The Thirteenth Tale-第28章

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　out　the　minutes　and　the　seconds；　and　with　a　vigorous　swish　of　a　duster；　the　motes　were　gone。

after　cleanliness　came　order；　and　the　house　was　first　to　feel　the　changes。　our　new　governess　did　a　very　thorough　tour。　she　went　from　bottom　to　top；　tutting　and　frowning　on　every　floor。　there　was　not　a　single　cupboard　or　alcove　that　escaped　her　attention；　with　pencil　and　notebook　in　hand；　she　scrutinized　every　room；　noting　damp　patches　and　rattling　windows；　testing　doors　and　floorboards　for　squeaks；　trying　old　keys　in　old　locks；　and　labeling　them。　she　left　doors　locked　behind　her。　though　it　was　only　a　first　“going　over；”　a　preparatory　stage　to　the　main　restoration；　nevertheless　she　made　a　change　in　every　room　she　entered：　a　pile　of　blankets　in　a　corner　folded　and　left　tidily　on　a　chair；　a　book　picked　up　and　tucked　under　her　arm　to　be　returned　later　to　the　library；　the　line　of　a　curtain　set　straight。　all　this　done　with　noticeable　haste　but　without　the　slightest　impression　of　hurry。　it　seemed　she　had　only　to　cast　her　eye　about　a　room　for　the　darkness　in　it　to　recede；　for　the　chaos　to　begin　shamefacedly　to　put　itself　in　order；　for　the　ghosts　to　beat　a　retreat。　in　this　manner；　every　room　was　hestered。

the　attic；　it　is　true；　did　stop　her　in　her　tracks。　her　jaw　dropped　and　she　looked　aghast　at　the　state　of　the　roof　cavity。　but　even　in　this　chaos　she　was　invincible。　she　gathered　herself　together；　tightening　her　lips；　and　scratched　and　scribbled　away　at　her　page　with　even　greater　vigor。　the　very　next　day；　a　builder　came。　we　knew　him　from　the　village—an　unhurried　man　with　a　strolling　pace。　in　speech　he　stretched　out　his　vowel　sounds　to　give　his　mouth　a　rest　before　the　next　consonant。　he　kept　six　or　seven　jobs　going　at　once　and　rarely　finished　any　of　them；　he　spent　his　working　days　smoking　cigarettes　and　eyeing　the　job　in　hand　with　a　fatalistic　shake　of　the　head。　he　climbed　our　stairs　in　his　typical　lazy　fashion；　but　after　he’d　been　five　minutes　with　hester　we　heard　his　hammer　going　nineteen　to　the　dozen。　she　had　galvanized　him。

within　a　few　days　there　were　mealtimes；　bedtimes；　getting…up　times。　a　few　days　more　and　there　were　clean　shoes　for　indoors；　clean　boots　for　out。　not　only　that；　but　the　silk　dresses　were　cleaned；　mended；　made　to　fit　and　hung　away　for　some　mythical　“best；”　and　new　dresses　in　navy　and　green　cotton　poplin　with　white　sashes　and　collars　appeared　for　everyday。

emmeline　thrived　under　the　new　regime。　she　was　well　fed　at　regular　hours；　allowed　to　play—under　tight　supervision—with　hester’s　shiny　keys。　she　even　developed　a　passion　for　baths。　she　struggled　at　first；　yelled　and　kicked　as　hester　and　the　missus　stripped　her　and　lowered　her　into　the　tub；　but　when　she　saw　herself　in　the　mirror　afterward；　saw　herself　clean　and　with　her　hair　neatly　braided　and　tied　with　a　green　bow；　her　mouth　opened　and　she　fell　into　another　of　her　trances。　she　liked　being　shiny。　whenever　emmeline　was　in　hester’s　presence　she　used　to　study　her　face　on　the　sly；　on　the　lookout　for　a　smile。　when　hester　did　smile—it　was　not　infrequent—emmeline　gazed　at　her　face　in　delight。　before　long　she　learned　to　smile　back。

