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

they had freed it; and threats (and worse—for those were harsher times than ours) were required to induce them to carry it to the site where the mansion was even then in the process of construction-Its builder was a man of grim and sardonic humor, yet not unlearned; it suited his fancy to incorporate the grimly visage into the foundations of his home. The "genus loci," he called it; the demon of the house.

"Yet," Edmund went on reflectively, "no sensible individual could credit the wild legends that attribute this stone to an abandoned and forsaken temple: the site of frightful pagan rites. Old Obadiah may have intensified its features by design; but surely the original face was accidental: the work of nature, which as we know sometimes produces such anomalies."

"I have no doubt you are right," Ismene replied, studying the carven surface. Its sunken eye pits and gaping mouth, the suggestion of fangs rimming that scream and the stony protuberances on the brow were hideous in the extreme; but the shiver that ran through her body was not produced by superstitious terror. What sort of mind, she wondered, could admire, much less preserve, such a horrid travesty? "The aborigines of this region," she continued, "did not, I believe, build in stone, or carve graven images of their gods. Moreover, the features recall to mind the demonic visages sometimes found in medieval cathedrals, or even the rude local godlings of the ancient Greeks. "

"Your reaction is as reasonable as I had hoped and expected," Edmund said approvingly. "You do not fear the task I ask you to assume, then! The keys to storage vaults and wine cellar should be in the hands of the mistress of the house, but my sweet sister will not come here; it resembles too closely the haunted monasteries and demon-ridden caverns featured in her favorite novels; and she swears sheeted forms gibbered and rattled chains at her on the sole occasion when she ventured here. She is of a sensitive nature and reads too much.

It was not difficult to understand why a sensitive nature would shrink from that ambience, lsmene thought. The smell of mold and damp, the rough-hewn stones of the enclosing walls, the darkness that filled the passageway ahead and the chambers beside and behind her did indeed conjure up the worst excesses of sensational fiction. The candelabrum held by the silent servant only intensified the shadows beyond the reach of the light. The man stood rigid as an ebon statue, as bereft of animation as the object of furniture whose function he served.

Karen closed the manuscript. Ismene must have seen that carved stone, there could not be two such unusual ornaments in old American mansions. And what woman other than a member of the household would have the opportunity to see it? Delicate lady visitors were not taken on tours of the cellar.

She had come straight back to the apartment, leaving Cameron to his labors—and thankful, probably, to see the last of her. Though she had rinsed her boots and her hands before leaving, the smell of the dank cellar filled the car like a fog of poisonous gas. She could almost believe a faint whiff of it still lingered, though she had changed and showered.

Perhaps Ismene's description of the cellar had prompted the impression. She had felt compelled to reread that part of the manuscript, even though she knew her memory was accurate. Picking up a spoon she began to eat the soup she had heated. No wonder she was hungry; it was later than she had realized. Leaning back in her chair she savored the pleasure of self-congratulation. She could hardly wait to tell Peggy of her discovery. That detail clinched the identification. Peggy would probably insist on finishing the job of comparing the actual house to Ismene's description, but there was no longer any doubt in her mind.

The skies had darkened, though the rain still held off. She could, with a clear conscience, devote the rest of the afternoon—what was left of it—to the manuscript. She had gone to the stove to put the kettle on for coffee when she heard a sound at the front door. Surely it couldn't be Cameron with the papers he had promised to bring. He would work till rain or darkness forced him to stop. And surely this time he wouldn't poke a note under the door instead of knocking.

The note was there, rustling as it moved across the floor. Karen flung the door open.

Not Cameron—Mrs. Fowler in all her glory, violet-crowned and triple-chinned, like a Hogarthian caricature of a Greek goddess. She started back with a little scream. "Oh, dear, I've disturbed your work. I had no intention of doing that, I was just leaving you a little note."

"That's quite all right," Karen said untruthfully. What the devil did the woman want? Checking up to make sure her tenant wasn't entertaining a male visitor? "Won't you come in?"

"Oh, no, I've been nuisance enough already." But she continued to stand there, feet firmly planted, face beaming. "It's the Literary Society, you see. Our next meeting is Wednesday and I hoped you'd be able to give your little talk then. I know it's short notice, but I'm sure that won't be a problem for a scholar like you, and your nice friend assured me you'd be real hurt if we didn't ask you."

The series of bland, unfounded assumptions—that she had promised to speak, that extemporaneous lectures were no problem, and that she would be hurt if she were ignored by the Literary Society—left Karen momentarily speechless. Then she managed to focus her confused brain on the last part of Mrs. Fowler's speech.

"My nice friend," she repeated.

"Yes, that nice Professor Meyer. He certainly does admire you." Mrs. Fowler gave her a meaningful twinkle.

"When did ... I didn't realize you knew him."

"Why, I didn't, till he telephoned me yesterday evening. He was courteous enough to invite me to lunch today. Such a pleasure, talking to an intellectual