The Thirteenth Tale-第65章

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


age。　it　was　her　hand　that　lifted　a　diary　from　one　place　and　hid　it　in　another；　her　hand　that　replaced　it　later。　if；　as　you　turned　into　a　corridor；　the　curious　idea　occurred　to　you　that　you　had　just　missed　seeing　the　sole　of　a　shoe　disappearing　around　the　far　corner；　then　the　little　ghost　was　not　far　away。　and　when；　surprised　by　the　back　of　the　neck　feeling　as　if　someone　has　their　eye　on　you；　you　raised　your　head　to　find　the　room　empty；　then　you　could　be　sure　that　the　little　ghost　was　hiding　in　the　emptiness　somewhere。

her　presence　could　be　divined　in　any　number　of　ways　by　those　who　had　eyes　to　see。　yet　she　was　not　seen。

she　haunted　softly。　on　tiptoe；　in　bare　feet；　she　made　never　a　sound；　and　yet　she　recognized　the　footfall　of　every　inhabitant　of　the　house；　knew　every　creaking　board　and　every　squeaky　door。　every　dark　corner　of　the　house　was　familiar　to　her；　every　nook　and　every　cranny。　she　knew　the　gaps　behind　cupboards　and　between　sets　of　shelves；　she　knew　the　backs　of　sofas　and　the　underneath　of　chairs。　the　house；　to　her　mind；　was　a　hundred　and　one　hiding　places；　and　she　knew　how　to　move　among　them　invisibly。

isabelle　and　charlie　never　saw　the　ghost。　living　as　they　did；　outside　logic；　outside　reason；　they　were　not　the　sort　to　be　perplexed　by　the　inexplicable。　losses　and　breakages　and　the　mislaying　of　random　items　seemed　to　them　part　of　the　natural　universe。　a　shadow　that　fell　across　a　carpet　where　a　shadow　ought　not　to　be　did　not　cause　them　to　stop　and　reflect；　such　mysteries　seemed　only　a　natural　extension　of　the　shadows　in　their　hearts　and　minds。　the　little　ghost　was　the　movement　in　their　peripheral　vision；　the　unacknowledged　puzzle　in　the　back　of　their　minds；　the　permanent　shadow　attached；　without　their　knowing　it；　to　their　lives。　she　scavenged　for　leftovers　in　their　pantry　like　a　mouse；　warmed　herself　at　the　embers　of　their　fires　after　they　had　gone　to　bed；　disappeared　into　the　recesses　of　their　dilapidation　the　instant　anyone　appeared。

she　was　the　secret　of　the　house。

like　all　secrets；　she　had　her　guardians。

the　housekeeper　saw　the　little　ghost　as　plain　as　day；　despite　her　failing　eyesight。　a　good　thing；　too。　without　her　collaboration　there　would　never　have　been　enough　scraps　in　the　pantry；　enough　crumbs　from　the　breakfast　loaf；　to　sustain　the　little　ghost。　for　it　would　be　a　mistake　to　think　that　the　ghost　was　one　of　those　incorporeal；　ethereal　specters。　no。　she　had　a　stomach；　and　when　it　was　empty　it　had　to　be　filled。

but　she　earned　her　keep。　for　as　much　as　she　ate；　she　also　provided。　the　other　person　who　had　the　knack　of　seeing　ghosts；　you　see；　was　the　gardener；　and　he　was　glad　of　an　extra　pair　of　hands。　she　wore　a　wide…brimmed　hat　and　an　old　pair　of　john’s　trousers；　cut　off　at　the　ankle　and　held　up　with　braces；　and　her　haunting　of　the　garden　was　fruitful。　in　the　soil　potatoes　grew　swollen　under　her　care；　aboveground　the　fruit　bushes　nourished；　producing　clusters　of　berries　that　her　hands　sought　out　under　low　leaves。　not　only　did　she　have　a　magic　touch　for　fruit　and　vegetables；　but　the　roses　bloomed　as　they　had　never　bloomed　before。　later；　he　learned　the　secret　desire　of　box　and　yew　to　bee　geometry。　at　her　bidding　leaves　and　branches　grew　corners　and　angles；　curves　and　mathematically　straight　lines。

