door, but this window wasn’t stained glass. Just clear. And it had heavy red silk draperies with gold tassels and fringes and silk balls on the sashes.” She stopped, again in apology, but May’s face had turned quite white and her mouth had fallen open and she was staring almost stupidly at Ellen.
The girl spoke more hurriedly. “It was only a dream. And I was looking out at the brick wall of the house, and it had a trellis with roses and leaves on it, and behind me I could feel a big room, bigger than any room in Preston, and though I didn’t see the room I knew it was full of grand furniture, and there was a big lamp of little bits of glass hanging from the ceiling, rows and rows of glass, prisms I think you would call it, and the room I was in had dark walls of wood all polished like furniture, and there were lots of books—Aunt May, what is it?” she cried, and went to her aunt again, for May Watson stood there, stupefied and almost glaring in the weak light of the table lamp.
May pushed her hair fiercely back from her face, then stared about her as if she did not know where she was. She fumbled for a chair. She sat down, and now she fixed her eyes on Ellen, distraught.
“I knew such a room, for years; I dusted and polished it for years. And I remember the wall of the house and how it looked—” Then she came to herself and clenched her hands on her bony knees and wet her lips and appeared to see Ellen fully for the first time. She was aghast. “How did you know about such a room? Who told you?” Her voice was high and acute, even terrified. She reached out and grasped Ellen’s arm and shook her. “Tell me; who told you?”
Ellen was affrighted. She tried to draw away from that hurting grasp but could not. “Nobody—told me,” she stammered. “It was just a dream, a dream. You are making my arm ache, Aunt May.”
The woman released the girl’s arm, and then she was suddenly weeping, hiding her face in her rough palms. “It can’t be,” she groaned. “It can’t be. You never saw such a place. Only I and—only I did. I must have told you about it, sometime.”
“When I was very little,” Ellen urged, eager to comfort her. “That must have been it.”
May rocked on the chair, weeping dolorously, her face still hidden. But she nodded. “That was it,” she moaned. “It could only be that. You were never there, never there.” She dropped her hands and her deep premature wrinkles were filled with water which ran down to her chin and dripped. Ellen had never seen her aunt weep before, and now she was shattered with guilt and remorse. She put her head on her aunt’s knees like a puppy deserving of the most drastic punishment.
For a long time May could only look down on that vital and disordered mass of hair on her knee. Then she put out her hand and touched it, smoothing it. Ellen sobbed. “There, there,” said May. “It’s all right. I’m just terribly tired. When I’m tired like this everything—everything—seems not right, or something.” She wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her calico dress. “Now, you just stop crying, hear me?” She tried to make her voice severe, but it broke. “You got to get up at five to be at the Mayor’s house at six, and it will be a long day for you. Ellen, Ellen? Listen to me. I told them you were just fourteen. Remember that”
Ellen raised her head; blue wet light swam in her eyes. She felt forgiven, and there was a rush of love in her for her aunt. “Fourteen,” she repeated. “Well, it isn’t quite a lie, is it? I’ll be fourteen in January, and that’s only six, seven months away. Fourteen.”
“Yes. Now you go to bed. I’ll wake you at five. You’ll work hard and be polite and obedient, won’t you, dear? Mrs. Jardin is a hard woman and Mrs. Porter is even worse. You’ve been in their kitchen a couple of times, and you’ve seen them, and they paid no more attention to you than if you’d been a fly. Never mind, though.
The girl spoke more hurriedly. “It was only a dream. And I was looking out at the brick wall of the house, and it had a trellis with roses and leaves on it, and behind me I could feel a big room, bigger than any room in Preston, and though I didn’t see the room I knew it was full of grand furniture, and there was a big lamp of little bits of glass hanging from the ceiling, rows and rows of glass, prisms I think you would call it, and the room I was in had dark walls of wood all polished like furniture, and there were lots of books—Aunt May, what is it?” she cried, and went to her aunt again, for May Watson stood there, stupefied and almost glaring in the weak light of the table lamp.
May pushed her hair fiercely back from her face, then stared about her as if she did not know where she was. She fumbled for a chair. She sat down, and now she fixed her eyes on Ellen, distraught.
“I knew such a room, for years; I dusted and polished it for years. And I remember the wall of the house and how it looked—” Then she came to herself and clenched her hands on her bony knees and wet her lips and appeared to see Ellen fully for the first time. She was aghast. “How did you know about such a room? Who told you?” Her voice was high and acute, even terrified. She reached out and grasped Ellen’s arm and shook her. “Tell me; who told you?”
Ellen was affrighted. She tried to draw away from that hurting grasp but could not. “Nobody—told me,” she stammered. “It was just a dream, a dream. You are making my arm ache, Aunt May.”
The woman released the girl’s arm, and then she was suddenly weeping, hiding her face in her rough palms. “It can’t be,” she groaned. “It can’t be. You never saw such a place. Only I and—only I did. I must have told you about it, sometime.”
“When I was very little,” Ellen urged, eager to comfort her. “That must have been it.”
May rocked on the chair, weeping dolorously, her face still hidden. But she nodded. “That was it,” she moaned. “It could only be that. You were never there, never there.” She dropped her hands and her deep premature wrinkles were filled with water which ran down to her chin and dripped. Ellen had never seen her aunt weep before, and now she was shattered with guilt and remorse. She put her head on her aunt’s knees like a puppy deserving of the most drastic punishment.
For a long time May could only look down on that vital and disordered mass of hair on her knee. Then she put out her hand and touched it, smoothing it. Ellen sobbed. “There, there,” said May. “It’s all right. I’m just terribly tired. When I’m tired like this everything—everything—seems not right, or something.” She wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her calico dress. “Now, you just stop crying, hear me?” She tried to make her voice severe, but it broke. “You got to get up at five to be at the Mayor’s house at six, and it will be a long day for you. Ellen, Ellen? Listen to me. I told them you were just fourteen. Remember that”
Ellen raised her head; blue wet light swam in her eyes. She felt forgiven, and there was a rush of love in her for her aunt. “Fourteen,” she repeated. “Well, it isn’t quite a lie, is it? I’ll be fourteen in January, and that’s only six, seven months away. Fourteen.”
“Yes. Now you go to bed. I’ll wake you at five. You’ll work hard and be polite and obedient, won’t you, dear? Mrs. Jardin is a hard woman and Mrs. Porter is even worse. You’ve been in their kitchen a couple of times, and you’ve seen them, and they paid no more attention to you than if you’d been a fly. Never mind, though.
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