4


Other Novels by Hilda Lawrence
BLOOD UPON THE SNOW
A TIME TO DIE
THE PAVILION
DEATH OF A DOLL
"Miss Lawrence creates horror
atmosphere the hard way, with
a light touch that leaves no
brush marks. The mere sugges-
tion of a sinister sound, the
barest hint of screaming silence,
and the reader's hackles come
away from his collar.
n
Meyer Berger


DUET OF DEATH
The House
AN INNER SANCTUM MYSTERY BY
Hilda Lawrence
Kindly reverse this book for
COMPOSITION FOR FOUR HANDS
i
1 9 4 9
SIMON AND SCHUSTER


voraawv ao satvts aaiiNii am. m aaaoLov^iNviv
•>
"A *N '03 XHOA AY3N
ariNaAV htxis 083T 'aatNao aanaaaxooH
•oni 'aaisriHOS onv noivis ah aaHsrrana
aoNauMVi vcniH ah 'ifQ\ 'tHoiaidoo
JVEHOa ANV NI XHVd NI HO 310HAV NI
nolloxkioh<i3h ao thoih am ONiamDNi
aaAaasaa sthoih tiv


sujsnoj aiSSvyi ox
18





2 The House
his head, and I thought he saw me, and drew back; but
no one came to close the windows and draw the shades.
I saw young Joe, in his first dinner coat, his fair hair
plastered to his head. He danced by the windows as if
he were showing himself to an unseen audience. Both
Mike and Joe know that I walk at night, but they never
ask me why. I'm glad they don't, because I wouldn't
know how to answer.
I looked at their big white house, lighted from top to
bottom, and turned to look at my own. There were no
lights showing in mine. Tench, Mrs. Tench, and Anna
were in their cottage down by the old stable, and Mother
was asleep, or pretending to be, for my sake. We say
good-night to each other at nine o'clock, and neither
knows what the other does until morning.
My house is dark, inside and out, and the rough gray
stone looks wet. The four turrets rise above the trees,
and their windows are covered with grime. The trees are
thick and too many; we have no flowers, because no sun
comes though the interlacing branches. Now, in Novem-
ber, the oaks are bare, but the evergreens still hide the
pale autumn sun. I say that I walked in the garden. It is
not a garden but a wilderness of trees, carpeted with
moss and leaves. I call it my house, but it isn't mine yet.
In December, on my twenty-first birthday, it will be
legally mine. Father left it to me. I think Mother was
deeply hurt when he told her what he had done, but I
have a plan that will make her happy again. If Mike
and I—
No, I mustn't think about Mike. Not now. But I will
give Mother the house if I ever marry anyone. She
loves it.
In these past weeks she has talked of Father con-
stantly, remembering and reliving, helping me to under-
stand their lives. They were devoted to each other and
needed no one else. I was sent to school in Canada when


The Honse 3
I was six, and my long holidays were spent with hos-
pitable schoolmates. So, although I went home for birth-
days and Christmas, I saw too little of my parents.
Mother thinks of that now and tells the story of their life
together, giving it color and movement, so that I feel as
if I had been there.
She was poor when she was young, "a. very respectable
poverty," she says; she laughs when she describes her
clothes and the tragedy of a stocking run. She lived with
her older cousins in the cottage they still own. Father
was a catch; she cannot understand how she got him.
Her little face is full of wonder as she tells me. "The
women who threw themselves at that man's head!" She
takes me through their courtship day by day, spicing it
with flowers, sweetening it with ribboned boxes of candy.
"I wore the ribbons in my hair, and he never guessed."
And then she comes to the day when they were driving
and she saw the house and fell in love with it.
The turrets rose above the trees as they do now.
There were no other houses near by; the Barnabys came
later. Except for the Barnabys, there has been no change.
The house stood then, as it does today, in the center of a
small forest, surrounded by fields.
"There is my castle," Mother said that day.
My father smiled. "I've heard it called other things."
"Chateau, perhaps," Mother guessed. "Or manor
house."
"Prison," Father said. "And madhouse." He flicked
his whip at the gloomy turrets. "I almost agree, too. It
lacks only bars."
Mother tells me: "I cried then; I was heartbroken.
That beautiful house, empty, desolate. To say such
things about it!" She cried throughout the drive and
refused to be comforted.
He told her she was a child in spite of her grown-up
airs. "What would you do with such a place if you had
it?" he asked.


4 The Honse
"Live in it and be happy the rest of my life."
In three months they were married, and for a year
they traveled abroad. I know the clothes she wore, the
deep garnets, the turquoise blues, the gloves and the
hats that matched. I know how she looked; she was
twenty-five then, and she is sixty-five now, as he would
be, but she is not the kind of woman who ages. When
they returned, he told her they would live in a hotel
until he could find a suitable house. Her trunks of
clothes, her hat and shoe boxes, filled the hotel suite.
One evening when she was waiting for him at the
hotel, he sent a closed carriage and a note asking her to
meet him at the house of a friend. It was a dark night,
and the drive seemed endless; the coachman refused to
raise the blinds. She tells me now that she was fright-
ened, but I think she knew her destination before she
started. She exaggerates, but the picture she paints is a
romantic one. The wind howled, the trees moaned, the
carriage rocked from side to side. She was young, she
wore silk, she was loved.
The destination was the house, of course. Father was
on the stone veranda, the cousins beside him, the serv-
ants in the background. She spent most of the night run-
ning from room to room—there are twenty—and opening
closets and wardrobes and chests. It was perfect, it was
complete, and nothing has been changed.
As time went on, the top floor was closed; there was
too much work for a staff of three, and they wanted no
more than that. The same silver is still polished each
Friday, and the same china stands in orderly rows be-
hind glass doors. The cousins, Carrie, Jane, and Bess,
still come to tea two afternoons a week. They were here
this afternoon, and Tench took their wraps and served
their tea as he has always done. Nothing is changed
except that I am home, my father is dead, and my
thoughts will not let me sleep.


The Honse 5
It was wet in the garden tonight, the fallen leaves were
wet. Tray stood near me at the hedge, listening to the
music and watching the Barnabys. I grew up with the
Barnabys as much as I grew up with anyone. Until I
was six, we played together, and Mike said I was as good
as another boy would have been. After that, I saw them
only at Christmas. But the holidays were too short, and
they made other friends, too. There were parties every
night, people drove out from town; but I was lost, out of
place. My clothes were not right; even when I was
eighteen, I was dressed like a child. Mother called it
"keeping me young." Old Mrs. Barnaby, Mike's grand-
mother, would pin up my hair and help me braid it
again before I went home, but there was nothing she
could do about the clothes I wore. I used to see her
watching me thoughtfully.
Then, last spring, when I went home to stay, things
changed; Mike said it was like the old days again. I was
Issy once more, not Isobel. Every morning I waited for
the shout across the hedge. "Issy!" The days were never
long enough. Mike and I rode and walked and played
tennis and contrived to avoid Joe. Joe is seventeen and
in love with growing up. Mike is twenty-two.
Mike said I was learning to be human. He said I was
almost presentable. Father gave me an allowance for my
clothes, and Mrs. Barnaby told me what to buy. Mother
was preoccupied and thoughtful, and Father spent much
time in his own room. I told myself they were old and
tired, and I forgot them. I'm paying for that now.
"There's nothing wrong with your face," Mike said,
"but your manners are too good. They're practically de-
portment. And do you have to talk like an Empire
Builder?"
"What do you want me to do?"
"Be your age. Comb your hair in public, scream across
tables, swipe food from other people's plates. Occasion-
ally."


6 The Honse
That was how we were when I went home in April.
Last week when they planned their party, it was old
Mrs. Barnaby who invited me. She talked to Mother on
the phone. She told Mother I was young and required
pleasure, and mourning was unsuitable and old-fash-
ioned. I know what she said, because their cook met
Anna in the village and repeated the conversation. She'd
listened in on the kitchen extension. Mother told Mrs.
Barnaby that I was not well, but she didn't tell me that.
It is late, and I am sitting in the dark. I do not want a
light. Someone else may walk at night as I do, and look
at my windows and wonder. My bed is ready for me,
and after a while I shall He down. Then Mrs. Tench or
Anna will find the print of my head on the pillow and
be satisfied. I am cleaning house in my mind.
This afternoon I had tea with Mother and the cousins.
They talked about Father, and after I had my tea, they
sent me from the room. Cousin Jane said I had a long
face and that four grieving old women were bad com-
pany.
"Go up to your pretty room," Cousin Jane said, "and
read a nice book. Or work at your embroidery. Surely
they taught you that at the convent."
They thought I went to my room, but I sat on the
stairs and listened. I always listen to everyone, even to
Tench and Mrs. Tench and Anna. I didn't see Father
after he died, no one did, but I know too little about the
people who found him and what they said. So when
Mother and the cousins sent me from the room, I went
no farther than the stairs. The cousins have carrying
voices, and the hall and stairs are stone sounding boards.
I heard Cousin Jane say, "Will she sell the house?"
She meant me. Mother must have shrugged her an-
swer, because I heard no reply.
But Cousin Jane's voice was high and sharp. "Find
out," Cousin Jane said. "Find out at once, and don't let


The Honse 7
her do it. You belong here; it suits you, it always has.
Not one woman in a thousand could carry off a house
like this. Close as many rooms as you like, but don't let
her sell it. She doesn't need the money, lucky girl. Marsh
must have been out of his mind. What am I saying? Of
course he was out of his mind. He proved it."
"This is my home," Mother said quietly. "It will be my
last on earth, and until my time comes—"
The teacups rattled, and silver rang against china.
The cousins are always hungry, and Mother gives them
a knife-and-fork tea.
"What are you going to do with his clothes?" Cousin
Bess asked. "If I were you, I'd sell them. Everyone does
that now, even the nicest people; you'd be surprised if
you knew. And you're not the type to brood over moth
balls. Sell everything he owned; don't give a stitch away,
not even to Tench. I've never seen so many clothes, all
in perfect condition, too. I made it my business to in-
vestigate. Don't look at me like that, dear, I was only
trying to help. And it isn't as if he'd had a disease."
I held my breath. No disease? Out of his mind? That
was what I wanted to hear.
No disease? He kept to his room for days at a time. I
saw him; I went to his bedroom door and looked in
whenever the door was open. He was too white. I would
say, "Father, are you sick?" And he always said, "No. Go
away like a good girl." There was never a doctor, there
was no medicine, and he ate almost nothing. Some days
he'd get up and dress and drive into town. I'd see him
leave his room and walk slowly through the hall and
down the stairs, his hand on the balustrade; but if he
saw one of us, the servants or Mother or me, he'd walk
briskly and speak crisply, perhaps even whistle in his
tuneless way. He wouldn't let Tench drive him. Tench
would bring the car to the door, and the dog would be
waiting on the front seat. Father was a good driver;
that's one of the things I think of now.


8 The House
Out of his mind? Is that the answer?
Sitting on the stairs this afternoon, I heard the cousins
talk about his generosity; they sounded like crows on a
fence, counting hills of corn. They are in their early
seventies, and today they looked like crows, too. Tall and
thin, perched on red damask chairs, their veils and
scarves streaming to the floor like long black feathers,
their long teeth snapping over words and food. They
wear mourning, too, because he gave them an allowance
and remembered them in his will. We are all in mourn-
ing; even Mrs. Tench and Anna have put away their
bright lilac prints, and Anna wears a black uniform when
she serves.
I heard Cousin Carrie say, "1 see you still have that
dog"
Mother said, "He was devoted to the animal."
"Well, the animal wasn't devoted to him," Cousin
Carrie said. I could imagine her tossing her head. The
cousins talk with their heads and hands.
Mother said, "Why do you say that? They were in-
separable."
Cousin Carrie's teeth clicked. "My dear Maude, are
you blind? If you used your eyes, you might see a few
things. That dog is sleek and well content, and it isn't
natural. He was a gaunt and nasty brute when his mas-
ter was alive, and now he smirks."
"Carrie!"
"He was so devoted to Marsh that he's glad he's dead.
He's laughing about it."
"Bessy, Janie, make her stop. She's hurting me."
Mother was close to tears.
I heard the mediatory rustles and gasps, but Cousin
Carrie went on.
"I'd get rid of him if I were you," she said. "I'd lose
him or arrange for an accident. I can't bear to look at
the brute. Have you noticed how he follows the girl
around?"


The House 11
lights went out. I watched the guests leaving. I knew all
by name, and some of them I had met. I saw old Mrs.
Barnaby—they call her Lucy—emptying ashtrays, collect-
ing bottles and glasses, ruffling Joe's plastered hair and
laughing at him. I saw Mike and wanted to call him. I
willed him to think of me. I begged him silendy to know
I was there.
Tray watched, too, standing motionless beside me. He
reminded me of something I thought I'd forgotten. Once,
when I was a child, I saw a stone dog crouched at the
foot of a grave. There was a story about it. A living dog
had grieved for his master and died there, and the stone
dog was a memorial. I thought then that it was ugly and
pretentious. I wonder what Tray would do if I took him
to Father's grave. I wonder if he goes there alone when
he disappears for hours each day. I have never seen him
leave the grounds or return, but Anna says he does. He
frightens Anna. One night she locked him in the kitchen
because it was warmer than the passage, and in the
morning he was still locked in, but his coat was damp
and his paws were full of sand and gravel. He had not
been with me that night—I had stayed in my room. But
I told her I had let him out.
It was raining before we left the garden. Tray followed
me to my room and waited until I had locked my door.
There is no sound in this part of the house. There are
two things I can do until morning. I can sit here by the
window and watch the rain, or I can lie in bed and re-
member. I can sit by the window and remember, too.
Mother wants me to take Father's room, adjoining hers.
After all the years of close companionship she cannot
bear to have it empty. I've seen her standing at the door,
looking at the canopied bed with its deep-blue cover,
the deep-blue chairs, and the dark, glowing furniture.
They keep it in perfect order, as if he were there, never
forgetting the bowl of red carnations that he loved. This


12 The Honse
morning there were red carnations on the mantel above
the fireplace, and they doubled themselves in the mirror.
The room is exactly as he left it; it has an air of waiting,
its emptiness seems temporary. . . . His face was whiter
than the linen on his pillowcase.
No disease? Why do they say that? He was ill for
months; he took months for his dying; he fought it
secretly, as if, it were disgraceful. There were good days
and bad days. On the bad days, when he stayed in bed,
I wanted to be with him, but he sent me away. I would
stand in the doorway and speak to him. I never entered
without permission. Tray was always there, defensive
and protective.
Father would quiet Tray and smile at me. "Run
along," he'd say. "Amuse yourself. I'm an old man, and
I'm resting."
He was sixty-five, not old enough for death, and he
wasn't resting. He was shrunken and drawn, and his
mouth curled with pain. I know it was pain. He wouldn't
eat. Mrs. Tench made custards and broth and took them
to him herself, but she was unlucky, too. Only once did
he ever ask me for anything, and that was when he
wanted milk. A full bottle. When I brought it, he took
my hand, and Tray got up from the floor and put his
front paws on the bed.
"What do you do with yourself all day?" Father
asked me.
I told him I walked and read and saw the Barnabys.
He smiled stiffly. "Do you like that? Is it sufficient?
Does it keep you happy?"
"It's what I always do when I'm home, Father."
He dropped my hand and rested his own on Tray's
head. "It seems little enough. I had other plans for you
this year. I had enormous plans for the twenty-fourth of
December. When a man has an only child and that child
comes of age—"
"There is plenty of time, Father. Summer is still here."
"So it is. We don't know each other very well, do we?"


The House 13
I had no answer for that. I couldn't tell him that he
was, or had been, no more than a well-dressed stranger,
courteous when we met in the halls and on the stairs,
considerate at the table, a counterpart of the fathers of
girls at my school who invited me to their homes for
holidays. Those fathers, too, asked if I were amused and
happy, and they saw to it that I was well served.
He seemed to know where my thoughts were, for he.
said, "Do you want to go away again, Isobel?"
"No, Father. IH stay with you. I want to."
"Why?" His eyes flamed.
"I think we should live together now. Mother thinks
so, too. I may be—I may be able to help you."
"Help?" He laughed out loud, but his hand returned
to mine instantly. "My dear girl, that laugh was for my-
self, not you. So! Not quite twenty-one, and ready to
help." His eyes closed for an instant, and Tray whined.
"You are much on my mind these days," he went on. "I
plan for you constantly; I am as watchful as Tray. I want
you to know that and remember it. My style—" he smiled
again—"my style is unconventional, perhaps, but I can't
help that. Not now." There was nothing I could say. His
hand gripped mine; it was hot and dry. "Do you like
this house, Isobel?"
"I've not spent much time here, Father. Sometimes I
think I hardly know it."
"That means you don't like it. But I hope you will
stay on if anything should happen to me. Do you think
you can promise? Will you stay for at least a year?" He
made his voice casual, he could have been asking for
the morning paper; but the gripping hand betrayed him.
He could have been asking for his life.
"Father, let me send for a doctor!" Then, because my
voice had suddenly become shrill, I tried to be casual,
too. "You worry Mother and all of us, and Mike Barnaby
asks about you, and I don't know what to tell him."
"Tell Mike Barnaby I'm old and tired and my skin is


14 The House
overadequate for my poor bones. But I can still make
my own decisions, thank you, and no doctor is one of
them. I asked you about the house, Isobel. You weren't
changing the subject, were you? I'm waiting for your
promise."
"Of course IH stay."
"Thank you, my dear. You may not know it—I'm not
always certain of how much or how little you do know-
but I used to visit this house when I was a child. When
I bought it for your mother and myself, I found I could
remember every inch of it, I could find my way blind-
fold. Well, perhaps not blindfold, but without thinking.
That interested me. I'm giving the house to you on your
birthday. I've told your mother. Can you see yourself
as a householder?"
I could see myself living forever in the dark rooms.
He read my mind again. "Only for a year, Isobel. Then
you may do as you like. And don't misinterpret my use
of the word Tjlindfold.' There's nothing wrong with my
eyes. Isn't this the cousins' day?"
"Yes, Father."
"Then I trust you to paint a convincing picture of my
condition. Say whatever you like, but keep them out of
this room."
He sent me away then. Tray followed me to the door
and stood watching as I went down the hall. The door
closed, and I heard the bolt plunge into its socket. That
was beyond even Tray. I knew then that Father had
more strength than I thought.
That was in August.
The cousins never saw Father when he was ill, but they
talked about him and speculated. In late summer and
early fall, when the afternoons were mild, they took their
tea on the veranda. And they always asked about him.
On those afternoons they dressed alike in long white
linen suits, white canvas shoes, and small, high Panama


The Honse 15
hats. I can see them now, turning their large pale eyes
from Mother to the laden tea table, from their chatelaine
watches to the rented car that waited extravagantly
under the porte-cochere.
"Maude, are we going to see dear Marsh today? He's
well, isn't he?"
"Very well," Mother would answer. "And very busy.
He's resting now and begs you to excuse him."
"Busy! Marsh?" They would laugh then, Cousin Carrie
leading the others. "Marsh Ford never did a stroke of
work in his born days, unless it was clipping coupons."
Mother would smile gently. "How unjust. He does a
great deal that you and I know nothing about. Money
doesn't take care of itself, dear Carrie; it needs cod-
dling."
"Is he coddling money when he goes off on those long
drives? With a dog for company? Down back lanes and
muddy roads, parking for hours in disreputable places?
Saloons, squatters' shacks—don't tell me I don't know
what I'm talking about! I've seen his car in the village,
and my cleaning woman knows him by sight."
"Marsh is democratic, dear Carrie. Come, your plate
is empty. Another ice?"
"Yes, I will. They won't keep. Jane and Bess, another
ice. Not pistachio, Bess, you know what it does to you.
Cake, too, Bess. It will dry out otherwise. The pink kind.
Fresh-strawberry filling, isn't it, Maude? The last of the
season, I dare say. You know I didn't mean a thing about
Marsh, Maude. Give him our dear love, and tell him we
hope to see him soon."
Each time they came, they talked of the same thing:
Father. They still do. When he was alive, they wanted
to know how he spent his days; now that he is dead, they
will not let him rest. Their large pale eyes still probe and
devour; they think the same thoughts and use the same
words. Only their clothing varies with the seasons.
I have never known the reason for the long drives; I


16 The Honse
have never known why he died as he did. He didn't
have a disease. He was out of his mind. Get rid of that
dog.
I must do something, talk to someone. Mike rarely
comes to the house these days. Is it because I am in
mourning? Or does he know more than I do? Is there
anything to know?
This afternoon, when the cousins left, I walked with
them to the car. They always send for me when they
are ready to leave. They kiss me good-bye as if we would
never see one another again. Mother says that is because
they are starved for affection and like to pretend I am
theirs.
"Do you miss your father, child? Of course you do, it's
only natural; you'd be a very strange girl if you didn't.
Still, after all, you didn't know him very well, did you?"
I watched the car move under the arching trees and
turn into the distant road. Their cottage is five miles
away, in the small village at the crossroads. Between us
and the village there are fields and woods and the ceme-
tery.
The house will soon be mine. I want to sell it now, but
Mother will not even let me speak of that. She walks
through the house at night. I hear her footsteps in the
hall, but I never open my door. I am afraid I will see
her climbing the stairs, moving along the hall in her
long black dress, opening and closing the doors of rooms
we never use, holding a candle in one hand and shading
it with the other. I know she carries a candle, because I
have seen the drops of tallow on the floor. I am afraid to
see her face. I think she is remembering her first night
here.
Tomorrow I will go to Father's room and see what he
has left behind him. There are wardrobes full of cloth-
ing, but one suit will be missing. There is a desk full of
papers. Among these things I may find something that


The Honse 17
will tell me what was in his mind that morning a month
ago when he left the house for the last time.
That morning I had been walking along the main road
and was turning in at the gate when his car came down
the drive. Only an hour before, he had returned his
breakfast tray untouched and told Mother he was not
to be disturbed. And there he was, hatless, driving like
a man possessed, the dog on the seat beside him. I
raised my arm as he went by, and I will never forget his
sudden gesture of dismay.
If there are letters in his desk, and if I read them,
what will I find? He never spoke of friends; if he had
them, he kept them to himself. Did he have a special
friend, one whose name was too dear for speech? The
only names he used were those of his broker and lawyer,
and the only guests we had were the cousins and the
Barnabys. Perhaps when you are sixty-five, you have
weeded and culled until only your first choice remains.
Mother was his. I used to see his eyes meet hers with a
look of acceptance that told me there was nothing in
her heart and mind he did not know. I used to see her
meet that look with a smile.
I did nothing that last day. Mother kept to her room,
and the Barnabys drove to town for Joe's new dinner
coat. The day dragged. I remember nothing of conse-
quence. I knew that Mother would be strained and silent
at dinner, and I dreaded it. She suffered on Father s bad
days, and at lunch, which I ate alone, I knew what Anna
meant when she said her back ached with the burdens
other people were carrying. The day grew older, heavy
with foreboding.
At seven that evening, when Father had not returned,
Mother and I dined together, and later we both played
solitaire in the small, circular room that overlooks the
driveway. Mother sat facing the windows. She played
her cards quietly; there was a decanter of port on the
table at her side, and a box of Turkish cigarettes was


18 The Honse
within reach of her hand. She plays the same way now,
quietly, and the setting is the same. The decanter of port
is still brought in, the cigarettes are within reach, and
she still faces the windows. But her dress is black in-
stead of turquoise.
That night was clear and cold; Tench, putting fresh
logs on the fire, was elaborately cheerful. He said it was
a fine night for a drive or a brisk walk and declared his
intention to try one or the other. I thought he was mak-
ing tactful conversation, but he was making a
prophecy. At ten o'clock one of his friends in the village
called him on the phone, and he took his small car from
the stable and drove off. We didn't know about the call
until later, or that he stopped at the Barnabys' to pick
up Mike. We saw him drive by the windows and thought
nothing of it. Hadn't he said it was a fine night for a
drive?
It was Mrs. Tench who gave the first alarm. At eleven
o'clock she brought us a pot of coffee, unasked, and her
hands shook as she set it on the table.
"We don't want that, Mrs. Tench," Mother said ab-
sently. "Go to bed." Then: "What's wrong with your
hands? Have you a chill?"
"Drink it," Mrs. Tench said. "There's nothing wrong
with me."
Mother said, "Ring for Anna, Isobel. Mrs. Tench isn't
well."
That was when Mrs. Tench told us. "Don't ring for
Anna," she cried. "Anna's no good at a time like this.
She's all broken up, and I'm not much better. Heaven
help me, I was told to tell you properly, and I don't
know how! They think something has happened to poor
Mr. Ford."
Mother poured a cup of coffee with a steady hand.
"Where is he?" she asked.
Mrs. Tench averted her eyes. "I don't rightly know.


The Honse 19
Tench got a phone call asking him to come to the old
quarry on the other side of the cemetery, and he went.
Then a few minutes ago some man called me. I don't
know who he was; he said he was talking for Mr. Tench.
He said Mr. Ford was—"
"Dead?"
"That's what he said, Mrs. Ford."
"How?"
"How?" Mrs. Tench bit her lips. "Maybe they'd bet-
ter tell you, Tench and Mr. Mike and the rest. They 11 be
coming later." She poured coffee for me. "Drink this,"
she said.
Mother left the room as if she were leaving a stage.
She walked, with a majestic kind of lightness, straight to
the hall and up the stairs. I didn't see her again for two
days. I saw Mike that night, and Tench, and Father's
lawyer. They came long after midnight, bringing the
cousins, and told me what had happened. The lawyer
talked to Mother in her room.
This is what they told me: Earlier in the evening a
man from the village, checking his rabbit traps a quarter
of a mile from the old quarry, saw what he thought
was the reflected light of a bonfire. At first he ignored
it. The village boys often build fires in the quarry at
night. They roast potatoes and stolen chickens. But after
a while he decided the fire was too large and too hot,
and he walked over that way.
It was Father's car. It had turned over, and when the
man reached it, there was nothing he could do. He ran
to the village and phoned Tench. The license plate, ly-
ing some yards from the twisted, smoldering mass, had
told him enough.
I've never known more than that. Mike said, later,
there was nothing more to know. He and the lawyer and
Tench made the final identification; there were shreds
of clothing, a scrap of Harris tweed—
I asked them about Tray. Loyal, fanatic Tray. I had


20 The Honse
seen Tray beside him, his ears laid back, his mouth
open, his body braced. They shrugged. Mike said, "No
dog."
The coroner said suicide while of unsound mind, but
I will never understand why Father chose such a diffi-
cult and painful way. I tried to tell myself it was an ac-
cident.
"Why don't they call it an accident?" I asked Mike.
"The car was overturned, the lane is narrow, he could
have lost—"
"You know in your heart that it wasn't an accident,
Issy. He knew every foot of that ground; he knew where
the lane turned at the quarry and how far it was to the
edge. There was no skid; his tire marks were clear and
clean. And the night was clear, too. Lots of stars; he
could see even without car lights. Chin up. He knew
what he was doing, and it must have been what he
wanted."
Unsound mind?
Anna found Tray the next day. Her cat had hidden a
litter of kittens in a corner of the old stable, and Anna
paid them regular visits. That morning she slipped out
before breakfast, and no one knew she had gone. Mrs.
Tench was in the kitchen when Anna came back. She
was crying. She said Tray was in the stable, chained to
a post. He had a bowl of water and a half-eaten steak.
"He wasn't there last night when I took out the milk
for the cat," Anna screamed. "He was dead then, burned
up in that car!"
I went to the stable and untied Tray. I saw the bowl
and the chain and the meat. The bowl and the chain had
not come from the house; they were new and strange.
"Someone found him on the road and brought him
home," I told Anna. "Someone who knew about our
trouble and didn't want to disturb us. That was kind."
Anna backed away. "There's not a mark on him," she
whispered. "He saved himself. The devil!"


The Honse 21
Every night for a month I have locked my door and
talked to myself until morning; I've told myself a story
as wakeful children do. But my story is real.
Night has come again, and I am telling myself the
story of the day I have just lived through. This time it
has grown beyond me; in twenty-four hours it has
changed its mood and shape; it is more than mine; it
is too much for me alone. But I have Mike now.
This morning I was wakened by a pounding on my
door. I knew it wasn't Tench—he never comes to my
room. And not Anna or Mother. Anna's fingers nibble at
doors, and Mother is almost soundless in everything she
does. I watched the knob turn uselessly and waited until
I heard a voice. I always wait before opening doors
until I hear a voice.
It was only Mrs. Tench. "Are you all right, Miss Iso-
bel?" she called. "Do you know it's after ten?"
I knew she wouldn't leave until I let her in, but I re-
membered to hide the muddy slippers I had worn in
the garden. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Tench. I overslept."
"Maybe you needed it," she answered. She had
brought me fruit and coffee; it was the first time she
had ever done that. She closed my windows and
smoothed my bed. Her eyes flicked about the room.
"You didn't need all that air, Miss Isobel. Night air's un-
healthy. Did the dog sleep in here with you? I was just
wondering."
"He's never in here, Mrs. Tench."
"Maybe you fed him, then? I'm only asking."
"I never do. What's wrong, Mrs. Tench? Is he sick?"
"Sick? Not a bit of it. He was outside your door when
I came upstairs, that's all. Looking like he wanted you
to let him in, or feed him, or some such thing. Anna
says he—" I saw the break in her speech before I heard
it; it showed first in her eyes. It said she hadn't meant
to speak of Anna and was angry with herself. She went
on rapidly. "I've got something nice to tell you. Mr.


22 The Honse
Mike telephoned, he wants you to go for a drive, and
your mother has no objection. I asked her. Eleven
o'clock, he says. There's a sharp wind, so you'll need a
heavy coat. A nice drive, you ought to enjoy that; it's
like the old days coming back. It'll put some honest
color in your face, so you can stop pinching your cheeks
before you come into a room."
"What were you going to say about Anna, Mrs. Tench?"
"Anna? Oh, that. That's nothing. You know Anna. She
carried on because the dog refused his breakfast. She's
foolish about animals. One of these days I'm going to
smack her. Now you drink what I brought, and 111 help
you get dressed."
That was something else she had never done. I must
have looked surprised, for she said, "I always favored
humans. Animals can do for themselves."
She drew my bath and fussed about the room, using
her handkerchief to rub nonexistent dust from furniture
and staring out windows that could show her nothing
she hadn't always seen. Ordinarily, Mrs. Tench is calm,
she is like Mother; but this morning she was noisy in a
small, unordered way. I have never known her very
well, although she has always lived here. Sometimes,
when I was a child, I used to think I saw her face bend-
ing over me at night; but when she spoke to me in the
morning, the face was not the same, and I told myself
I had been dreaming. This morning, when she handed
me my clothes and stooped and rose and helped me, I
thought I saw that old, bending face again, and I wanted
to touch it.
I said, "Mrs. Tench, did you ever take care of me
before?"
"Did I—what are you talking about? Before what?"
"Before today. A long time ago. Did you ever bend
over my bed at night?"'
"Pure imagination. You always had too much."


The Honse 23
"Mrs. Tench—" I didn't know how to say what I
wanted to say— "Mrs. Tench, are you taking care of me
now?"
"I do what I can, if that's what you mean, and there's
no need to look at me like that. Taking care! Nobody
takes care of anybody when they're grown up; grown-up
people take care of themselves. Now, if you're ready to
go down, I might as well go along with you. Wait a
minute." She made scolding sounds. "Your hair's a living
sight! You made a fine mess of your hair when you
pulled that sweater on."
Mrs. Tench's hands smoothed my hair for me. That
almost furtive touch was like a twice-told tale when the
first telling has been forgotten. It was as old as the bend-
ing face, as dim and warm, and it stirred the sleeping
years in the bottom of my heart. I waited for the words
that should have followed or preceded the smoothing
hands. I couldn't remember the words, but I knew they
had been foolish and kind. If she could help me to re-
member anything, anything—
TWhat are you mooning about?" she asked.
"I'm trying to remember something. You used to say
something, I can't remember—yes I can! Mrs. Tench,
what does 'skin the rabbit' mean?"
"You're addled." She picked up the breakfast tray and
set it down again, almost angrily. "Well, all right. It's
nothing but nonsense, a kind of game you play with
children when you help them with their clothes. It
means this, and this is how it goes. Skin the rabbit!"
She jerked the sweater over my head, wrong side out.
"That's what you say, and that's what you do. Black!
I never cared for mourning, not even for myself." She
unfastened my skirt, black like the sweater, and hung
both in my closet. When she returned, she had a yellow
wool dress I had bought in September. "You'll look all
right in this," she said. "I can't wait for you. I've already
lost too much time as it is."


