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

She spread it out on the bed and turned on both lamps.

Simon inspected the sad object in silence. "It could be two women. It could also be a woman and a man wearing a wig. Or two men wearing wigs. Or a couple of dogs with long ears. I hope you didn't pay a great deal for this masterpiece."

"Don't be such a killjoy," Peggy said. "It will have to be cleaned, of course. And restored."

"Dogs!" Karen exclaimed, aghast.

"He's just kidding," Peggy assured her.

"The dogs were indeed a jest." Simon stepped back and squinted professionally at the canvas. "However, I think the casual resemblance to the Bronte portrait—which results primarily from the fact that this canvas, like the other, was folded—has given you false hopes."

"Probably," Peggy said cheerfully.

"On the other hand . . . If you like, I'll take it back with me. Paintings are not my specialty, but the people at the Walters can probably recommend someone. Now this ..." He lifted the framed portrait of the grim old lady onto the bed and studied it approvingly. "This has a certain appeal. The technique is poor, of course, but the painter has certainly caught a personality."

"But it's not Ismene," Karen exclaimed.

Simon turned to look searchingly at her. "How do you know?"

"Why, she . . . She's not . . . Well. The clothing, for one thing. It's Victorian—late Victorian. This is in much better condition than the other, it can't be as old."

"That doesn't necessarily follow," Simon said. "As for the date . . . Let's say this was painted in 1870 or 1880. The subject appears to be elderly. She may have been born in 1800, give or take ten years.

You believe the manuscript could have been written as late as 1840 ..."

"Earlier, I think," Karen mumbled, returning the old lady's painted frown.

Peggy pulled up a chair and straddled it, arms folded on the back. "We may as well settle this, Karen. I've seen it coming, and it is going to prejudice your judgment. Just how do you picture Ismene?"

Karen didn't answer. Peggy chuckled. "There's a scene in one of the Alcott books—Jo's Boys, I think—which takes place after Jo, like her creator, has become a famous author with doting fans pursuing her. In those days they didn't just write fan letters, they dropped in, uninvited and unheralded."

"What are you talking about?" Karen demanded belligerently. Simon was smiling too. She might have known he had read Louisa May Alcott. He was probably the only male in the world who had.

"Wait, this is not irrelevant. One such party of admirers corners Jo, although she has disguised herself as the cleaning lady in the hope of avoiding them. She is by now the mother of grown sons and not by any stretch of the imagination a beautiful woman. When the visiting lady turns to one of her daughters and says, 'Don't you want her autograph,' the honest child replies, 'No. I thought she'd be about seventeen, with her hair done up in braids.' "

Simon's shoulders were shaking with laughter. After a brief internal struggle Karen threw in the towel. "You're right, damn it. I wasn't picturing a seventeen-year-old with pigtails, but my image of her was certainly influenced by irrational romanticism. Someone young, sensitive, slight ..."

"A typical heroine, in fact," Peggy finished. "Even heroines get old, Karen. Or ... they don't. The first alternative may not be romantic, but take my word for it, it's the lesser of the two evils."

Chapter Thirteen

Most of these books are about women who just can't seem to get out of the house.

E. C. DeLaMotte, Perils of the Night, 1990

HALF-raising herself from the bed, Ismene drew aside the curtain and looked toward the door. Sleep and the confusion attendant thereon weighted her eyelids; but it was soon replaced by the liveliest sensations of apprehension, for the sound was repeated: a soft scraping or scratching, like that which would have been produced by the claws of a beast. She had extinguished the lamp upon retiring; the fire, no more than a bed of red coals, gave not enough light to enable her to see the portal clearly; it was hearing, not sight, that allowed her to solve the mystery, for when the sound came again she recognized it for the turning of the handle.

So uncertain, so sly and slow was that movement that her heart sickened within her. The hour was late; the cold moon sank toward the horizon. Not even Clara would creep to her door at such an hour; Clara's hands would not fumble and slip, pause and renew the effort.

She forced her trembling limbs to abandon the deceptive shelter of the bed and the enclosing curtains. Once on her feet, a little of her courage returned; but what could she do to save herself! There was no fastening on the door, no other exit from the room save the high window. Every fiber of her being cried out for light. To locate tinderbox and candle, and force her tremulous fingers to perform the necessary motions, would take too long. The door was opening.

She rushed to the fireplace, seized the bellows, and with the strength of terror fanned the embers to new life. The flames were low and feeble, but they gave sufficient light to illumine the dark figure advancing toward her. She saw the outstretched hands first, pallid and knotted like roots long underground. The form itself was indistinct, squat, shapeless and dark. With a slow writhing movement a face thrust itself forward, into the light.

Ismene had known who it must be, but the sight of that withered countenance with its one blind white eye reflecting the firelight in a crimson glare and its features horribly shadowed was so shocking she fell back against the wall with a stifled shriek.

The dreadful face turned in her direction. "Is it she? Is she the one?" a hoarse voice mumbled. Twisted fingers groped through the dark, writhing like white worms. Ismene shrank back. "Where