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

stand here shouting," Mrs. Fowler shouted. "That's the sort of vulgar thing the Millers do. But I'm glad I happened to see you, Dr. Holloway; I wanted to tell you the Colonel has kindly offered to drive us to the meeting tomorrow. He'll pick us up at eleven-thirty."

Karen had been enjoying the double-edged conversation; consternation replaced amusement when she heard Mrs. Fowler's offer. She could imagine how the Colonel drove—straight down the middle of the road, through red lights and stop signs. "That's very kind, but unnecessary," she called. "I'll drive you. The meeting isn't at your house, then?"

"Oh, no, my dear, there wouldn't be room. We're expecting a large crowd, with such a distinguished speaker. Our monthly meetings are always at the restaurant. A private room, of course."

"Creamed chicken on toast and petrified peas," murmured Peggy. "Lucky you."

"Are you sure you want to drive?" Mrs. Fowler called. "The Colonel will be happy—"

"Absolutely sure," Karen said firmly. "Can you be ready by eleven? I'd love to have a little chat before we go." Out of the corner of her mouth she mumbled, "How was that?"

Peggy raised her thumbs.

After Mrs. Fowler had retreated, Peggy got to her feet. "My stomach is making noises Mrs. F. would consider vulgar. Where shall we eat?"

"I don't care. Someplace quiet. I have a treat for you—an excerpt from the manuscript. The stone house was Ismene's—a room of her own. The book was probably written there."

The small structure drew her to it. She could think of nothing else. What had been the function of that strange house of stone? Why she thought of it as a house she could not say; the word was inappropriate, with its connotations of a dwelling place, a source of homely comfort. It preyed on her mind to such an extent that one evening, when she and Edmund sat in the library, she spoke to him of it.

They were alone. Clara and Isabella had gone the day before to visit friends of the latter; they would remain, in all probability, for at least two weeks. Ismene had refused the invitation; the alacrity with which her excuses were received, without urging or repetition, assured her that only courtesy had prompted the offer. She did not repine; Clara was lost to her now, unless some sudden change of fortune or of heart should lead her sister back to the love that would never fail. Much more to her taste than empty chatter and laughter were those peaceful hours of companionable silence with one who shared her interests and sympathized with her feelings.

For a time she watched the play of lamplight through his golden curls as he sat with head bent over the volume he was perusing. Not for worlds would she have disturbed his communion with the poet; but at last he closed the volume and turned in his chair. ' 7 feel your eyes upon me,'' he said with an affectionate smile. "Are you musing, in your own thoughtful way, on the passages you have read, or does something trouble you? Surely you know you need not hesitate to confide in me.

Thus encouraged, she told him of her discovery and confessed the inexplicable urge that drew her to the structure. It seemed to her that his brow grew troubled as he listened; yet when she had finished he answered with ready grace. "1 knew of it, yes; but I cannot tell you what its function may have been. It has been long abandoned. A grim, unsightly place; I confess I do not understand your attraction. But, " he went on, "that very attraction is sufficient cause to arouse my interest. We will inspect the place together, shall we? Tomorrow."

This duly ensued; though summer's stifling breath had oppressed the earth for the past weeks, this day might have been stolen from May. Soft breezes caressed their cheeks, and the luxuriant greenery, the fascination of nature brought a smile to Edmund's face as they strolled.

"This is a pleasure, indeed; I am grateful to you, Ismene, for forcing me out of my office. I have been bent over my ledgers too long."

"I observed that." She hesitated, unwilling to display vulgar curiosity, but affection conquered delicacy. "I trust, Cousin, that there is nothing in those ledgers that causes you concern. If I can assist in any way—"

He pressed the hand that rested on his arm and smiled at her. "You need not assure me of your goodwill or your affection, Ismene. Let me forget the deadly dullness of business for a time. What a heavenly spot! Those grim stone walls are like a blot on a master painting. "

Yet to Ismene there was beauty and meaning in the contrast of rocky harshness and twining greenery. The delicacy of the honeysuckle softened the stone, smothering it in a soft veil of green. That slow, patient growth would triumph in the end over man's intrusion. Here was a living illustration of the Divine promise that the meek should inherit the earth.

“Strange indeed,'' murmured Edmund, studying the structure with a puzzled frown. "Let us see what is within.

With a strength his slender form did not suggest he put his shoulder to the sagging door and forced it open. ' 'You had best stay back,'' he warned. “A regiment of spiders guards the interior.

Nevertheless she came to his side and looked inside.

Only dust and cobwebs met her eyes. The interior, windowless and dark, had been swept clean of visible objects. At first it seemed to her that the floor was of earth, but then she realized that under the dust lay a carpet of cut stone, blocks as massive as those in an antique temple, closely fitted.

"It is like a pagan temple," said Edmund, echoing her thoughts as he so often did. "The innermost sanctuaries of the shrines of Greece and Egypt were made thus: darkness shrouded the mysteries of those ancient cults. "

"It could not have served such a purpose here.''

"Surely not. There is a mystery, however, and it