The Thirteenth Tale-第64章

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but　i　am　sleepy；　and　though　i　could　write　at　length　of　the　joys　of　co…authoring　a　research　paper；　it　is　really　time　to　go　to　bed。

i　have　not　written　for　nearly　a　week　and　do　not　offer　my　usual　excuses。　my　diary　disappeared。

i　spoke　to　emmeline　about　it—kindly；　severely；　with　offers　of　chocolate　and　threats　of　punishment　（and　yes；　my　methods　have　broken　down；　but　frankly；　losing　a　diary　touches　one　most　personally）—but　she　continues　to　deny　everything。　her　denials　were　consistent　and　showed　many　signs　of　good　faith。　anyone　not　knowing　the　circumstances　would　have　believed　her。　knowing　her　as　i　do；　i　found　the　theft　unexpected　myself　and　find　it　hard　to　explain　it　within　the　general　progress　she　has　made。　she　cannot　read　and　has　no　interest　in　other　people’s　thoughts　and　inner　lives；　other　than　so　far　as　they　affect　her　directly。　why　should　she　want　it？　presumably　it　is　the　shine　of　the　lock　that　tempted　her—her　passion　for　shiny　things　is　undiminished；　and　i　do　not　try　to　reduce　it；　it　is　usually　harmless　enough。　but　i　am　disappointed　in　her。

if　i　were　to　judge　by　her　denials　and　her　character　alone；　i　would　conclude　that　she　was　innocent　of　the　theft。　but　the　fact　remains　that　it　cannot　have　been　anyone　else。

john？　mrs。　dunne？　even　supposing　that　the　servants　should　have　wanted　to　steal　my　diary；　which　i　don’t　believe　for　a　minute；　i　remember　clearly　that　they　were　busy　elsewhere　in　the　house　when　it　went　missing。　in　case　i　was　wrong　about　this；　i　brought　the　conversation　around　to　their　activities；　and　john　confirms　that　mrs。　dunne　was　in　the　kitchen　all　morning　（“making　a　right　racket；　too；　”　he　told　me）。　she　confirms　that　john　was　at　the　coach　house　mending　the　car　（“noisy　old　job　”）。　it　cannot　have　been　either　of　them。

and　so；　having　eliminated　all　the　other　suspects　i　am　obliged　to　believe　that　it　was　emmeline。

and　yet　i　cannot　shake　off　my　misgivings。　even　now　i　can　picture　her　face—so　innocent　in　appearance；　so　distressed　at　being　accused—and　i　am　forced　to　wonder；　is　there　some　additional　factor　at　play　here　that　i　have　failed　to　take　into　account？　when　i　view　the　matter　in　this　light　it　gives　rise　to　an　uneasiness　in　me：　i　am　suddenly　overwhelmed　by　the　presentiment　that　none　of　my　plans　is　destined　to　e　to　fruition。　something　has　been　against　me　ever　since　i　came　to　this　house！　something　that　wants　to　thwart　me　and　frustrate　me　in　every　project　i　undertake！　i　have　checked　and　rechecked　my　thinking；　retraced　every　step　in　my　logic；　i　can　find　no　flaw；　yet　still　i　find　myself　beset　by　doubt…　what　is　it　that　i　am　failing　to　see？

reading　over　this　last　paragraph　lam　struck　by　the　most　uncharacteristic　lack　of　confidence　in　my　tone。　it　is　surely　only　tiredness　that　makes　me　think　thus。　an　unrested　mind　is　prone　to　wander　into　unfruitful　avenues；　it　is　nothing　that　a　good　nights　sleep　cannot　cure。

besides；　it　is　all　over　now。　here　i　am；　writing　in　the　missing　diary。　i　locked　emmeline　in　her　room　for　four　hours；　the　next　day　for　six；　and　she　knew　the　day　after；　it　would　be　eight。　on　the　second　day；　shortly　after　i　came　down　from　unlocking　her　door　i　found　the　diary　on　my　desk　in　the　schoolroom。　she　must　have　slipped　down　very　quietly　to　put　it　there；　i　did　not　see　her　go　past　the　library　door　to　the　schoolroom　even　though　i　left　the　door　open　deliberately。　but　it　was　returned。　so　there　is　no　room　for　doubt；　is　there？

i　am　so　tired　and　yet　i　cannot　sleep。　i　hear　steps　in　the　night；　but　when　i　go　to　my　door　and　look　into　the　corridor　there　is　no　one　there。

i　confess　it　made　me　uneasy—makes　me　uneasy　still—to　think　that　this　little　book　was　out　of　my　possession　even　for　two　days。　the　thought　of　another　person　reading　my　words　is　most　disforting。　i　cannot　help　but　think　how　another　person　would　interpret　certain　things　i　have　written；　for　when　i　write　for　myself　only；　and　know　perfectly　well　the　truth　of　what　i　write；　i　am　perhaps　less　careful　of　my　expression；　and　writing　at　speed；　may　sometimes　express　myself　in　a　way　that　could　be　misinterpreted　by　another　who　would　not　have　my　insight　into　what　i　really　mean。　thinking　over　some　of　the　things　i　have　written　（the　doctor　and　the　pencil—such　an　insignificant　event—　hardly　worth　writing　about　at　all　really）；　i　can　see　that　they　might　appear　to　a　stranger　in　a　light　rather　different　from　what　i　intended；　and　i　wonder　whether　i　should　tear　out　these　pages　and　destroy　them。　only　i　do　not　want　to；　for　these　are　the　pages　that　i　most　want　to　keep；　to　read　later；　when　i　am　old　and　gone　from　here；　and　think　back　to　the　happiness　of　my　work　and　the　challenge　of　our　great　project。

