in front, their rounded stone turrets casting long shadows over the green slate. Bathed in bright sunlight, the west wing looked even more desolate. Why had it never been torn down? Why had it never been closed off? I found this extremely puzzling.
As I stood looking at the house, I saw a curtain move at one of the windows in the east wing, a long, thin face peering out. Although I was too far away to discern features, I knew it was Madame DuBois spying on me. She had been hovering in the hall again last night when Charles Danver and I left the dining room, her face as guileless as it had been on that earlier occasion. She was worried about something. I presented a threat to her, and I knew it wasnât because she was afraid I would discover her relationship with my guardian. No, there was some other reason ⦠The curtain fell back in place.
I turned toward the moors, trying to forget the incident.
The land was flat, barren, without a single tree, without a single sign of life, and there was an atmosphere of great age and great mystery. In the distance I could see patches of tarry black bog, stakes driven in the ground at intervals around them to warn one of danger. Those treacherous bogs could swallow a man without leaving a trace. Age old, they probably contained the bones of primeval creatures, I thought, walking slowly up the gradually sloping hill. The wind swept over the land, fierce, swirling into cracks and crevices, speaking in its own harsh voice, but I found it almost comforting. Serenity came, a curious calm induced by this rugged terrain that seemed to welcome me as an old friend. I felt safe, protected, and I knew not why.
At the crest of the hill, I turned around again. Danver Hall was far away now, a tiny gray toy house that some child had broken on one side. I felt as though I had been released from prison, and the feeling was a familiar one. I had felt this way before many years ago. I knew that without actually remembering. I wanted to run, bursting with elation, free again from dreary routine. No piano practice, no governess in starched blue dress, no boring afternoon nap. I stood there with the wind tearing at the skirt of my dark brown dress, concentrating, trying to make these vague impressions take solid shape in my mind.
I couldnât remember. Conscious effort only made it worse.
I moved down the hill. Enormous boulders began to surge up all around me, and I could hear the water. The ground was spongy now, and there were a few stunted trees with twisted limbs and dark green leaves. I moved on, boulders on either side studded with mica that glittered in the strong sunlight. Turning, walking along a well worn pathway, I could see the stream splashing over a rocky bed, and soon I began to see the waterfalls spilling over the boulders in savage cascades, the bank covered with moss. The wind was far away now, but the sound of water filled the valley with music, fierce, discordant music that I knew and loved.
It was fifteen minutes before I found the place. It was waiting, as I had known it would be. Moving through a wide crevice, I stepped into the small clearing surrounded on three sides by tall boulders. A waterfall fell in noisy silver sprays into the pool, mist glittering in the sunlight, and dark green moss covered the ragged sloping bank. There was my flat boulder, my seat at the edge of the water, and there were the delicate purple flowers growing in the cracks of the gray stone walls. It was my secret place, and I saw a bright, merry child with curly brown hair perched on the rock, dangling her bare legs into the cool water. The impression flashed into my mind and disappeared with lightning speed, but in that instant it had been vividly real.
Spreading my skirt out carefully, I sat down on the rough, flat rock and stared into the pool. I could see my reflection in the water, blurred, shimmering, like one of those new impressionist paintings they were doing in Paris. I listened to
As I stood looking at the house, I saw a curtain move at one of the windows in the east wing, a long, thin face peering out. Although I was too far away to discern features, I knew it was Madame DuBois spying on me. She had been hovering in the hall again last night when Charles Danver and I left the dining room, her face as guileless as it had been on that earlier occasion. She was worried about something. I presented a threat to her, and I knew it wasnât because she was afraid I would discover her relationship with my guardian. No, there was some other reason ⦠The curtain fell back in place.
I turned toward the moors, trying to forget the incident.
The land was flat, barren, without a single tree, without a single sign of life, and there was an atmosphere of great age and great mystery. In the distance I could see patches of tarry black bog, stakes driven in the ground at intervals around them to warn one of danger. Those treacherous bogs could swallow a man without leaving a trace. Age old, they probably contained the bones of primeval creatures, I thought, walking slowly up the gradually sloping hill. The wind swept over the land, fierce, swirling into cracks and crevices, speaking in its own harsh voice, but I found it almost comforting. Serenity came, a curious calm induced by this rugged terrain that seemed to welcome me as an old friend. I felt safe, protected, and I knew not why.
At the crest of the hill, I turned around again. Danver Hall was far away now, a tiny gray toy house that some child had broken on one side. I felt as though I had been released from prison, and the feeling was a familiar one. I had felt this way before many years ago. I knew that without actually remembering. I wanted to run, bursting with elation, free again from dreary routine. No piano practice, no governess in starched blue dress, no boring afternoon nap. I stood there with the wind tearing at the skirt of my dark brown dress, concentrating, trying to make these vague impressions take solid shape in my mind.
I couldnât remember. Conscious effort only made it worse.
I moved down the hill. Enormous boulders began to surge up all around me, and I could hear the water. The ground was spongy now, and there were a few stunted trees with twisted limbs and dark green leaves. I moved on, boulders on either side studded with mica that glittered in the strong sunlight. Turning, walking along a well worn pathway, I could see the stream splashing over a rocky bed, and soon I began to see the waterfalls spilling over the boulders in savage cascades, the bank covered with moss. The wind was far away now, but the sound of water filled the valley with music, fierce, discordant music that I knew and loved.
It was fifteen minutes before I found the place. It was waiting, as I had known it would be. Moving through a wide crevice, I stepped into the small clearing surrounded on three sides by tall boulders. A waterfall fell in noisy silver sprays into the pool, mist glittering in the sunlight, and dark green moss covered the ragged sloping bank. There was my flat boulder, my seat at the edge of the water, and there were the delicate purple flowers growing in the cracks of the gray stone walls. It was my secret place, and I saw a bright, merry child with curly brown hair perched on the rock, dangling her bare legs into the cool water. The impression flashed into my mind and disappeared with lightning speed, but in that instant it had been vividly real.
Spreading my skirt out carefully, I sat down on the rough, flat rock and stared into the pool. I could see my reflection in the water, blurred, shimmering, like one of those new impressionist paintings they were doing in Paris. I listened to
Similar Books