24 The Honse
She was gone before I could answer, but I could fol-
low her in my mind. Down the broad stairs, her dumpy
little figure held erect, the breakfast tray firm in her
hands. Mrs. Tench never fumbles.
I saw no one when I went down. My mother, I thought,
is behind one of the windows, watching the driveway
as she always does, and I will wave to the windows
when I leave, even though I cannot see her. She will
think I am opposing her wishes about mourning, but I
am only trying to please Mrs. Tench. When you are
taking your life apart, looking for something, people like
Mrs. Tench are useful. Even a phrase is useful. To-
morrow, even a phrase may help.
I waited on the veranda steps for Mike. The stone
was cold and damp. The drive-way was a dark-green
runnel ending in a pale-blue arch. The sky beyond the
open gates; the road. No one traveled on the road while
I waited; the blue arch was empty until Mike came.
His car is red, and he loves it; even the leather seats
are red. When he turned into the drive, I ran to meet
him, not forgetting the windows behind me. Before I
reached the car, I heard the soft, familiar pad of fol-
lowing feet. I had been waiting for that, too.
"Hi," Mike said. "Send your pal back to wherever he
hangs out, and get in."
"I want him to come. Please, Mike."
"What about my leather? Look at those ugly feet.
Oh, all right, all right, but don't expect me to sit next
to him."
We drove into the road, with Tray beside me. That
was my first victory. We went toward the village slowly
and in silence. The woods lining the road cast shadows
before us, thin shadows because the sun was thin. Tray
was a stone dog, erect and motionless, his eyes closed.
"Why have you stayed away, Mike?" I asked care-
fully. "Why haven't you called me before?"
"I've been giving you a chance to get straightened


26 The House
"Issy, that's no good. The shacks haven't anything to
do with your father's death. That was his own idea.
He's not the first man in the world who decided he had
the right of exit. Got that one out of a book, too. Any-
way, it was what he wanted, right or wrong, and you
can't do anything about it."
I said, "I want to talk to someone who knew him. If
youH let me do that, Mike, I won't trouble you again.
After today, IH be satisfied."
"Satisfied, for heaven's sake. What does that mean?"
"It means I'll let him rest."
"Rest!"
"He didn't say good-bye to me. I think about that too
much. He raised his hand when he drove by; he knew
he wasn't coming back, but all he did was raise his hand.
I think about it; I see it, an unfinished gesture. Every-
thing about him is unfinished, even though he's dead
and buried."
Issy—
"He must have counted his last days; he knew which
one would be the last, and he chose to spend it with
strangers. I want to see those strangers. If I can follow
him through the last day, up to the end, then I won't
think about him any more. I can get rid of him."
After a pause, Mike said, "Hid' is a cockeyed word."
"It's a haunting word." I felt him turn to look at me,
and I closed my eyes for safety. Like Tray. I sat like
Tray. I was Tray. We were replicas of the old stone
dog in the cemetery. I put my hand on Tray's head and
let it rest there. It was the first time in my life I had
ever touched him and he didn't flinch. I wondered if
he could read my mind.
I heard Mike laugh, too easily. "That's a sweet friend-
ship between you and the dog, all of a sudden. Where'd
I get the idea you hated him?"
I laughed easily, too, and opened my eyes. *Hush. He
reads and understands English. The cousins say so*


The Honse 27
We turned from the main road into a narrow lane.
"Where are we going, Mike?"
"Where do you think, crackpot? The shacks."
The lane went up, then down, between small, barren
hills. I heard the wind follow. At the end we came to an
open field, ringed with leafless trees. There was no grass,
only sand and rubble; the color had faded from the sky.
The trees were supplicating dwarfs, raising bare and
knotted arms to heaven. The world might look like that
a thousand years after it was gone and forgotten. A band
of swallows came from nowhere, swooped and cried,
turned and fled.
"What is this place?" I asked.
"The one you wanted. Or almost We get out here and
walk a bit."
"Walk where?"
"See that line of rocks? That's the edge of a small
ravine. The shacks are down there. How about me going
on down there alone?"
"No. What time is it?"
"Eleven-thirty."
"Only that?"
We walked to the rocks.
"Look," Mike said. But I had already seen—Tray was
leading the way. As we drew near, we saw a break be-
tween the rocks and a flight of rough-hewn steps leading
down. Tray waited at the top of the steps, watching us.
I knew I was right to come.
"Have you been here before, Mike?"
"No. Never had a reason before."
There were perhaps a dozen shacks scattered along
the ravine. Some of them were falling into ruin, some
boarded up like houses whose tenants have gone away.
Only one showed signs of habitation; its sagging door
was propped open, and a wisp of smoke curled from a
make-shift chimney. There was no filth, no litter; there


28 The Honse
was no sound but the wind, our footsteps on the stone,
and Tray's padding feet.
An old man came to the door of the open shack. He
stood in the shadow of his doorway, an old, old man,
bent like the dwarf trees. The hand he raised to halt
us was brown and thin like the twigs.
"Are we trespassing, sir?" Mike asked.
There was no answer. The brown hand reached for
the door, to close it
.
I spoke quickly. "Please let me talk to you. I'm look-
ing for someone who knew my father. His name was
Ford. Did you know him?"
"No, I did not."
"Do you know the dog?"
"I have seen the dog before. What do you want?"
"My father is dead. I know he used to come here;
he had a friend or friends here. I only want to talk to
someone who knew him."
"There is no one here now. Since a month or more
they are all gone." He spoke in a soft, tired voice, with
a trace of accent.
"Who were they?"
"Only men like myself."
Mike talked then, persuasively jingling the coins in
his pocket. "We'll be grateful for anything you can tell
us. If you've ever lost anyone, you know how the young
lady feels. There's no trouble behind this; it's all on the
up and up."
I said, "Please."
We were inspected from the shadows. We were meas-
•ured, labeled, and accepted. He said he knew nothing,
had seen little, that we were welcome to that little. "I
have nothing to sell," he said. He said an "outsider" had
come to the shacks one night in early spring. That was
the first visit, but later he had come often, sometimes
twice a week. He had never seen the man's face, but he
had seen the dog and heard the car as it entered the
field above.


The House 29
"Which shack?" Mike asked.
"The last one, at the far end. That is where the two
men lived."
The two men had lived there for several months. He
didn't know their names. They kept to themselves and
spoke little. Sometimes at night when he went out to
gather firewood, he walked to the far end of the ravine.
If the dog was there, he knew he would hear three
voices in the last shack. Sometimes the lamp burned
late. They had hot food in there; he could smell it.
Sometimes there was wine; he saw the empty bottles in
the morning. Sometimes there were laughing and sing-
ing. The dog guarded the door and paced the ravine.
Sometimes the dog barked; sometimes he prowled
among the rocks. Sometimes he bayed the moon.
"Now they are all gone," he said. "All."
Mike said, "Thank you. Did you see them go? I mean
the two who lived there?"
No, he hadn't seen them go. They must have gone at
night, when he was asleep. Perhaps to the south, where
it was warm. One of them was sick; he sat in the sun
when the days were fine, shivering.
When we asked if we could visit the shack, he nodded.
It was clean, he said. He had gone there himself, to
forage, when the others went away. It was clean and
ready for the next men who needed it, whoever they
might be. "When the snow comes," he said, "the men
come. One, two, or three. Sometimes more. No names,
no questions. Then in the spring they try the world
again."
He wouldn't take money.
Tray followed us to the last shack, but he refused to
enter it. It was unlocked. The single room was damp and
cold. It held two chairs, a table, a stove, and a bed. A
fire was laid in the stove, ready for the snow and the
next men. Twigs and scraps of paper, bits of coal and
dried moss. Nothing spoke of Father.


30 The Honse
I thought of his bedroom with its shining grate and
deep, soft chairs. I saw our dining room, the round table
covered with lace, the silver that was too heavy for my
hands when I was a child, the covered dishes holding
rich food, presented by Tench. Tench, in his fine black
coat. I saw the trays that went to Fathers room and
were returned untouched.
I tried to see him as he must have looked when he
sat at that stained table with a bottle before him, talk-
ing to people whose names I didn't know. Laughing.
Singing. Out of his mind?
"Well, have you got the picture?" Mike asked.
"I have a picture," I said.
"I know I don't have to warn you, but keep this little
jaunt under your hat. What your mother doesn't know
won't hurt her." His arm went around my shoulder. "It's
old stuff, Issy, as old as life. Look it in the eye and forget
it. He was sick—think of it that way. He was disap-
pointed in himself; that's a disease from which nobody's
immune. I don't know how he got that way or why, but
that's the answer. The poor devils who lived here had
nothing; that's why he liked them—he could give them
things. Nobody could give him anything, he had it all,
he was born with it. He—I don't know—he had it all and
he was fed up. When the others went away, he simply
decided to go, too—his way. That's not so crazy as it
sounds. He knew you and your mother would be all
right. He figured you didn't need him. Don't blame him;
you don't know how your own mind will behave when
you're his age."
I knew how my mind was behaving then. "He never
gave me a chance to know him. He sent me awav when
I was six; he kept me away until I was grown. Then he
brought me back, to a house that was strange and par-
ents I hardly knew. Why?"
"I don't know. Stop thinking about it."


The House 31
"He wanted me to think about it; he knew what he
was doing. He brought me back and pretended he had
plans for me. He gave me the house and made me prom-
ise to live in it. He knew what he was going to do. He
knew he was going to kill himself and haunt me the
rest of my days. He wanted me to think, and wonder,
and reason it out, and find no answer. No reason, no
answer, that's what he wanted. He wanted me to be
Marsh Ford's daughter, walking alone as he drove alone.
Marsh Ford's daughter, his counterpart, for all the world
to see and recognize and wonder about. But I'm the one
who's doing the wondering. Mike, did he hurt me be-
cause he hated me?"
"He didn't hate you. Nobody does. Nobody can."
"Somebody does. Every day since I've been home,
every hour, I feel two minds like two pairs of hands,
pulling me in opposite directions. Two pairs of eyes,
watching me from different places. One is for me, the
other against. Is one of them myself? I listen at doors.
I take sentences apart and look for hidden meanings. I
try to question Mrs. Tench about my childhood. Could
I have hurt my father when I was a child? Is that why
he, why I—" I stopped because of his miserable face.
"Never mind, Mike. I was only talking. That was hurt
talk, it doesn't mean anything. I was only—"
"Blowing your top?"
"That's it. Can't we go now? I've seen all I wanted
to see. And I do thank you, Mike."
"Sure we can go. Where to? Lunch? The club has
music on Thursdays."
Thursday. Until that minute I had forgotten it was
Thursday. Thursday, the one day in the week when I
could be alone in the house, the only day, and I had
never taken advantage of it. Standing with Mike in that
miserable shack, I began to make my plans.
They had no definite form, not then. They were plans
for an afternoon of freedom; for thinking, for wandering,


The House 33
changed at "once into a smile. "Oh, dear, that yellow
frock! Really, Isobel, I do think—"
"I'm not in mourning," I said. "Not any more. Please,
Mother."
"You mean it depresses you?"
* "Yes, Mother."
"So that has been your trouble. I wish you had told
me before. How was your drive? Was it fun? Did you
see anyone we know?"
"No, Mother. We kept to the country lanes because
we had Tray with us."
Anna, handing me salad, knocked the wooden spoon
to the floor.
"Anna," Mother said, "we'll serve ourselves. You
needn't wait. And tell Tench I want the car at three.
Also, I expect you to be ready to leave when I am, all
of you. No more of that silly quarreling, or sulking, or
whatever it was that I heard this morning. I've a thou-
sand small errands today and too little time for them.
Three o'clock, Anna." She returned to her envelopes and
penciled notes.
I watched a column of small, neat figures grow and
mentally rehearsed the first lie I had ever told her.
Mother, Mrs. Barnaby wants me for dinner tonight. She
sent word by Mike. I'd love to go. The cousins won't
miss me. Please say yes.
Mother added, frowned, and added again. She jabbed
and dug, crossed out and rewrote, until the pencil broke
between her firm little fingers and she flung it aside.
"Let it go," she said. "I don't like summing up." She was
laughing at herself, quietly. I couldn't laugh then.
"Will this help?" I slid the gold pencil across the table.
At first she didn't recognize it. "No, but thank you,
dear. I'm afraid nothing can help me. I'd hoped to find
a new fur coat at the bottom of that column, but it looks
as though I must wait a month or two." Then: "My dear
child, wasn't that your father's?"


34 The Honse
"Yes. It was a present from me. He lost it and I found
it.
"Then by all means use the pretty thing if it gives you
pleasure. Isobel, you'll change your frock before we
leave, won't you? I understand, but the poor cousins,
you know, might not."
I told my He. "Mother, Mrs. Barnaby wants me for
dinner tonight. She sent word by Mike." I told it easily
and elaborately. "The cousins won't miss me. It's you
they really want."
"It's you Lucy Barnaby wants!" She sat with her chin
cupped in her hands. "Lucy Barnaby thinks I'm a selfish
mother; she's as transparent as a child. And she knows
quite well this is our evening at the cousins'. Isobel, shall
we give a little dinner ourselves and show old Lucy
Barnaby I'm not a jailer?"
"I don't know, Mother. But she asked me there for
tonight. I'd love to go."
"Oh, that! Yes, of course you may go. My poor little
girl, does a small thing like that please you so much?"
I had reached out and taken her hand. "I've been
lonely," I said. That was all I dared to say, and it was
true.
"I know. I've watched you and grieved for you." She
said nothing of her own grief and her sleepless nights.
"And I know you miss your little friends at school. We
brought you home to a strange house, my dear, but your
father wanted it so."
"I'd like to give the house to you, Mother."
"Give it? This house? To me? My dear child, you are
very generous and sweet, but it isn't yours to give, not
yet. Not until your birthday. We'll wait and see how we
feel about it then. Now!" She reached for the gold
pencil. "For the present, a little party, en famille. Why
didn't I think of that before? It's high time we gave some
thought to you, conventions to the contrary. I never did
believe in outward mourning, but the poor cousins—


The House 35
However, I can talk them over to my way of thinking.
The prospect of an unexpected dinner—" She was both
laughing and sober. "I think I need this little party, too.
It will give me something to do."
"Yes, Mother."
"A pretty table, cards later, perhaps a little music.
Tomorrow? Yes, tomorrow. Why wait? I can see the
cousins' faces I" She rolled the pencil between her fin-
gers. Her eyes clouded. "I haven't seen this for weeks,"
she said sofdy. "It hurts. He always carried it. I thought
he had it with him when—"
"No. I found it."
"So you told me." The new mood left as the old one
returned. She moved envelopes about the table as if they
were cards. She drank her coffee in sips, as if it were
the evening port. She was back in the circular room,
on that night, waiting and watching the windows. I
wanted to cry for the pain she was hiding from me.
"The dinner, Mother," I said. "If it will tire you, don't
do it just for me."
She stood up slowly, gathering her envelopes, not re-
turning the pencil. "I'm doing it for myself, too," she
said. "Don't forget that." She touched my cheek as she
passed my chair. "Give Lucy Barnaby my love. IH send
her a note in the morning." She walked firmly from the
room.
The rest of the day and the early evening would be
mine, in an empty house. I was planning, alone, when
Anna came into the dining room.
Anna came to clear the table, too quickly. I knew she
had been listening at the service door. She was wearing
her holiday hat, to prove that she was early and every-
one else was late. Her eyes were red. "You didn't eat
anything," she said. "You messed your food around the
plate. That fools your mother, but it don't fool me.
There's people in this world that would give their lives
for what you waste. You're the same as somebody else


36
The House
I could mention but won't. Well, I'm ready to start, but
I don't see anybody else. No names, of course."
"Is anything wrong in the kitchen, Anna?"
"Wrong? What did she say to you about me after she
sent me out of the room?"
"If you mean my mother, she said only what you
heard yourself. Have you and Mrs. Tench had a quar-
rel?"
"Quarrel? Me? I never quarrel. Ada Tench is a sec-
ond cousin on my father's side, and I never let myself
forget it. But I have rights like anybody else. I have my
own work, and I do it. I don't ask anybody to do it for
me. Ada may be my senior and twenty dollars a month
more, but I don't need her help*
"What help, Anna?"
"Who brings your breakfast when you sleep late? I
do. Did I bring it this morning? I didn't. Why? You ask
me that one. Why? I don't want to say anything unless
I'm asked outright."
"But I know why. Mrs. Tench said you were worried
about Tray."
"Worried! That's like her. I was having hysterics, if
you call that worried. I was out of my mind, and she
threatened to slap me in the face. Ada. She said if I so
much as opened my big mouth again, I'd get fired. But
I won't get fired, because I'm not talking. You didn't
happen to hear me having hysterics?"
"No. Anna, will you give me some coffee, please?"
She filled my cup, her hand shaking, and leaned
against the table. Anna is a tall, thin woman with hun-
gry, craving eyes, unlike Mrs. Tench in every way. She
should have married and had children to spoil. Sick
children. She collects young animals. Her kittens and
lame squirrels overrun the stable. She has a cage of
fallen birds in her room at the cottage. I don't know
how she finds so many.


The Honse 37
"Anna, Mrs. Tench said you were upset because Tray
wouldn't eat his breakfast. Is that your trouble? Is that
what you want me to ask you?"
'There, you did it! You askedl You wanted to know
about your own breakfast, and I had to tell you!" She
sat in my mother's chair, forgetting herself. "Miss Isobel,
when did you ever see hamburger in this house?" The
words were absurd, but the look on her face wasn't. She
was frightened. "If you make fun of me—"
"No, Anna, no. Don't look like that. I missed you this
morning, and I'm glad you're talking to me now. What *
do you mean?"
"If you laugh-"
"I won't laugh, I promise. I never laugh at odd things.
Something odd happened this morning, didn't it, and
Mrs. Tench doesn't want you to tell me?"
She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and
whispered. "Listen. You listen. I've been watching you
this past month. You can't fool me, I've known you too
long. I've been watching you for longer than a month,
and I know you've been asking yourself questions in
your mind the same as I have. You don't talk to any-
body; you keep to yourself; but you do your thinking
just the same. Now that's all I'm going to say about that.
I'm not supposed to have good sense, according to some
people, but I can see things, can't I? Now you listen.
You remember that morning?"
"Which morning?" But I knew.
"You know. After your father. That one. You remem-
ber about the bowl and the chain and the fresh meat?"
"I remember."
"Did you ever think to do anything about that bowl
and chain?"
"No. Why should I?"
"Did you think that dog walked into the five-and-ten
with his money in his mouth and said to the girl, 'Please
give me a water bowl and a nice chain, I got to tie


88 The House
myself up in the stable tonight because they think I'm
burned alive'? Do you think that?"
"I told you what happened, Anna. Someone found the
dog on the road and brought him back. And took care
of him."
"Who did?"
"I don't know. Perhaps one of the poor men down in
the shacks. My father used to visit them. Did you know
that?"
"I heard it."
"He was sorry for them. He gave them food and
talked to them. Maybe one of them took care of Tray."
"Did one of them ever come forward and tell you
so? That kind always comes forward; they want credit
for a good deed. Credit and the hand stretched out to
take it in cash."
"I'm only guessing, Anna. Anyone could have done it.
Tray's name and address are on his license plate."
"Have it your own way. You could be right and you
couldn't. I won't argue that. But let's hear you guess this
one. You remember the night I locked that dog in the
kitchen because the passage was cold? I did it out of
pure kindness. I locked that door myself. Tench himself
locked the windows earlier, like he always does. Every-
thing was locked, locked, locked. And then what? Then
in the morning himself is still locked in, but his coat
is soaking wet and he's got sand and gravel on his feet.
Remember that?"
I drew back as far as I dared, pushed my chair away
from the table. It was an old story but a new terror.
Her hps were dry, and she drank the water from my
mother's glass. "Don't go," she whispered. "I haven't fin-
ished. You can't go yet."
I won t.
"Listen. Now I'm coming to it. I give him a bowl of
milk every morning. He always had it before; your father


The House 39
said he was to have it. I used to send it up to your
father's room, and he had it there. So now I give it to
him myself, in the kitchen. He comes for it; he knows
it's there. Well, this morning he didn't come. I called
him, and he didn't come. Then I went to look for him.
I thought he was dead or something, I thought some-
body'd poisoned him at last. But he wasn't dead. He was
sleeping in the furnace room, and he'd already had his
breakfast. Some of it was still there, on the stone floor.
Hamburger, raw, fresh. Good chopped round, good
enough to cook and eat yourself. What's your guess
about that, Miss Isobel? We haven't had any chopped
meat in this house for weeks. Where did he get it? Did
he walk out of the house again, it being locked, and go
to the chain butcher with his money in his mouth and
say, T want some chopped round, please'? Five miles
there and five miles back?"
He-he found it?"
"Where is there any place to find it?"
"The Barnabys' cook—"
"No, I asked. I went over there myself and put it to
that woman. I made her swear. They don't have any
hamburger either. Fresh meat that you could eat your-
self."
"It dropped out of a car, Anna. Anna, you've got to
clear the table, it's getting late."
"Late? I'm ready. Listen. You know what I think?"
Her face was as white as paper. "You remember how
your father was, Miss Isobel? He wouldn't eat what we
brought him half the time. Like the dog. But he didn't
starve either. Like the dog. He got his food from some-
where else, too, only he didn't leave it around for people
to find. You know what I think? I think your father's
soul entered that dog." She covered her face with her
hands.
I leaned forward and watched the tears trickle
through her fingers. I didn't know my own voice when


40 The House
I heard it. I was whispering as she had. "I dare you tell
that to your priest, Anna."
She uncovered her face, and we looked deep into
each others eyes.
"I dare you. I dare you tell that to your priest."
"Do you want me to burn? I can't tell, I can't tell."
"I dare you."
"IH lose my own soul. IH lose my faith. I've lost it."
"Tell him and see what he says. Then tell me. I want
to know what he says."
"Hell say I'm lost."
"Ask him. Tell him. He may only say you're crazy."
We drowned in each other's eyes.
She said, "Are we?"
After lunch I sat in the circular room and waited for
three o'clock. I sat in the circular room and held a piece
of embroidery in my hands, an old-fashioned piece,
clamped between wooden hoops. My convent work, dis-
arming work, suitable to a loved and sheltered child.
The bright silk skeins were on the table, my little stork
scissors were beside the silk. I wore my gold thimble.
I knew how I would look to anyone who passed the open
door.
I knew what would happen at three. I knew the rou-
tine of the Thursday holiday. At three, Tench and Mrs.
Tench and Anna would drive Mother to the village.
They would call for her when they returned from town,
late. The servants would shop, but this time Anna would
slip away from the others. She would have a suitable
excuse, and she would shop, too, for the sake of appear-
ances. Anna would buy another kind of face cream, and
Tench and Mrs. Tench would buy another savings bond.
They believe in the future; they talk about it when they
sit in their cottage at night. I've heard them, when I've
stood under their window on the nights when I couldn't
sleep.


42 The Honse
nice," she said. "There's nothing more becoming to a
woman's hands than needlework. My love to Mike, and
don't stay too late."
I followed her to the front door. Mrs. Tench became
smaller in her allotted corner, Tench touched his cap,
Anna sat upright and stared ahead. They drove away.
I closed the door and leaned against it. The house
was empty. For the first time in a month, I was alone
in the house. I was surrounded by open doors, I was
facing a stairway that led to other doors, both open and
closed. I was free to trace my life from room to room,
to read the record of my years in the pictures on the
old playroom wall, in the white nursery furniture that
was stored in one of the closed rooms. I told myself I
would look for what I had lost, or never had. But I didn't
know where to begin.
I remembered the Christmas morning before I went
away to school. I was six. I didn't know I was going
away. Father led me to the playroom door. It had been
closed for two days, but I knew my tree and presents
were inside, waiting. I could hear a music box. I told him
I had heard it once before, when he had gone into the
room with a package under his arm and closed the door
behind him. When I said that, he looked at me for a
long time without speaking. His eyes were grave; I
thought I had offended him. I remember what he said,
stooping to look into my face: "Always open doors when
you hear music."
Remember, remember.
The house was empty. I could go up or down. I could
sleep or read or sew. I could go down to the cottage by
the stable and look at Mrs. Tench's flowers. I could go
to Mother's room and handle the jars and bottles on her
dressing table, open her wardrobe, touch the soft, light
dresses she never wore now. I could go to Father's room
and change the water in the bowl of red carnations. I
could look through his desk and remember to leave it


The House 43
as I found it, the right things in the right pigeonholes,
the ivory paper knife on the left-hand corner of the
blotter, the writing case in the center, the top letter on
top.
I went up the stairs.
Mother had left her door open. I told myself to re-
member that when I was ready to leave. She had dressed
hurriedly; I could follow her progress from bath to
wardrobe, to chest and table. Black-bordered handker-
chiefs had been unfolded and discarded; hats, slippers,
and veils. The dress she had worn at lunch was lying
on a chair, one sleeve torn from the shoulder. I touched
nothing. She values privacy; no one is allowed to touch
her things; she is always present when Anna cleans.
Anna.
When I frightened Anna at lunch, I knew what I was
doing. I wanted to frighten her. I wanted her to talk, I
led her carefully; she said what I wanted her to say.
I'd been waiting for someone to say that
There was a heap of torn paper in the bottom of
Mother's wastebasket, letters and envelopes from lunch-
time reduced to shreds. I stirred them, turning up figures
and words. Bills, and a draft of her shopping list; food
for the party dinner. Lobster, wine, an item I couldn't
read; my name, torn across, old Mrs. Barnaby's name fol-
lowed by a question mark. Five thousand dollars with a
line drawn through it. A heavy line. The words and
figures told me why she had dressed in a hurry. Calculat-
ing and planning, she had forgotten the time.
I thought: Five thousand dollars for a new fur coat?
I can give her that.
I went to the wardrobe and stroked the garnet and
turquoise dresses on their scented hangers. They were
separated from the dead, dull black by a transparent
curtain. When she reached for the black, she could see
the pretty colors waiting.
-


44 The House
I went to Father's room.
I sat in the chair beside his bed and counted the days
I had known him. I began with the year I was six.
Always open doors when you hear music. Now I am
nearly twenty-one. I counted. In all that time I had
known him for less than a year. I had been with him and
talked to him less than a year.
He gave me this house and said he had plans for me,
but he sent me from the room and locked the door. He
said I was much on his mind, but he spent his last
hours with strangers.
I went to his desk. I forgot to watch the clock that
kept time for no one.
He left very little behind him when he went away. A
few photographs of boys at school, grown boys with
oddly wistful faces, posed against stone steps and ivied
walls. They wore lettered jerseys and small caps and
held their tennis rackets stiffly. He could have been one
of them. A handful of yellowing letters from people I
had never heard of, asking him to look them up when he
went to Boston or New York. A small bundle of notes
from Mother, written on violet paper. A letter from me.
I could remember writing it. That was my first summer
at the convent, when I was still six.
I wrote it secretly, without help, late at night by
candlelight, and another child crouched at the foot of
my cot and watched me with round, hopeful eyes. The
other child was an orphan, a charity pupil; we were not
supposed to know that, but I knew. She and I were the
only children who stayed at the convent that summer,
and I was boasting. I was not an orphan, I lived in a
big house, almost as big as the convent. I spent my holi-
days at school because I wanted to. I could go home to
my big house and never come back to the convent if I
wanted to.
I boasted about my mother, who was beautiful, and
my father, who gave me presents at Christmas. The


The Honse 45
music box, singing behind a closed door on Christmas
morning. She refused to believe me. She believed in the
house and my father and mother, but she said Christmas
was an orange.
That was when I wrote my letter, triumphantly, while
the soft summer night filled our little room with fra-
grance and the candle flickered. "My dear father, Please
send me a Christmas for Katy. Your loving daughter
Isobel."
He had kept it. Well, I had kept his answer too. It
was in my own desk, locked away. "My dear daughter,
I cannot send you a Christmas for Katy; they are not in
season. But when the proper times comes, I will not
fail you. Father."
Old letters, not new ones. Mother's notes, written be-
fore they were married and progressing from "My dear
Mr. Ford" to "My darling Marsh."
"My dear Mr. Ford, Your roses have made my room
a garden. . . ."
"My dear Mr. Ford, The cousins ask me to thank you
for the opera tickets. A rare treat for them and one that
will give boundless pleasure. And the carriage! They
had worried, a tiny bit, about the long trip to town and
back, but I told them you would think of that, too.
You see, I am beginning to know you! . . ."
"Darling Marsh, When I said I liked candied violets,
I mean a very little box! What will I do with five whole
pounds? Eat them, every one, and think of you! . . ."
"Darling, darling, I cannot let you give me those
sapphires. Not yet. They are much too grand for my
present position, and I will be talked about. But, oh,
how I want them. Darling, if I wear them under my
pillow until the engagement is announced, do you sup-
pose— Please don't tell the cousins! . . ."
"My darling Marsh, You misunderstood me. I was ret-
icent because I have been taught that a woman does


46 The Honse
not discuss such things before marriage. If I gave a
wrong impression, dear Marsh, it was because I spoke
from convention, not from my heart . I want children.
Why do you think I love that great enormous house?
Do you understand?"
In the last envelope there was an old photograph of
the great enormous house. Some of the pines were not
fully grown, the turrets were clear against the sky, the
creeper had not reached the narrow windows. The
shrubbery along the drive was low and clipped; sun lay
in patches on smooth, trim grass. Grass, not moss and
leaves. But even then it prophesied. There were no
figures on the veranda, no signs of life or work or play.
No chairs to lounge in, no garden hat beneath a tree,
no open book face down, no sprawling doll, waiting.
I do not believe in ghosts.
Even now, this minute, in my own room, in the dark,
I would say those words out loud if I dared. But this
afternoon, in Father's room, little Katy came back to
me for a second time and brought another child with
her. I stood before Father's desk, looking at the photo-
graph, and Katy walked across my mind, hand in hand
with another child. Their heads were close together,
and they were whispering. I knew they were telling
stories; I knew they were coming to find me as they
found me long ago.
They were not ghosts, only children I used to know,
come to talk to me again. They were a summer after-
noon in a convent garden, restored and resurrected by
Kary's Christmas letter. Their little footsteps echoed in
the room; their whispers rustled.
They were telling a story about a house. I looked at
my house in the photograph and remembered. A shadow
moved across the room. It was only a branch that bent
to the window. I told myself the story was childish non-
sense. I told myself it was a nursery legend. I put it out
of my mind.


The Honse 47
I opened the window and watched the November wind
rush in and lift the valance on the bed. The red carna-
tions swung like pendulums, the door slammed. I hardly
heard it. I circled the room and talked. "This is good-
bye," I said clearly. "If you hear me, this is good-bye.
Tomorrow we're opening the house to other people, and
you'll have to go. I'm warning you. I'm going to live
without you from now on. I'll give your things away,
all of them; I won't come here again until you have
gone for good. I'm sorry."
I went to the wardrobe and turned the handles with
both hands. The double doors swung open.
The smell of her Turkish cigarette was heavy and
fresh. I could have been facing her, talking to her. Not
talking to him, to her. I saw his limp clothes hanging
from the rods and two empty hangers in a gaping space.
I thought I saw the heavy blue smoke curl to meet me.
That was imagination; there was nothing to be afraid of,
nothing.
She had gone there, as she often did, to brood and
wonder. I have seen her at night with a candle in her
hand, moving along the halls. This time she had gone in
daylight, drawn by conscience. She'd told him we were
cutting ourselves free. So we both had told him.
When I turned to leave, I saw the candle wax on the
wardrobe floor. Not one drop, but an accumulation, one
on top of another, old and new. I stooped. The old
drops were white and dusty, and the new were yellow
and clean.
I have never seen a yellow candle in this house; but
there is nothing to be afraid of, nothing. Not yet.
I closed the window, bruising my hands, and left the
room. In Mother's bathroom I looked for a lotion to rub
on my hands, but she never labels anything and I don't
like unlabeled bottles.
There was nothing to be afraid of, nothing. I told my-
self I was acting and thinking like a child, caught in the


48 The House
net of a child's story. Legend, folklore, nursery^ dra-
matics. A Scotch nanny, whiling away a rainy afternoon,
making up a story as she went along, not knowing it
would travel as it did, across the ocean to a convent
garden. I put the story out of my mind again.
The day was growing dark. I ran downstairs and out
of the house. I called Tray, but he didn't come. The sky
was fading at the end of the driveway. I went to the
old stable, looking for Tray. He wasn't there. It was
warm and dusky in the stable. Anna's cat came to meet
me, arching her back like a witch's cat. She had a pan
of milk, half full. Anna never forgets.
Anna must have thrown away the chain and bowl.
Mrs. Tench has a flower garden in the summer. Tench
dug rows and beds and cut away the trees. Even in No-
vember, at dusk, the cottage stands in light. It looks as
if it stands in another country. I walked along the flower
beds; the rosebushes were wrapped in straw. Close to
the cottage, under the casement windows, a few chry-
santhemums were blooming. Pink. Hardy pink. Mrs.
Tench cuts them for her sitting room. I walked closer to
the cottage. Mrs. Tench says I am always welcome there.
She says I am welcome to the flowers when there are
any.
There were too few. I thought it would be like rob-
bing her. I walked under the windows, counting the
blooms. Mrs. Tench never locks the windows, she says
there is nothing in her house to tempt a thief. She thinks
Tray is a good watchdog.
I called Tray again. Today was the first day since—
the first day I have had to call him. Today, this after-
noon, there were no pattering feet behind me.
I unlatched one of the sitting-room windows. Mrs.
Tench is a good housekeeper. In the dusk I could see the
white antimacassars on the big plush chairs. Mrs. Tench
likes big furniture, dark and solid. Her table lamp is


The Honse 49
hung with prisms and has a hand-painted shade. She
painted the shade herself, when she was a young girl.
I moved on, around the cottage, counting the chrysan-
themums. There were still too few. On the western side
I came to Anna's room. On that side the sky was streaked
with green and orange, but her room was dark because
the windows were filmed with dust. Last night's rain
had beat against the windows and set the dust.
Anna, I thought, is not a good housekeeper. I rubbed
the dust away with my handkerchief, making a small,
clean circle. I made another and another, and soon the
pane was clear. After that, I opened the window and
dusted the inside.
Anna's birds were quiet; too quiet. I hoped they were
asleep. But if she had forgotten to feed them, if they
were lying on the bottom of the cage, surrounded by
empty little cups—
I leaned over the sill. The cage was on a table less
than a yard away, and the birds were asleep on their
perches. I could almost reach them. The little cups were
full. I should have known they would be. Anna never
forgets a thing like that.
The black pool on the floor by the door was only
Anna's sweater. Anna had dressed in a hurry, too. It was
the old sweater, the one she wears over her head when
she runs between the cottage and the house.
If Anna could read my mind this minute, she would
cover her head with the sweater and scream. She is
superstitious; she believes in the supernatural. If a pic-
ture falls, or a cup breaks, Anna remembers that she
dreamed it would. After a thing has happened, she
shakes her head and says she saw it coming. This after-
noon, in Father's room, when little Katy returned with
the other child and I remembered the old story, I fore-
saw nothing. But if I were Anna instead of myself, if my
mind worked like Anna's—
Am I like Anna?


