would she have frightened Clara or roused Edmund's kindly contempt.

That had been rather stupid of Ismene, Karen thought critically. Such behavior was typical of romantic heroines, however; if they didn't conceal information and hide their feelings, there wouldn't be a plot. This was not the part of the text that had aroused Karen's fascinated interest.

A group of travelers arrived at Ferncliffe next day. They were on their way to "the city," and, as was customary in those days of poor roads and slow transportation, had decided to break their journey at the home of friends.

These visitors were not strangers to Isabella, though her brother had never met them. He welcomed them, of course; but Ismene fancied, from the ironical glance he gave her, that he was no more taken with them than she had been. Her description of the family was wonderfully satirical: the pompous, puffing father, whose waistcoat strained across his middle; the meek, faded wife; the swaggering sons and the giggling daughters. Ismene's temper was not at its best; the increasing intimacy between Isabella and Clara was difficult to bear, and the ghostly encounter the previous night had added weight to apprehensions she was reluctant to confess even to herself. But she controlled herself throughout dinner. Afterward, when the gentlemen joined the ladies for tea, the conversation took a turn that roused her to wrath. It concerned the "late unpleasantness" and the joyful success of "our forces."

Aware of her sister's imploring glances, Ismene had restrained her speech, though she felt that the words filled her mouth and pressed against her tight-closed lips to such an extent that breath was stifled. One of the young gentlemen—whose military service, it appeared, had been limited to riding around the family estate in a handsome uniform—spoke glowingly of loosing the bonds of tyranny; raising his cup, he proposed a toast to freedom and independence.

Ismene could contain herself no longer. With an impetuous movement she sprang to her feet. "And why should we women join in your self-congratulation? You gentlemen have indeed freed yourself—and from what frightful burden? Already you enjoyed the rights you still deny to half your race. What have females to celebrate in this new nation of yours? We are bound by the same unfair laws, the same stifling convention, that held us prisoner before. And what of them?"

Her gesture indicated the dusky maiden who had entered with a fresh pot of tea. ' 'She, of course, is only a woman,'' Ismene continued bitterly. “But her father, brothers, sons share her servitude. Are they not men? Are they not endowed with the same rights you claim from the Creator?''

She could not go on. Emotion stifled speech. Clara's brimming eyes, Edmund's look of gentle surprise affected her more than the shocked expressions of the ladies or the flushed, infuriated countenance of Mr. Hampton. The only face that showed no trace of emotion was that of Rebecca. Mute and emotionless as an automaton, she carried out her duties.

Pressing her handkerchief to her lips, Ismene fled. Once in the sanctuary of her chamber she flung herself onto her bed and gave way to violent weeping. She was unaware of Clara's presence until a gentle hand pressed hers.

"Dear sister, " Clara began. Her soft voice and loving gesture broke through Ismene's defenses as no reproach could have done.

"Forgive me!" Rising, she caught Clara in a tight embrace and blotted her tears on her sister's shoulder. “How often and how rightly have you counseled me to control my passionate temperament! But, oh, Clara—to what avail is moderation? Silence is no better than cowardice and hypocrisy! If safety were to be ensured thereby, the temptation to remain silent would have practical if not moral justification. I cannot believe this is so! I cannot believe the meek inherit the earth, except for that small portion of it in which they rest at last. The same fate awaits us all, our common inheritance is the grave; why should we not demand the same happiness mankind enjoys during its brief sojourn upon this planet?"

Clara gazed upon her with a troubled brow. "Are you not happy here, Ismene? I had thought ..."

Again Ismene caught her in a fond embrace. Even as she murmured agreement and reassurance she knew, with a cold and chilling despair, that Clara would never