Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

madam, here is a physician come to see you. He is my friend and would be yours. Will you allow him to examine you?'

She had not expected a response nor dared even hope for comprehension. Whether this occurred or not she could not be sure, but at least the old creature lay still, submitting without visible demonstrations of alarm to the doctor's cautious approach and gentle touch. One by one he lifted the bony limbs; delicately he ran his hands over the wrinkled scalp and frail body.

“There appears to be no injury,'' he murmured; and Ismene saw he had forgot all else in the exercise of his noble art. “She does not cry out in pain. What does she say?"

For his patient had begun to speak, if speech it could be called. Even Ismene could not distinguish words in the hoarse mumble.

"It is only nonsense, I fear," she began. "Her troubled mind—"

He broke in, with the same touch of irony she had heard before. "If her mind were untroubled she would have difficulty expressing her thoughts with her organs of speech so impaired. It is difficult to articulate without dental apparatus. Speak more slowly, madam; I am listening. What would you tell me?"

There was no evidence of repugnance, only compassion and interest, on his face as he bent closer; when the clawlike fingers groped for his sleeve he folded them unhesitatingly in his. Ismene's heart swelled. To see him thus, to behold the tenderness he displayed toward the helpless and infirm was to comprehend the limitations of physiognomy as a designation of character. Who could suppose, having seen those forbidding features in their normal expression of sardonic silence, that they could soften so remarkably?

The chamber door opened. Edmund stood on the threshold.

His sudden appearance broke the spell. The old woman's mumble erupted in a ghastly shriek. Ismene started to speak, but was prevented by Edmund. His tones were soft, but they quivered with anger.

"How dare you come here?"

He addressed not Ismene but the doctor, whose expression had resumed its old harsh cast. Detaching the fingers that clutched at him he rose to his feet. "I must apologize—"

“No apology can compensate for this inexcusable intrusion,'' Edmund said in a low savage tone. "Begone, and never return to this house."

"Edmund, you are unjust, " Ismene protested. "If anger is called for here, it should be directed at me. I proposed—nay, I insisted upon—this visit. You do not know what transpired.''

Quickly and tersely she told all. Edmund's furious color subsided as he listened. "I see. Well, sir, no doubt you meant well. If you have assured yourself there is no need of your services ..."

"Yes" was the curt reply. With a final look at the old woman, who had slumped back against the pillows and closed her eyes, he walked quickly to the door and went out.

"Wait," Edmund said, as Ismene would have followed. "You are still angry with me. That condition must not endure. "

"I am not so much angry as surprised—shocked—astonished," Ismene replied. "I had not supposed you capable of speaking and acting so rashly, without waiting to hear explanations. "

"My dear. " He drew her to the door and closed it behind him. The corridor was deserted. When he would have taken her in his arms Ismene stiffened and drew away.

"I was not angry with you," Edmund said softly. "How could I feel other than admiration for the benevolence that prompted your action? Seeing him with you, watching his false actions, I was overcome by jealousy.''

At first she could not believe she had heard aright. "What!" the cry burst from her. "You insult me, Edmund, if you believe—"

"My dearest girl." His arms enclosed her. Gently but inexorably he overcame her resistance and pressed her to his breast. "How can you be insensible to my overpowering affection? Is your modesty so great that you have failed to observe that I love—worship—adore you? That same modesty and innocence veils his intentions from you, but they are no secret to me. Now that you have been warned you will avoid them. He is unable to offer you a heart worthy of your acceptance, Ismene. Your happiness shall be the sole study of my life. I cannot—will not—live without you.

Chapter Fifteen

There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word. . . . She is all the time trying to crawl through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it strangles so. . . .

Charlotte P. Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper, 1892

"SO that's the way the land lies," Peggy said, returning the papers to Karen and signaling the waitress for more coffee. "I thought Edmund would declare himself before long. I'm betting on the doctor, though."

"Why?" Karen pushed the remains of her cereal away. Peggy had insisted she eat a hearty breakfast, in preparation for the hard day's work ahead. She hated cereal.

"Edmund's after her money. And," Peggy added, before Karen could object to this dogmatic statement, "the sister, Clara, has her eye on Edmund too. Ismene's too noble to find happiness at her sister's expense. Then there's The Horrible Secret to be exposed. The old lady knows what it is, and maybe she's not as crazy as she seems."

"You really are jumping to conclusions."

"I'm making educated guesses," Peggy corrected. "That's part of the fun of reading mysteries—trying to figure out the solution. Ismene has set up the plot, and unless she cheats by introducing a new character or a vital clue at the last minute, an intelligent reader ought to be able to predict what will happen. How much more of the manuscript have you got to read?"

"Forty or fifty pages. But I have a nasty feeling that 'Houses of Stone' is going to be another Edwin Drood. You know, the murder mystery by Charles Dickens that he never finished."

"Why didn't he?"

"He died."

"That's a good reason," Peggy admitted.

"Dickens set up the plot and the list of suspects," Karen went on. "And the victim. But nobody knows whether