50 The Honse
It was only an old sweater on the floor. And the birds
were sleeping in their cage.
I was lying when I told myself I was worried about
the birds. I was acting a he when I cleaned the window
and opened it. The trip to the stable and the cottage
was a he. I went because I wanted to see Anna's pic-
tures.
Her walls are covered with holy pictures, madonnas
and saints. She talks to them and says they give her com-
fort. I leaned on the sill and tried to see the patient
faces through the dusk.
The sky was dark when I left the cottage. There were
lights in the Barnabys' living room, one window was
raised. Not much, not more than an inch or two, but it
was enough. I know the pattern of their lives: tea at
four-thirty, talk until dinner. Talk. I moved along the
hedge to the place where I had made a little window
for myself long ago. Long? A month ago.
Every evening they talked before dinner, old Mrs.
Barnaby, young Joe, and Mike. "What did you do to-
day? What will you do tomorrow?" I saw the birchwood
fire, the ragged sheets of music, on the open piano, the
uncleared tea table, the light that flashed from Mrs.
Barnaby's diamonds.
"Unwholesome," Mrs. Barnaby said. "But what do you
think you can do about it?"
"Plenty." That was Mike. "And I'm doing it from now
on. What do you know about psychiatry, Lucy?"
"Nothing, thank the Lord. I've had a fine, rowdy
life."
"It shows, too." Young Joe.
"You had one allowance cut last week, my boy. Don't
let your tongue make you a pauper. As I say, I've had a
fine life and all the money a decent woman needs. I
brought up my own children, and I'm bringing up theirs.
I try to see the bright side; when I can't see it, I look for
it. I look and look and look and look."


52 The House
except us. And too little of us. Mama played cards alone,
drank port alone, and entertained her buzzard relatives.
Papa took to his bed in the daytime and drank God
knows what in Shantytown at night. Accompanied by
man's best friend, his dog—and I'll take a werewolf.
Daughter begins to wonder if she's a leper, and why
not? Then, to make it stick, to round it out, the old
man pats her on the head, tells her the house is hers,
waves good-bye, and bumps himself off. She says he
haunts her, she says he won't go away. How do you
cure that?"
"Time will do it if anything can. I think she's sound."
"I know she is."
"Do you want to marry her, Mike?"
"Yes, Lucy."
"IH reset your mother's ring. . . . Mike, there's some-
thing in this room! I feel eyes, Mike. There's something
in this room, I tell you!"
"There's nothing here, Lucy. And if you're thinking
about Issy, she went to the cousins'."
I went back to my dark house and entered by the
kitchen. I wasn't hungry. That was fortunate, because
Mrs. Tench and Anna watch the food. I sat in the kitchen
and watched the Barnabys' lights. After dinner they
would go their separate ways, Joe to his room in the
attic, Mike to his room on the second floor. Joe would
study, and Mike would do accounts. He looks after the
estate. Old Mrs. Barnaby would read for an hour, then
go to bed. Her bedroom light would be my signal. When
I saw it, I would telephone Mike. I'd say, "I want to see
you, Mike, I want to tell you something." When he
came, I'd tell him Mother thought I had been dining
with them.
"I had odds and ends of things to do," I'd say. I'd
make him believe me. "Personal things. But Mother
doesn't like me to be alone, so do explain to your grand-
mother, will you? Oh, yes, you're going to have a sur-


54 The House
"Where are you, Issy? What's up?"
I told him I was home. "Mike, I want to see you."
"What's wrong? You sound funny. Why aren't you
at the cousins'?"
"Nothing's wrong. Mike, can you slip out for a few
minutes?"
"Sure. Right away. Where?"
"That old cedar tree with the bench around it."
"On my way."
I went back to the kitchen and turned out the single
light. When the others came home, they would find
everything in order. Mike and I, in the double darkness
of the night and the old cedar, would see the car when it
turned in at the drive. We would meet them on the
veranda, properly, saying the right things. "Good-night,
Issy, it was nice having you come to dinner." "Good-
night, Mike, and thanks for everything."
That was how I planned, standing in the dark kitchen
at nine o'clock, before I went to meet him. That was
what we said, too, when he brought me home at eleven,
and we stood in the empty, lighted hall and challenged
the house with words. Good-night. Good-night. We
warned the house that I had returned. We tried to let
it know what we had seen. We raised our voices and
made them strong and sent them up the stairs like
hostages.
It was a few minutes after nine when I locked the
kitchen door and went out to the tree.
"I'm crazy about this," Mike said, "even if I can't see
my hand before my face. I don't know what's on your
mind, but we ought to be burying a body. Are you con-
vulsed with laughter or shivering?"
"Neither. Mike, will you watch for the car and walk
back with me when they come? I want Mother to see
US.
"Do you mean to say we aren't getting away with
anything?"


The Honse 55
"Oh, we are! Mother thinks I had dinner with you!"
I began the carefully rehearsed story, filling in the weak
spots when his silence told me they were there. "The
cousins," I went on. "Not today, I simply couldn't face
it. So if your grandmother—"
"Okay, she'll lie for you this time. She'll overdo it, of
course, the same way you're overdoing it now. On the
level, why did you want to stay homeP
"I told you, Mike. I had odds and ends of things to
do, and I didn't want a lot of fuss made about my din-
ner. Mother was perfectly agreeable. She understood; I
don't see why you can't. Now here's the really important
thing. Mother wants you all for dinner tomorrow. The
cousins, too—not much fun for you and Joe, but much,
much better than nothing at all. It was her own idea, too.
I still can't believe it."
"I'm having a little trouble that way myself. Is that
all you had to tell me, Issy?"
"That's all. You see, everything's going to be all right
from now on. Mother even laughed at lunch."
"I hope she did a better job than you're doing."
"Mike! Oh, yes, I nearly forgot, there is something
else. Talking about lunch made me remember. It's Tray
again, Tray and Anna. You know how she is about an-
imals. Now she has some fantastic notion—" The planned
speech, casual, carelessly spaced, better than the first
one, much better.
His face was a pale blur, close to mine in the dark.
He let me finish without an interruption. Then he said,
"Chopped meat? How exciting! Sure, 111 fix it. Maybe
it was Joe. But aren't you a httle tense about the whole
thing? You know Anna is bats."
"She is, isn't she? She doesn't like Tray, she's afraid of
him. By the way, have you seen him around? He seems
to be missing."
"Again? Don't worry, he'll show up. Is that what you
were doing down at the stable? Looking for Tray?"


56 The Honse
"Yes, that's what I was doing."
"Well, don't worry, he—oops, sorry." He was looking
over my shoulder, toward the house. "We're going to be
a little late, but I can fix that, too."
"Late? Who? Late for what?"
"I forgot to watch for the car. They're home."
"Car? I don't see it."
"Neither do I, but look." He turned me around to face
the house.
There was a light in one of the windows, a small, yel-
low light behind the trees, high in the house, high in the
trees. One light.
We turned to look at the stable; it was dark. The cot-
tage was dark. The distant road, the driveway, the house,
all dark. Except—
We raised our eyes to the one small light.
"Issy, whose room is that?"
"The house is empty."
"Someone came home alone, before the others."
"How?"
"Cab. We must have missed it."
"You know we didn't miss it." The small light moved,
from the left to the right, high in the trees, as if a hand
had hung it there.
"Whose room is that, Issy?"
"The house is empty and locked. I have my keys."
"I say whose room is that? What is that window?"
"I don't know. It's too high. I can't see. It's hidden
in the trees." When people whisper slowly, their words
sound like pebbles dropping into deep water.
"Somebody didn't go, that's it. Somebody put one over
on you. Somebody didn't go, or else came back while
you were down at the stable. That's it."
"I saw them go, Mike. All four. No wonder I heard the
house hold its breath."
"You heard the house what? Easy does it, baby, easy.


The Honse 57
Here comes the car. Now you'll see, now you'll know
I m right. Somebody came home early."
The car turned in at the drive. We watched it crawl
beneath the trees and stop at the veranda steps. Some-
one left the driver's seat and crossed the path of the
headlights. Tench. One of them. One. Tench. He opened
the door, and the ceiling light finished the count. Anna
on the front seat. Anna. Two. Mrs. Tench and Mother,
three and four. All four, all of them.
We lifted our eyes to the hidden window high in the
trees. The light went out.
"Whose room is that?"
"I don't know, I don't know."
"Your wiring's off, that's the answer. Joe said he saw—"
"What did he see?"
"He said he saw that light last week, and I called him
a liar."
I told him then.
The car crawled down to the stable, and the night
was black again. The cottage came to life and sank into
darkness.
"When I was about seven, I think it was seven, a child
at school told me a story. It was about a house and a
room—"
I told him about the monster.


PART TWO
w
T T h
HEN we left the garden last night, we knew
what we must do the next day.
It is afternoon of that day. I am waiting again, but
this time I am not afraid, because Mike and Joe will be
here in a little while. Mike, Joe, Mrs. Barnaby, the
cousins.
Breakfast and lunch are behind me. In two hours,
more or less, the party will begin. I know every move we
will make afterward. Mike and Joe and I will go to the
old playroom to see my music box. They will make it
convincing.
I talked to everyone in the house this morning, a few
words to each. I went where they were and watched
what they were doing. That was my idea, not Mike's.
When I went to the kitchen, Tray was leaving, and
I met him face to face. He stood aside to let me pass.
"Good-morning, Tray, I've missed you."
Mrs. Tench was washing vegetables at the sink, and
Anna was drinking coffee at the worktable.
"Did you have a pleasant time yesterday, Anna?" I
asked. I wanted to know whether she had talked to her
priest.
She colored. "I did all right. The dog ate his break-
fast this morning, Miss Isobel, a nice bowl of milk." She
looked into her cup, not at me.
"He's an old fraud, Anna, don't worry about him. What
did you people do in town?"
58


The Honse 59
They had been together all the time, Mrs. Tench said.
She emphasized together. They had shopped together,
gone to the movies together, to buy a nice bond, to the
tearoom for the special blue-plate dinner. "Only it was
chipped white. A dollar fifty and not worth the fifty.
They can't fool me with their wilted lettuce, warm
vinegar on other people's leavings, and I told the woman
SO.
I said, "I had a good time, too. I came home late.
Everybody was in bed when I came home. Where's
Tench?"
"Out back." Mrs. Tench frowned. "What's on your
mind, Miss Isobel? You're a hen on a hot griddle.
"Where's Tench?' Out back washing the car, which is
what he always does on Friday morning, as you know.
You'll do well to go out yourself and have a nice walk."
"I'd like to help you. Is there anything I can do? I can
get the candles ready if you tell me the color you want."
"All done, Miss Isobel, but thank you."
"I hope we're using yellow. It's a warm color." Where
did the yellow wax on the floor of Father's closet come
from?
"Your mother wants white," Mrs. Tench said.
I left them talking for my benefit. I know how people
sound when they want to be overheard.
"Those lobsters look very nice and lively, don't they?"
Anna.
"The—oh, yes, to be sure they do. But you might give
them a poke. I like company; I like visitors and getting
out the best cloth and doing things pretty. We're going
to enjoy this, Anna. And Miss Isobel! It's a treat to see
her, taking an interest. And the madam! Well, they can't
grieve forever—he wouldn't want it so." Mrs. Tench low-
ered her voice. Tsst! Gone?"
"Wait. Sure, not a sound out there. Listen, you ought
to feel my heart, like a jumping jack. I was afraid you


60
The House
were going to give me away. Did you get a good look at
those eyes, Ada? Looking over the place, all over you
and me. In another minute I'd have hollered. And all
that talk, as if I didn't know what she was getting at. It
was me she came out here to see, on account of what
I said to her yesterday and she said to me. She was try-
ing to find out what I done. I certainly thank you for
not giving me away."
"You ought to know I wouldn't. I'm dying to know
what happened, myself. But what with Tench hanging
around, I couldn't ask. What did the priest say?"
"Read me the riot act. Skinned me alive. I got to go
back next week for more. Pray for the poor man's soul,
he says, and stop making a fool of yourself. He talked
terrible. Pray for the poor girl and her mother, he says,
and stop reading trashy books. You can't beat an edu-
cated priest for talk. Why didn't you tell her she left her
handkerchief in here last night? All over dirt from my
own windows. Anybody could see that."
"What's the good? She thinks we don't know. What
do you suppose she was doing?"
"What does she do when she stays up all night? I know
what a bed looks like when you don't sleep in it. And
what does the madam do when she walks all night? I
see that candle going past the windows at all hours, and
I clean up the grease and stubs, and she sees me doing
it, too, and don't say a word. One day it's a sin to laugh
and go a little party next door, and the next day it's a
party in your own house."
"There's all kinds of grief, Anna; it comes to every-
body in a different way. Sometimes people can't sleep for
thinking of the things they didn't do or say, and wish
they had. But it passes."
"Grief! Look back, Ada, I ask you, look back. They
never acted like other people. Sitting in the same room
together, eating at the same table, you'd think they were
strangers. And the girl was always odd, you know it.
Grief!"


The Honse 61
"Things might have been different if they'd had more
children. She was a nice little thing. Always smiling,
always saying please.' . . . Hush, did I hear some-
thing?"
"Only the dog sniffing in the passage. You see, you're
getting the same as me. You're hearing things and don't
know what they are."
I found Tench outside the stable.
"Good-morning, Miss Isobel."
"Good-morning, Tench. Did you have a pleasant time
yesterday?"
The old routine, Miss Isobel, the same as usual. And
yourself? Did the neighbors give you a fine dinner?"
"Oh, yes. We're being very gay, aren't we, Tench? A
dinner tonight, too. How long has it been since we gave
a dinner, Tench?"
"Now, I'd have to think about that. I doubt if I could
answer that right off. Were you wanting some of my
wife's flowers, Miss Isobel? You don't have to ask, you
know. I came across the foot-prints in the beds this
morning, so I figured it was flowers you were after. That
ground's soft, it shows up everything. You wait here,
111 get you some. You should have helped yourself."
I let him cut a few sprays and thanked him.
Mother was telephoning when I reached the library
door.
"I knew you'd agree, my dear Mrs. Barnaby—in fact,
it was you who opened my eyes. When I saw that pale
little face across the luncheon table, I was shocked. My
own child was a stranger to me, a pathetic stranger! . . .
But you think she looks well otherwise? ... No, nothing;
nothing that she will admit to. That frightens me a little
when I think of it; he was the same, you know. But not a
word of this to the cousins, Mrs. Barnaby. You and I
together, and of course dear Mike, will work wonders.
. . . Indeed we must. . . . Ah, here's my child now. Until
this evening, then."


62 The House
"Good-morning, Mother."
"Good-morning, dear. I missed you at breakfast. Nice
that you could oversleep again. Lucy Barnaby says she
is delighted; she sounded quite gay. And now I'm going
to scold you, darling, What was all the shouting in the
hall last night? High spirits?"
"I'm sorry, Mother. Did we wake you?"
"Of course you did. But I'm glad you had a happy
evening; my own was a little dull. The cousins found me
a large fowl with mushroom dressing. I persuaded them
to share it with me, but I fear they are regretting the
size." She was mischievous, twinkling. "Their mouths
were full of their own chicken when I told them about
our party. How their poor faces fell! Two good dinners
in succession, a smaller bird would have done just as
well. Are you looking for something, Isobel?"
"No, Mother."
"You seem—coiled. Tell me, what do you think of cards
after dinner? Bridge?"
"Why don't we wait, Mother? Perhaps Mrs. Barnaby
would rather talk. She hasn't seen the cousins recently."
"You may be right. Talk and a little music, but 111 put
out cards in any case."
She sent me away with a wave of her hand and re-
turned to the telephone. That time she talked to the
cousins. Tench would call for them at five. The black
cut velvets would be charming. Black was always good.
Additional chiffon at the hem? A flounce? Only if Jane
did the sewing, not darling Bessy. Isobel? Isobel was
not too well. . . . Why does she always say that?
That was hours ago, hours, hours, hours. I am still
waiting, in my room, and my door is open. I can hear
footsteps in the lower hall and accurately name them.
Mother is the light, quick tread, Mrs. Tench is the slow,
heavy one, Anna is the shambling run. I know Anna's
hands are red and wet and her face is blotched. Tench


The House 63
is not in the house, or, if he is, he is not moving about.
Tray-
I haven't seen Tray since we met in the kitchen
passage.
When Mike and Joe come, they will have paper par-
cels under their topcoats. Even Mrs. Barnaby will not
know the contents. Parcels packed tight with strips of
toweling and sheeting, long white strips. "Tell yourself
it's a game we're playing, Issy," Mike said. "Tell your-
self until you're black in the face, and make yourself
believe it. It's a game."
I can see and hear them all as if they are already here.
The cousins, catering to Mrs. Barnaby, storing up every
word she says, for future quoting. "As my friend Mrs.
Barnaby said the other night—yes, the Mrs. Barnaby—
there's really only one! She lives in that rambling old
white house that adjoins Maude Ford's, a delightful
woman, so unpretentious, the fine old families always
are. And her jewels are fit for a queen!"
Poor Carrie, Jane, and Bess, with too many gestures
and too much animation, always afraid they will be over-
looked and unappreciated, never quite sure they are
properly valued, wondering, in their secret hearts, if
they are as fine and clever as they tell themselves they
are. I know what Carrie will say to the others when they
drive up to the door. "Bess, Jane, let's be airy!" They will
come into the house laughing and tossing their heads.
Old Mrs. Barnaby will be crisp, composed, and watch-
ful. Mike will have told her only enough; she will ask no
questions, but she will help. If Mother objects to the
music box, Mrs. Barnaby will smooth our way. I can
guess what she will say. "What's that? They want to
play the old music box before dinner? I'd encourage
them if I were you.. Such an innocent pleasure—" Yes,
Mrs. Barnaby will help us, and with luck we will have
almost an hour. Almost an hour in which to duplicate the
first part of the story about the monster I told Mike.


64 The House
Mike watched under my window all night. He doesn't
know I saw him. So I know he is afraid, too, in spite of
his talk of games and defective wiring. I remember
what he said to me after I told him the story. He said,
"I don't feel my age, I feel six, and and I want a woman's
hand to hold. Give me yours."
I told him the story another child had told me in a
sunny convent garden. I told it in the dark, in my own
garden, and I thought the wind stopped to listen and
the dead leaves moved. The story that came back to me
in my father's room and prepared me for the light I saw
in the house when no one was home.
Once there was an old house in Scotland, a miniature
castle, occupied by family servants while the owners
lived in London. One summer the owners returned after
an absence of many years; they were young people, they
had not visited the place since childhood. This time they
brought guests.
One of the guests was a girl recovering from an ill-
ness. She told the owner of the castle that she could not
sleep at night, that someone walked all night in the
room next to hers. There was no bedroom next to hers,
nothing but a winding passage and the apple room.
They laughed at her, all of them; they said the apples
rolled about at night.
Then one day when everyone had gone to the shoot-
ing, she went from window to window in the apple room
and passage and hung a towel from each one. When
she looked up at the windows from the ground below,
there was one window without a towel. Next to hers.
The house party broke up that night. An old servant
revealed the secret of the hidden room. Years before,
the family had bred a monster. He was old, old, old. He
wouldn't die. He lived there, walled up.
When I finished telling Mike the story, we looked up
at the house and trees. After a time Mike said, "Who-


The Honse 65
ever told that story to a kid ought to be boiled in oil.
Anyway, that light still could have been the reflection
of a car on the road."
"There was no car, and you know it."
"All right, all right. But do you have to be macabre?
It's the wiring, the wiring's off. Don't say anything to
your mother, but have Tench call an electrician."
"I was alone in the house from three until nine. I was
alone."
"Sure you were. Hammer that in. You didn't hear any-
thing, did you?"
"I heard the house hold its breath."
"Don't talk like that! Listen, you and your mother have
been alone every night for weeks, so why get excited
now? And Tray would have taken the place if—"
"You're frightened, Mike. Don't be ashamed of fear."
That was when he said he felt like six and wanted
a woman's hand to hold. "But I'm not frightened," he
added. "I'm trying to keep my balance. You're entertain-
ing me too well. First that business at the shacks and
now this. All your doing. Now I've got to apologize to
Joe, too."
"When did Joe see the light?"
"Last Thursday night. That's what I've been trying to
remember, and now I've got it. He didn't come home
from school in the afternoon and didn't phone, showed
up at nine o'clock, and Lucy bawled him out. She sent
him to bed without dinner. The next morning he told us
about the light. I thought he was making what he calls
conversation, handing Lucy a line. She loves to be
scared to death, and he knows it. She'd threatened to
cut his allowance the night before, and I thought he was
taking her mind off money. She cut it anyway."
"What did Joe say?"
"He built that light like Edison. He had Lucy on the
ropes, but not for long. He gets a buck a week now. It
used to be two."


66 The House
"What did Joe say?*
"All right. He said he was looking out his window and
saw a light in your house. High up, like the one we saw.
But Joe told it good—he said it was a branched candle-
stick."
"His room is in the attic, on our side. He could see.
Did it move like the other?"
"All right, all right. He said it did. That could have
been an illusion, the trees moving. The wind is high
tonight."
Yes, the wind was high.
"My mother walks at night," I said, "but she carries a
single candle. And she wasn't home last Thursday, no
one was home. I've been afraid for a long time, Mike,
and I haven't known why. At first I thought it was my
father's trouble, but now—"
He called me fantastic, medieval, loony; but he told
me I could spend the night at their house. He said he
could fix it. He said he could fix everything. I told him I
had to go home because my mother was there, alone. I
emphasized the word alone, but I didn't believe it. He
laughed and said I was a ghoul. I didn't believe his
laugh, either.
"Listen, baby," he said, "I'm a little too old for the
Arabian Nights, but I don't mind playing a game with
you. That's what weH do, play a game. Get that into
your head, a game. WeH dramatize your fairy tale,
towels and all. Props, realism. Tomorrow night, when the
great hall rings with festive laughter. But howH we
work it, how'U we get away from the others? What ex-
cuse can we give?"
We decided to tell them we wanted to hear the music
box. It is still in the old playroom, and the playroom is
at the end of the second-floor hall, far from the library.
A visit to the playroom had a reasonable sound. Three
young people in a playroom.
"Leave everything to me," Mike said.


The Honse 67
He took me home, and we stood in the hall and sent
our voices up the stairs.
I sat by my window and waited for today, reliving the
day that had passed. Mrs. Tench bringing my breakfast,
the drive to the shacks, my sudden decision about the
cousins' dinner, the lie about Mrs. Barnaby's invitation,
my mother's smiling consent. Our own party, still in the
future; Anna's behavior at lunch—Anna had never talked
or looked like that before. The letter I had written my
father, the picture of the house that had no people in it,
the children I'd forgotten, the story. The light.
A day of big and little things, all of them new, all
happening for the first time. All building to an end.
What end?
Now I am waiting. . . .
Mother has come to my door twice, reminding me of
the time. "Come down at once when you hear the car,
Isobel. This is an occasion for the cousins, and we must
fill it to the brim for the poor lambs. A white frock?
Quite bridal, dear. Am I going to lose my little girl too
soon?"
The second time she came, she said, Tench has tele-
phoned from the village that they are just leaving. You
may be sure Carrie inspired the call. Do you think she
expects a red carpet?"
It is five-thirty now. Dark. But not too dark for Mike
and Joe and me. They will bring three flashlights,
wrapped in the parcels with the long white strips. When
I hear the car, I will go down and stand beside Mother
in the hall.
Where will the cousins put their wraps? Not upstairs,
not in any of the rooms upstairs! The cousins, running
up and down the halls, washing their hands in different
bathrooms, looking for safety pins. Jane, turning off
lights because fight costs money; Bess, opening doors be-
cause they are closed; Carrie, looking out windows be-


.68 The Honse
cause she always does. "Maude, what's the meaning of
these dangling rags? What will the Barnabys think!"
But if they insist, if Mother insists, there is nothing I
can do.
This may be the last time I will sit in my room and
talk to myself.
That is the car now, coming up the drive. That is
Mother calling to me, to Anna, hurrying to the door".
The sharp click-click is the sound of her little spool-
shaped heels.
The keys to every room in the house, every closet, are
on a panel at the end of my hall. Labeled and num-
bered.
Am I ready? Yes. When the time is right, Mike will
talk about the music box. He will flatter Mother and
the cousins, and Mrs. Barnaby will help him. Joe and
I will say very little. Mike doesn't trust us. "Leave every-
thing to me. I'll fix it."
It is midnight. Everything is over. This is the last time
I shall look back.
A few minutes ago Mike said, "If you want to lie
down before we leave, you have plenty of time. I've got
some people to talk to. I'll come for you when I've fin-
ished. Keep your door closed, baby, but always remem-
ber that I'm outside somewhere and that I'm coming
back to get you."
But I heard the slow footsteps through the closed
door. . . .
Mother was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs
when I went down to meet the cousins. It is all too
easy to remember, the sounds, the smells, the wind that
whisded through the hall when Anna opened the front
door; the promise of broiled lobster that drifted through
the service door because Anna forgot to close it, the
pine needles that Tench had scattered on the library
fire, the spray of freesia tucked in Mother's belt, the vio-


The Honse 69
let toilet water Cousin Carrie was shaking into her
bodice as she entered.
"Carrie," Mother scolded, "there's a time and place
for everything. And here's Isobel. Come forward, dear.
Anna, I think the south room for the wraps. If you'll
follow Anna, darlings."
"I'll take care of it, Anna," I said.
I laughed and kissed the cousins one by one. "The
south room is a barn; you'll freeze. I know a much
better place."
"But we have our scarves," Bess said. "Our Liberty
scarves, from Liberty's in London. On our heads now,
but we plan to wear them on the shoulder in a careless,
flowing drape. Where is that dear Mrs. Barnaby?"
"She's on her way, she'll be here any minute. I'm
sure she'll use the circular room, so wouldn't you like
that, too?" I led the way. "See the nice fire, as warm as
toast and no stairs to climb."
"Thoughtful of you, darling," Mother said. "This is
Isobel's day of emancipation," she told the cousins.
"Have you noticed her frock? Darlings, how sweet you
look. You'll put poor Lucy Barnaby in the shadel"
The cousins had added chiffon flounces to their long
black gowns and experimented with rouge.
"Maude, the chiffon came from that parasol you threw
away when you married. Three wide ruffles, you re-
member. I knew they'd come in handy. Lined with pink
silk. It cast a lovely glow. The lining will be a combing
jacket for somebody's Christmas—we never waste a thing.
Are there towels in that lavatory and everything need-
ful? You know Bess."
I want to remember everything that was said and
done, everything. I want to remember who said this,
said that. I want to know if coming events did cast their
shadows before; I want to know if I was warned.
They told me I looked pale. Was my dress a new one?
No? Well, white was not my color, but perhaps a little


70 The Honse
rouge—White was half-mourning; some people called it
whole; the Chinese? Nevertheless, a little rouge.
The rouge was kept in a purse that Jane had sewed
into the lining of her muff. It was a round white box
with a faded floral label, marked "For the Nails." I can
see the little box as it passed from hand to hand and
the cousins' cheeks progressed from pink to scarlet. Even
when the night was over, the cheeks were still scarlet.
Scarlet. Scarlet on deadly white. . . . The cousins
laughed and tossed their heads and swung their beads
proudly.
"Venetian," Bess reminded me. "Venetian from Venice.
Your poor father's gift, years ago. We told him what we
wanted."
They dabbed at my face with a little wad of rouged
cotton; they led Mother to the lavatory mirror and
touched her cheeks lightly. She didn't protest.
"There, now," Jane said, "we'll have yon wearing
white next. Isn't everything lovely? I'm sure we've never
had a better time, even though we haven't begun. I
hope we're not unfashionably early." She turned off the
light while they were all still in the room. "Nobody
needs it."
The violet toilet water was used once more, then
hidden under the wraps. The flounces were shaken out
and smoothed, the scarves were coaxed into the flowing,
careless drape and disciplined with pins.
"We have a little surprise for you, Maude," Carrie
said. "Tench will bring it in, naturally; a parcel is out
of place with formal clothes. A box of games, dear
Maude, the nice old games we used to play. They're
quite the thing again; they're very smart. I hear it every-
where, you'd be surprised."
"There's bridge, Carrie, if you want it."
Don't you like Lotto? It's really Bingo, you know."
I told myself the cousins were sound and good, that
I had never understood them before because I'd never


The Honse 71
really known them. When Mrs. Barnaby came, they
would arch their brows and greet her with peals of high-
pitched laughter. Even before she came, they were
ready. When they walked from the circular room to the
library, they tossed their heads to an unseen audience.
"Airy, let's be airy." They were mine, I told myself, my
own people, mine. They were ridiculous, they hadn't
learned or grown as Mother had; but behind the posing
and the postures, I thought I recognized and felt their
soundness. I walked with Cousin Carrie's hand in mine,
and I'm glad now that I did.
The Barnabys came a few minutes later. I took Mrs.
Barnaby's wrap while Mike and Joe went calmly to the
hall closet with their topcoats.
Mike whistled when he saw Mother and the cousins,
and Joe cried, "Wolf, wolf!" Mike complained: "I wish
somebody'd tell my grandmother how to dress. She
thinks a dinner invitation is an exhumation order for
the old gray lace."
Mother and the cousins laughed, the cousins tossed
their heads and smoothed their scarves, and Mrs. Barn-
aby's strong old face was wreathed with smiles.
But Mrs. Barnaby's eyes told me she had been
coached. She was looking for something behind the
other faces, behind the furniture, the portieres, the cur-
tains at the windows. I didn't know what she had been
told, but she had clearly been convinced. "I'll tell her to
back us up in anything we do," Mike had said. "I'll tell
her we're floating a private enterprise, that it's harmless
and decent and the proceeds, if any, will go to a non-
sectarian charity. And that's no lie. If I can wipe that
look off your face, I'm going to lift somebody's mort-
gage."
They were still laughing when Tench came in with
the sherry. Mike and Joe, the cousins and Mother; I
laughed, too. Tench with his tray of sherry, Anna with
a tray of biscuits; they laughed. The room was full of


72 The House
foolish noise, and only Mrs. Barnaby's quiet eyes ques-
tioned its source.
I remember too little of the early conversation, because
I was waiting to hear one sentence, spoken in Mike's
voice. The other voices meant nothing, the other sen-
tences became gibberish. Bingo. Lotto. Do you remem-
ber Flinch?
I took the biscuits from Anna and handed them
around. I know I talked. I watched Mike and Joe refill-
ing the cousins' glasses and flirting with Mother. I
thought my watchfulness was unobtrusive, but Mike's
eyes met mine with a warning look. After that I sat
beside Mother, and the only thing I watched was the
clock. We still had time. I tried to look as a girl should
look when she is rouged and dressed for a party in her
own house. Her first party in her own house. Her own
house.
Mike and Joe enslaved the cousins. Mother watched
and listened, nodding her head and smiling faintly. If she
wondered at their antics, she gave no sign of it. Under
the dusting of rouge she was white and tired. Mrs.
Barnaby was tense in her chair, and I knew she was
waiting, as I was, for one sentence. I thought we would
never come to it; then, suddenly, the words that had
been gibberish began to make sense. They were talking
about games.
Games. The beginning of a perfect progression.
Games. Toys. Playroom. A music box. Mike worked
slowly, using the material the cousins gave him. Joe
helped. Mike moved a mountain from our path, and Joe
carried away the small stones.
"I don't like the gambling ones, either," Carrie said.
"Our dear mother had a relative by marriage who was
a clergyman, very devout. When he came to visit, he
burned every card in the house. Playing cards, you un-
derstand, not Flinch. I haven't been able to enjoy play-


74 The Honse
I meant by old games. I was sure I remembered a mus-
ical game or toy. And the little story about your friend
made Mike remember, too." m
"Sure, you had a music box, Issy. Didn't you?" Joe.
Too eager, too tense, too loud.
"Yes. It's in the old playroom."
"Why don't we go up and look it over? Any reason
why we can't?" Mike bent over Mother's hand. "I'm
crazy about your party. Now, if I can only play with
Issy's music box—"
"Mike," Mother said, "is this the result of my poor,
simple sherry?"
"I think these children are charming," Mrs. Barnaby
said to the cousins. "These modern children are really
sweet. The old playroom, the old, shabby toys. Tell them
to run along, Mrs. Ford." >
"But dinner!" Mother looked doubtfully at the clock,
at Mrs. Barnaby, at the cousins.
For me, the clock was racing, but time in the room
stood still. A log in the fire-place broke with a long, soft
hiss. Mrs. Barnaby's fingers tapped the arm of her
chair. Mother's little foot swung back and forth as it does
when she is thinking.
At last Carrie spoke. Her laughter was tolerant and
chiding. "My dear Maude, surely not dinner before
seven. Even in the country."
"These moder n children are charming, as you say,
Mrs. Barnaby." Bess.
"Isobel is coming out of herself, she's showing an in-
terest. Quite emancipated." Jane. "And we can have a
cozy talk while they romp. I've been admiring your
brooch, Mrs. Barnaby. Turn out the lights when you
come down, Isobel. The dollars take care of themselves."
Mother waved us from the room, and the portieres
swung together behind us. Out in the hall Mike spoke
distinctly. "Got to get cigarettes from my coat pocket,
Issy. Wait here while Joe and I rummage in the closet."