in　the　garden　and　in　the　kitchen　the　little　ghost　did　not　need　to　hide。　the　housekeeper　and　the　gardener　were　her　protectors；　her　guardians。　they　taught　her　the　ways　of　the　house　and　how　to　be　safe　in　it。　they　fed　her。　they　watched　over　her。　when　a　stranger　came　to　live　in　the　house；　with　sharper　eyes　than　most；　with　a　desire　to　banish　shadows　and　lock　doors；　they　worried　about　her。

more　than　anything　else；　they　loved　her。

but　where　did　she　e　from？　what　was　her　story？　for　ghosts　do　not　appear　at　random。　they　e　only　to　where　they　know　they　are　at　home。　and　the　little　ghost　was　at　home　in　this　house。　at　home　in　this　family。　though　she　had　no　name；　though　she　was　no　one；　still　the　gardener　and　the　housekeeper　knew　who　she　was　all　right。　her　story　was　written　in　her　copper　hair　and　her　emerald　eyes。

for　here　is　the　most　curious　thing　about　the　whole　story。　the　ghost　bore　the　most　uncanny　resemblance　to　the　twins　already　living　in　the　house。　how　else　could　she　have　lived　there　unsuspected　for　so　long？　three　girls　with　copper　hair　that　fell　in　a　mass　down　their　backs。　three　girls　with　striking　emerald　eyes。　odd；　don’t　you　think；　the　resemblance　they　both　bore　to　the　little　ghost　and　she　to　them？

‘when　i　was　born；“　miss　winter　told　me；　”i　was　no　more　than　a　subplot。“　so　she　began　the　story　in　which　isabelle　went　to　a　picnic；　met　roland　and　eventually　ran　away　to　marry　him；　escaping　her　brother’s　dark；　unbrotherly　passion。　charlie；　neglected　by　his　sister；　went　on　a　rampage；　venting　his　rage；　his　passion；　his　jealousy　on　others。　the　daughters　of　earls　or　of　shopkeepers；　of　bankers　or　of　chimney　sweeps；　to　him　it　did　not　really　matter　who　they　were。　with　or　without　their　consent；　he　threw　himself　upon　them　in　his　desperation　for　oblivion。

isabelle　gave　birth　to　her　twins　in　a　london　hospital。　two　girls　with　nothing　of　their　mother’s　husband　about　them。　copper　hair—just　like　their　uncle。　green　eyes—just　like　their　uncle。

here　is　the　subplot：　at　about　the　same　time；　in　some　barn　or　dim　cottage　bedroom；　another　woman　gave　birth。　not　the　daughter　of　an　earl；　i　think。　or　a　banker。　the　well…off　have　ways　of　dealing　with　trouble。　she　must　have　been　some　anonymous；　ordinary；　powerless　woman。　her　child　was　a　girl；　too。　copper　hair。　emerald　eyes。

child　of　rage。　child　of　rape。　charlie’s　child。

once　upon　a　time　there　was　a　house　called　angelfield。

once　upon　a　time　there　were　twins。

once　upon　a　time　there　came　to　angelfield　a　cousin。　more　likely　a　half　sister。

as　i　sat　in　the　train　with　hester’s　diary　closed　in　my　lap；　the　great　rush　of　sympathy　i　was　beginning　to　feel　for　miss　winter　was　curtailed　when　another　illegitimate　child　came　to　mind。　aurelius。　and　my　sympathy　turned　to　anger。　why　was　he　separated　from　his　mother？　why　abandoned？　why　left　to　fend　for　himself　in　the　world　without　knowing　his　own　story？

