Читать книгу The Girl in the Cellar - Dora Amy Elles - Страница 7

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When she tried to remember the rest of the evening she couldn’t. It was just a wash of pale-tinted platitudes. She was aware of Lilian, who talked incessantly and never said anything that you could remember, and of Harriet, who sat in the sofa corner with her eyes on what looked like a parish magazine. Every now and then she said something of what she was reading—“Mr. Wimbush says—” or, “Miss Brown writes—”

Thomasina came in to take the tray. Going out with it, she turned and surveyed the scene.

“If you were to ask me, I’d say early to bed—that’s what I’d say.”

The words came into the fog in which Anne was. They seemed to start in her brain, in her heart, and to flow out from there until the room was full of them. For the last half-hour Lilian Fancourt’s words had come and gone in the fog, come and gone again. She lifted her eyes and looked across to where Thomasina stood by the door. She couldn’t see her distinctly because of the mist in the room. She didn’t know that her eyes looked through the fog with a desperate appeal.

Thomasina went out of the room, and she had a moment of absolute desolation. And then in what felt like the same moment she was back again. The door hadn’t shut. It couldn’t have shut, because it didn’t open again. Thomasina was there one moment, and the next she was coming back. She came back into the room and across it.

“You’re coming to bed, Mrs. Jim!” she said. “If ever I see anyone ready for bed, it’s you, my poor dear, so you’ll just come along!”

Anne got up on her feet with a steadying arm to hold her. She said good-night to Lilian, and good-night to Harriet, and she got out of the room. She didn’t know what they said in reply.

Lilian had a good deal to say. The words drifted lightly by and were gone. Harriet detached herself momentarily from the parish magazine. She said in a surprised voice, “Oh, are you going? Good night.” And then Thomasina had her through the door and it was shut.

She was in that state where the ordinary restraints are gone. She did not know that she was going to speak, but she heard herself saying. “I don’t belong anywhere—I just don’t belong.” And then there was a kind of blank. They were going up the stairs. It was very difficult. She did her best, but it was very difficult. She was aware of Thomasina’s arm at her waist and of the baluster rail under her hand. The stairs took a long time to climb—a long, long time. There were times when she didn’t know what she was doing—times when Thomasina’s encouraging voice went away to the merest whisper, so faint that she could not really hear it. There were times when she didn’t know anything at all. And yet all these times passed. There came the moment when she felt the pillow under her head, and the moment when the light went out and left her free to a world of sleep.

Time passed—a lot of time. She roused up once and stirred in bed, to feel an exquisite relief and sink again into that deep, deep sleep.

When at last she awoke it was light outside. She lay for a few moments seeing the strange room but not fully conscious of it. There was sunshine outside the window and a twittering of birds—sunshine and bird song. She drew in a long breath and began to remember.

The day before. It was like unpacking a crowded, ill-packed piece of luggage. She lay quite still and tried to get it sorted out. Part of yesterday came gradually into shape. Every time she went over it in her mind the outline was more decided, the detail more apparent. From the moment when she stood in the dark, four steps up from a girl’s murdered body, to the last conscious moment before she slipped into the darkness of sleep, it was all there. But back beyond that dark moment there was nothing. There was nothing at all. She didn’t know who she was, or why she was here. There was cloud where there should have been memory. There was nothing but a dark cloud.

She pushed back the bedclothes, jumped out of bed, and went over to the window. The bright pale light of early morning was everywhere. She looked on a green lawn running down to great cedar trees. The air was fresh against her face, her neck, her uncovered arms. She looked down at herself and saw that she was wearing a pale pink nightgown. The sleeves and the neck were edged with lace. There was a blue ribbon run through a slotted insertion at the waist. A pale blue knitted jacket hung on the bottom rail of the bed, a pink ribbon to tie it. She put the blue jacket on. It felt warm and comfortable.

She got back into bed. These must be Lilian’s clothes. Not Harriet’s. Certainly not Harriet’s. She began to wonder what Harriet’s things would be like and pulled up from that to think with a breathless start, “What does it matter? What does anything matter except who I am and how did I get here?” A feeling of horror came over her—the old, old feeling of being lost in a strange world and not knowing where to put a foot. This that looked safe ground might crumble when you set foot upon it, the other that looked dry and stony could break suddenly and let the drowning waters through. For a moment she was beside herself with terror of the unknown. Then the swirling mists cleared and there came up in her strength and courage for the new day.