why　should　a　scientific　friendship　not　be　a　source　of　joy？　it　is　no　less　scientific　for　that；　is　it？

but　perhaps　the　answer　is　to　stop　writing　altogether；　for　when　i　do　write；　even　now　as　i　write　this　very　sentence；　this　very　word；　i　am　aware　of　a　ghost　reader　who　leans　over　my　shoulder　watching　my　pen；　who　twists　my　words　and　perverts　my　meaning；　and　makes　me　unfortable　in　the　privacy　of　my　own　thoughts。

it　is　very　aggravating　to　be　presented　to　oneself　in　a　light　so　different　from　the　familiar　one；　even　when　it　is　clearly　a　false　light。

i　will　not　write　any　more。

endings

．。



THE　GHOST　IN　THE　TALE

　生小说＿网　
thoughtfully　i　lifted　my　eyes　from　the　final　page　of　hester’s　diary。　a　number　of　things　had　struck　my　attention　as　i　had　been　reading　it；　and　now　that　i　had　finished；　i　had　the　leisure　to　consider　them　more　methodically。

oh；　i　thought。

oh。

and　then；　oh！

how　to　describe　my　eureka？　it　began　as　a　stray　what　if；　a　wild　conjecture；　an　implausible　notion。　it　was；　well；　not　impossible　perhaps；　but　absurd！　for　a　start—

about　to　begin　marshaling　the　sensible　counterarguments；　i　stopped　dead　in　my　tracks。　for　my　mind；　racing　ahead　of　itself　in　a　momentous　act　of　premonition；　had　already　submitted　to　this　revised　version　of　events。　in　a　single　moment；　a　moment　of　vertiginous；　kaleidoscopic　bedazzlement；　the　story　miss　winter　had　told　me　unmade　and　remade　itself；　in　every　event　identical；　in　every　detail　the　same—yet　entirely；　profoundly　different。　like　those　images　that　reveal　a　young　bride　if　you　hold　the　page　one　way；　and　an　old　crone　if　you　hold　it　the　other。　like　the　sheets　of　random　dots　that　disguise　teapots　or　clown　faces　or　rouen　cathedrals　if　you　can　only　learn　to　see　them。　the　truth　had　been　there　all　along；　only　now　had　i　seen　it。

there　followed　a　long　hour　of　musing。　one　element　at　a　time；　taking　all　the　different　angles　separately；　i　reviewed　everything　i　knew。　everything　i　had　been　told　and　everything　i　had　discovered。　yes；　i　thought。　and　yes；　again。　that；　and　that；　and　that；　too。　my　new　knowledge　blew　life　into　the　story。　it　began　to　breathe。　and　as　it　did　so；　it　began　to　mend。　the　jagged　edges　smoothed　themselves。　the　gaps　filled　themselves　in。　the　missing　parts　were　regenerated。　puzzles　explained　themselves；　and　mysteries　were　mysteries　no　longer。

at　last；　after　all　the　tale　telling　and　all　the　yarn　spinning；　after　the　smoke　screens　and　the　trick　mirrors　and　the　double　bluffs；　i　knew。

i　knew　what　hester　saw　that　day　she　thought　she　saw　a　ghost。

i　knew　the　identity　of　the　boy　in　the　garden。

i　knew　who　attacked　mrs。　maudsley　with　a　violin。

i　knew　who　killed　john…the…dig。

i　knew　who　emmeline　was　looking　for　underground。

details　fell　into　place。　emmeline　talking　to　herself　behind　a　closed　door；　when　her　sister　was　at　the　doctor’s　house。　jane　eyre；　the　book　that　appears　and　reappears　in　the　story；　like　a　silver　thread　in　a　tapestry。　i　understood　the　mysteries　of　hester’s　wandering　bookmark；　the　appearance　of　the　turn　of　the　screw　and　the　disappearance　of　her　diary。　i　understood　the　strangeness　of　john…the…dig’s　decision　to　teach　the　girl　who　had　once　desecrated　his　garden　how　to　tend　it。

i　understood　the　girl　in　the　mist；　and　how　and　why　she　came　out　of　it。　i　understood　how　it　was　that　a　girl　like　adeline　could　melt　away　and　leave　miss　winter　in　her　place。

‘i　am　going　to　tell　you　a　story　about　twins；“　miss　winter　had　called　after　me　that　first　evening　in　the　library；　when　i　was　on　the　verge　of　leaving。　words　that　with　their　unexpected　echo　of　my　own　story　attached　me　irresistibly　to　hers。

once　upon　a　time　there　were　two　baby　girls…

except　that　now　i　knew　better。

she　had　pointed　me　in　the　right　direction　that　very　first　night；　if　i　had　only　known　how　to　listen。

‘do　you　believe　in　ghosts；　miss　lea？“　she　had　asked　me。　”i　am　going　to　tell　you　a　ghost　story。“

and　i　had　told　her；　“some　other　time。”

but　she　had　told　me　a　ghost　story。

once　upon　a　time　there　were　two　baby　girls…

or　alternatively：　once　upon　a　time　there　were　three。

once　upon　a　time　there　was　a　house　and　the　house　was　haunted。

the　ghost　was；　in　the　usual　way　of　ghosts；　mostly　invisible；　and　yet　not　quite　invisible。　there　was　the　closing　of　doors　that　had　been　left　open；　and　the　opening　of　doors　left　shut。　the　flash　of　movement　in　a　mirror　that　made　you　glance　up。　the　shimmer　of　a　draft　behind　a　curtain　when　there　was　no　window　open。　the　little　ghost　was　there　in　the　unexpected　movement　of　books　from　one　room　to　another；　and　in　the　mysterious　movement　of　bookmark　from　page　to　page。　it　was　her