The Honse 75
They returned with the parcel, and we started up the
stairs. Back in the library, Mrs. Barnaby's laughter out-
rode the cousins'. I led the way. Mike was close behind
me. He gripped my arm—to warn, or to reassure. Joe fol-
lowed more slowly, as though to guard the rear.
Halfway up the stairs, Mike leaned over the balus-
trade. "What is it, Tench?"
Tench was in the dining-room doorway, looking up.
"Can I get you anything, Mr. Mike?"
"We're looking for our lost youth, Tench. Are you any
good at that?"
"I think so, Mr. Mike."
"Fine. We'll yell if we need help. We're going to the
playroom, Tench. Bang on the gong with all you've got
when dinners ready."
We climbed, not looking back. I don't know how long
Tench stood there, watching us.
"Always play it straight when you can," Mike said.
"Keys, playroom, and hurry."
On each floor of the house there are two wide halls that
form a cross. The stairs rise from the center of the cross.
There was light below us, there was darkness above.
We came to the top of the stairs, to the second floor.
The keys hung from a panel at the end of my hall.
My room is at the front of the house, facing north. The
playroom is at the opposite end, on the side facing west.
I found the keys; I had been afraid to take them earlier.
Our footsteps echoed on the stone floor. I wanted to walk
on the rug, but Mike said no.
"This is a noisy, childish frolic," he said. "Up to and
including the next two minutes. After that, hush-hush."
We unlocked the playroom door and found the light
switch. Mike said, "Show Joe where the box is and get
it going. This is the wrong side of the house for us. We
can forget all the west windows. We want east." He un-
wrapped the parcels as he talked; the long white strips


76 The Honse
uncoiled and fell to the floor. They should have made a
noise, they should have sounded like chains. They were
as soft as snow. "We'll keep together, always in sight
of each other, no chance of duplication then." He
winked. "Having fun?"
I said yes.
My rocking horse had a braided tail tied with a red
ribbon. I had forgotten that. My little stove had pots and
pans, an oven and lids. It could hold a fire and cook, but
I had never cooked on it. The little lifter for the lids was
tied to the oven door. It was tiny and perfect. A shovel
for the ashes.
Joe said, "Issy, is this the box?"
He wound it. The box is round, covered with some-
thing that looks just like colored beads, with a metal
cup in the center. My Christmas tree fitted into the cup,
and when the music played, the tree turned. The tree
turned round and round, and the music played The
Lorelei.
"Not too tight, Joe, the tree won't turn," I said.
Mike said, "It's all right, baby, it's all right." The
music played, and the empty little cup went round and
round. Mike took the keys from my hand. "So much for
the sound effects; the burning cigarette on the window
sill, if you know your Baker Street. Now set me straight.
Your own room is out, this one is out, everything on this
side of the house is out. I'd say everything on this floor,
but we don't want to take a chance. We'll do all the
east windows, high and low. Come on, hush-hush now."
From room to room, walking like thieves, opening locked
doors, smelling dust, turning the flashlights on shrouded
furniture. Opening unlocked doors, smelling clean rooms;
opening closets with small windows. Windows. Opening
windows with clean locks and rusted locks, dropping the
long white strips and making them fast. Up another
flight of stairs, the last but one. Up there, the air was


The Honse 77
thick and old. There was no carpeting. The flashlights
found the rows of doors, all labeled. Trunks. Veranda
Furniture. Nursery Furniture. Empty. Empty. Empty.
Rolls of dust like weather stops against the doors marked
Empty. Four doors, studded with nails, at the four
corners of the house. The doors to the turrets.
I said, "There's nothing in the turrets."
"Ever been up?"
"Years ago. They're useless. Winding stairs and a tiny
room at the top, like a platform. My father said the
stairs weren't safe, the mortar is loose between the
stones."
"They have windows," Mike said. "This is where we
don't skip. North, east, south, and west. This is no man's
land."
Rooms and closets crowded to the ceiling with things
that had no shape. Two windows in each room, one in
each closet
.
"We're taking too much time!" Joe's face was streaked
with dust. "Can we hear that gong when it rings?"
"Listen," Mike said. The music box was playing far
away. A world away. "We'll hear the gong."
We climbed the turrets. Mike led and I followed. Joe
was behind me. In one of them I saw a clean, dustless
step—two, three, four clean steps—but when I bent to
look, Joe whispered, "Hurry." One small window in each
turret, a slit in the stone. We heard the wind.
Joe said, "I bet nobody knows how thick these walls
are. They're plenty thick. Say, you know what? This
part up here was never wired! You'd have to use can-
dles, see? This proves I saw what I said I saw. You, too,
Issy. How soon can I tell Lucy?"
No one answered him.
His grubby hands caressed the walls, his eyes glis-
tened. "You know what, Issy? I could have had fun up
here for years if I'd known what it was like. When I was
a kid, I mean."


78 The House
North, east, south, and west, across the intersecting
halls, up and down the winding stairs until we came to
the last high window.
Mike whispered to the trees, "Sister Ann, Sister Ann,
do you see anybody coming?"
"I'm having fun," Joe said.
Mike dusted his hands. "That's that," he said softly.
"Every window taken care of and two strips left over."
He crushed the white streamers into his pocket. "Come
along, we've got to wash."
"Don't we reconnoiter first?" Joe. "I mean outside.
We ought to beat it outside while we have the chance."
"We will if there's time. Reconnoiter! Soap and water
in the playroom, General." Mike turned to me as if he
had forgotten I was there. He wasn't convincing. "I
could have had fun up here for years, too, Issy."
Joe says, "Say, you know what? I bet that light we
saw was Anna looking for a bat's nest. She hasn't got a
bat. But anyway, I've sure enjoyed it, Issy. That story
you told Mike is strictly corn, but anyway, I've sure en-
joyed it. Will I have things to talk about!"
We started down. The music box was silent; there
was no sound from below.
"If we find any candle wax or anything, will she give
me back that allowance cut?" Joe. "A buck, it adds up.",
Mike was the first to hear the other footsteps. We had
nearly reached the second floor. 'Til fix it," he said.
The steps were coming up.
We moved forward, laughing; we filled the halls with
the same foolish sound that had begun the evening. An
answering wave surged up the stairs and receded. The
cousins, Mrs. Barnaby, Mother. At the foot of the stairs
we came face to face with Tenoh.
"Coming to get us, Tench?"
"Yes, Mr. Mike."
"Did you ring?"
"Yes, sir." He stood aside.


80 The House
flags of truce. Out in the garden, where the wind was
high there was no one to see them.
I heard my name. "This reminds me of Isobel." Bess
was talking to Mother. "I hope you made the man give
you the feathers, Maude. I'm thinking of a little toque on
Isobel's fair hair. This is guinea, isn't it? Of course it
is. There's the jelly. A little toque, using the breast and
part of the tail."
"Maude doesn't have to economize," Carrie said.
"Isobel, your mother tells me you drove yesterday. Did
you see anyone I know?"
"She was with me," Mike said. "And I don't know any-
body you'd be caught dead with."
"That reminds me, Maude." Jane turned to Mother. "I
haven't seen that animal. Is he still, you know, well?"
"Isobel, dear, Cousin Jane is asking about Tray."
"I saw him this morning," I said. "He's quite well,
thank you."
"Told you so, did he? 'Good-morning, mistress, I am
well and hope you are the same.'" Jane was convulsed.
"I always said that dog could talk."
Anna, arranging plates at the side-board, dropped one.
The small crash was followed by silence. Anna ran from
the room.
"I hope that's open stock," Bess said.
"Open or not," Carrie answered, "Maude doesn't have
to economize."
Mother shook with quiet laughter. "You see why I love
them," she said to Mrs. Barnaby. "Janie, you frightened
Anna, and I won't have it. Tray is her bete noir. I really
think she believes he's devil-ridden. Sometimes I think
Isobel is as bad as Anna."
"Nonsense," Mrs. Barnaby said flatly.
"Look at Isobel's arms!" Jane cried. "Gooseflesh.
Would you like my scarf, dear? A Liberty scarf is very
light and warm."
"Nerves," Bess said. "From her poor father's side."


82 The Honse
"Our little girl lives in a dream world," Carrie said.
"She lives a dream life, waiting for the prince. Twenty-
one years old next month, a woman, and if I may say
so, a rich one. Lucky, lucky Isobel!"
"Are you going to sell the house, Isobel?" Jane. "Don't.
It suits your mother. If I've said it once, I've said it a
dozen times—not one woman in a thousand can get away
with a house like this."
"Isobel has hardly opened her mouth all evening."
Bess. "Even these young men have hardly opened their
mouths. Tell us about the music box, Isobel. What does
it play?"
"The Lorelei, Cousin Bess."
"Ta-ta, ta-ta-to—how does it begin? I used to know the
words, but I've forgotten."
Mike said, "Ich tveiss nicht was soil es bedenten.
That's how it begins."
"Mercy, you're quite a linguist! What's the English?"
"T wonder what it all does mean,'" Mike said. "That's
the English."
Coffee in the library. The fire rebuilt. The cousins'
box of games opened on a table. Mother's port and cards
on another table in a far corner, waiting for the door to
close on her last guest.
I was lost in the room, I was lost to myself, I drank
coffee I couldn't taste. Over the clatter of cups the gib-
berish rose again. Pit. Flinch. Lotto.
"Please, Carrie," Mother begged, "not the noisy ones."
Mike and Joe spoke to Mother and came to my side.
"We're going to take a brisk trot to the gate and back,"
Mike said clearly. "Your mother okays it, and so does
Miss Carrie. After that, I'm going to court Miss Carrie
with my facile wrist and Grandma's bracelet."
Carrie's happy scream followed us to the front door.
When the door closed behind us, Mike said, "Never
again. Never any of this again. This is strictly for crazy
people."


The Honse 83
"Hurry, Mike. I want to get it over."
"Yon want!"
"Personally, I go for this kind of thing," Joe said. "I
could go for this any time."
We were coatless. The wind fought back when we
met it at the corner of the house.
Joe hummed The Lorelei. He said, "That was a lousy
translation of yours, Mike. I can do it more colloquially.
But your way kind of went to my spine."
"Mine, too. I was surprised."
"Hurry," I said.
The east wall hid behind the trees. The kitchen lights,
at the far end, were dim. "We can't see, we can't seel"
"Joe has a flash. Lucy never comments on the bulges
in Joe's pockets. Come here, close to the wall. Look up."
Joe trained the light. The white strips hung in even
rows, protected from the wind by the trees. Mike
counted with silent lips. I heard myself whispering, "The
blue room, the linen closet, the sewing room—" We didn't
need names, not even words; we needed what we had:
dark windows in a high stone wall, each with its long
white answer.
"Somebody's got to sneak up there and drag all that
stuff in," Joe said. "I don't mind doing it for you."
"Keep moving," Mike said. "The party isn't over. Isn't
this the place where the halls cross?"
I said yes. The small room that was once my bedroom,
the bath adjoining, the room with the flowered paper,
the first eastern turret.
"You're thinking out loud," Mike said. "That's crazy.
And you don't have to tell me what's what, I've been
there." His voice was sharp.
"It's getting you," Joe said. "Where's the old poise
now, pal? Where's the ice water in the old veins? Hey!"
Ahead of us a stream of light shot out across the path.
The kitchen door had opened. We didn't stop, we walked


84 The Honse
on; Mike's hand, gripping my arm, told me to walk on.
He whistled, Joe whistled, I walked between them. Anna
came out into the light, wrapped in an old coat, pull-
ing the old sweater over her head.
"Anna?" Mike called.
"Who's that?"
"The younger generation. Don't tell me you've washed
up alreadyl"
"I've got a headache, I'm going down to bed. Ada-
Mrs. Tench says I can. I'm sick."
"Sorry to hear it. Want us to walk down with you?
It's pretty dark."
I thought: If she looks up, she will see the windows.
If she looks up, she will see the windows and scream.
"The dark don't bother me," Anna said. "But thank
you." She covered her head with the sweater and ran.
Once she had passed the dim kitchen windows, she was
invisible. We heard the flying gravel under her feet,
the crackle of dry leaves. The sounds grew fainter and
died away.
"Got a baby bat in her pocket right now," Joe said.
"Going home to play with it."
We skirted the kitchen windows and came to the part
of the wall that was in line with the old cedar tree. In
line with Joe's attic window. Mike looked from the wall
to the garden and back again. He was trying to get his
bearings.
"Give us the light, Joe."
Trunks. Veranda Furniture. Nursery Furniture. Stor-
age. Words typed on small cards and tacked to doors.
The light picked out the windows and the limp white
strips. Trunks, Veranda Furniture. Nursery Furniture.
Storage.
"You're thinking out loud again. I told you I knew—"
Joe said, "Wait."
The light wavered in his hand, slid down the wall,
climbed and stopped at a narrow window. Empty.


The House 85
The light slid down the wall again, moved up, trav-
eled to the right and to the left and came back. An
empty window, a slit in the wall, a window, blank,
empty. Where the base of the southeast turret curved
to meet the house wall, a narrow window, empty.
"How did we miss that one?" Mike asked softly.
"We didn't," Joe said. "The marker fell out."
"See it anywhere?"
"No. Listen. We opened every door, we had a key for
every door, and there weren't any keys left over. We
saw everything there was to see. Two windows in each
of those rooms, one in each closet, one in each turret.
We opened every door. So what? So that's no window,
that's a ventilator or something, they fixed it up to match
the window in the turret."
"Ventilator?"
They forgot me. They tried to break each other down,
and they forgot me.
"Sure, a ventilator. Or something."
"A ventilator with a windowpane?"
"Well, I don't know. Now that you mention it, I don't
know. Maybe it belongs to the heating system or the
plumbing. Could be important pipes and stuff behind it."
"How would you reach the important pipes? Where's
the door?"
"Now that you mention it— Well, maybe the guy who
built the house—"
"What?"
"Maybe he wanted a window seat or something and
changed his mind and walled it off."
"Cheaper to wall up the window. You admit there's
got to be a wall or a partition of some kind?"
"Mike, there's got to be. Or else it's an odd window
in a corner of the trunk room with stuff piled against it."
Mike said, "Look at the trunk room in your mind, Joe."
They forgot me. I stood between them and did my
own thinking. I saw the trunk room in my own mind.


86 The Honse
The trunks were stacked in the middle of the room, the
walls were bare and clear. The trunk room was a he.
The outside wall gave it away. I asked myself what was
behind that small, empty room. A closet without a door?
A little room without a door? A closet, a little room,
without a door, a key? Empty?
How could a light shine in an empty room, a walled-
up room without a door? How could a light move
back and forth, be seen, turn itself on and off, without
a hand? How could a hand, a body—
I heard Joe, answering nothing. "Do we have to get
permission to go up there this time? Do we have to tell
those old girls what we're doing? That music-box stuff
is going to sound crazy if we pull it again."
Mike said, "We don't tell anybody anything. Issy? I
haven't forgotten you, baby. Easy does it. We've found
the place where Anna raises glowworms."
The same wind that fought us back before urged us
to return. It lashed and whipped and drove us home.
The same wind is outside my window now, not hinder-
ing or helping but hiding in the trees. Sometimes, now,
a door slams far away, and I know it has slipped from
someone's hand.
"We may be through in ten minutes," Mike went on.
"If we aren't, they can think anything they like. We'll
argue that one when we come to it."
Behind the library portieres, the cousins were playing
their games. They were shrill, absorbed, and happy.
Mrs. Barnaby played with them; her voice was low and
patient. I could not hear Mother. She has begged off, I
thought; she has gone to her own little table with the
port, the cards, and the Turkish cigarettes.
When we climbed the stairs for the second time, and
walked the halls, we kept to the rugs. Mike took the keys
from his pocket. We climbed the last, bare flight. We did
everything a second time, but we did not talk. There was


88 The Honse
house showed lights at night, lights that moved behind
a window in a non-existent room. The girl who told a
story.
Poor Joe, with his plastered hair and new dinner coat.
"Issy?" His voice rose and fell. "Issy, I—"
I told him it was all right, that I wasn't afraid. I said
there was nothing to be afraid of, nothing.
Mike said, "Issy, it's cold up here. Go downstairs to
the others. Tell them Joe and I went home for ciga-
rettes."
I answered carefully. "How do I know 111 find them
all there?"
"What?"
"How do I know who's in the library? We heard
voices, that's all. One voice against another, overlapping,
confused. We didn't see anyone. How do I know who's
in the kitchen? How do I know Tench and Mrs. Tench
are in the kitchen, where they ought to be? How do I
know Anna went to the cottage?"
"We saw Anna go."
"I've seen too many things come and go. There's
something hidden in this house, and we'll find it now,
all three of us, or 111—"
"We'll find it, Issy. All three of us, as you say. Now."
I heard myself saying now, now, now.
*That time, I looked for the clean steps in the turret.
I moved my hands over each step, from side to side,
from front to back, each step. I looked at my hands.
When they were covered with dust, I rubbed the dust
on my dress. There were four clean steps at the top,
clean all over. The others were clean close to the trunk-
room wall, as if something had walked down and up,
close to the wall, hugging the wall. The wall between
the turret and the trunk room.
"There'll be a door here," I said, "hidden in the wall.
It will look like stones and mortar, but it will be a door,


The House
89
an opening, a hole to crawl through. Here, in this place,
up here, near the top. Didn't you see me find the clean
steps?"
"Yes, Issy; yes, baby."
"Something felt safe about using the top steps. Some-
thing used the top steps every day or night, looking for
air on the turret platform. Even looking for sun or peo-
ple in the garden. It was afraid to raise the little win-
dow. And it went down to the bottom of the stairs, too,
down to the hall door, maybe even through the door,
out into the hall, out into the house. But when it did
that, it hugged the wall and made a single, narrow
track. That was for safety, that was playing safe. Sup-
pose someone had wanted to come up here, suppose
some honest person with an honest reason had unlocked
the hall door and looked up the stairs? The narrow track
would be invisible, the clean steps would be above eye
level. Suppose I'd unlocked the door, alone, and come
up here, alone." I called, "Who's listening to me? Who's
listening?"
"Be quiet," Mike said. "Be quiet, now."
His fingers dug into the mortar, he began at the bot-
tom of the steps and moved up. Joe worked beside him.
I stood against the opposite wall and held the light and
watched their fingers.
Mike said, "Got a knife or a nail file?"
Joe's knife went into the mortar up to its hilt. Four
steps from the top they lifted a small stone from the
wall. Joe put the stone aside, and his hand went into the
cavity. A door swung inward, into darkness.
"Get the light."
Mike took it from my hand. A short flight of steps led
down to a stone floor level with the trunk room. A nar-
row space, a passage to nowhere.
Another light came to meet ours, wavering across the
floor. Out of the black behind it, we heard a voice.
"Isobel?"


The Honse 91
"I said you were a doer," Mike went on. "I said if you
didn't like a thing, you fixed it in your own way. I didn't
know how good I was going to turn out to be. How
long have you been here?"
"I came after the car burned."
"Well, I know this much. I know a man can leave his
family and he can't be touched as long as they're pro-
vided for. If he's a good provider, like yourself, he can
disappear forever if he wants to. But I don't know how
the law feels about a phony funeral. We'll have to check
on that. What was it, an insurance racket?"
"I had no insurance. Who is in the house beside your-
selves?"
"Onrselves. My grandmother, your wife, and her
cousins."
"What mistake did I make? How did you find this
room?"
"We saw your light."
Joe, looking from me to my father, to Mike, was a tall
child thrown into batde unarmed. Joe and I were alike.
The other two were a different breed; they spoke an-
other language, not with words but with their eyes.
My father's hand went to Tray's head and rested there.
Watching that hand go out in the old gesture was like
finding a long-lost letter and reading lines that should
have been destroyed.
"Are you going to believe me?" my father asked. "Are
you willing to believe me?"
Mike answered. "We'll wait a bit before we decide
that. Tell your story in your own way, Mr. Ford. You
must have one ready, you've had time enough."
My father spoke to me. "Not quite time enough, Iso-
bel, because I haven't reached the end. I'm still waiting
and looking for the end." It was the same voice, grown
old, that once had said, "Always open doors when you
hear music."


92 The House
Mike said, "Talk to me, Mr. Ford. To me. Who was
the man in your car?"
He told us; and in spite of Mike, he talked to me. He
began with his illness, watching me receive his words,
pausing between sentences. He was an anxious beggar,
holding out an empty heart. "I was ill; everyone knew
I was ill. And everyone knows a sick man is not a re-
sponsible man, he magnifies and distorts. Can you un-
derstand that?"
He was a beggar, but not abject. He was asking for
something, and I thought it was courage. I thought he
wanted courage, from me, so that he could give it back.
To me. I wondered why I would need it.
One day in the spring, he said, he went to the squat-
ters' settlement. He was looking for someone more miser-
able than himself. In the lane his car passed a man who
staggered under a load of firewood. They talked, they
measured each other, and each one liked the thing he
saw. That was how he first went to the shack at the
end of the row.
"Two men lived there, brothers, as old as I am. Not
derelicts, but old, tired men who had forgotten how to
hope. The older brother was incurably ill, dying. Death
was as close and real to him as I thought it was to me.
We were both trapped, the dying man and I; we were
both waiting. But he was ready and I was not; he had
only one life to lose and I had two. I was afraid that I
had two."
"Afraid you had two lives to lose?" Mike was urbane.
My father said, "Yes. My own and Isobel's."
I think it was Joe who made the strangled sound. It
must have been Joe. I remember that Mike laughed and
I did nothing. Yes, it was Joe.
Mike said, "Tell me about the man who had only one
life, Mr. Ford. He died in your car, didn't he? How did
that happen?"


94 The House
was a dead man in my car, burned beyond recognition.
His only relative, the only witness, had disappeared. I
took what fate had given me, a living release."
Mike nodded. "A perfect setup for a man with death
on his mind. But suppose the other brother returns?
And talks? He knows who you are?"
My father looked at me and turned away. "I think of
that constantly."
"Then why did you come here?"
"I had to think. I had to see Isobel. I had played in
this house when I was a child. I remembered this tun-
nel. I thought I might stay here for a few days until I
had finished my thinking."
"A few days. You've had a month, more than a
month."
Tm ready to leave now."
"Do you think well let you?"
"Yes. You're going to marry Isobel; you wouldn't hurt
her. This would hurt her. You'd never be rid of it—you,
Isobel, your children."
Mike's nod agreed and approved. My father might
have been the lone survivor of a shipwreck and Mike,
familiar with the craft and the waters, a sympathetic
and understanding listener. It was insane. Insane.
It was insane; there was no sense in any of it. My
father was truly the monster of my story. He lived in a
tunnel in his own house; he sat on a cot and warmed
his hands over candlelight; he talked about two lives,
his own and mine. He talked about not hurting me.
Downstairs, within reach of my voice if I screamed, were
five elderly women, four of them mourning him. My
mother—
I thought of my mother wandering through the house
she loved, wondering where the spiced and sweetened
years had gone, hiding her pride and pain in silence.
Breaking her heart in memory of a man who let a
stranger fill his grave while he lived between walls like
a rat.


96 The Honse
think, to probe, to dig deep in my mind and bring up
names and faces.
"Do you still go out at night, Mr. Ford?"
"Occasionally."
I made myself ask, "With Tray?"
He looked over my head to the stairs. Joe blocked the
way. "Yes," he said.
"I want to hear about Tray, too," Mike said. "He
tracked you here, didn't he?"
"Yes. That first night I tied him in the stable. I wanted
him discovered and cared for, not roaming the country-
side. But he found me, and I had to take him in."
"Did you tell him to take care of Isobel?"
1 may have."
"Where do you get the meat you've been giving him?"
My father looked at the blocked door again.
"Don't worry about the door," Mike said. "Nobody
goes out and nobody comes in, not until we're ready."
Joe's hand gripped mine, and his mouth brushed my
cheek. He whispered, "He's stalling; Mike's stalling. I
don't know what for, I don't know why. He's stalling
and waiting, and I don't know what for. Do you?"
I knew nothing.
"And forget about the meat," Mike went on. "I'm a
good guesser. If you have an ally in the house, that's
okay with me."
My father said, "Let me go, Mike!"
"Soon," Mike promised again. "Don't you know that
I'm on your side, whatever that is? If you still want
oblivion, 111 help you get it. I'll help you get away for
good, and I'll make Isobel understand. But you've got to
help me, too. You've got to stop lying."
"I'm not lying."
"You're not talking, and that's the same thing. In this
situation, it's the same. If you want to lose yourself
again, we'll make a good job of it; but you'll have to


The Honse 97
sell me on it first. You'll have to prove that you're alone
in this cockeyed game of hide-and-seek, that you aren't
being hunted and you aren't hunting. If you can do
that, you're free. You can start another life anywhere
you want to; you can make a comeback if you want
one. A little amnesia, tactfully handled, is something to
keep in mind. You can turn up, all bewildered, in a
hospital halfway across the country.'*
My father's hand covered his eyes.
"So," Mike said. "Let's go back to the beginning and
tie it up. You were ill, too ill to think straight, unwilling
to confide in your family or your doctor. Want to tell
us what you thought was wrong?"
No answer.
"Sick in body or mind or both, and yet you preferred
to treat yourself. That's the first snag in your story, and
it's a pretty one. We'll follow it with your decision to
play dead. You played dead in the first place because
you were ill. Right? Well, you're not ill now, you're thin
but you're sound enough, and yet you still want to play
dead. Why?"
No answer, no movement, no sound but Joe's small,
frightened cough.
"Come on, Mr. Ford," Mike said. "You've been here
a month, you've straightened yourself out physically.
What have you been hanging around for? As far as the
world knows, you're suitably buried in the family plot,
your wife and daughter are well provided for, every-
thing is on the up and up, on the surface. On the surface
you're free, free, free. What have you been hanging
around for?"
My father filled Mike's pause with two words. He
said, "Please don't."
"I must," Mike said. "For the everlasting peace of
everyone in this house. You made a quick and desperate
decision on the edge of that quarry, and you got what
you wanted: a grave with your name on it. You got


98 * The House
oblivion, and how did you use it? You went straight
back to the life you ran away from. What for? To think,
you say; and to see Isobel. What's wrong with Isobel?"
My father said, "You don't know what you're asking!"
I begged Mike to let me leave. I begged him to let me
leave and take Joe. I reminded him that Joe was only
seventeen; I told him we were hurting Joe. "He's only
a baby," I said. "Look at him, he's frightened. Let us
both go."
"Nobody goes," Mike said, "until we all go together.
And I have a hunch it won't be long now." He turned
to my father. "Now, I can understand a man's wanting
to run away; it's not my cup of tea, but I can under-
stand it. 'Most men live lives of quiet desperation.' One
of the bright old boys wrote that, I don't know which
one, but I can get the point, I can understand it. It's you
I can't understand. You got what you wanted and came
home again. To see Isobel. That's the part I plug, to see
Isobel. You'd been seeing her every day for months, but
apparently that wasn't enough. You wanted a better
view, and you had to play dead to get it. No sense to
that unless we cut one word and substitute another.
I say you came back to watch Isobel, to watch her un-
seen."
"Give me until daylight," my father whispered. "I
want to think. I'm still not sure. Give me a few hours,
and IH talk to you."
"No," Mike said. "Mr. Ford, when we found that door
and came in here, I was all set to call the cops. But not
now, not any more. I changed my mind when I began to
smell fear and panic. Your fear and panic, and not for
yourself, either. For someone else. I want you to tell me
what to do. I want to line up on your side, but I don't
know how to get there."
Fear and panic. When Mike called them by name,
they went away, as such things do. They fell away be-
fore a strange, new warmth. It came slowly, it was tangi-


The Honse 99
ble, it was in my father's voice when he said, "Thank
you."
They looked at each other for a long time, in silence;
I could have warmed my hands by holding them out to
the two quiet men.
Mike spoke first. "What did you mean, Mr. Ford, when
you said you were still not sure? Not sure of what?"
My father didn't answer.
Mike went on. "Who or what has been hurting you*
Mr. Ford?" His arm lay across my father's shoulders.
Still no answer.
"That man's death gave you a peculiar freedom. Does,
your death free someone else?"
There was silence again while they read each other's
faces.
The silence might have lasted until, in desperation
and defeat, we left him. It might have lasted until we
closed the tunnel door behind us and left him, until we-
went down to the others in the library and moved among
them, lighting my mother's cigarettes and playing the
cousins' games.
But Mike broke it. "I'm remembering how you re-
fused food," Mike said softly. "Isobel told me about that.
I'm remembering how you preferred to eat and drink
with the men in the shack. What put you off the food in
your own house? Were you afraid of poison?"
Joe took my hand, and we crept forward. We walked
into the current of my father's voice as if it were the-
sea.
"I was ill," he begged. "I am still ill. Can't you see
that? I couldn't think, I'm unable to think now. Look at
me. I'm not responsible, for myself or anyone else. Don't
talk to me. I'm not responsible for what I say."
"Bull's-eye," Mike said. "And I almost wish I hadn't
hit it." He whispered his questions, and my father fought
against their strength.
"Have you proof, Mr. Ford?"


100 The House
"No, no, no!"
"Can you ever prove it?"
"No."
"But you think you were given poison in your own
house?"
"I don't know, I don't know."
"Now I get the point about the quarry business. It
makes sense now, even the tunnel makes sense. You
came back here to look for proof, proof of poison or of
your own madness. But why did you try to handle it
alone? Why didn't you come to me? Between us we'd
have licked it, one way or another. You trust me, don't
you? You've always trusted me, haven't you?"
"I didn't trust myself."
"Small wonder. Mr. Ford, how does Isobel come into
this? You talked about two lives, yours and hers. I don't
like that. It can mean anything, and all of it bad. What's
Isobel's place in the picture?"
The tunnel room was filled with the sound of breath-
ing, but I heard another sound that wasn't there. It was
familiar. I had been hearing it in other places for more
than a month, in the house, in the garden, at night. It
was the sound of my father's mind churning.
I listened to the sound and heard the parter n change.
I heard the end before it came. It crept between us,
moved among us like a specter; nameless, faceless, in-
visible, but strong enough to stir the air and draw my
father to his feet. We were no longer four minds, but
five. The new warmth ebbed on a dying tide, and the
old cold returned. My father raised one arm in a ward-
ing gesture. One arm, outflung, to make a barrier.
Then I heard the footsteps. They were outside the
tunnel where the halls form a cross.
I said, "Tench."
The steps came on. No, not Tench. Light, clicking,
little spool heels.
I said, "Don't let her see. SheH be terrified. Let me
tell her, let me!"


The House 101
Her voice was faint at first, then it grew stronger.
"Isobel? Isobel?"
My father said, "Close the door!"
But we stood there, Mike and Joe and I rooted to the
floor. The steps came on, and we heard them falter at
the open turret door. I was turned to stone; I tried to
warn her; my mouth was turned to stone.
"Isobel, are you here? Why are you here?" She was
frightened.
My father stood alone and waited. She came on,
slowly; we heard the measured rustle of her trailing
skirt. She stood in the doorway at the top of the steps,
a candle in her hand. She looked down. One scream,
only one. She turned and ran.
She fell twice on the turret stairs; we heard her fall.
We were behind her, running, when she reached the
main stairs. She turned once and looked back. The others
stopped, only I ran ahead. She sent me one look from
eyes I did not recognize and flung her body to the stones
below. Her candle was an arc of light that fell a second
later.
She killed herself because she was a killer.
Mike met the stream of terrified people that poured into
the hall; the cousins, Mrs. Barnaby, Tench, Mrs. Tench.
He held them with lies.
He knew she had killed herself; he didn't know why.
But he lied with authority, and now his story is our story.
We have tightened and strengthened it, and we will tell
it the rest of our hves. He concentrated on the cousins,
instinctively choosing the weakest links and holding
them together with words.
"He has been ill, out of his mind. The dead man was
a stranger, wearing his coat. He was ill, shocked. He
doesn't know where he's been. But he was on his way
home when we found him at the gates."
They looked from my father to my mother; my father
leaning on the balustrade, my mother on the floor at his


102 The House
feet. They clung to Mike, and he told his thin, loud
lies over and over, while Tench led my father to a chair
and stood beside him. Anna came from the cottage,
summoned by Mrs. Tench. I don't know who covered
my mother; I think it was Joe. They all stood in a circle
around Mike, Tench, and my father, and listened to the
story we all will tell from now on. Even Tench, who
knew it was a he, nodded and listened. They believed
it, all but Tench and one other. Tray watched from the
head of the stairs, his head resting on his paws. Joe tried
to drive him back, but he crouched like the brooding
gargoyle that looks down on Paris and thinks. He looked
as if he were waiting for my mother to move.
Mike told them my mother had fallen. He said she
was running down the stairs to tell them the great news.
Her little spool heels.
The cousins drank the words, and their eyes never
left his face. Those little spool heels, hadn't they always
warned her? And running to tell them her great, good
news, running to share her miracle. They wept softly,
and their old, tired weeping was her only elegy.
We had walked to the road, Mike said, and found my
father standing at the gates. We had brought him into
the house, secretly, and hidden him upstairs, because
we wanted to prepare them. He was not fit to be ques-
tioned, not yet.
Mike did not look at me or my father when he talked.
He avoided detail and forestalled interruptions. "We
don't know much about this ourselves. Mr. Ford will
talk to you later, but he must be quiet now. We know he
lent his car and jacket to a man who needed them, and
you know what happened to that man. The shock was
too much for Mr. Ford—he was on the edge of a break-
down and the man's death sent him over the edge. He
doesn't remember where he's been or what he's done,
except that tonight he found himself outside his own
gates and knew he was home. Tench?"
"Yes, sir?"