other　members　of　the　household　flourished；　too。　the　missus　had　her　eyes　examined　by　the　doctor；　and　with　much　plaining　was　taken　to　a　specialist。　on　her　return　she　could　see　again。　the　missus　was　so　pleased　at　seeing　the　house　in　its　new　state　of　cleanliness　that　all　the　years　she’d　lived　in　a　state　of　grayness　fell　away　from　her；　and　she　was　rejuvenated　sufficiently　to　join　hester　in　this　brave　new　world。　even　john…the…dig；　who　obeyed　hester’s　orders　morosely　and　kept　his　dark　eyes　always　firmly　averted　from　her　bright；　all…seeing　ones；　could　not　resist　the　positive　effect　of　her　energy　in　the　household。　without　a　word　to　anyone；　he　took　up　his　shears　and　entered　the　topiary　garden　for　the　first　time　since　the　catastrophe。　there　he　joined　his　efforts　to　those　already　being　made　by　nature　to　mend　the　violence　of　the　past。

charlie　was　less　directly　influenced。　he　kept　out　of　her　way　and　that　suited　both　of　them。　she　had　no　desire　to　do　anything　other　than　her　job；　and　her　job　was　us。　our　minds；　our　bodies　and　our　souls；　yes；　but　our　guardian　was　outside　her　jurisdiction；　and　so　she　left　him　alone。　she　was　no　jane　eyre　and　he　was　no　mr。　rochester。　in　the　face　of　her　spruce　energy　he　retreated　to　the　old　nursery　rooms　on　the　second　floor　behind　a　firmly　locked　door；　where　he　and　his　memories　festered　together　in　squalor。　for　him　the　hester　effect　was　limited　to　an　improvement　in　his　diet　and　a　firmer　hand　over　his　finances；　which；　under　the　honest　but　flimsy　control　of　the　missus；　had　been　plundered　by　unscrupulous　traders　and　businesspeople。　neither　of　these　changes　for　the　good　did　he　notice；　and　if　he　had　noticed　them　i　doubt　he　would　have　cared。

but　hester　did　keep　the　children　under　control　and　out　of　sight；　and　had　he　given　it　any　thought　he　would　have　been　grateful　for　this。　under　hester’s　reign　there　was　no　cause　for　hostile　neighbors　to　e　plaining　about　the　twins；　no　imperative　to　visit　the　kitchen　and　have　a　sandwich　made　by　the　missus；　above　all；　no　need　to　leave；　even　for　a　minute；　that　realm　of　the　imagination　that　he　inhabited　with　isabelle；　only　with　isabelle；　always　with　isabelle。　what　he　gave　up　in　territory；　he　gained　in　freedom。　he　never　heard　hester；　he　never　saw　her；　the　thought　of　her　never　once　entered　his　head。　she　was　entirely　satisfactory。

hester　had　triumphed。　she　might　have　looked　like　a　potato；　but　there　was　nothing　that　girl　couldn’t　do；　once　she　put　her　mind　to　it。

miss　winter　paused；　her　eyes　set　fixedly　on　the　corner　of　the　room；　where　her　past　presented　itself　to　her　with　more　reality　than　the　present　and　me。　at　the　corners　of　her　mouth　and　eyes　flickered　half…expressions　of　sorrow　and　distress。　aware　of　the　thinness　of　the　thread　that　connected　her　to　her　past；　i　was　anxious　not　to　break　it；　but　equally　anxious　for　her　not　to　stop　her　story。

the　pause　lengthened。

‘and　you？“　i　prompted　softly。　”what　about　you？“

‘me？“　she　blinked　vaguely。　”oh；　i　liked　her。　that　was　the　trouble。“

‘trouble？“

she　blinked　again；　shuffled　in　her　seat　and　looked　at　me　with　a　new；　sharp　gaze。　she　had　cut　the　thread。