i　thought；　too；　of　the　white　tent　and　the　remains　beneath　it　that　i　now　knew　not　to　be　hester’s。

it　all　boiled　down　to　the　night　of　the　fire。　arson；　murder；　abandonment　of　a　baby。

when　the　train　arrived　in　harrogate　and　i　stepped　out　onto　the　platform；　i　was　surprised　to　find　it　ankle…deep　in　snow。　for　although　i　had　been　staring　out　the　window　of　the　train　for　the　last　hour；　i　had　seen　nothing　of　the　view　outside。

i　thought　i　knew　it　all；　when　i　had　my　moment　of　elucidation。

i　thought；　when　i　realized　that　there　were　not　two　girls　at　angelfield　but　three；　that　i　had　the　key　to　the　whole　story　in　my　hand。

at　the　end　of　my　cogitations　i　realized　that　until　i　knew　what　happened　on　the　night　of　the　fire；　i　knew　nothing。

　。。



The　Thirteenth　TaleBONES


it　was　christmas　eve；　it　was　late；　it　was　snowing　hard。　the　first　taxi　driver　and　the　second　refused　to　take　me　so　far　out　of　town　on　such　a　night；　but　the　third；　indifferent　of　expression；　must　have　been　moved　by　the　ardor　of　my　request；　for　he　shrugged　his　shoulders　and　let　me　in。　“we’ll　give　it　a　go；”　he　warned　gruffly。

we　drove　out　of　town　and　the　snow　continued　to　fall；　piling　up　meticulously；　flake　by　flake；　on　every　inch　of　earth；　every　hedge　top；　every　bough。　after　the　last　village；　the　last　farmhouse；　we　found　ourselves　in　a　white　landscape；　the　road　indistinguishable　at　times　from　the　flat　land　all　about；　and　i　shrank　into　my　seat；　expecting　at　any　moment　that　the　driver　would　give　up　and　turn　back。　only　my　clear　directions　reassured　him　that　we　were　in　fact　on　a　road。　i　got　out　myself　to　open　the　first　gate；　then　we　found　ourselves　at　the　second　set；　the　main　gates　of　the　house。

‘i　hope　you’ll　find　your　way　back　all　right；“　i　said。

‘me？　i’ll　be　all　right；“　he　said　with　another　shrug。

as　i　expected；　the　gates　were　locked。　not　wanting　the　driver　to　think　i　was　some　kind　of　thief；　i　pretended　to　be　looking　for　my　keys　in　my　bag　while　he　turned　the　car。　only　when　he　was　some　distance　away　did　i　grab　hold　of　the　bars　of　the　gate　and　clamber　over。

the　kitchen　door　was　not　locked。　i　pulled　off　my　boots；　shook　the　snow　off　my　coat　and　hung　it　up。　i　walked　through　the　empty　kitchen　and　made　my　way　to　emmeline’s　quarters；　where　i　knew　miss　winter　would　be。　full　of　accusations；　full　of　questions；　i　stoked　my　rage；　it　was　for　aurelius　and　for　the　woman　whose　bones　had　lain　for　sixty　years　in　the　burned…out　ruins　of　angelfield’s　library。　for　all　my　inward　storming；　my　approach　was　silent；　the　carpet　drank　in　the　fury　of　my　tread。　i　did　not　knock　but　pushed　the　door　open　and　went　straight　in。　the　curtains　were　still　closed。　at　emmeline’s　bedside　miss　winter　was　sitting　quietly。　startled　by　my　entrance；　she　stared　at　me；　an　extraordinary　shimmer　in　her　eyes。

“bones！”　i　hissed　at　her。　“they　have　found　bones　at　angelfield！”　i　was　all　eyes；　all　ears；　waiting　on　tenterhooks　for　an　admission　to　emerge　from　her。　whether　it　was　in　word　or　expression　or　gesture　did　not　matter。　she　would　make　it；　and　i　would　read　it。

except　that　there　was　something　in　the　room　trying　to　distract　me　from