104 The House
the reporters. The cousins and Mrs. Barnaby were gone,
and Mrs. Tench and Anna had returned to the cottage.
"I knew it all along," Anna said. "Didn't I say as
much, or something like it? I felt his living presence,
that's what I did. He had me dropping dishes. I felt his
living presence drawing near. The dog felt it, too, don't
tell me he didn't. Dogs always know. It wouldn't sur-
prise me if that dog wasn't trying to tell me all along.
The poor man, wandering the face of the earth, not
knowing who he was or where he was bound, and all the
time his footsteps guiding him home. A death and a life,
that's the way it goes."
Mrs. Barnaby said, "Joe, the allowance cut is restored."
That's all.
And Tench. Tench had known for three days.
Before the doctor left, he talked to me. He said, "Your
mother's relatives tell me you were never reconciled to
your father's death. That's very interesting. Did you feel
from the first that it was—unfinished business, my dear?"
I must have nodded, because he talked about prescience.
He collects examples of prescience. He said it was far
from uncommon. "You, his own flesh and blood, resisted
what others accepted. Instinctively you knew the tie had
not been broken. When he came, you were ready for
him, waiting. Very interesting. I may use it in a little
brochure—no names, of course." He was pleased with his
evening's work; he had been interviewed and photo-
graphed and would be quoted.
In my father's room, with the door closed and the shades
drawn, my father told the others what my mother was
and why he had sent me away. He had told me before,
when we were alone.
My mother wanted to own, to possess, not share. She
wanted things and money and people in her own hands;
she wanted hves and destiny in her own hands. She
wanted to give and withhold, she wanted everything to


The House 105
come through her. Food, clothing, pain, and pleasure, all
must come through her. She wanted the power of life
and death, and she took it. She almost took it.
Mike and Joe, my father and I, and Tench. And Tray.
In a closed room with drawn shades.
"You must remember her background," my father
said. "Respectable poverty, the great test. She fought it
every day of her life, not with work but with dreams.
Her cousins denied themselves to give her the things
she wanted, and she took what they gave and dreamed
of more. Marriage was her goal, not love. A house, a
mansion, not a cottage. She'd had enough of cottages.
When Isobel was born, even before she was born, I be-
gan to be uneasy. Her mother made no preparations for
her. And although Isobel started life with a smile on her
face it went away too soon. I saw it change to a look of
quiet wonder that was ugly and frightening in a child.
She looked as if she were on trial, as if she had to pla-
cate and please, or be punished. So I sent her to board-
ing school, as an experiment, and when I saw that she
accepted the new life and was healthy and cared for, I
kept her there. And I thought I had found the right
solution. Her mother was happier during those years, I
thought we could adjust our lives eventually."
I remembered that my mother had never touched me,
never smiled at me, until she thought my father was
dead. On my rare visits home I would run into the
house, looking for her, hoping each time that she would
tell me I could stay.
My father said that, in those years, he lived for the
day when I was grown and we could talk together as
two adults. He thought he could make me understand.
He never considered a legal separation—he had nothing
to tell in a courtroom. He planned to bring me home
when I was twenty-one; he planned to give me the house
on my twenty-first birthday. Early in the spring he told
my mother his plans.


The House 107
buy it, and they can keep it in plain sight and spoon it
out as needed. Spoon it out when they want it and re-
place what they've used."
My father said, "Replace what they've used. Yes. She
kept her own supply in her medicine chest. I found it
last night when she was away. In a plain jar, ready to
play its part in the long, sad history of unlabeled drugs.
Ready for an accident, a post mortem; for tears and self
condemnation. She used to stroke my hand and say,
'Poor Marsh, you are not yourself.' If she had won, she
would have said, Toor Marsh, poor darling, and it's all
my fault, my carelessness. It was an accident, wasn't it?
Make me believe it was an accident!'"
I said, "It's all right, Father."
He said, "Thank you. I think now that she gave it to
me in the breakfast coffee, in the wine we drank at din-
ner. She scolded me gently when I complained about the
bitterness. 'Poor Marsh, you are not yourself.' And when
I improved, she repeated the dose, always a small one,
always a small, tormenting one. She sat by my bed and
asked me how I felt and talked about my nerves. I think
she was driving me to take my own life; I think she
wanted it to be that way. My nerves were fast becoming
a legend—she saw to that. She was prepared for suicide
or murder. The unlabeled jar, a fumbling, desperate
man. Suicide, murder, accident. Can you understand that
I still find this incredible?"
Mike said, "You mean baroque. Baroque is the word
for this. You've been having a high old time, haven't
you?"
The ghost of a smile moved across my father s face,
but Joe laughed out loud, like a child released. Joe said,
"Baroque? Baroque? I could say it more colloquially.
I say it's the nuts. Go on, Mr. Ford, please. Doesn't any-
thing come next?"
"Isobel comes next. I didn't desert Isobel. I've known
everything Isobel has done. I've known everything her


108 The House
mother did. I took no chances. I died by proxy so that
I could watch her. When people came to the house, I
stood in the upper hall and listened. When Isobel
walked at night, Tray followed. And I was never far
behind. When I heard she was not well, I waited for the
first illness, like mine. I told myself it would never come,
that a woman's child is always safe. I told myself again
that I was mad, but I was prepared to wait indefinitely,
until I was sure. Then I heard talk of a marriage be-
tween Isobel and Mike. Marriage would have taken her
away—that was one solution, that was what I wanted.
After that, I don't know. I didn't plan beyond that. I
suppose I would have gone away myself, eventually.
And now, in spite of my care, Isobel knows. I've saved
her nothing."
"You did, too," Joe said. "You did fine, you did a fine
job. But if you ask me, you were plain lucky when you
showed that light."
"My curtain fell, twice. The first time, no one saw it."
"No?" Joe said. "Well, anyway, we got away with it."
Tench cleared his throat. "Mr. Ford," he said, "would
have got away with nothing more. I had reached the
end of my endurance. I think I would have taken steps."
Tench had known for three days. He had seen Tray com-
ing down from the top floor. "A one-man dog Tray was
and is," he said, "and not a sign of grief. And what
would he be doing on the top floor? I set myself to find
out, and three nights ago I caught him at it. He went
to one of the turret doors and stood there, waiting. The
door opened, from the inside. I knew it was kept locked.
I don't mind admitting—" Tench mopped his face, but
no one smiled.
"I have known Mr. Ford since he was twenty-one. I
was steward at his club. I tell you I knew him. I came to
him when he married, at his own request, and brought
my wife and Anna with me. I served him through the


The House 109
years and minded my own business and kept my
thoughts to myself, no matter how I felt about certain
things. I identified his car and jacket and believed it
was him. I watched his daughter eating her heart out. I
felt what she felt—we both loved him, you see. And
when I saw that door open and Tray go in, I told myself
that what I saw was none of my business. I told myself
the world got crazier every day, but praise the Lord.
And I bought a little spirit stove and plenty of good
ground meat and put it outside the door. When it dis-
appeared, stove and all, I knew Tray hadn't taken it.
But the young people worried me a bit when I saw them
going up there tonight."
"You worried me," Mike said to Tench. "But when we
found that room, I knew you had a hand in it some-
where."
"Only the meat, Mr. Mike. Mr. Ford never saw me nor
I him. But after that first night I never really worried.
I knew Mr. Ford, see? What was that word you were
passing around? Baroque? I think I know what that
means." He built a monument with his hands. "It means
a large design and sound material, put together in a kind
of style. I think it's out of fashion, though it's much ad-
mired by many people still. Among them, myself." . . .
I am waiting in my room for the last time.
My father and Mike are talking to the lawyer, and
when they have finished, we are going to the Barnabys'.
After that, I don't know where we will go, but we will
never come here again. Someday we three will have an-
other house, with Tench and Mrs. Tench and Anna.
Baroque. A large design and sound material, put to-
gether in a kind of style. That's what it means to Tench.
But it means something else, too. Grotesque.
It means a girl who tied candy-box ribbon in her hair,
who wore sapphires—"under my pillow until the engage-
ment is announced. They are much too grand for my
present position, and I will be talked about." Who said


110 The Honse
she wanted children. "Why do you think I love that
great enormous house?"
It means a woman who made no preparation for her
coming child, and kept a bowl of flowers in the room
of the man she tried to kill. Baroque.
After the house is cleaned and closed, there will be
nothing left of her unless the cleaners overlook a drop
of candle wax in some dark corner. But if my father
had died as I thought he did, I would still have some-
thing—"Always open doors when you hear music."
We always will.





Kindly reverse this book for
THE HOUSE


They said it was all right to think now. They said she
could think all she wanted to. They said she could sit
up all day and night, forever, if she wanted to. And
think herself black in the face because she was a good,
good— Stop that, she told herself. You don't have to do
that any more.
That young man, the State Trooper. He was the one
who'd called Babcock and Pleydell. He'd told them what
he thought and asked them if his theory were possible.
Medically possible, emotionally. And Babcock said he
had been thinking the same way, had almost come to
the same conclusion. . . . The Trooper said he didn't
want a car for Christmas. Would a big red bow look too
silly on a windshield? Ask Bruce. No,«not now, later.
Bruce. Bruce had thought like Babcock. The first night
had been too full of individual anachronisms. Miss Sills
had been too hard to wake; not compatible with Miss
Sills. The other one—she still couldn't say his name, even
to herself—the other one had given too much attention
to the porch door, the lamp, the fitter of twigs and leaves
on the floor. Bruce, trying desperately to prove himself
wrong, had mapped out and timed a possible route,
using the porch door as entrance and exit, starting from
the rose room, allowing for the flight to the garden, the
return. Then, at dinner, he'd told them all he was going
into town. But he'd gone to Bobbie's room and waited
in the dark. . . . Robbies room was the right place.
Thank you, Bruce.
"Want anything?" Bruce asked now.
She shook her head. Her eyes told him she had every-
thing. It was still hard to talk.
George Perry came in from the porch with Milly Sills.
His look of confusion was not improved by his tempo-
rarily vertical hair. He bent over her chair. "What does
a woman mean," he asked, "when she says 'no veal'?"
Composition for Four Hands 131


She heard the bed shake as the body lunged.
Light burst. From the ceiling, from the hall, from the
porch, it flooded the room. She was blind with light.
Sound crashed and reverberated. Georges voice rose
above a hideous clamor. George shouted, "Ferd!" From
somewhere, Ferd answered.
She began to see, then. The grappling, rolling figures
on the floor began to take shape. She reached behind
her and covered Mrs. Manson's eyes with her hand.
George, Ferd Pross, battered and bleeding. Babcock?
Babcock and young Doctor Pleydell. How did Pleydell—
They rose and fell in a heaving mass, separating,
coming together, a swollen sea of speechless men, young
and old, with one objective.
Cory. Cory had a gun. George flung himself at Cory's
arm. Milly gathered her strength and screamed. "No,
George, nol"
The end of time had been reached when they dragged
the black shape from the floor. They took away its mas-
querading cape. They made it stand alone and let its
face be seen.
She turned and hid her own face on Mrs. Manson's
breast.
She knew it was George who came to stand beside
them. She knew his hand with the high-school class ring
that he wore because she always made fun of it. There
was powder on his hand; he saw it when she did, and
he rubbed it off on his coat. She knew then that Balph
Manson's name and story were no longer written on the
table.
Someone said her name softly. A new voice. "Miss
Sills." She raised her head, afraid to believe. Then she
cried as she had never cried before. . . .
She was in her chair, in the window, waiting for morn-
ing. Morning was almost there. They had left her again,,
but not all of them. The ones she loved had stayed.
130 Composition for Four Hands


"Sorry, sorry. Was it before or after Robbie came
home?"
"A few minutes after. But why I should be half-killed
because— George!"
"Stay where you are," he said. "I mean it."
The fire was nearly dead. It was the only light; it was
almost no light at all. Milly reached for Mrs. Manson's
hand in the dark. "That business with the lamp was a
signal," she lied softly. "I told George that if I ever
wanted him, for anything, I'd do that. I wish I could see
your face, Mrs. Manson. I'd like to look you straight in
the eye and tell you what I think of you. Il l tell you
tomorrow."
She knew they both were listening. If the porch door
opens, I'll hear it, she thought. She'll hear it, too. If the
hall door opens, there'll be a light along the edge, from
the hall. Unless the light—
"Do you want to hear about my wedding?" she whis-
pered. "It's going to be in the spring, and you're in it.
If you want to be. I've got it all planned in my head.
We'll be the talk of the town. We'll-"
She heard the latch on the porch door. Something
was pressing against the glass, a dark shape.
"Mrs. Manson?" She put her lips to Mrs. Manson's ear.
"I'm going to carry you. I'm going to carry you to the
window seat. You'll be all right there. George will be
here in a minute. No, Mrs. Manson, don't cry now.
No, Mrs. Manson, not now."
The porch door opened. She stood with her back to
the window seat, making a wall of her body and out-
stretched arms.
It swayed across the floor on all fours; she knew how
it would look if the lights were on. She could hear the
soft padding of the four starfish hands as they moved
over the thick carpet to the bed.
She tried to kill it with her mind. She willed it to die.
Beast, beast, I'm killing you.
Composition for Four Hands 129


all his stuff out of the house, and they gave it to some
playground outfit. Maybe some kid just happened to get
hold of-
No. Not a kid, not a trick like that. An overgrown
lout? . . . Stop thinking with your mind closed, walk
right into forbidden territory and see if you can find a
way out. Now, then, suppose Robbie-
No, no, no. Wait a minute. Don't say no so quick;
you've been saying no all day. To yourself. Who are
you fooling? Say yes for a change, and see what you
get. Suppose Robbie-
He shivered and went back for another cigarette.
The first one had burned down to his fingers. When he
returned to the window, the street was still empty. The
garden was empty. Mrs. Manson's light-
Mrs. Manson's light went out while he watched. Out
and on, out and on. Out.
By that time he almost knew the answer was yes.
He dialed the barracks on the hall phone. Pross?
Pross, a calm voice said, had left. Had he said where he
was going? No, he hadn't said anything, but he'd made
a couple of phone calls and sounded excited.
He thought of the phone calls he would like to make,
but he was afraid to use the time. But when he saw his
mother standing in her doorway, he gambled with a
handful of minutes.
"Listen," he said, "this is more important than it
sounds. That afternoon when Robbie came home early,
did you see anyone else? Anyone, anyone"
"Did you wake me up for that? Is that all you can
say, after staying out all night and leaving me alone
with your father?"
"Please, Mother," he begged. "Quick, did you? Any-
one, anyone at all."
She told him, divided between curiosity and anger.
"And what's wrong with that? George, you're hurting my
shoulder!"
128 Composition for Four Hands


She went back to the bed and sat down. "I have an
idea," she whispered. "I'm going to turn out the lamp.
You won't mind the dark, will you, if I hold your hand?
This is what I mean about the dark. Last night George
saw the lamp go out. Maybe hell see it now, maybe he's
watching. If he is, then maybe—"
She reached for the lamp and saw the new word cut
into the film of powder. It gleamed up from the pol-
ished wood. Murderer.
"I know," she said. "Mrs. Manson, can you write the
name?'
His father and mother had gone to bed; their doors were
closed. George closed his own quietly and went to the
window without turning on the light. Mrs. Manson's
lamp was still on. So far, okay. He went to his desk and
groped for a cigarette. He smoked it, sitting on the edge
of his bed.
Ferd Pross hadn't laughed. He'd looked as if he'd
wanted to, but not for long. They'd gone for coffee at
the dog wagon, and Ferdie had listened and asked ques-
tions. He'd promised to watch the house. He'd said,
'Til do it myself, part of the time anyway, and 111 put
a man on when I leave." He'd added, "If anybody but
you gave me a line like this, he'd get the alcohol rou-
tine."
George had answered, "Not me, Ferd, not this time."
"What do you think it is, George?"
"I don't think. Not now. Not yet."
He went to the window again, raised it and leaned
out. There was no one in sight. The fog was low on the
ground; the lights along the distant street were dim;
but he knew he would see Ferdie when he came.
"Give me half an hour or so," Ferdie had said. 'Til be
around, front or back."
Maybe I'm sticking my neck out, George told himself.
Maybe they gave all his things away. Maybe she wanted
Composition for Four Hands 127


they held hands, but fastened to a pair of shoes. Like
starfish.
She crept down the stairs in the dark. When she
reached the hall, she heard the front door open and close
softly.
Mrs. Manson watched her as she closed the room door
behind her and moved a chair against the knob. Her
hands left wet prints on the chair, but she didn't know
that.
When she went to the bed, she said: "Don't worry
about that chair. It's just a—well, it's a precaution."
Mrs. Manson's eyes questioned her steadily.
"Yes," she answered, "I saw it. Mrs. Manson, I can't
use the phone. The one in here is disconnected—you
know that, don't you? It was done before I came. And
the others aren't safe. I won't kid you, Mrs. Manson,
but don't be frightened. Ill think of something. I saw
everything you wanted me to see. You saw it, too, didn't
you? You went up there and saw it, too, and that was
when you fell. I know you didn't fall, not like they say.
But don't be frightened. It'll be all right. Il l think of
something."
She left the bed and went to the porch door. She
didn't open it. She dropped the latch into its slot, a
flimsy latch that wouldn't keep a child out. A latch that
a hairpin—
The Perry cottage was still dark. They could have
come home while I was up there. It doesn't mean they're
still out, just because it's dark. They could be home, in
bed.
^ The street lamp shed a faint light along the edge of
the garden, contesting the fog. There were no figures out
there; no one moved along the hedges or under the trees.
If Ferd Pross had agreed to watch, he hadn't come. But
it wasn't much after twelve. He might think it was too
early. Too early for a prowler, that's what Ferd might
think.
126 Composition for Four Hands


Trunk. Trunk. What trunk? Attics are full of trunks.
How will I know which one? What will I find? How
will I know it's what I want, even when I see it?
She came to the top and turned her light around the
room. There was a table holding a covered typewriter.
There was a leather sofa with broken springs. There were
cardboard boxes, hampers, discarded luggage, a dusty
rocking-horse, three bicycles that told how fast a boy
grows. There was a round-topped trunk with something
painted on the side in large, red, crooked letters.
Robbie. . . .
The hand crept from under the rug and found its la-
borious way to the table again. . . . Don't let anything
happen, she prayed. I am on my knees. Heaven, I am on
my knees. Don't make her pay for me. . . . The fingers
curled once more. Her face was dark with pain. It would
be a longer word this time.
She looked down into the trunk. The flashlight beam
dug into the corners, picked out the colors and shapes.
She saw bundles of paper money, play money for keep-
ing store. Building blocks, trucks and trains, battered
little wagons. When she took one of the bundles in her
hand, she saw the money was real. She knew what it was
then.
She looked from the money to the four gloves. Big
cotton gloves, covered with thick bright-yellow paint,
with bleeding hearts and arrows on the cuffs. She made
herself take one of them in her hand. The paint was
soiled and cracking, but it had been fresh and new not
too long ago. At one time they had been what her
mother called furnace gloves. You bought them at the
five-and-ten and wore them when you did things like
carrying out ashes. They were padded on the inside;
two of them had room enough for hands. They were stiff
and firm; the fingers were spread, but you could wear
them on your hands. The other two were fastened to
shoes, pulled over a pair of old shoes, filled out as if
Composition for Four Hands 125


"Do you know what she means? She says it's a key to
the attic. I know it is—you've proved that. But do you
know what she wants? She wants someone to go up
there, she says you—"
There was no need for more. Mrs. Manson's eyes
blazed their verification.
"Shall I go? Shall I go now? There's no one home."
Mrs. Manson tried to say yes, but fear and pity strug-
gled with frenzied hope; the fear and pity and hope
were as clear as printed words, clearer than speech.
"There's no one home," Milly whispered. "This is a
safe time. It's better for me to go myself, now. If we
wait until I call George— Mrs. Manson, we'll never sleep
if I don't go now. If we wait, we might not have an-
other chance. . . . But I don't know what I'm supposed
to find, or see. I don't know what's there. I—"
Mrs. Manson's eyes led her to the hand covering the
key. Covering the key, lying in the spilled powder.
"Mrs. Manson! Can you move one finger, can you
write in that powder? Can you write even one word?"
Their breathing was like thunder in their ears. One
finger. One. It moved, slowly. One word, one. The word
grew, letter by letter. It was "trunk."
Milly took the key. There was a flashlight in the table
drawer. She took that, too. She went to the hall door
and looked at the outside lock.
"There's no key here. I can't lock you in, but I prom-
ise to hurry." She returned to the table and blotted out
the word with her palm. She was smiling. "I'm going to
put that hand back where it used to be, too," she said.
"Just for fun. And here's my watch, right here, under
the light. So you can see how quick I am, so you won't
stew."
She didn't look back.
The house was still silent. The attic key was stiff in
the lock, like all new keys, but the door opened without
sound. She closed it behind her and climbed the stairs,
following the flashlight beam.
124 Composition for Four Hands


when they walked softly. Sometimes in daylight, some-
times at night. The patient has heard it, too. She knows
what it is, but she can't tell you. That's when she has
the same look as the other lady I told you about."
Milly turned the page with a shaking hand. It was
ridiculous, it was crazy. It could be true. She read on.
"I couldn't use the key myself. I never had a chance.
Never mind why I never had a chance—just let us say I
came into possession too late. But if you know someone
you are sure of, give the key to them. And tell them to
be careful. Tell them to watch everybody, to trust no-
body. But go to the attic.
"Maybe someday I will see you again. You didn't think
much of me, I could see that; but I don't blame you.
I've been half out of my mind and very nervous and not
myself. But you'll understand that later.
"I remain, Your Friend."
She folded the letter and put it in her pocket. "Mrs.
Manson," she said, turning slowly, "do you mind if I—
Mrs. Manson!"
Mrs. Manson didn't hear.
One of Mrs. Manson's arms was uncovered. One hand
was inching forward through space, the fingers opening
and closing, taking handfuls of air, curling around the
air, holding it, letting it go. The hand crept on until it
reached the bed table and dropped. It struck the lid of
the powder jar; the lid spun on the rim of the table and
fell soundlessly to the carpet. The jar overturned.
"Mrs. Manson." Milly's voice was a whisper.
Mrs. Manson's hand covered the key. Her mouth twisted
and stiffened and relaxed. Her eyes met Milly's. I can't
talk, her eyes said, but this is the smile you've been
waiting for. Her eyes blazed and talked.
"Don't," Milly said. "Don't try. Let me. Mrs. Manson,
do you know who sent that key? It's the other nurse,
isn't it?"
It was.
Composition for Four Hands 123


She held the key to the light before she put it on the
bed table. "Wait till I read it, then 111 tell you."
The note also was in pencil. Across the top of the first
page a sentence in capital letters said: "Do not read
this unless you are alone." She winked at Mrs. Man-
son. "This is going to be good. Wait."
She read to herself, frowning, engrossed; she forgot
Mrs. Manson. She was alone with the crackling paper
in her hand.
"I wont sign my name to this, but you will know who
I am. I said you had a good heart. There is something
wrong in that house. I know it. It isn't a thing I can take
to the police, because I haven't proof of anything, only
what you might call my convictions. Too many things
have happened in that house, and those people are not
the kind that have such things happen to them. Also, I
cannot go to the police because they would have to take
my name, and then if they investigated and found noth-
ing, my name would leak out, and that would be the end
of me. Even now I think somebody watches my apart-
ment at night.
"Once I knew a iaay who feared for her life, I don't
mean myself, and people thought she was imagining
things, even the police thought she was. But it was
proved that she wasn't. Your patient has the same look
this other lady had. That's what I mean.
"It is not my wish to get you into trouble or danger,
but I've no one else to tell this to. I couldn't find out
your name, because I was afraid my interest would
become known to the wrong person. I'm not sure who
the wrong person is.
"This key fits the attic door. It was made from an
impression. Never mind how I came by it. Now, this is
why I'm sending it to you. Every time there is no one in
the house but the patient and her nurse, and maybe the
cook in the kitchen, somebody walks in the attic. I've
heard them, because my hearing is very acute, even
122 Composition for Four Hands


Maybe George was with Ferd Pross, the State Trooper.
He and Ferdie had gone to Boys' High together. He
could tell Ferdie anything and know he wouldn't be
laughed at. George was up in the air, all right; he
couldn't fool her. And so am I, she admitted, and I'm
not fooling myself either. . . . Why doesn't George talk
to Manson and Cory? Maybe he has; maybe they're do-j
ing something about it this minute.
She was suddenly relieved. That's why they're"but,]
she decided. That's why they didn't say anything to me.]
They didn't want me to know they were worried.
She went to the fire. It was burning itself out. Nearlyj
ten o'clock. It would last until bedtime, until Emma,
came back.
She sat in Emma's chair, and planned a spring offeri^
sive against George's mother, the whole thing to take
place in the Sills' back garden, which was big enough
and had two dogwood trees. Let's say the first of May,
and no veil—I'd feel like a fool in a veil after this cap.
No bouquet; let the dogwood handle that. A white
prayer-book and high heels, even if I do fall flat on my
face. And Mrs. Manson in her chair, under the trees.
With me. Beside me. Mrs. Manson will give me away.
Oh, oh, trouble ahead. Now listen, Mother, I've been
everything a daughter should be. I hate to talk like this,
but you force me. And I do think that, on this day of
all days, you might at least try to understand and have
a little consideration. Who am I fighting with? What's
all the rush? . . . Maybe I'd better tell George.
She was almost sorry when Emma came in at eleven.
By that time everything had been setded but the chicken
salad; veal or no veal.
"Hello," she said. "Have a nice time?"
Emma said: "It's blowing up outside, a nasty, damp
fog all over. I hate it. But you're cozy enough in here.
You sound real happy, too."
120 Composition for Four Hands


Breitman; they had worked together before. Breitman
was the best masseur in the business, she said.
When Breitman left, Miss Sills followed him to the
door. She sounded as if she were sorry to see him go.
Miss Sills was lonely, she liked people, she liked life
around her.
After Breitman left, Milly went to the end of the hall
and looked down the main stairs. The lower hall was
dim. She crossed to the head of the kitchen stairs. No
light or sound there, either. Hattie had gone to bed. Or
slipped out. Usually on Sunday nights Hattie moaned
hymns with the door open.
They're getting mighty casual around here, she com-
plained to herself. You'd think they'd tell me when they
go out; you'd think they'd ask me if I wanted anything.
She returned to the room, rinsed Breitman's glass, and
looked for something to do.
There was nothing in Emma's work-basket, no mend-
ing or darning, only the tatting, which looked so effort-
less in Emma's hands and turned into a cat's cradle in
her own. Even Mrs. Manson was all right. Mrs. Manson
was taking one of her little jaunts into another world;
she was seeing something far away, far away and high
up. Maybe a mountaintop; she'd traveled a lot in Eu-
rope. Well, whatever it was, there was peace in her eyes.
Peace, or something just as good. There was no fright.
She went to the porch door and rested her forehead
on the cool glass. No lights over at the Perrys'. Half past
nine. They couldn't be in bed. Gone to the movies. Mr.
Perry liked movies. George said he liked the tough ones.
George said that sometimes when the old man thought
he was alone with his flower beds, he flattened his back
against the hedge and made like standing against a
warehouse wall. Fist in pocket, making like a gun. A
lookout. The old man was cute, poor thing. Acting tough
all by himself and saying, "Yes, dear," the rest of the
time.
Composition for Four Hands 119


"I've been afraid—"
She was lying at the foot of the attic stairs again,
hearing Emma scream in the lower hall, looking up at
the figure bending above her, reading the eyes that
looked down into hers, watching the quick retreat to the
top of the stairs so that whoever came— Forget that now,
she told herself. Listen to the voices, listen to every
word. One of them will tell you what you must do.
"Shock and paralysis. I beg your pardon, you were
saying?"
"She telephoned, she told me to come as soon as I
could. I thought she was ill. When I came, she asked me
to wait while she went upstairs. After a while I fol-
lowed. I was uneasy, disturbed—"
Who said that? Who? Listen.
"And the attic door was open. Obviously she'd found
the key. She was preparing to take her life in the same
way. I struggled with her, she was demoralized, raving.
She fell. When I heard Emma and the rest of you, I—"
Liar, her mind said. Thief, murderer, liar. You flung
me like a sack of meal, but the others came and you
couldn't finish. Wait until I tell them that.
"At my feet. Lying there on the floor. Oh, Mr. Ralph,
Mr. Brucie!"
"Quiet, please. Miss Byrd?"
"Yes, Doctor Babcock?"
"A close watch for the next five hours. At the slightest
change, call me."
"All of us will watch. Babcock, it was Providence that
you were—"
"Providence? Not at all. The dear lady had been on
my mind, I felt that a little call— But I must warn you,
this will be a hopeless vigil. She will live from hour
to hour—perhaps."
"Will she talk to us before she—"
"There will be no speech, no movement,"
"No speech?"
116 Composition for Four Hands


a better job himself, but we didn't have time for that.
And speaking of time, there isn't much of it left now."
"No," she agreed. "Emma will be coming soon. I saw
her in the market, and she knows I'm home."
There was tolerant curiosity behind the soft voice. It
was more human than the fresh peal of bubbling laugh-
ter. "I'm glad she knows you're in the house alone. But
how, exactly, do you think that can help you?"
"Help me? Emma? I don't need Emma for what I'm
going to do. I'd rather she didn't come. This is all
mine."
"Wait. What do you think you're going to do?"
"I'm going to the police. I'm going to hang you higher
than that rafter."
The air churned. Between her and the sun a human,
black projectile rose and catapulted forward. She closed
her eyes when it struck.
When her body rolled against the wall at the turn in
the stairs, like a log jammed in midstream, she knew she
hadn't long to wait. Strong hands turned her over and
sent her the rest of the way. A thin scream came from
nowhere.
She opened her eyes to nothing. After an endless search
she saw a lighted lamp in another world. Soon it became
familiar; it was her lamp, her room. Her bed.
Living, she told herself. Why?
Voices drifted through the gloom, like recorded voices
on an old record. Thin, without bodies. But when she
tried, she could see bodies standing in a row at the foot
of the bed.
"At my feet, on the floor, at my feet. I came in, and
I heard a sound, and I ran. I knew where it came from.
Unconscious, I said to myself, or dead."
"Lucky for us that we happened to be—"
"She should be dead. She should be dead. I don't
understand it."
Composition for Four Hands 115


tell me the truth. He had been openly accused, and
he knew—"
"Don't burden yourself with details. They don't mat-
ter."
She thought that over. They don't matter. The details
don't matter. Why don't they? I know, I know why. Be-
cause I won't have any use for them. I'm to kill myself
like Robbie; disgrace and shame will make me follow
my son. Mrs. Ralph Manson, of Larchville, whose son—
"You don't know me," she said.
"No?" The low laugh bubbled up again.
She pretended not to hear it. She took a step back-
ward—a small, unnoticeable step. "Tell me one thing
more," she said. "Didn't he—defend himself?"
"Oh, yes. That surprised me. I'd always thought of
him as a spoiled brat, without stamina. But he was no
coward."
"Thank you. You see, some of the details do matter,
after all. And the open window? I wonder now why you
didn't close it. Wasn't that—dangerous for you? He might
have cried out"
"You're underestimating me again. I opened the win-
dow afterward. You know, you're taking this almost too
well, so Il l give you the rest of it. Bodies stay warm.
In a place like this, he would have been warm for an
uncomfortable length of time—for me. So I opened the
window to—you understand?"
"Yes, I understand. Haven't we all been stupid? You
came in the front door?"
"Certainly. You've also been stupid about that, leaving
it unlocked to save your servants. I made sure, of course,
that there was no one in sight."
"It's only unlocked in the afternoons," she explained
carefully. "I always thought that afternoons, in a place
like this— I'm glad it was you who typed that note."
"I thought it was a good note, under the circum-
stances. I'm not much of a writer. He could have done
114 Composition for Four Hands


She said, "He made those—for Christmas, I think. He
made them for a joke, like a stocking toy. They were
supposed to be funny. You think they're funny now,
don't you? I don't. I—" She put her hands to her head.
"I'm the dull one," she said, "but then, I never had to
be anything else. I never had to worry about anything,
or work to live. There was always someone to take care
of me and do my thinking for me. But now I want to
think for myself."
"Don't."
"But I want to know how you did it. I used to hear
people talk about the way we managed the bank. They
used to laugh and say it looked wide open, that the
Board of Directors and even the watchmen thought
they could go anywhere and carry off anything—until
they tried."
'It wasn't difficult. I'm capable and reliable. You said
so yourself."
"Tou are also— You killed him."
1 did."
"Why? Wasn't there anyone else you could use?"
"There may have been. I didn't look very far. He was
there; he was made to order. That's how it started. Then
he had the effrontery to spot me, me, the last person in
the world they'd have thought of! So I had no choice.
He had Cory blood—the inquisitive, shrewd, banker
blood. He'd taken me in completely. I didn't know he
could even add. Fortunately, he couldn't hide his feel-
ings, and I saw the end in time. So I did a little talking
in the right places."
"That's what was wrong with him at lunch. He
wouldn't tell me then." She could have been standing
before a counter of merchandise, accepting and reject-
ing. One finger lay along her cheek. I will not scream,
she thought, I will not scream, not yet, not for days and
days. I will not scream now.
"That's why he came home early," she went on. "To
Composition for Four Hands 113


listening to the soft footfalls above. Someone else had
found the unlocked door.
Hattie? No, Hattie was in the kitchen or in her own
room. Emma? Emma had gone to market; she'd seen her
less than ten minutes ago, haggling over fish. Ralph?
Brucie? Brucie had promised to come out. No, too early
for them. They were in town, at the bank.
Someone who knew their daily plans and schedules
had broken in. She was supposed to be at the Civic
League meeting, but the pity in the other women's faces
had driven her home.
She started up the stairs, shaking with fury, not fear.
Robbie's attic, his own place, his last place on earth.
She moved without sound, hugging the wall, hesitating
only once, asking herself what she would do or say when
she reached the top. She told herself she ought to call the
police. I ought to call the police but I don't want—I don't
want the story in the papers. They'll reprint the pictures,
theyll-
Why don't I go to my room first and see if he's taken
anything? If he has, I'll tell him he can keep it. I won't
prosecute. I'll reason with him. I'll tell him to go, go
quickly. Il l explain how we feel about the attic.
But if he has my jewelry, why did he go to the attic?
Hattie. It must be Hattie, looking for extra blankets.
It has to be Hattie.
Then she heard the laughter, low, almost bubbling,
happy, victorious, and familiar. She covered her mouth
with her hand and crept forward.
At the top of the stairs she crouched behind the par-
tition. There was sun on the floor again. Robbie s old toy
trunk, filled with broken treasures, had been brought
from its corner, and it was open. Herself unseen, she
watched the hands as they lifted the packages one after
the other, lovingly. There was no look of surprised dis-
covery on the face. It was the face of one who had
returned to gloat.
Composition for Four Hands 111