‘i　think　that’s　enough　for　today。　you　can　go　now。“

the　box　of　liveswith　the　story　of　hester；　i　fell　quickly　back　into　my　routine。　in　the　mornings　i　listened　to　miss　winter　tell　me　her　story；　hardly　bothering　now　with　my　notebook。　later　in　my　room；　with　my　reams　of　paper；　my　twelve　red　pencils　and　my　trusty　sharpener；　i　transcribed　what　i　had　memorized。　as　the　words　flowed　from　the　point　of　my　pencil　onto　the　page；　they　conjured　up　miss　winter’s　voice　in　my　ear；　later；　when　i　read　aloud　what　i　had　written；　i　felt　my　face　rearranging　itself　into　her　expressions。　my　left　hand　rose　and　fell　in　mimicry　of　her　emphatic　gestures；　while　my　right　lay；　as　though　maimed；　in　my　lap。　the　words　turned　to　pictures　in　my　head。　hester；　clean　and　neat　and　surrounded　by　a　silvery　gleam；　an　all…body　halo　that　grew　broader　all　the　time；　enpassing　first　her　room；　then　the　house；　then　its　inhabitants。　the　missus　transformed　from　a　slow…moving　figure　in　darkness　to　one　whose　eyes　darted　about；　bright　with　seeing。　and　emmeline；　under　the　spell　of　hester’s　shiny　aura；　allowing　herself　to　be　changed　from　a　dirty；　malnourished　vagabond　into　a　clean；　affectionate　and　plump　little　girl。　hester　cast　her　light　even　into　the　topiary　garden；　where　it　shone　onto　the　ravaged　branches　of　the　yews　and　brought　forth　fresh　green　growth。　there　was　charlie；　of　course；　lumbering　in　the　darkness　outside　the　circle；　heard　but　not　seen。　and　john…the…dig；　the　strangely　named　gardener；　brooding　on　its　perimeter；　reluctant　to　be　drawn　into　the　light。　and　adeline；　the　mysterious　and　dark…hearted　adeline。

for　all　my　biographical　projects　i　have　kept　a　box　of　lives。　a　box　of　index　cards　containing　the　details—name；　occupation；　dates；　place　of　residence　and　any　other　piece　of　information　that　seems　relevant—of　all　the　significant　people　in　the　life　of　my　subject。　i　never　quite　know　what　to　make　of　my　boxes　of　lives。　depending　on　my　mood　they　either　strike　me　as　a　memorial　to　gladden　the　dead　（“look！”　i　imagine　them　saying　as　they　peer　through　the　glass　at　me。　“she’s　writing　us　down　on　her　cards！　and　to　think　we’ve　been　dead　two　hundred　years！”）　or；　when　the　glass　is　very　dark　and　i　feel　quite　stranded　and　alone　this　side　of　it；　they　seem　like　little　cardboard　tombstones；　inanimate　and　cold；　and　the　box　itself　is　as　dead　as　the　cemetery。　miss　winter’s　cast　of　characters　was　very　small；　and　as　i　shuffled　them　in　my　hands　their　sparse　flimsiness　dismayed　me。　i　was　being　given　a　story；　but　as　far　as　information　went；　i　was　still　far　short　of　what　i　needed。

i　took　a　blank　card　and　began　to　write。

hester　barrowgovernessangelfield　houseborn：　？

died：　？

i　stopped。　thought。　did　a　few　sums　on　my　fingers。　the　girls　had　been　only　thirteen。　and　hester　was　not　old。　with　all　that　verve　she　couldn’t　be。　had　she　been　thirty？　what　if　she　were　only　twenty…five？　a　mere　twelve　years　older　than　the　girls　themselves…　was　it　possible？　i　wondered。　miss　winter；　in　her　seventies；　was　dying。　but　that　didn’t　necessarily　mean