Mrs. Manson liked it that way; at least, they thought
she did. They thought, they thought, they thought.
Would there ever come a time when anyone knew what
she wanted?
Milly went to the window seat and huddled on the
cushions like a child, with her arms around her knees.
The lights across the park looked far away. ,
Emma has gone, and Miss Sills is asleep. Curled like a
kitten, her head in her arms. How long will it be before
she wakes? How long before Emma comes home? One
hour? Two?
Emma. Does it mean anything that Emma is out?
Each time, Emma was out. Each time the house was
empty except for Hattie, in the kitchen with the door
closed. Except for Hattie and me and—
Why does my body ache? Perhaps because it is fight-
ing or because I'm thinking of the last time it was alive.
Why did I go up there the last time? If I hadn't gone,
I'd be living tomorrow. I'd be walking tomorrow, riding,
driving, going to the theatre. My heart would be empty,
but I'd be living, and perhaps in time someone else
would have learned what I learned. In time to do some-
thing. Someone else, even a curious stranger; it couldn't
have stayed hidden forever.
Why did I go up there? You know why. You went
because you always turned the knob; every time you
passed, you turned the knob slowly and quietly, know-
ing the door would be locked, but turning the knob
because you had to. And that time the door opened.
And you told yourself you were alone in the house!
It's all right, it's all right. This is preparation of a
kind, too.
Climb again. . . .
The knob turned soundlessly, and the door swung open.
She stood at the foot of the winding stairs, looking up,
110 Composition for Four Hands


He had reached his side of the hedge when a sudden
recollection made him stop and look back at the house
he had just left. You need two pairs of hands around
here. Who said that? When? Hattie? No, Emma. This
morning. Emma. That was right, but it wasn't enough.
It was older than that, it went farther back. Two pairs
of hands. Now, what does that—
His mother was in the living room, knitting. "Well?"
she asked.
"No dinner for me," he said. "I've got to see a man
about a dog."
"Knowing you, dear," she said thoughtfully, "I suspect
that's vulgar."
It was six-thirty when Emma brought two dinners on
a large tray. Emma and Hattie had surpassed them-
selves, but Mrs. Manson wouldn't eat. Milly cajoled,
begged, and threatened, but Mrs. Manson refused to
open her mouth. Even the sherry, which she ordinarily
liked, brought no response. When they saw it was use-
less, they put her to bed. She fought that, too, if it could
be called fighting. The mutiny was in her eyes. It was
the same look Milly had seen the night before when
she'd refused the hot milk and the sleeping pills.
"You run along, Emma," Milly said. "Maybe shell
change her mind when she sees me eating."
After several half-hearted offers to stay, Emma agreed
to go. "If you want anything, ring for Hattie; but don't
expect any conversation—she's still not talking. And she
knows my sister's telephone number, in case, which I
hope not."
Milly ate her dinner with elaborate and false enjoy-
ment, and drank a glass of sherry. Mrs. Manson watched
without expression. When the tray had been placed in
the hall and the fire built up, there was nothing else to
do. Emma's lamp shed a dim light on the bed and the
inevitable steamer rug. The porch door was closed, and
so was the door to the hall. The room was too hot, but
Composition for Four Hands 109


where it went. But at one time during the night it stood
in soft, wet earth, ran along the porch, swung over the
railing, and tore the ivy. That's one of the things I'm
going to tell Pross."
"What—what's the other?"
"It left the wrong kind of tracks. Wrong for an ani-
mal, wrong for a man. They were spaced as an animal's
would be, four nice clear prints, front and back. And
big. Maybe I ought to laugh, but I don't feel like it.
Because they weren't feet, and they weren't paws. They
were 4iands."
She heard herself say, "Hands?"
"Yeah." He went on, softly. "So: 'Are you beast of field
and tree, or just a stronger child than me?' If that's some
guy's idea of a practical joke, Ferdie and I can act funny,
too. Of course they aren't there now; they got stepped
on this morning. Ferdie may try to tell me I'm crazy,
but I'm not."
"George, what did they look like? Were they—like a
starfish?"
He said, "How did you know that?"
She quoted Hattie. "But she said only one."
"That can be all right, that can still make sense. It
could have been reaching down to get a grip or a foot-
hold. When she yelled, it swung back to the porch, out
of sight. Then when she left, it dropped to the flower
bed and vanished. Don't ask me where or how. One set
of prints was all I could find. Maybe it floated."
"I'm not afraid," she said.
"No reason to be. A dirty trick by some heel whose
mind didn't grow as fast as his body. Just keep the door
locked. I'm pretty sure that was a one-night stand." He
kissed her briefly. "This is no time for prolonging pleas-
ure. I've got to get down to see Ferdie. Maybe some-
body else saw the thing and reported it. Maybe Ferdie
will hang around here tonight." He kissed her again.
"Maybe I'll drop in myself."
108 Composition for Four Hands


and knocks over fifteen-pound lamps ought to be tied up
—or shot."
Milly rested her arms on the railing and looked down
into the dark tangle of ivy. There was a light in Hattie's
window. The ivy was broken; she could see the loose,
limp rope of leaves and stem.
"I know that poem, too," she said slowly. "I can even
quote a different line."
"You're catching on," he said. "But let me. I do it
prettier 'Are you a beast of field and tree, or just a
stronger child than me?'"
They drew together; his hand was on her shoulder,
her face was close to his.
"George," she whispered, "where were you at ten-
thirty last night?"
"Bed. Why?"
"I called you up from home, but nobody answered."
"I heard the phone, but I didn't do anything about
it. . . . I've got you close, Milly. Don't shiver."
"Who's shivering? You haven't said anything about
finding prints."
"I found some, all right. Of shoes, men's shoes. Man-
son and Cory were out there this morning with Bab-
cock. Their prints are all over the place now."
"But you didn't see anything the first time—I mean,
at the crack of dawn? You didn't, George, did you?"
He was a long time answering. His hand left her shoul-
der and pressed her cheek. "I'm going down to the bar-
racks and talk to Ferd Pross. There was something funny
going on around here last night. Ferdie will know what
to do."
"George, you did see something! What was it?"
"Something stood in the flower bed under Hattie's
window, either before or after climbing the ivy. The
same thing that got into Mrs. Manson's room. It was
frightened off—my guess is the lamp—and I don't know
Composition for Four Hands 107


"Yes, he was. But he didn't say anything in particular.
He stayed only a little while."
"Cory and I went into town for an hour or so. I wish
I'd—well, well get along and let you rest. Anything you
want, Miss Sills? You don't make many demands. I wish
you did."
"No, sir, I don't want anything."
They left, Manson and Cory, but George stayed.
"Come out on the porch," George whispered. "You
can, can't you? I want to talk."
The garden was dark; across the autumn grass, patched
with fallen leaves, the Perrys' lights gleamed through the
trees. Mr. Perry was working on his side of the hedge,
a stooped, black figure in the stream of yellow lamp-
light, curiously alone. "His flowers," George said vaguely.
"Come along this way." He led her to the far end of the
porch. She knew Hattie's room was directly beneath
them.
"I've got the wind up," George said.
"Same old wind you're always talking about? I didn't
come out here for that."
"Milly, listen. I'm not kidding. There wasn't any wind
last night. That lamp didn't blow over; it couldn't. It
was knocked over, by you or Emma or somebody else.
And I don't mean Mrs. Manson, either. Do you think
Emma did it?"
"No. She'd tell everybody right away and start paying
off, week by week. And it wasn't me. You make me feel
funny, and I was bad enough before."
"Listen. I prowled around here at the crack of dawn,
also before I came in just now. I was looking for prints.
I wasn't sure that what I saw last night was a dog. It
ran on all fours, but it was too big. If it was a cat
burglar making a fancy getaway, then we ought to tell
the cops. And if it was a dog, we ought to tell them just
the same. A dog that walks into second-floor bedrooms
106 Composition for Four Hands


Hattie came in at five-fifteen with her plate of meat, an
uncooked lamb chop and a slice of turkey breast. Her
mouth was set in an obstinate line. She had clearly
been told to keep it shut, and just as clearly she was go-
ing to make somebody suffer.
"That's a poor-looking chop," Emma said. She took the
plate and crossed to the chair. "Open your eyes, Miss
Nora, time to wake up. Hattie's here with your dinner
meat, and if you want my advice, youll take the turkey.
The lamb that gave that chop could ill afford to spare
it."
Mrs. Manson looked at the plate. For the first time,
she seemed unwilling to play their little game.
"Serve them both, Hattie," Milly said. "Two dinner
trays, one for me, too. Well decide which we want
then. It's all right, isn't it, if I eat up here tonight?"
"No reason why you can't," Emma said. She bustled
to the door. "Come along, chatterbox. I'll bring up that
sherry, too, Miss Sills. A nip of sherry, a nice fire—
Hattiel"
The sun was low in the sky; long shadows came into
the room. Milly moved aimlessly from window to porch
door, from door to bed to fireplace. Once she returned
to the bed, for no reason that she knew. She smoothed
the covers as if she were removing the outline of a
body, not preparing to receive one.
The room slowly filled with dusk, but she ignored
the lamps. She sat by the fire, wondering if the radio
would bother Mrs. Manson if she played it softly. There
was a radio within reach of her hand; she stretched out
her hand, but let it fall almost at once. Nothing she
could think of was worth doing. ... I used to like the
autumn, she thought, but this year it's different. It
used to be full of—I don't know, promise or something—
but this time I feel old, and I'm not old. Tonight I'm so
old that I can't look forward. I can't think of anything I
want, and I've always wanted something. Now that I
don't want anything, what's the use?
104 Composition for Four Hands


the kitchen door shut and didn't hear him come in.
And when I came back, I started to work right away. I
was busy phoning for the extra things Miss Nora wanted
for a special dinner. She was counting on Mr. Brucie
to come. I was planning a wonderful dinner, like she
wanted, and then they told me."
Her tremulous whisper led Milly step by step. They
stared into the fire as Emma filled the hall with running
feet, crouched before the attic door, and emptied the
dusty tool chest on the floor. They heard the doorbell
ring above the sound of tools.
"Mrs. Perry was calling," Emma said, "and the man
with the pheasant, because Hattie was afraid to open
the back door. That pheasant was in the icebox for
over a week—we had to give it away. . . . He'd written
her a little note. It was in his typewriter. He said, T
never was any good, but you wouldn't believe it.' No
love or nothing. She saw it before we did—we couldn't
help that. We were trying to-ryou know, you—you have
to cut the rope. ... I gave that boy the first bath he
ever had."
Milly's hands went out to Emma. "Don't talk any
more," she whispered. "That's enough. I know how you
feel."
"You know? In a million years you wouldn't know.
And it wasn't enough that I saw him as I did. I had to
be the one to find her, too. Lying at my feet, the same
as dead, and Mr. Ralph and Mr. Brucie out of their
minds. She'd be dead this minute if it hadn't been that
Doctor Babcock had come to call. ... I don't know
what we've done, it's like a punishment."
"Hush."
The coal crackled, the firelight was on their faces.
They drew together, the bent black figure and the
straight white one. On the other side of the room a shaft
of setting sun came in at the window and found the
chair.
Composition for Four Hands 103


Sills," he said, "I'm distressed. About you. I'm not happy
about you, not at all happy. You're beginning to show
the strain. Now, I want you to understand that this is
no reflection on your capabilities, but I truly believe
you need assistance, or even better than that, a little
rest."
"No, I don't," Milly said. "I mean, thank you, but I'm
not tired and we don't want another nurse. Mrs. Man-
son and I get along fine, we're used to each other, we
can practically talk. You don't want anybody else, do
you, Mrs. Manson? See, she says no. That look means
no. She says you're very kind, Doctor Babcock, but Miss
Sills is my one and only dream girl and she's all I
need." A fine line to give the boss, she mourned; every
word a step home to mother, and sitting by the phone
all day waiting for a call to take care of more tonsils.
"But whatever you say, Doctor Babcock. I only mean—"
He smiled broadly. "No explanations, my dear. I un-
derstand. We'll wait and see how things develop. Now,
about Emma. I've suggested to Emma that she sleep in
her own bed tonight. I don't want Mrs. Manson relying
too much on Emma. Someone unconnected with the past,
a stranger like yourself, a—dream girl, did you say?
Ah, yes, a dream girl is what we need!" His laughter
filled the room.
No tonsils today, she decided. "Any instructions, Doc-
tor Babcock?"
"No. Everything as usual."
When he left, she returned to her chair beside Mrs.
Manson. She studied the pale face and closed her eyes
until Emma came. It was four-thirty then.
Emma lighted the fire, and they both sat before it.
Mrs. Manson had shown no interest in the fire; she'd
looked at it once and closed her eyes again.
"We'll leave her where she is," Milly said softly to
Emma. "It's the only privacy she has, sitting off by her-
self like that. It's all right for a little while."
Composition for Four Hands 101


"Maybe that spoon's too full. It looks too full to me."
"Don't rile me, Emma. She picked me up at the bus
stop. She said she knew you, Emma. She asked how you
were."
Miss Sills! Emma! Emma, listen. This is what I prayed
for. Listen, Emma, it's Miss Byrd, I know it's Miss Byrd.
Emma, ask questions, ask—
Emma said, "I know everybody in this town, and
everybody knows me and how I am." She smoothed her
apron and looked at the clock. "I promised Hattie—
What was the woman like?"
"Ordinary, except for her face. Too much make-up."
"Don't know her."
"Green coat and hat."
"I know seven, eight women with green coats and
hats. All my friends know how I am. You might as well
give up that jelly, Miss Sills. Can't you see she don't
want it? Ill give it to Hattie. Well, I promised Hattie
I'd take the front door and the phone while she has a
rest If you want me, ring. Ill come back later, any-
way." Emma took the lunch tray when she left.
Milly tucked in the edges of the steamer rug and
moved her chair beside Mrs. Manson's. Mrs. Manson
closed her eyes again; it was the same as closing a door.
There was nothing to do about that.
Behind Milly, the door to the hall was open and the
house was as quiet as the room. The roses on the table
were dropping their petals; they weren't lasting. Not
the way they should. Only one day old, and they were
dying.
The chair was low. From where she sat she could see
the yellow trees against the sky. Now and then a leaf
fell, drifting slowly as if it knew the first, lone journey
downward from the sun led to the end.
It was silly to shiver in a warm room. The fire was
ready for fighting if she wanted it. All she had to do
Composition for Four Hands 99


speak, I watched and she didn't speak, and you walked
by-
"I told you it was all right to cry," Milly said. "Take a
look at me, it's getting to be like the common cold.
There now, I'm getting fresh again and that's all right,
too. No more sad talk until tomorrow. What do you want
first, jelly or soup? Soup? Oke."
Emma came in with a lamp, looking like a child who
has made a beautiful thing out of something nobody
wanted.
Milly crowed. "Bring that thing around here, Emma.
I want Mrs. Manson to see it. Glory be, and they sent
the other one to the White Elephant Sale! If ever I saw
a white elephant in the beaded flesh—"
"It's my own property," Emma said indignantly. "I've
had it for years, and I take good care of it. I like
beads."
"Where did you get it?"
"At the White—never you mind. It gives me a nice,
soft light, easy on the eyes. How are we coming on?"
"Fine."
"You going out again this evening? Doctor Babcock
said you could. He said you should take things easy."
"What's behind the unselfish build-up?"
"Well, I thought if you were going to be in, I might
slip out for a while myself. My sister's daughter just had
her first—only five pounds for all her trouble. Still and
all, I thought I'd like to hear my sister brag."
"Go ahead. I don't want to go out again. And five
pounds is okay, so let her brag."
"You, and not even married yet. You never did tell
me where you went this morning and what you did."
"I didn't do anything, just walked. Bounced a ball
with a cute kid. Oh, sure, and I got picked up, too."
"If you did, then you invited it."
"Not me, not this one. This was a woman, and she said
she knew—now, now, Mrs. Manson, please."
98 Composition for Four Hands


blance between them and you. That's awful, Mrs. Man-
son, but I have to say it. You and I are friends, we
both know that, and friends tell each other the truth.
You're more than sick and unhappy. All day and night
you live with your eyes on death, watching, waiting for
—the nod. That's not right. You don't have to die. There's
no medical reason for it. No reason at all unless you
want to, and if that's the case, then I can't stop you. If
you want to get well, you can. You're better than you
were—they're not kidding when they tell you that. And
you know me, I wouldn't kid you ever, not if they paid
me for it. Not you, I wouldn't. You're my friend. Mrs.
Manson, I want you to stop looking like that. I won't let
you die if you'll help me."
Mrs. Manson's eyes closed for an instant, and her
breast rose and fell as if she were climbing.
"That's better," Milly said. "And it's all right to cry.
You'd been crying when I came in, but I didn't want
to say anything before Emma. Golly, Mrs. Manson, I
wish I knew someone who was an old friend of yours,
like someone you went to school with. Someone who's
your own kind. A person like that might be able to help
me. A person like that could tell me what your mind is
like and how you used to act when things went wrong.
I've got a feeling you always act the right way, no mat-
ter what. And that scares me. It means that whatever is
wrong is terribly wrong, and acting right and thinking
straight can't change it"
Miss Sills, Miss Sills, don't let anyone hear you say that.
Not today, not tonight. Tomorrow you'll be safe, but not
today or tonight. Don't talk to anyone until tomorrow.
Tomorrow youl l be interviewed, that's when you must
talk. Tomorrow, tomorrow morning. . . . Miss Sills, Miss
Sills, there was a woman in the park. I know she could
help us both, I know it in my heart. But she didn't
Composition for Four Hands 97


"I wouldn't know about that. I'm only the night nurse.
I don't come on until seven."
Emma chortled. "Isn't she a one, Miss Nora? Aren't
you a lucky girl to have Miss Sills around? I never
thought I'd laugh again, not in this house. I never—"
Emma caught her guilty tongue between her teeth.
"Miss Nora, I—I'm going to get another lamp, and I'm
the only one who knows how to do it." She hesitated at
the door. "What about you? Did you have lunch at your
mother's?"
"I'm not hungry. And hurry up. It'll be dark in about
five hours."
Milly unfolded the heavy napkin, spread it carefully,
and admired the lavish monogram. She patted the thin,
still hands under the steamer rug. "Don't get wrong
ideas about Emma and me," she said. "Were crazy
about each other. And now let's eat whatever Hattie
felt like sending up. This is beef broth, as if you couldn't
see for yourself. And this is a sweetbread, as if you
couldn't see that, too. And here we have the madam's
jelly, shaking in its shoes. Want to start with dessert and
work back, just for the—for the fun of it?"
Mrs. Manson's eyes looked steadily into hers.
She returned the dessert spoon to the tray and
dropped the prattle and the professional smile. What
she saw in Mrs. Manson's eyes filled her own with dis-
may. Mrs. Manson was looking at her from the bottom of
a pit.
"Mrs. Manson?" she said quietly. "Mrs. Manson, I
haven't given you what you need. I've tried, but every-
thing I've done is only what anybody else could do. You
need more than that, every day you seem to need more.
It isn't only that you're sick and unhappy. I'm not very
old, Mrs. Manson, but I've seen a lot of sick people,
working in wards with the kind of people .you never
even passed on the street, never even dreamed of. And
now, in the last few days, I'm beginning to see a resem-
96 Composition for Four Hands


"No, no! Ralph, Bruce, keep my hands!"
The attic floor was level with her eyes now. It was
washed with gold from the western windows. She raised
her eyes.
"What's the boy doing?" Emma's head appeared be-
side hers. "Robbie, you stop whatever you're doing and
come straight down here!"
Robbie's shoes, above the sunny floor, were swinging
in space. His brown shoes, his—he-
She went the rest of the way alone and stood before
him. When she wanted to see his face, she had to raise
her head, because he was hanging from the rafters.
Emma looked up when she heard the clatter of the
lunch tray. "You didn't have to bring that," she said. "I
was going to ring for one of the others. You're back too
soon."
"I got bored." Milly put the tray on the table.
"It looks good," Emma said. "That jelly looks good.
She's a fine cook, Mrs. Perry. Maybe shell teach you
one of these days." Emma's eyes had the mating look.
"Move your workbasket, Emma. No tatting in the
soup, please. Thanks. Why don't you ask me to save
you a piece of wedding cake? You're slipping."
"What are you so high and mighty about?"
"I'm not." Milly slid out of her coat. "Yes, I am, and
I don't know why. I hate everything. Maybe I need
sleep." She walked around to the front of the chair.
"Hello, there. Haven't I seen you somewhere before?"
"Bless my soul, is she awake? Must have just hap-
pened." Emma joined Milly at the chair, and they smiled
steadily.
"We look nice and rested after our little nap," Emma
said. "And we're going to eat every crumb and spoonful
of our lunch, because if we do, then maybe we can
have our lovely sherry before dinner. Can't we, Miss
Sills?"
Composition for Four Hands 95


feel. Emma was behind her. Ralph and Bruce were
crowding ahead of her.
"My hands hurt," she said. "Give me your hand to
hold, Ralph. Brucie, give me yours. Don't leave me."
Ralph said, "Here, darling, but I wish you wouldn't—"
Bruce said, "She can't stop now."
There was a draft on the attic stairs, coming down
to meet them, blowing her robe, lifting the hair from
her forehead. She thought: We're wrong about this, well
have champagne tonight in celebration of being wrong.
He's writing up there, he locked the door because he
hates to be interrupted, and he's dead to the world in
some silly plot and can't hear us. She called his name,
laughing, but no sound came out of her mouth.
Ralph said, "There must be a window open."
Bruce said: "There is. I saw it from the street."
She answered them in her mind: "You fools, of course
there's a window open. The boy has to have air. It's
always suffocating in that place."
The climb was endless, there had never been so many
steps before. It was years before they came to the turn
halfway up. Emma panted behind them. It was hard
on Emma. What was? Only the stairs, that's all, the
stairs. Emma was old.
Ten to one he went to sleep, she wagered silently.
They give him too much to do down there at the bank,
he hates figures, they wear him out. He was exhausted,
and he came home early and went to sleep on that old
sofa he won't let me throw away. Ten to one— Why are
you saying ten to one, even to yourself? You never talk
like that. . . . You're talking like that because you don't
want to think. Well, you'd better think. Think hard, and
be ashamed of yourself for even listening to their mon-
strous story. Monstrous? Criminal! You could sue, you
could easily sue the whole lot of them for saying the
things they did. Ten to one.
"Bruce," she said, "you're going too fast."
"We're crawling, Nora. You're holding us back."
94 Composition for Four Hands


card. Finish this as soon as you decently can, she told
herself, and move on.
"I'm sorry I don't know your name." The woman's
smile was stiff and strained. "It seems rude to be talk-
ing to you without knowing. But mine is Byrd. B-y-r-d.
I live in New York, but I often come out here because
it's so pretty." As she talked, she watched Milly's face.
"Byrd," she repeated. "Miss Byrd."
Milly smiled and said nothing.
"Is Emma well? I know Emma, too."
"Emma's fine."
A bus lumbered to the stop, and Milly looked at her
watch. "Glendale bus, that means it's—golly, I've got to
run." She got up.
Miss Byrd took her arm. "I'd appreciate it if you'd—
what I want to say is—Miss—Miss—if you'd give me just
a minute of your timel"
"I'm awfully sorry, Miss Byrd, but I'm due at my
mother's. See you again sometime." She ducked into the
crowd that surged toward the bus, crossed the street,
and walked rapidly in the wrong direction for home.
Miss Byrd looked like the kind of woman who'd compro-
mise on a nurse's mother.
Marge's apartment was a few blocks farther on. She
rang the bell, but there was no answer. After that she
walked on small, empty side streets and bought herself a
chocolate bar and a tube of toothpaste in a shabby store
that smelled of kerosene. ... If Miss Byrd washed her
face, she might look human. But then, she might not,
either. She might look—
She told herself to stop thinking about Miss Byrd.
She walked on, eating the chocolate, killing time, put-
ting off her return. What am I stalling about? she won-
dered. Why don't I go back where I belong?
Climb. You'll have to climb.
The attic door was open, the last tool clattered to the
floor. Her hands were aching, they were all she could
Composition for Four Hands 93


I won't be able to hide a thing, she told herself. I
never can. Her mother would worry and say it wasn't
safe. She'd try to make her leave the case. I won't go
home, she decided.
Hattie was bats, pure bats. Washing the sherry glasses
and rolling her eyes toward her bedroom. "You can go
in and see for yourself, Miss Sills. That ivy's still hang-
ing there, a fresh break in the vine. A long, thin piece
like a snake, not like an arm. The arm was an arm, not
ivy.
She'd listened to Hattie with amazement and disbelief.
She'd said, "What's all this about an arm?"
Hattie had described, explained, and relived the
night. The arm had a hand on the end of it, a six-foot
arm and a yellow-looking hand. Or light-looking. A big
hand, all spread out. A starfish-looking hand, like in the
aquarium. "It came down and swung in front of my
face, and then it went up."
"uPr
"Up where it came from. I don't know where that was,
but that's where it went. I wasn't asleep, Miss Sills, I
wasn't dreaming. And what's more, I heard feet over
my head. But nobody listens to me, not even the doctors.
'Don't let Mrs. Manson hear you talking like that, or
well have to give you a bad-tasting tonic' If I hadn't
waked up when I did, we'd've been robbed."
"By a starfish hand, yellow-looking?"
"I hope you never have to laugh out of the other side
of your mouth," Hattie had said.
Now Milly walked to the seat under the tree and sat
down. When she thought of what her mother could do
with Hattie's hand, she quailed. No, she couldn't face
that. She'd rest a while and then go back. Nobody knew
what Emma would do next. She might let the Perrys in
again. That had been too much. Mrs. Manson had
looked dreadful. .. . Mrs. Perry, saying, "So you're Miss
Composition for Four Hands 91


"Like what?"
"Like not falling in love with a penniless nobody, and
you know what I mean. ... If she dies, he'll be rich."
"No," he said easily, "if she dies, Cory will be richer.
It's Cory money. And with Robbie gone, too—"
She fretted. "I really must do something about lunch.
George, how rich is Bruce Cory?"
"Rolling."
"More than Ralph Manson?"
"Manson has a damn big salary, and he's in with the
moneymaking crowd. It all helps."
"That's what I thought. . . . George, what's out there,
what are you looking at?"
He was at the garden window. "That's Milly's red coat.
She's going for a walk. She doesn't usually go at this
hour."
"You heard them pampering her, didn't you? Rest,
drink this, eat that, take care of yourself, you're precious.
Manson, Cory, and Babcock. Men!"
"What do you think of Milly, Mother?"
"I'll do my thinking about that when the time comes.
George, are you sure you really—"
Im sure.
Milly picked up the gold-and-scarlet ball that rolled be-
tween her feet and tossed it gently to the fat blue reefer
with brass buttons. It came back at once, this time to
her stomach. She returned it again. "You're an apple
dumpling," she said, "but that'll be all today."
She had reached the far end of the park; there were
no more benches, but across the street, where the buses
stopped, the Larchville Women's Civic League had built
a circular seat around the trunk of a spreading maple.
Home was a few minutes away, with possible roast
chicken and certain chocolate cake. And talk. But she
wasn't hungry, and she didn't want talk. Not the kind
she'd have to give, and take.
90 Composition for Four Hands


went to my room to change for my little walk, and quite
by accident I noticed that their attic window was open.
Robbie, I thought, working at his writing when he ought
to be out in the sun. And then the most extraordinary
thing happened. I saw something fly out the attic window
and fall in the grass. Something shiny. I was really agog.
But I didn't do anything about it. I took my little walk,
and then I felt like seeing Nora Manson. And I call this a
silly conversation!"
"It was the key."
"What?"
"The key to the attic. Robbie locked himself in and
tossed it out."
She didn't speak at once. Then: "You didn't see me
pick it up."
"No. I saw you get up and go home. You're right
about this conversation. Why are we having it? It's
ancient history, dead and buried. Like Robbie. Who
started it, anyway?"
She said, "You started it."
"Maybe I did. Well, nobody ever found that key.
Manson had a new lock put on."
"I saw it this morning. . . . Here we sit as if I didn't
have a thing to do. I ought to be getting lunch, and I
don't feel like it. Look at my hands—disgusting! Dish-
water! I don't know why .other women can afford maids
and I can't. There's no better manager in Larchville
than I am, yet I never have a cent left over. Money!
It makes me sick."
"Maybe you think too much about money."
"Well, if I do, it's because I'm the only one around
here who thinks at all. Look at you and your father.
Look at Ralph Manson. Look at this house and look at
theirs. I knew Ralph Manson when he was nothing but a
clerk in that bank, and now he practically owns it. All
a man needs in this world is a little ambition to get
ahead, a little common sense about the future, like—"
Composition for Four Hands 89


Well, I hope you're satisfied. There she is, traipsing
along like she didn't work for a living same as the rest
of us!"
It is! It is! Miss Byrd. The nurse I had before Miss Sills.
She wore that green coat when she went away! She
came back! She came back, she had to come back. She
knew something was wrong, she couldn't hide it, I could
see her trying to hide it. She knew, or saw, or guessed;
she watched everybody; she was uneasy. She showed it
in the way she watched and listened. So she was sent
away. . . . The patient is unhappy, Miss Byrd; well
have to make a change. You understand that this is no
reflection on your work. There's no criticism of you, Miss
Byrd, none at all, but the patient isn't happy, and we
can't have that. Mr. Manson thinks perhaps an extra
check—we're very grateful. . . . She hadn't looked sur-
prised; she'd almost smiled. She'd looked as if she'd ex-
pected it.
Miss Byrd. Everybody laughed at the Byrd because
she looked like a hawk.
Miss Byrd, Miss Byrd, I'm up here in my window. Lis-
ten. That girl in the bright-red coat is my new nurse.
Stop her, Miss Byrd, say something, anything. Make
friends with her. Her name is Sills, Milly Sills. She's a
nice child, she'll be courteous and kind. Talk to her—
you'll know how to do it. Tell her what you know. What
do you know, Miss Byrd? What did you see or hear?
She's almost there, Miss Byrd, the girl in the bright-red
coat and no hat. She's there, see, she's there! In front of
you, in front! Say good-morning, say it's a lovely day,
ask her the name of the park, ask anything. Stop her,
Miss Byrd. Miss Byrd!
Now, now, close your eyes again. Don't cry. . . .
You're a good girl, you're a honey, you're a baby. You're
my good, good girL
The lamp is gone; the tracks on the floor are gone.
Composition for Four Hands 85


Listen. Emma.
"You can carry these glasses down to the kitchen on
your way out," Emma said to Miss Sills, "but don't you
go waking her up to say good-bye. I'll sit right beside
her all the time. She won't lack for anything if she wakes,
and if she looks hungry, I'll see to her lunch. No need
for you to hurry yourself. The doctor says you're to take
it easy. And don't stop in the kitchen gossiping with
Hattie. If you want the truth, that woman hasn't got
all her buttons. That's a pretty coat. I always favored
red. Get along now."
"Yes, Matron," Miss Sills said. . . .
Miss Sills is going for a walk, wearing her red coat.
Watch for Miss Sills. Open your eyes and watch for
Miss Sills. No matter which way she goes, you can see
the red coat. Look at the children in their Sunday clothes.
Dark blue and brown for the big ones, pale blue and
pink for the little ones. Nurses, parents. Young parents,
full of pride. Who is that woman in the green coat and
hat?
Emma, don't talk. Emma, be quiet! Emma, that
woman in the green coat and hat!
"So you've decided to wake up and take notice, have
you? I'll set my chair right here beside you. I know you
—you were playing possum for the others, but the min-
ute you knew you were alone with old Emma, you de-
cided to wake up. That Miss Sills, there she goes, over to
see her mother, I expect. Well, bless my soul, look at that
rug! What happened to that, I want to know! I tucked
it in myself, as tight as tight. You can't have—bless my
soul, you're all tied up with fringe. A person'd almost
think—but no, you can't do that.... There, that's better.
That won't hurt my girl again. Such an ugly, big red
mark. . . . Miss Nora, you aren't even listening to me.
What are you looking at? What's out there? Same old
thing that's there every day, unless it's Miss Sills. Of
course, if you can't even listen to your old Emma. . . .
84 Composition for Four Hands


ling, no more sherry. The lamp, Mrs. Perry, don't run off
without your white elephant! Lovely, lovely, and all for
foreign missions, it means so much. George, I said no
more sherry, it gives your eyes a funny look. Thank you
for calling, thank you. Yes, we're on our way, Miss Sills.
Don't look so pleased, we're all going. These little sherry
parties are good for all of us. George? George, I'm not
going to speak to you again.
Gone. Everything gone.
Emma collecting the glasses. Emma washes every-
thing, the fingermarks, the muddy prints. Emma gave the
lamp away. Nothing left, nothing, and the prints on the
floor were clear, even I could see what they were. . . .
Emma saw the crack in the lamp, and they said it was
the wind.
All but George! There was something in his voice,
wasn't there, wasn't there? He knows there was no
wind, not enough for that, doesn't he? George, remem-
ber the wind; you made a joke of it, but you know
it isn't a joke, don't you? Keep remembering the wind,
remember the little book with the poems in it. I gave you
that book, George. I gave one to you and one to Robbie.
Robbie and George, George and Robbie. They were al-
ways together. . . . George!
George is the one who knows about the hands, George
saw them when I did, George is the one I was trying to
think of! George is the right person, the safe person!
Emma knows the phrase about the hands, but that's
all. Stop, go slowly, make a list like a shopping list. What
do you need?
You need Hattie to have seen the hands; you need
Hattie to talk. You need George to hear. You need Emma
to use the phrase again. You need George to hear. You
need—you need George to remember. ... But if Hattie—
That hand on my neck. I thought my heart would*
stop then.
Composition for Four Hands 83


in years. Dear Mrs. Manson would love this, we must
tell her when she's better. Hattie is a moose with a wart.
Hattie-
Emma called from across the room. She sounded
happy. "Look! Look here! This lamp's got a crack in it.
It's not fit to use; it's not safe. This lamp's going to the
White Elephant Sale at All Saints'." The cord and plug
struck the carpet softly.
"Emma, how perfectly wonderful!" Mrs. Perry said.
"Mr. Manson, do let us have it. I'm chairman this year,
and it's simply dreadful the way people won't give us
things."
"I don't know, but I don't see why not."
"I can't tell you how grateful— George dear, will you
carry— George, stop whistling. Not nice, when poor Mrs.
Manson— George!"
George said: "All right. But how do you suppose a
heavy lamp like that managed to fall over? Could that
be the wind again?"
"Wind? Oh, undoubtedly. She couldn't do it herself,
poor lamb."
"Blowing leaves and little sticks, not to mention grit
and mud. My nice clean floor. Well have to keep that
porch door shut," Emma said.
"By all means keep it shut," George said.
"George, what are you mumbling about?" Alice Perry
asked.
"I'm quoting poetry to myself. My little blue-and-
gold book."
"Well, stop it. No one's interested."
"I am. Listen. Still the pretty one about the wind that
lips the ivy off the porch and blows a fifteen-pound lamp
around. 'I saw the different things you did, but always
you yourself you hid.'... I think we ought to go home."
Chairs moved at once, quickly; glasses were set down
on tables and mantel; voices mingled; sentences over-
lapped. Mr. Perry, you haven't said a word. George dar-
82 Composition for Four Hands


"The lamp Emma doesn't like. I was hanging out my
window, and suddenly this room went dark. For about
two or three minutes. The little one by the screen was
already out. But the big one by the bed went out, stayed
out, and came on again."
"You're crazy," Miss Sills said. "It was on when I went
to sleep, and it was on when Mr. Cory woke me up.
Wasn't it, Mr. Cory—or am I the cra2y one?"
"Nobody's crazy, and George is right. The lamp was
on the floor when I came in. I fell over it." His voice was
rueful. "But I got it back on the table, and it worked,
thank God. That was a bad minute."
"Floor?" George was puzzled.
"Floor?" Miss Sills repeated. "Well, I didn't hear it
fall. I didn't hear a thing. I ought to be fired. All I know
is that Mr. Cory nearly shook my teeth out trying to
wake me up and Mr. Manson was running around in cir-
cles. Excuse me, Mr. Manson."
"My dear Miss Sills, that's libelous. I ran in a very
straight line, in the wrong direction. Straight down the
back stairs, because I'd recognized Hattie's clarion call.
Then, halfway down, I heard Cory begging you to show
signs of life at the top of his lungs."
Doctor Babcock was torn between grief and laugh-
ter, sighs and chuckles. "Dreadful, dreadful, but not
without an amusing side."
"I didn't hear a thing," Miss Sills repeated. "I ought
to be fired, but please don't."
"You ought to have more sherry." Bruce, walking to
Miss Sills. "Here, all's well that ends well. And speaking
of Hattie, have any of you good people ever heard a
moose?"
They seized Hattie's name, hugged it and tossed it
about. Hattie was a moose. She looks like a moose. The
left profile? No, silly, the right! And isn't there a wart,
too? On the nose? Stop, stop, I haven't laughed so much
Composition for Four Hands 81


room. The voices murmured on. Emma rattled glasses,
rustled back and forth, and finally subsided. "I'm thank-
ful to sit down. My legs ache. I'm an old woman, but
nobody thinks of that. A person needs two pairs of hands
around here."
ListenI Listen! All of you listen! Emma's quoting
someone, Emma's teasing—can't you hear? Watch
Emma's eyes, watch where Emma's looking. Say it again,
Emma. Emma, say it again!
"Thank you," Emma said. "I don't care if I do. Ill
get as giddy as all get out, but I like a nip now and
then."
"You may have anything your heart desires, Emma.
The house is yours."
"I'm glad to know that," Emma said, "because I want
something this minute."
Then it came.
Emma said, "I want your permission to get rid of that
lamp by the bed."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It's awkward, that's what. The shade's too big. It gets
in the way."
Emma. Look at the lamp. Look at it.
Is Emma—no, wait, don't open your eyes. They're mov-
ing about; someone has come to stand behind your chair.
Careful. Someone is waiting to see if you— Take your
hand away from my neck. Can't you wait for the dark?
"Hey!" Miss Sills was beside her. "Hey, what goes on
here? What have you got to shiver about? You're as
warm as toast. Easy, honey, easy. All right now?"
"Lamp," George said. "That reminds me. Say, is it all
right to talk about last night?"
"Why not?" Doctor Babcock. "Last night is already
forgotten. Lamp, did you say?"
'Tfeah. At what I figure was a crucial moment, some
body turned it out."
"What are you talking about?"
80 Composition for Four Hands


Emma put the breakfast tray in the hall, and they
wheeled her to the window. She heard the others com-
ing, walking softly as befitted people who knew she had
weathered a bad night.
"Let me see your feet, the lot of you," Emma said. "I
saw you out in the garden, and I'll have no more things
tracked in on my clean floor."
"Things?" George Perry.
"Leaves and grit all over. Tramping in and out of
here last night, and I had to clean it up on my knees."
They surrounded her chair, smiling, paying their com-
pliments. She was brave, she'd behaved like a soldier.
She was a fine woman, getting better every day, no
doubt about it. She was good-morning, Mrs. Manson; she
was dear Mrs. Manson, who frightened them so. She
was okay, Mrs. Manson, okay. . . . She closed her eyes,
because she didn't want to see their faces. The voices
told her where they stood and sat.
Miss Sills, on the window seat, spoke to someone. "No,
don't take the rug away. I know it's hot, but she wants
it."
"Is she asleep, Miss Sills?"
"Only relaxed. It's a good sign. She's always like this
when you come in. Don't stop talking, go right ahead.
She likes to hear voices around her, doesn't she, Doctor
Babcock?"
"Oh, quite, quite. And what, may I ask, is the imme-
diate future of the good neighbor's sherry?"
Ralph, doubtful, hesitating. "WelL I suppose we
might—"
"It's eleven o'clock," Doctor Babcock said. "We had
a hard night."
"You men! That's a special bottle for Mrs. Manson!"
"Emma, do you think—"
Emma, full of pleased complaints at the social turn
of affairs, brought the house sherry from the dining
Composition for Four Hands 79


her and held her close. It was better than putting a ring
on her finger. It was the first time he'd ever done that.
His I.Q. rose to the height of heaven; exactly heaven.
"Be over in the morning," he whispered.
That light is the sun. The Sunday-morning sun. That is
Emma over there. Emma, coming out of the bathroom
with the vacuum jug, the cup, the glass. All clean, dry,
sparkling; everything washed away. No traces left.
Nothing.
Watch Emma through your lashes. The old trick.
Emma is rubbing the damp places on the carpet, blot-
ting out the prints of four hands. She is brushing dried
leaves from the floor and talking about the wind. Soon
nothing will be left of the night. She is destroying me.
There is a crack in the bowl of the lamp. Will she see
that? A new crack in my fine lamp. She won't like it,
shell be angry, shell talk about it. Emma or Miss Sills,
either will do. Emma or Miss Sills, bending over the bed,
saying: 'What a shame. Something happened to her
lamp, and she liked it so much. Does anybody know
what happened to her lamp?"
My lamp was knocked to the floor by two thick yel-
low hands in a hurry. And after that there was not
enough light. Not enough to see in, not enough safely to
kill in. No sound, except the thud of the lamp and the
breathing of two people. Not my breathing. I held my
breath in the dark, and it was the same as hiding. Two
people breathing, Miss Sills in the chair and the other at
the head of the bed. Slow, drugged breathing for Miss
Sills; rapid, frightened breathing for the other.
She waited for Miss Sills to wake. Miss Sills hadn't
heard the lamp go over, but she'd heard something. Or
felt something. She'd stirred in her sleep and moaned.
Poor Miss Sills. No, rich Miss Sills. Rich, powerful Miss
Sills, who had given her the gift of another day.
The four hands had scrabbled over the floor to the
76 Composition for Four Hands


acter, Milly thought. All you have to do is mention
Hatties name, and everybody howls.
Babcock took it up. "The wind was bad in town, too.
I didn't like it at all."
"The wind, the wind," George chanted. They all
looked at him. He was playing with his flashlight, turn-
ing it on and off.
"Put that thing away," Alice Perry said. "It looks silly,
and your hands aren't clean."
"The wind, the wind," George said again. "I am
forcibly reminded of a little blue-and-gold copy of A
Child's Garden of Verses. Robbie and I each had one;
we learned some of the stuff by heart; we were very,
very cute. I quote. Title: The Wind. Line: 'And all
around I heard you pass—like ladies' skirts across the
grass.' Did it sound like that to any of you, or am I just
being sentimental?"
They laughed at George almost as much as they'd
laughed at Hattie. Even little Pleydell made a coopera-
tive sound, but he kept it up too long.
Milly looked at him with sudden anger, and he col-
ored. Why do I always get interested in fools? she asked
herself. Why am I down here, anyway? Why doesn't
George introduce me to his parents? Why do I stay, like
a dope? Because I am a dope. She got up. "Excuse me,
everyone," she said. "I belong upstairs."
They began to talk again before she left the room. She
heard Babcock say something about the masseur. His
report had been a good one. Babcock had called him in
town. They were going to try the treatment every night.
Mrs. Manson was responding. George said something
about Hattie and the masseur.
Milly closed the door on a fresh burst of laughter.
George had started them off again. He had an LQ. of
six.
She was halfway up the stairs when George came after
her. He didn't say anything, but he put his arms around
Composition for Four Hands 75


wrinkled. He, looked cold and unhappy as he huddled by
the fire. Alice Perry was a familiar figure, too, and also
from a distance. Alice Perry was complete, from pearls
to corset. No one introduced them.
Milly went to a chair by a window, out of the circle
of light. Cory brought her a drink. When she had time
to look around, she saw Pleydell in a far corner, making
himself small in a huge chair, looking like a choirboy
waiting for words from a bishop.
It was after four o'clock; it could have been four in
the afternoon except for the dark windows, the lamps,
and the assorted clothing. George looked like a perfect
fool. She'd tell him so when she got the chance. And he
was grinning. There was nothing to grin about.
Alice perry was laughing, a brisk, efficient, party
laugh. "Ordinarily I sleep like a baby," she declared,
"but tonight I was restless. Of course, I heard George
prowling, but I thought it was his poor tooth. Then I
heard my big George, also prowling. Such men! That
was when I got up and found little George's amazing
note. Of course we came at once—the neighborly thing to
do. Dear Mrs. Manson. I'd cut Hattie's wages if she were
mine."
Everyone laughed.
"The villain was the wind," Cory said. "George says
the ivy's down. Of course that's what she saw."
"Oh, naturally, the wind," Alice Perry agreed. "Our
poor chrysanthemums, absolutely beaten to the ground.
I showed you, dear, as we came over. George dear, big
Georgie, didn't I show you?"
Mr. Perry nodded.
"The wind was pretty stiff," Manson said. "Frightful
racket in those old trees, almost human. So human that
for a minute I thought Hattie was a particularly big
blow."
Everyone laughed again. Hattie is a very comic char-
74 Composition for Four Hands


Robbie's room on the left. That one was locked. It was
always locked. It would be dark and dusty if you could
see inside. Were the sheets still on Robbie's bed? Plain
white sheets, wrinkled where his body had lain; soft
white pillows showing the print of his head? No. No,
that bed would be smooth, because he hadn't slept in it.
Beyond Robbie's, the room Bruce Cory used. A
brown room, an English-looking room, like those you
saw in English movies. Plain dark furniture, heavy and
handsome; brushes and jars on the big chest, tortoise,
ebony, and crystal. Expensive. Mr. Bruce Cory got out
of bed like a Boy Scout, no matter who screamed. No
matter what. Sheets folded back, dark-brown blankets
neat and tidy. The lavatory next door. Then the stairs
that went down to the kitchen.
Across the hall from Bruce Cory's, Mr. Manson's
suite that he wasn't using. But someone had been in
there. Lights in the bath and in the dressing room.
Drawers pulled out of the dressing-room chest. As if
somebody wanted something in a hurry. Handkerchiefs
on the floor, a dark-blue scarf trailing from an open
drawer. Everything dark blue and cream. . . . Wanted
what in a hurry? A revolver in the handkerchief drawer?
That could be. A scream in the night. . . .
The second closed door was next to Mr. Manson's
suite. The attic door. Doctor Babcock's hand pressed her
arm. "My arm must be shaking," she decided. "My knees
are. And my head aches." She smiled at Doctor Bab-
cock, to let him know she was grateful. The wide stairs
to the first floor were straight ahead.
"Take things easy tomorrow," Babcock said. "Don't
worry about your patient, she's in good shape. Take long
walks, think of pleasant things. We can't have you crack-
ing up!" They went down.
She had seen George's father before, puttering in his
flower beds, a graying, gangling replica of George. His
old tweed topcoat, worn over pajamas, was wet and
Composition for Four Hands 73


fore—she does it when she thinks she sees a bug. But
poor Mrs. Manson—"
"There, there," Babcock said. "It's all over now."
Milly looked at Mrs. Manson's closed eyes. Pleydell
had been wonderful. He brought her out of the faint, or
whatever it was, and talked as if he gave her credit for
being adult and sensible. He described what he called
Hattie's nightmare as if he'd dreamed it himself, and he
made Emma laugh with him. Mrs. Manson listened, her
eyes never leaving his young face. Then he gave her a
sedative, but not from the bottle on the table. His hand
went toward the bottle, but her look stopped it in mid-
air. So he took a bottle from his very new bag and held
it for her to see. Even then she refused; she looked at
Emma as if she were talking to her. And Emma said:
"111 sleep here, I'll sleep in the same bed. And it won't
be the first time, either." After that it was all right; now
Mrs. Manson was asleep, and Emma was sitting on the
bed and yawning and all but telling them to get out.
Babcock touched Milly's arm. "Come, Miss Sills,
there's nothing more for you to do here. You heard what
Mr. Manson said. A small refresher—you've earned it,
and I need it. A long, trying day, a miserable night." He
led her from the room and guided her along the hall as
if she were ill.
She was relieved, she'd been afraid he'd blame her
for sleeping. He was being fair and understanding. Two
wonderful men, Pleydell and Babcock. She was lucky.
All the doors along the hall except two were open;
there were lights in the rooms. On the right, the rose
guestroom adjoining Mrs. Manson's bath—the room Mr.
Manson used now. Rose blankets thrown back, rose
sheets dragging on the floor, the porch door open and the
curtains not drawn. Mr. Manson had left that room in a
hurry. A funny-looking room for Mr. Manson to be
sleeping in.
72 Composition for Four Hands


told me, but I didn't need that. I got an eyeful myself,
and I'm not surprised that Mrs. Manson passed out."
Cory studied George closely. "Exactly what do you
think you saw?"
George colored. "I don't know," he admitted. "Listen.
I'm far from being the kind of guy who hangs out win-
dows spying on the neighbors, but—"
He told Cory he'd gone to his window to spit out a
dental poultice, and he looked ridiculously young when
he said it. "I looked across the grounds to this house
because—well, there it was and there I was, and I saw
something moving. Back and forth, under the porch. I
thought it was a dog, a big dog, maybe a collie. But
there aren't any big dogs around here. So I kept on look-
ing." He said the dog prowled close to the house, as if
it were stalking something, and that was all right, be-
cause the place was full of moles and so on. Then it
disappeared. By that time he was wide-awake and he
went to get a cigarette. When he returned to the win-
dow, the dog was on the sleeping porch. "No wonder
Mrs. Manson fainted, big brute like that, strolling around
the porch, walking in her room, place half-dark."
"Do you have a theory about how a dog could climb
that porch?"
"The tone of voice is all right with me," George said
agreeably. "I didn't see him go up, but I saw him come
down. He came down like a monkey. Maybe he was a
monkey. I saw him swing over the railing and hang on
the vines. Come to think of it, I didn't actually see him
hit the ground. By that time I was falling around my
own room, looking for my shoes. Maybe he was a mon-
key or maybe he was the Hound of the Baskervilles. I
don't know or care, much, except that he ought to be
found and shot. He gave me the creeps. . . . How's Miss
Sills?"
"There's nothing wrong with Miss Sills."
"I'm glad to hear that." George's voice was faintly
Composition for Four Hands 69


could handle it better alone. I don't know what she did,
though."
"That was midnight?"
"Yes. Twelve or a little after. Mr. Brucie, what does
Miss Sills say?"
"Miss Sills seems to know less than anyone else. She
didn't hear Hattie. She didn't know anything was wrong
until I woke her up. She wasn't easy to wake, either.
And Nora—" He prowled about the room.
Emma fought for patience. "If it's a cigarette you're
looking for, then for mercy's sake, sit down and let me
get it." She found matches and cigarettes in a table
drawer. "Here. You heard Hattie yourself, didn't you?"
"Of course. My door was open and the back stairs—
I went to Mrs. Manson's room at once."
"I'd have thought you'd have gone to the place where
the scream came from."
"You'd have thought nothing of the sort. You'd have
done as I did. . . . What are you listening to?"
"Somebody came in the front door without ringing
the bell. Can that be the doctor so soon?" She opened
the library door. Voices came down the hall. "George
Perry, wouldn't you know it, and the new doctor, too.
He looks too young. I'm going upstairs. I can be use-
ful." She was gone before he could stop her.
George wore a raincoat over his pajamas and galoshes
on what he said were bare feet. He breathed as if he
had been running. "I saw your lights go on," he said to
Cory. "I was looking out my window. If you're going to
search the grounds, I can help. That's what I came
for."
"Do you know what you're talking about?" Cory asked
mildly.
George said: "I think I'd better sit down. I'm winded.
Sure I know. If you're trying to keep this thing a secret,
you're out of luck. I met Pleydell on the porch, and he
68 Composition for Four Hands


"Not," said Emma, "at three in the morning. This is
a nice, residential district. It was something she ate. Go
back to bed, Hattie. Ill come in and see you later." The
look she gave Cory said that she was in control and he
was less than nothing.
When Hattie had gone, trailing her blanket and
sniffling, Emma made sure the door was closed. Then she
said: "Mr. Brucie, what happened upstairs? What hap-
pened to Miss Nora? Was it Hattie screaming like that?"
"It must have been."
"But could she hear it? Her door's always closed at
night. I've heard Hattie many times before. She did
break her record tonight, but that's a long way off. I
don't know, I—"
"The porch door was open," he reminded her. "And
Hattie's window is on that side of the house. I think we
can assume it was Hattie's work."
"Unconscious." Emma was thoughtful. "I never knew
her even to faint. Never. Even when Robbie—you know
that as well as I dol She never was the kind to faint and
carry on."
"But she's sick now, Emma."
"Are you telling me? And there's something else, too."
Emma frowned. "She was upset tonight, what you might
call wild-eyed. Miss Sills thought she'd had a nightmare."
She told him about Miss Sills' return at midnight. "Miss
Sills was sharp with me, too, as if I'd done something.
Me! I'd lay down my life, and you know it. Miss Sills said
Miss Nora was terrified, that's what she said."
Cory walked to one of the long windows. "Lights on
over at Perry's. . . . How terrified? When a woman can't
speak, can't move—"
"It was the way she looked. She looked awful." Emma
faltered. "It could have been a bad dream—but it
wouldn't go away when she woke up. She couldn't shake
it off. Miss Sills sent me down to my room. She said she
Composition for Four Hands 67


utes would tell her something she didn't want to hear.
When she reached the library, Hattie was already there,
alive, and wrapped in a blanket. She looked for the
others—Mr. Cory, Mr. Manson, Miss Sills. Mr. Cory was
standing by the fireplace, Mr. Manson was telephoning,
Miss Sills was absent.
"Miss Nora?" Emma faltered. "Miss Sills?"
"Miss Sills is all right. Everybody's all right except
Mrs. Manson."
"Not-"
"We're trying to get Doctor Babcock. Mrs. Manson is
unconscious, and Miss Sills quite rightly refuses to ac-
cept the responsibility. We don't know what—Emma,
can you do anything with Hattie? Nothing she says
makes sense."
Emma turned on Hattie. Hattie s shrill, wailing voice
rose above the telephone conversation, but they heard
enough of the latter to know that Doctor Babcock wasn't
home.
She hadn't slept well, Hattie said; the ivy had kept her
awake. All night long it had been making noises at her
window, scratching against the wooden shutters, and
she'd listened to it for hours before she'd made up her
mind that she couldn't stand it another minute. She'd
got out of bed then, not turning on a light, and found
the scissors in her workbasket.
"I was going to cut it off," she said. "The ivy. I could
see it moving back and forth, a long, black, ugly-looking
thing out there in the dark. Like a snake. So I was going
to cut it off. And then—" She stopped short when Man-
son left the phone.
"I got hold of Pleydell," Manson said. "He's younger
than I like, but he's the best I could do. Get on with it,
Hattie."
"Yes, sir. So I was going to cut it off. I was half out
Composition for Four Hands 65


for my benefit; the face knows that I know now. It will
be played for the excitement the actor gets.
I know even about the hands. I know what they are.
Moving along the floor, under the screen, close together
as if they belonged to an animal.
That is too vile.
Miss Sills is asleep. Her head is bowed. She sleeps
like a little girl.
When they find me in the morning, will they say I
turned in my sleep and smothered myself? "She turned
in her sleep—the pillow. It's the miracle we've been
waiting for, but we didn't know, we didn't think—"
Will the police believe that?
Miss Sills sleeps like a little girl.
Can they do anything to her? Can they accuse her of
negligence? Or will someone suggest that she was in
love with—
Waiting is dreadful. Why is it taking so long? . . .
At last. . . . Miss Sills. Miss Sills. Miss Sills!
Composition for Four Hands 63


asleep. A deep sleep. In the morning Miss Sills would
have a headache.
In the morning I will be dead. . . .
How will it happen? It couldn't have been planned
for tonight—no one could have known she'd drink the
rest of the milk. It was a lucky break. The way had
been prepared for a lucky break, and it had come. And
it wasn't needed, it wasn't necessary at all. It was simply
an extra precaution, a weapon in reserve, devious, typi-
cal.
How long will I have to wait now?
Not long. This is too good to miss. It would have been
better if there'd been more time for frightening me. It
must have been a wrench to give that up. I see the
whole thing now, I know the plan. I was to be fright-
ened out of my wits until that grew tiresome and wasn't
exciting any more. Then, when the time was right, when
I was alone or with Emma only, I was to be killed.
How? Perhaps smothered. Smothering will be easy.
Emma left me alone tonight. There was plenty of
time then. Emma was asleep tonight, over by the fire,
out of sight of the screen. There was time then, too.
But I had to be frightened first, because that was ex-
citing. That would have gone on night after night until
it got to be a bore. Or until a foolproof opportunity
came. An opportunity too good to miss. Like tonight.
Were Miss Sills and I being watched? Yes, of course we
were. But what difference does that make now?
Soon the hands will come back and move along the
edge of the screen. The black shape will rise from the
floor and stand up, and one of the hands will uncover
the face, and I will see it.
The face is being saved for the end, like a big scene.
Like a scene at the end of a melodrama, when the
audience is supposed to be surprised. It won't be played
62 Composition for Four Hands


see every move. "See?" she said. "Just as good as thrown
out. And tomorrow 111 tell Babcock you like it the
same as you like poison." Poison. That crack about
poison when they were all having drinks in the after-
noon; that might have started it. Lying alone, half-
asleep, half-awake, listening to the rain, thinking back.
When she returned to the bed, she said: "Those pills
are okay, silly. I'm just humoring you because I think
you're nice. All right now?"
No, Mrs. Manson wasn't all right She still looked at
the table; her eyes still talked. Her lips, stiff and dry,
struggled with the shape of a word. Mrs. Manson was
seeing something that only she could see, and she was
trying to tell about it. It was hopeless, and she knew
it, but she was trying.
Suddenly Milly was engulfed and defeated. This was
hysteria, this was something she couldn't fight alone.
Manson? Cory? She looked at the bedroom door, at the
glass door. George? Beyond the glass door and the
porch, across the garden, George was safe in his own
house. She went to the screen and walked around it,
unconscious of the horrified eyes that followed her. It
was cold on the porch, and the wind was wet and
mournful. It sighed in the trees and the ivy, and touched
her face with damp fingers.
George's room was dark, the whole cottage was dark.
She looked to her left, along the length of sleeping
porch. The porch ran to the end of the house, wide and
shadowed, overhung with trees and vines. Mr. Manson's
room opened on it, so did Bruce Cory's. But their rooms
were dark, too. There were no lights showing in any
of the rooms that she could see.
Mrs. Manson must have been all right when they
went to bed, she thought, or they wouldn't have gone.
They'd have waited for her or called Babcock. Then
she knew what she wanted to do. Call Babcock. It was
only a quarter of one. He wouldn't mind, he was used
58 Composition for Four Hands


miserably, "but I'm helpless myself. I can't think of
anything to do. Can't you give me a sign of some sort?
Can't you look at something in the room that will give
me a clue?"
Mrs. Manson's eyes blazed with hope. It was a look
that even a child could have read.
"There, now," Milly rejoiced. "You see? We're all
right, we're fine. We're getting this thing licked, aren't
we? Is it something in the room that frightens you,
something I don't know about?"
The eyes met hers and held, like a hand reaching out
to take another hand. They directed her to the bed
table. There was nothing on the table but the milk jug,
the cup of cooling milk, and the small glass bottle. And
two linen handkerchiefs, neatly folded. The same things
that were there every night.
It couldn't be the handkerchiefs. They were her own,
marked with her initials, N. M., in a little circle of
flowers. There was nothing frightening about a hand-
kerchief. She shook them out. They were clean, empty,
fragrant. She touched one of the wet cheeks and studied
the table again, following the direction of the eyes, pin-
ning the look to a definite place. The pills?
"Now, you're not afraid of those pills, Mrs. Manson.
You've had them every single night. They're the same
as always; we haven't changed them." She turned the
bottle between her fingers. "See? Same druggist and
everything. Same old stuff. Four little pills for four more
nights Well, 111 be! I've hit it, haven't I?"
The look had changed; it was eager, urgent, full of
horror. It was almost like speech. It warned and pleaded
and prayed. Mrs. Manson had been in the depths, she
was still there, but she was emerging.
Afraid of the medicine all of a sudden, Milly marveled.
HI fix that right now. She got her handbag and put
the bottle in it, holding the bag so Mrs. Manson could
Composition for Four Hands 57


You ought to see yourselfl You're still a bad girl, and
don't think I'm not mad at you, because I am, but I
do believe you've turned the comer! You hear that?
You're better! You couldn't make those mean, ugly
faces a week ago. You couldn't even make them this
morning. Well, am I tickled!"
But there was no responsive smile, and that was what
she wanted most of all. Response. Anything that would
prove cooperation and receptiveness and settle the
question of a clouded mind.
"Mrs. Manson, smile. Smile just once, and well forget
about the nightcap."
The agony in the eyes that returned her look was
almost more than she could bear. Mrs. Manson was try-
ing to smile, but she might as well have tried to run.
Muxy said: "Never mind, never mind, baby. Forget it."
She rolled the pill about in the palm of her hand; it
was a capsule, and it rolled lightly and evenly. What
am I going to do now? I can't force her—not when she
looks like that. But I've got to make her understand that
I'm on her side, that the things I ask her to do are the
right things. I've got to find out why she's terrified. She
can't go through the night this way. Neither can I. If I
try the milk again, if I try selling myself with the milk-
Aloud, she said: "Mrs. Manson, please take the milk.
I won't bother you about the pill. I know you hate it
even though it's good for you. But please take the milk.
This is my job, Mrs. Manson, I need it. Doctor Babcock
might send me away if he found out that I couldn't—
couldn't persuade you. And I don't want to go away.
Please, Mrs. Manson, just a little milk for my sake."
Mrs. Manson's eyes filled with tears. They gathered
slowly and clung to her lashes. Only when there were
too many did they begin to fall.
Milly put the milk back on the table and dropped the
pill into the bottle. "I want to help you," she said
56 Composition for Four Hands


in homes, when you were on duty alone and felt as if
you were being watched. Not by a patient, by something
else. They said it was a natural thing and not to be
frightened. That's what they said. But some of the older
nurses, the old war horses who'd seen everything, they
said it was death watching you. Waiting for you to turn
your back. . . . She turned around slowly, looking into
every corner of the room and listening. What she saw
was luxury and security, what she heard was silence.
She bent over the bed. "Never let the patient know
you're nervous," they said. That's what they said.
She smiled. "Time for the nightcap," she said, "and
maybe I'll join you." She took the bottle of pills and
reached for the jug of hot milk. "I'll get the bathroom
glass for myself. I can use some of this milk. I'm worn
thin; we had too much company today." She smiled
steadily. "You probably feel worse than I do—you can't
tell people to shut up, and I can."
She knew Mrs. Manson was watching her hands as
they uncorked the jug and filled the cup. She replaced
the jug and shook a single pill into the palm of her
hand, talking all the while. "If the sun comes out to-
morrow, I'm going to park you on the sleeping porch.
Tomorrow's Sunday, you remember that, and old George
will be home all day. Maybe hell hang out his window
with his face all tied up like the Robber Kitten. He
says he has a toothache. Well, well make fun of him
and he won't know it. ... Here you are. Open wide."
Mrs. Manson refused. It was more than mutiny; she
tightened her lips in a straight, hard line, and her eyes
blazed. The muscles in her throat were like cords.
Milly stared, holding the milk in a hand that shook.
Her eyes widened with delight. Mrs. Manson's throat
muscles were the most beautiful things she had ever
seen. They were strong, pulsing, and controlled. For
the first time.
She exulted. "Well, what do you know about thatl
Composition for Four Hands 55


"You're as blind as a bat," Milly whispered. "She's
anything but all right. No, Emma, don't go over there
now. I want to talk to you."
Emma struggled to her feet, blustering and protest-
ing. 'Tm sure I don't know what you're getting at, Miss
Sills! I can see as well as you can, and I say she's all
right."
Milly said: "Please keep your voice down, Emma.
Who was in this room tonight?"
"Nobody. What do you think I am? I wouldn't let
anybody in. Mr. Manson and Mr. Cory stopped for a
minute or two before the masseur came, but you know
that as well as I do. And that's all."
Milly observed to herself that the whole town of
Larchville could have trooped in and out while Emma
was having her doze. Aloud she said: "Did Breitman
say anything while he was here? Did he say anything
about her condition?"
"Not a word. He never does. He's very close-mouthed.
He and I talked the same as we always do, nothing
more. Miss Sills, I—" Emma began to break. Milly's
stern young face was full of foreboding. "Miss Sills,"
she wavered, "if anything's gone wrong, while I— Miss
Sills, what's gone wrong?"
"Mrs. Manson is frightened, and I want to know why.
At first I thought she'd had a nightmare, but now I'm
not so sure. I think she may have overheard something.
Or she may have been—remembering things again.
That's always a bad business when you're alone at
night, to say nothing of being sick. . . . Exactly what
did Breitman say?"
"Nothing. Nothing about her. He never spoke her
name once. We talked about the weather. He said the
country was nice after New York, and he liked to come
out here. That's all."
"Didn't say anything that she could misunderstand?
Mention any names, any names at all?"
Composition for Four Hands 53


Now, now, you mustn't be." She sat on the edge of the
bed and talked softly and persuasively. "I bet I know
what happened," she said. "Tou had a bad dream. And
because you're sick and sort of helpless, you couldn't
throw it off. Now me, when I have a bad dream, I prac-
tically kick myself out of bed and wake up screaming.
They're terrible, aren't they? But everybody has them
once in a while, pal—I mean, Mrs. Manson. I mean,
you're not the only one."
No, that wasn't it. According to Mrs. Manson's eyes,
it wasn't a dream. They said so, as plain as words. They
said they had seen something.
Milly felt a prickle along her spine. Got me doing it
now, she thought. Not that I haven't been getting ready
for it. Bones in boxes. .. . For two cents I wouldn't look
over my shoulder, even at Emma.
She rubbed the hands gently. They were like ice, but
Mrs. Manson's forehead was beaded with perspiration.
Get busy, Milly told herself. Get to the bottom of this,
but don't let her see that you're worried. She couldn't
possibly have seen anything. There's nothing to see.
Maybe she heard—
"Listen, honey, I'm going to wake Emma up and send
her to bed. And maybe Emma can tell me what—what
you want." She went to Emma and touched the old
woman's shoulder. Emma was a heavy sleeper. Milly
had to shake her awake.
"Well," Emma said. "Is it time for you already? I
must have dozed off."
"You must have taken one of Mrs. Manson's pills.
What happened in here while I was out?"
"Nothing." Emma was indignant. "You don't have
to glare at me like that, Miss Sills. Everything was as
quiet as you please. We slept like a baby, same as if
you'd been here." Emma looked at the bed. "She's all
right. Even I can see that."
52 Composition for Four Hands


Was she the kind of woman a man like Bruce Cory
would—look at?"
"From what I've seen of him I'd say no, but fast. Her
clothes weren't any better than mine. She was all right,
you understand, but she didn't have the kind of man-
ner you expect in a woman connected with a Cory or a
Manson. But you can't always tell about boys like Cory
and Manson."
"What a brain," Millie admired. "Sensational!" She
dragged her feet from the shelf. "After eleven. I ought
to start back."
"Aw, wait. I've got coffee. It's on the hot plate."
With the coffee they had bakery doughnuts, which
tasted better than four-layer chocolate because they
came out of a paper bag.
It was ten minutes to twelve when Marge locked the
shop door behind them. They walked to the corner be-
fore they separated. Marge stood on the curbstone and
watched Milly cross the deserted street and strike out in
the direction of the park. The slight, raincoated figure
and the big umbrella were swallowed in mist and fog.
The rain had turned into an aimless drizzle.
Marge went home and tried to remember where she'd
seen the woman who was interested in young nurses.
The woman was beginning to fill her mind. . . . Not a
one-shot customer, Marge decided. I'm sure of that.
Maybe somebody who just moved to Larchville, one of
those people you stand next to at the grocery store.
Maybe. Green coat and hat. Drop a brick out any win-
dow this year, and you'll hit that same green coat and
hat
Muxy let herself in. One light was burning in the hall,
the one they always left burning when she was out. It
was a signal for her to put the chain on the door. It
meant everyone else was in. She fixed the chain, turned
out the light, and crept upstairs.
50 Composition for Four Hands


couple of Halloween cards, and acted friendly in a push-
ing way. You know, the great big smile that goes with
spending ten cents. First she asked how Mrs. Manson
was getting along—lots of people ask me that, because
they know I know you or they've seen you in here. Then
she wanted to know where you lived."
"For heaven's sake! I'm getting a reputation."
"Think so? Wait. She said, "Does the young lady live
in Larchville, or did they get her from New York?* I said
Larchville. And I also said what do you want to know
for, but in a nice way, of course. And she said she
thought maybe she knew you and was just making sure.
She did a lot of smiling and hemming and hawing and
said she thought maybe you'd trained at the hospital
with her cousin or somebody. She said she was inter-
ested in young nurses starting out who'd trained where
her cousin had."
"Crazy. No sense to it. Who's her cousin?"
"She very carefully didn't say, even when I asked."
Marge lighted a cigarette. "Know what I think? I think
she was a snooper, a busybody, one of those women
who try to get the dope on other people's troubles so
they can brag to the bridge club. She had a face like
bridge-every-afternoon; sharp. Also heavy around the
hips, too many of those bridge desserts. So when she
said your name had slipped her mind and wasn't it
Johnson or something like that, I closed up like a clam."
"Right Thanks."
Marge was thoughtful. "You know, there could be
something behind it, Milly. Something like family
trouble, for instance. She might be a relative of the
Cory family, still sore about Manson's marrying the
money Cory left. Or she might be an old girl friend of
Cory's—I mean the first husband."
"Did she look like the kind of girl friend a Cory would
have? They say Bruce is the living image of his brother.
Composition for Four Hands 49


thought. You'd think it had a special place to go. Worms.
Nothing under grass but worms. But under this particu-
lar grass, under this very super Mrs. Nathaniel-Sills-and-
daughter grass, there are also bones. Cat, dog, canary,
and goldfish bones, in shoeboxes and matchboxes, all
rotted and gone. I have the soul of a poet. . . . After
that it was too easy to think of another kind of grass,
trim and parklike, where the same rain was sinking into
the earth and finding-
She ran past the lighted drugstore on the corner,
turned and ran the length of a block to Marge Foster's
shop. "Hi," she said in a breathless voice that she tried
to make casual.
Marge, sorting rental cards at her worktable, looked
up. "Put that umbrella in the stand before I drown.
What brings you out in all weathers?"
Milly slid her book across the table. "I make it twenty-
four cents due. Here's a quarter, and I want change."
"You kill me," Marge said. "I can remember the day
when you patronized Carnegie's Free. Why don't you go
back there? Sit down. How are you, honey?"
"So-so." Milly pulled up a chair. Miss Foster's Lend-
ing Library and Gift Bazaar was empty except for the
proprietress and Milly. "Terrible night. George is sick.
He says. Mother's going to give me half her silver. She
says. What do you know, Marge?"
"What do I know? You're the one who lives the life."
"I'm gaming weight—they feed me swell. On some
cases you share a bowl with the dog."
"You're lucky. You look wonderful." Marge gave the
rain-blurred windows a rapid survey. "I don't feel like
business, I feel like talking to an old school tie. Put your
feet up and relax." She crossed to the door, locked it,
and returned. "And they call me money-mad."
Milly settled her feet on the edge of a bookshelf. "I
ought not to stay, honestly. I'm not due back till twelve,
but she's acting kind of funny tonight. Got a cigarette?"
46 Composition for Four Hands


unless you are able to count the pills. Remember that.
Never take it unless you can count, and take it only
from Miss Sills. If you could talk, what would you say
first? If you could walk, which way would you go? No,
no, think of something that is real.
This room is real; it has body and substance. The jug
of milk, the bottle, the painted screen, all real. There
are gray clouds and black birds and green rushes on the
screen. That's right, that's right. And there's one small
bird deep in the rushes at the bottom, sitting on a nest.
Find the small bird on the nest. Low on the left, near
the floor—you know where it is. Find it. . . .
There was a gloved hand lying on the floor under the
screen.
It moved along the floor, in the space beneath the
frame, a bright-yellow hand with thick, spread fingers.
Another hand crept out and moved beside it. They
minced to the right and then to the left, feeling their
way, like two blind, glutted things.
Her lips curled back from her teeth.
The two hands traveled to the end of the screen and
stopped. A few inches above them another hand crept
around the frame and curled and slipped and clung.
Then another. Four thick, yellow hands close together,
beckoning. . . .
"I don't know why you want to leave before your
time's up," Mrs. Sills said to her daughter. "It's not half
past ten yet. What do you think I cut that cake for? Not
for myself, I can assure you. Stale bakery cake is good
enough for me. I made that cake for my only child, who
brings me a bundle of messy old uniforms and says it's
such a bad night that she'd better be going out in it
Going where?"
Milly was unimpressed. "Don't give me that cake rou-
tine again. You're fifteen pounds overweight from four-
layer chocolate fresh out of the oven. And 111 take my
laundry to the Steam Hand, if you don't like it. I hate
rain, and you know it, and George has a toothache."
44 Composition for Four Hands


"It's Bruce, dear. Ill wait here until you come out."
"How perfectly wonderful! You're a mind reader! I've
been trying to get you. You've got to stay for dinner."
"That's what I came for. Take your time, Nora."
"What's the matter with your voice? Got a cold?"
"No. I don't know. Yes, I guess I have."
"Ill fix that. I know the very thing. Is Ralph with you,
or Robbie?"
"No. I came alone."
"Brucie, I went to the bank today. Am I screaming too
loud? Anyway, I went to the bank after lunch with
Robbie. I'm worried about Robbie, he looks awful. But
you'd all gone. That cra2y Miss Harper—I don't see how
Ralph stands her See Robbie anywhere around?"
"I haven't looked. How are you anyway, Nora? It's
been so long—"
"Your fault." She left the tub and got into her dress-
ing gown. "Be with you in a minute. If you want a drink,
ring for Emma. This is going to be a party."
She went into the room and saw him bending over
the laid fire. He was putting a match to the paper, and
when he turned to greet her, his face was stiff and
white.
"You really are sick!" She ran across the room and
touched his cheek. 'You are, and I love it. We'll keep
you here tonight and take care of you. Brucie, if you
want to marry a little fool, go right ahead. Shell be bet-
ter for you than that creeping, crawling gentleman's
gentleman. That man doesn't know the first thing
about—"
Bruce was looking over her shoulder, and she turned.
Ralph was coming in. Ralph didn't speak; he didn't
have to.
They can't both be sick, she told herself. Not both
of them, not all of them. Something's happened. They've
got bad news, and they're here to tell me. The bank-
No, Robbie! I knew it. I've known it all day. . . . She
40 Composition for Four Hands


She'd laughed. Maybe Alice did want what she had,
but that was only because Alice was born discontented.
It wasn't a personal thing. They'd always been friends
of a sort, as two women are when their children play
together. Now she turned from the plodding figure and
pretended not to see it. I don't feel like talking to her
anyway, she told herself. I don't feel like talking to any-
body. I want to get home in a hurry.
Emma let her in. Emma was wearing her hat, she'd
been to the stores, and just got back. No, she didn't
know if Mr. Ralph or Mr. Robbie had come home. She
didn't know anything about Mr. Brucie. She'd look in
the coat closet and find out in a minute.
"Don't bother," she told Emma. "I've got something
for you to do. I'm going to call Mr. Bruce in town and
ask him out for dinner. A very special dinner, because I
feel that way. I want you to huddle with Hattie. Open
all that stuff you've been hoarding, stuff like caviar,
use all the eggs and cream and butter in the house, and
get more. See if that man has pheasants. And don't tell
me anything about it. I want to be surprised."
She went to her room and, still wearing her outdoor
clothing and dialing with gloved fingers, called Brace's
apartment on her own phone. Why am I acting as if
this were a life-and-death performance? she wondered.
But Brace's apartment didn't answer. She tried his club.
He was expected for bridge, and she left word that he
was to call her as soon as he came in.
The upper hall was quiet; the doors were all closed.
They weren't home. When they were home, you could
hear them through walls and doors. She drew her bath
and laid out the new dress. Diamonds? No. Plain gold?
Chic. Or sapphires? Yes, sapphires because her eyes-
Hussy.
She was in the bath when she heard someone come into
her room. "Ralph?" she called.
Composition for Four Hands 39


bag were a reprieve. Miss Harper's pale eyes had shown
an absurd relief when she held them up.
Bruce's office door was closed, and when she got no
answer to her knock, she went in. Empty. All at once
she was too tired to question even herself. She nodded
to a clerk, who stopped at the open door with a startled
look, and then she went back to the car.
All the way home she told herself she had been too
happy in the morning. When that happened, you always
ate dust in the afternoon. For no good reason, for no
reason at all. Of course there was no reason. She planned
dinner all over again, confident that all three would be
home when she got there. All three, even Brucie. Brucie,
coming out with the others for a surprise. But why,
after all these months, why a surprise? Was it a silly
anniversary or something? Had she forgotten one of her
big-little days? No, she hadn't forgotten.
On the station side of the little park she saw Alice
Perry walking with her head down. Alice looked de-
jected, not brisk and trim as usual. Poor Alice. Always
too ambitious, always expecting too much of her two
Georges, husband and son, never satisfied with the small,
pleasant comforts of her life.
She raised her hand to beckon, then remembered
something Ralph had said. She hadn't agreed with him
then, but she dropped her hand now. He'd said: "Go
easy on the indiscriminate lifts, darling. In bad weather
it's all right, but you stop for anybody and everybody,
and it looks patronizing. Especially to people like Alice
Perry. She's apt to think you're rubbing her nose in your
fine car."
She'd been indignant. "I've known Alice Perry since
George and Robbie were children. I like her, and you're
crazy, darling."
"AH right, I'm crazy. But Alice doesn't like you. She
wants what you have."
38 Composition for Four Hands


"He didn't say, Mrs. Manson, but I think he went
home. He filled his brief-case, and when he does that—"
"Yes, I know." Ralph and his homework. Ridiculous,
but he got a big kick out of being an executive, even
after hours. Nice old Ralph, doing his best to act like a
Cory and a banker and doing it too hard. "*What about
my son? Do you think the bank will bust if I take him
home with me? I've got the car."
"Mr. Robbie didn't come back after lunch," Miss
Harper said. "I believe he—I heard Mr. Manson and Mr.
Cory mention it." Miss Harper's embarrassment had
turned into something stronger. She didn't seem to know
where to look.
"Mention it in what way? You mean they needed Mr.
Robbie and couldn't locate him? They knew he was
with me."
"Oh, I don't know anything about it, Mrs. Manson!
Nobody said—I mean, I simply heard Mr. Cory ask
where Mr. Robbie was, and Mr. Manson seemed to
think he— I really don't know anything about it, Mrs.
Manson."
She told herself Miss Harper was an idiot, a mal-
adjusted, fluttering, stammering little fool. "It's all right,
Miss Harper, thank you." She wanted to say that Robbie
could come and go as he liked in his own father's and
grandfathers bank. 'Ill go in and see Mr. Cory. Perhaps
hell ride home with me."
Miss Harper started to say something about Bruce,
discarded the sentence before it was fairly launched, and
substituted a noisy and frantic hunt through her desk.
"My bag and gloves," she explained, waving them as if
they were a last-minute reprieve. "I know you'll excuse
me, Mrs. Manson, but I've got to rush, I really have.
Heavy date, you know, heavy date." She smiled falsely
and scurried out of the office.
She followed Miss Harper slowly, aware of a sudden
and unaccountable depression. Perhaps the gloves and
Composition for Four Hands 37


shopped for another hour and then drove to the bank.
Maybe Robbie would drive home with her, maybe
Ralph, maybe even Bruce. There was no earthly reason
Bruce couldn't drive out for dinner at least, and she'd
tell him so. It was about time he paid them a little at-
tention. A good dinner and a good talk. She'd ask his
advice about Robbie. And she'd tell him he could leave
early for whatever it was that kept him so close to town.
Probably a girl, and a young one at that. He always
looked foolish when she asked him what he did in the
evenings. A very, very young girl, with plucked eye-
brows. Men like Brucie are invariably trapped in the end
by girls young enough to be their daughters.
When the car stopped at the bank, she had her own
trap set for Bruce. She'd tell him how much she missed
the long walks and rides they used to take together.
She'd tell him he was almost as dear to her as his own
brother had been. No. No, that wouldn't do. That might
sound as if— She felt the color surge to her cheeks.
Hussy, she said to herself, what a mind you've got.
She entered the bank and walked briskly to the of-
fices in the rear. I'll simply tell Bruce that I'm worried
about Robbie, she decided, that Robbie looks like the
devil. Maybe he's noticed it himself. Ill remind him that
he's Robbie's only relative and that, while Ralph does
his best, it still isn't quite enough. And well have some-
thing very special for dinner, just the four of us, me and
my three men. Ill make it a gala. Ill wear my new dress
and that crazy rouge I haven't dared try yet.
She was beaming when she went into Ralph's office.
Ralph wasn't there.
Miss Harper, his secretary, was doing her nails and
looked embarrassed. "Mr. Manson left about an hour
ago," Miss Harper said, "Can I do anything for you,
Mrs. Manson?"
"No." She hesitated. "Do you know where he went?
Home or the club or what?"
36 Composition for Four Hands


told herself she wouldn't care at all. The light from the
single lamp found and lingered on the rose-colored jug
and the bottle of pills that stood on the bed table. Be-
fore she closed her eyes, she sent a long, compassionate
look across the room to the figure lying under the blank-
ets and rug. It was still. Of course it was still. But
something that could have been a shadow rippled over
the rug at the fold where the hidden hands lay. It could
have been the shadow of the ivy that swayed in the
wind outside the glass door. She told herself it was the
ivy and the lamplight, and that satisfied her.
Emma went to sleep with her hands folded under her
neat black apron, sitting upright in her chair. Some-
times she stirred in her sleep, because she was running
away from a horror. She was running up the attic stairs,
followed by bells and voices. And all the while she knew
she was running in the wrong direction, but she couldn't
turn back.
She heard Emma moan in her sleep like a tired and
laboring animal, and the sound dragged her up from
the depths of a beautiful dream. She was dreaming that
her fingers had wrapped themselves around the fringe
at last, had turned and twisted and grown strong. She
fought to keep the dream, clinging in her sleep to the
heavy strands, because they made a chain that bound
her to life. No dream had ever held the ecstasy of this
one. She could almost feel pain. She could almost per-
suade herself that her hands-
It was no use. She was awake. That was wishful think-
ing, she told herself despairingly; that was childish. She
couldn't afford to be childish.
She opened her eyes and looked at Emma. Emma sat
in shadow, the fireplace was dark, the corners of the
room were darker. She couldn't see the clock, but
Emma's presence and the screen, the jug, and the sleep-
ing medicine told her it was still too early for Miss Sills.
34 Composition for Four Hands


weren't needed, not now. Sleeping like an angel, breath-
ing nice and regular. When she was like that, Miss Sills
didn't want her to have a pill. Miss Sills had said she
was the one to decide whether or not a pill was neces-
sary and nobody but herself was to touch the bottle,
either. She had said accidents could happen and some-
times did. "Not when I'm around," Emma had said
coldly.
The mantel clock said nine-thirty. A good long wait
before Miss Sills came back, Emma reflected, unless the
rain drove her home early, which wasn't likely. Young
people made out like they could walk between the drops.
She rubbed her eyes furtively. She was sleepy, and
she longed for her own bed with its overabundance of
thick quilts and the paper sack of hard white pepper-
mints under the pillow. But she put them out of her
mind, and her heart warmed with a martyr's glow. IH
wash my face with cold water, she told herself. That'll
keep me awake. Il l just run down the hall to the lava-
tory—take me a couple of minutes, no more.
There was a bath adjoining the bedroom, but she
obstinately chose to accept Miss Sills' instructions about
that. Miss Sills said it was a private, not a public bath.
Emma turned up her nose at the gleaming tile and spot-
less basins. Like a hospital. You could do an operation
in it.
She gave a last, quick look at the figure on the bed.
So flat, so thin, so still. Dark lashes smudged the pale
cheeks; dark hair lay across the pillow. The old rug
was spread over the eiderdown—she'd wanted it that
way, you could tell. It was too hot, but Miss Sills could
take it away later. And that massage, it was a punishing
treatment. Those poor thin arms and legs, you'd think
they'd break in two.,
Emma went quietly down the hall, stopping once to peer
over the stair railing. The lower hall was dim. Her sharp
Composition for Four Hands 31


Two figures came to the glass door and stood there,
a slight woman in black and a stocky man in white. He
knew their silhouettes and their unvarying ritual; he
didn't need their black and white for identification.
Emma and the masseur; a last-minute chat, whispered
amenities, compliments given and taken by two people
in the pay of the same household. The masseur moved
like a chimpanzee disguised as a man or a man disguised
as a chimpanzee. But Milly said he was good. The best
in the business, she said.
George watched the man take his leave. He could
count every invisible step, every foot of the upper hall,
stairway, and lower hall, and give to each its allotted
time. So much for the hat-and-coat routine, so much for
the walk to the front gate, so much for crossing the street
to the park, for the left turn toward the station, which
would bring him into view again.
His bare elbows were on the dripping windowsill and
the wet wind was making his tooth jump, but he was
too intent to notice. It was the final, hissing exhalation of
his breath that startled him out of his absorption. What
am I doing this for? he asked himself. What am I breath-
ing heavily about?
The man, whose name was Breitman, had come into
view on schedule and was moving in the right direction
for the station, head lowered, trunk forward, long arms
hanging wide. What am I doing this for? George asked
himself again. What's the big idea of keeping tabs? The
guy could have stopped for a drink with Manson and
Cory—he sometimes does. So what? . . . His eyes re-
turned to the glass door. The single lamp had been
moved back. Its light was as faint as the glow of a dis-
tant city reflected in the sky, but it was enough to show
the passing to and fro of Emma's slight, black figure.
She raised and lowered the linen shades that covered the
glass panes of the door, then raised them again and
opened half of the door. She disappeared and returned
with a painted screen, which she dragged into place
Composition for Four Hands 29


Manson? One of these days you're going to smile at me,
and that's the day I'm waiting for."
Dear Miss Sills. Be careful, Miss Sills. Don't be too
good to me. . . .
At nine o'clock that evening Alice Perry walked into
her son's room. George was reading in bed, and he
looked up at her without speaking when she entered.
"Sulking, George?" Alice Perry's hair was like cotton
batting, and her round face was fresh and firm. Her
voice was firm also.
"No. Toothache."
"You've seen a dentist?"
"No. It'll go away."
"Sometimes you act like a child, dear. You'll find a
package of those small poultices in the medicine cabinet.
Use one tonight, and see a dentist in the morning. I
shouldn't have to tell you that." She walked about the
small room, rearranging chairs, replacing books on
shelves, frowning at a bowl of yellow chrysanthemums.
"Who brought these in here? You?"
"Yes, I like the color. Nothing wrong with that, is
there?"
"No, of course not But you're clumsy with flowers.
These are much too stiff, and the bowl's all wrong. Never
mind that now, I'll do them over tomorrow. George?"
"Yes, Mother." He put his book aside.
"You stopped there on the way home, didn't you?"
He didn't need her half-look at the windows that
faced the Perry back yard, the gaping hedge, and the
Manson garden. "Yes, for a little while."
"How is she?"
"Tut, tut. I can remember when you gave me the devil
for saying 'she.' Like this: If you mean Mrs. Manson,
say so.' Sure I stopped. I had a couple of drinks." He was
entirely good-humored and smiling. "Mrs. Manson is the
same."
24 Composition for Four Hands


He said, he was tired, that was all. Tired, so help him.
"Do you want me to cross my heart in a joint like this?"
He wouldn't look at her. He ordered his lunch without
the menu; shirred eggs, black coffee. Drink? No, no
drink.
She talked, talked her head off, told him about the new
napkins, the new glasses; but he wasn't listening. He
was sick, he must be dreadfully sick. "Robbie, where
does it hurt? Now, don't be childish. You've got a pain
somewhere, and I want to know. It can't be your ap-
pendix, that's out. What have you got left? I always
forget which of yours came out and which of mine. No
tonsils, no appendix, no—no—Robbie, your heart!"
"I still have that," he assured her. And he laughed;
too loud, too sharp. He parried every personal allusion
and kept the conversation on her weakness for linen and
crystal, her transportation of cracked corn from Larch-
ville in a Bergdorf bag, when she could buy a paper
sack of it from a little man who hung around the cathe-
dral for that very purpose.
She gave up. She'd get him alone that night; she'd go
to his room whether he liked it or not; she'd make him
tell her what was wrong. "Home for dinner, Robbie?"
"You bet."
That was all, He phoned for her car and waited until
it came. He handed her in and strode off, across the
street, into Central Park.
"Nora, we're going down to dinner, darling. Miss Sills
will stay until Emma comes." Ralph.
"No roller-skating in the halls, baby. It's bad for the
carpet." Brucie.
"Lucky Mrs. Manson, to be able to sleep so gracefully.
You're better, my dear lady, I know it, I can see it, I've
been waiting for it. I think I'll speak to the masseur.
Perhaps we can lengthen the treatments. If I had your
fine spirit and this charming room, I wouldn't mind a
touch of invalidism myselfl" Dr. Babcock.
22 Composition for Four Hands


about football. She didn't have to listen to that. She
could travel back and pick up the threads. The threads
would make a tapestry, and the tapestry would show the
figures.
The day she bought the glasses with the hunting scenes,
Fifth Avenue was all the world's great streets in one;
the day was all September days together. She remem-
bered to put a bag of cracked com in her purse for St.
Patrick's pigeons, and she sent her car to a garage, be-
cause she wanted to walk. Once she saw her reflection
in a window and preened like a girl. "I look thirty," she
said to herself, "and why not? All the other women have
only painted faces and lovers, but I have Ralph and
Robbie."
It was too early for lunch. Robbie couldn't make it
until one. That was ridiculous, and she'd told Ralph so;
when a bank is practically a family business, it ought to
make concessions to the young squire. But Robbie
wouldn't have it that way. She'd asked him once why he
worked so hard, and he'd said it was because he hated
it "You have a frightful conscience," she'd said. "You
got it from me, you poor thing, but 111 make it up to
you."
Walking up Fifth Avenue, she planned a surprise.
She'd tell him he needn't stay at the bank after the first
of the year. By that time Ralph and Brucie would know
he wasn't la2y. She'd tell him he could go abroad and
write. These youngsters who wanted to write! It was the
Left Bank or sterility. No good telling them they were
wrong, no good telling them that a kitchen table in
Brooklyn and a stack of paper are all a writer needs.
McCutcheon's. Dinner napkins. Big heavy, luscious
dinner napkins with fat, rich monograms. She didn't need
them, she had too many, and hardly anyone used them
any more. But square, solid piles of damask carefully
wrapped in muslin and reaching to the top of the closet
20 Composition for Four Hands


culine rumbles and the light, applauding ripple that
nurses always save for doctors.
Ralph handed the drinks around, Scotch and soda in
the hunting-scene glasses. The glasses she'd bought at
Tiffany's six weeks before. Only six weeks? Only that?
The day she had lunch with Robbie at the Plaza. The
day—
Ralph's strong brown hand held the milk close to her
mouth. His other hand held the feeding tube. He said:
"No dreaming, darling, this is a party. For you. Now
take a nice long swallow for the old man."
She closed her lips, made them tight.
He coaxed. "Come, darling, it's good. Bruce made it
himself. See? 111 take a swallow first."
Brucie's face, full of mock chagrin. His laughing
voice. "What's the idea—testing for poison?"
Awful, awful, awful to say a thing like that. To say it
out loud, to make a joke of it. To say it, to say it.
Miss Sills, crossing the room rapidly, coming to her
chair. "Hey!" Miss Sills, rattling off a long sentence,
addressing them all, meaningless words ending with the
same letters. Pig Latin. Robbie used to— Pig Latin.
Miss Sills was telling them not to say things like that.
Miss Sills was all right. Watch Miss Sills closely, make
sure. If Miss Sills is all right, then—
They both took her hands, Ralph and Brucie.
"Baby," Ralph said, "forgive us. We're clumsy fools.
You've always been such a good sport, we sometimes
forget we must be careful now. You understand?"
Brucie kissed the hand he held and placed it on top
of the rug. On top. He took the milk from Ralph. "Let
me," he said. He slipped the feeding tube between her
lips.
The drink was all right. It tasted good. Rum and milk.
Nothing else, simply rum and milk with a little grated
nutmeg. She should have known there would be noth-
ing else. Poison would be ridiculous, unintelligent.
18 Composition for Four Hands


they filed across the room and stood in a line before her
chair, she saw who the fifth one was. Doctor Babcock.
She made herself look down at his feet, she could just
manage it, turning her eyes down until they hurt. He was
wearing overshoes. That was why she hadn't known his
muffled tread. It was raining, then. Yes, it was growing
dark outside, there was rain on the windows.
Miss Sills said brightly: "We're going to have a little
party. As soon as George builds up the fire. See, here's
George! He says he wants a drink, but we're going to
make him work for it. And here's another man—picked
me up at the station, he did, claiming he lives here now.
Shall we give him a drink, too?"
Miss Sills was flushed and happy. She's in love with
one of them. Which?
Ralph had a tray, and he put it on the tea cart that
held the medicine and rubbing oils, the strong glass
feeding tube, the lipstick, the firm, cylindrical lipstick.
A tray of drinks. One for her? There was a rattle of coal
in the grate, then a sound of smothered laughter. Miss
Sills and George. It was George she loved.
Brucie bent to kiss her cheek. "How's our baby?" He
drew her hands from beneath the rug and massaged
them gently, smiling down into her face. "We started to
have drinks downstairs, and then Ralph got this idea.
Babcock came in and said it was okay. See the glass of
milk? Look. Funny color." He took it from the tray and
held it before her. "Milk plus. The plus is rum. Good
for girls."
The fringe was lying across her knees, wasting its
beautiful potentialities.
Doctor Babcock didn't wait for the others. He took
his drink, raised it in a toast to the rest, and gulped half
of it. "Good for boys," he said.
They laughed. Even Emma. Emma said, "Doctor, you
never give me any medicine like that!" They laughed
again, and Emma's shrill cackle rose above the rich, mas-
Composition for Four Hands 17


you once started, you couldn't stop. You'd give yourself
away. Self-inflicted injury, when all you want to do is
to keep your life, not lose it. Keep it, such as it is, keep
it until—Why, I'm crying. Those are tears on my hands.
I didn't know I could cry. Think of something else.
Quick. . . . Bruce will be coming on the four-fifteen.
Better not think of that, either. Every afternoon, bend-
ing down to look into your face, kissing your hands,
telling you how well you look, teasing, pretending. . . .
Stop that. Stop that.
Look at the fringe on your steamer rug. Old, happy
rug; kind, thick fringe. Thick! Almost as thick as a
pencil! Try it, try it while you're alone, hurry before—
before Emma comes. Before anyone comes. Before they
all come tramping back from their walks, their exercise,
from the station. There, you almost did it that time.
Almost. But don't worry because it seems impossible
now; someday youll make it. Try. Try again. There's a
good thick strand, lying across your left wrist. See if
you can touch it with your other hand. See if you can
move your wrist, your arm, your arm, try. . . . No. No,
but don't cry again, that's getting you nowhere. Keep
trying, and thank God your mind is all right. That's
what they aren't sure of, your mind. That's where you're
ahead of them; that's how youll win in the end. One of
these days one of your hands will reach the fringe and
close over it. One of these days you will take the fringe
in your hand and open and close your fingers. Roll the
soft, thick fringe between your fingers, endlessly, over
and over, until they are strong enough to hold a pencil.
Pencil. Youll never even see another pencil. You know
that. But your fingers will be ready for whatever comes.
It doesn't matter if you never walk again, if you never
speak again. All you need is two fingers. Two? No, one.
One will be enough, one finger can point. You can pre-
tend to be writing with one finger, a pantomime. You
can make it clear and unmistakable if you are ever alone
Composition for Four Hands 5


else. Like tatting. You can't hurt yourself with a little
celluloid bobbin."
He said: "Hurt herself? How dreadful! But I'm afraid
you're right I saw her watching your pencil when you
were writing the drugstore list. She wanted it, she craved
it. A pencil! What could she do with a pencil?"
"I don't know. We can't get into her poor mind. But
really, Mr. Manson, we've got to be alert every minute.
We've got to prepare ourselves for a physical change.
You know she could put her—I hate to say this—she
could put her—well, she could hurt her eyes. In the state
she's in, I mean her emotional state, she may think of
herself as useless, a burden to you. A self-inflicted in-
jury—oh, it's too awful, the poor thingl Maybe she
doesn't even want to see!"
His warm hands covered her then. He said: "Guard
her, Miss Sills, don't let anything happen. She's all I
have. Those lovely eyes, have you noticed how they—
follow? They're the only thing about her that's alive."
That was why Emma gave up knitting for tatting, which
she hated. That was why Miss Sills no longer wore
pencil and pen clipped to her apron bib. A self-inflicted
injury. . . . Don't think about it, she told herself. You're
lucky, you're very lucky, because they guessed wrong.
Think of something else, make yourself think, hard, hard.
Think of your hands, your fingers; think of a substitute
for a pencil. Anything, anything that will turn and roll
between useless fingers, turn and roll and give them
strength. Secret strength that must be kept hidden. If
you were a soldier in a hospital, they'd put something
in your hands and help you turn and roll it. In a hospital
they'd help you. That's why you're not in a hospital,
that's why you're home. You heard them: "Shell be more
comfortable in her own home with the people she loves."
Self-inflicted injury; you heard that, too. You're lucky
again because you can't laugh. You're lucky because if
4 Composition for Four Hands


weren't there. They seemed to think she couldn't hear
unless they put their faces close to hers and waved their
hands. That was all right; she wanted them to talk
among themselves. The more they talked like that, the
better. When they left the room, she wanted to know
where they were going. She wanted to know where they
were every hour of the day. And the night. The night.
They left her, and she heard their footsteps going
down the hall; Ralph's turned at the rose guestroom.
That was where he slept now. She'd heard the doctor
tell him to sleep there, to be within call. Whose call?
Not hers; she couldn't open her mouth. She could open
it, but she couldn't make a sound. The nurse's call. Miss
Sills'.
Miss Sills had a cot at the foot of her big bed. If Miss
Sills called to him in the night, he could be there in less
than a minute, down the hall or across the sleeping
porch that ran along that side of the house. I suppose
they talk among themselves, downstairs, and say that I
may die in the night, she thought. I wonder if I can
smile. I don't know, they never bring me a mirror. They
never put my chair anywhere near a mirror. But if I can
smile, then that's what I'm doing now inside. Careful.
Be carefuL
Miss Sills' footsteps went beyond the rose room to the
head of the stairs, went down, and were lost in the thick
rugs of the lower hall. Going for her afternoon exercise.
Soon 111 hear the front door close, and then she'll wave
to me from the garden. Then 111 see her across the street,
in the little park, walking with long, easy steps, swinging
her arms. Beautiful, beautiful motion. And pretty soon
Emma will come in to sit, chirping and smiling and talk-
ing. Talking, talking, talking. But I'm used to Emma.
She's been with me so long she's almost like a member
of the family. She will tell me about the prices of things,
pretending I still keep house. The butcher, the fruit man,
2 Composition for Four Hands


To Maggie Cousins


A

>






Advaan
•HOIW JO "AINfl
1961 SS XDO
QNnoa
geSS 13030 3^06.6

mvS\i 10 A115H3M""