The Black Cabinet by Patricia Wentworth Page B

voice.
    Chloe was looking about her. She had hardly been into the drawing-room at all—they had used the library and the morning-room. This room with its fine proportions and long windows open upon the terrace, had the bleak, formal effect of a place unlived in; its atmosphere was rather that of a museum or public institution; everything about it was formal. The pale Aubusson carpet had a chilly look which the delicate brocade curtains repeated. The whole room was colourless without any stronger tint than the faint pastel hues afford. Old gilding; old damask; the faded water-colours of some half forgotten grandmother—everything, as it were, keyed to the lowest possible tone—everything except the black cabinet
    â€œOh!” said Chloe. “I remember that.” She pointed at it and ran forward.
    It stood out in the room, as it stood out in her recollection—a Chinese cabinet of black lacquer decorated in gold. She had not seen it at first because it was set in the recess beside the fireplace and she had turned towards the windows.
    Mitchell Dane smiled.
    â€œOh! You remember that.”
    Chloe was all glow and sparkle.
    â€œI remember it frightfully well. But isn’t it? I didn’t remember that I remembered it this minute; and now—it’s just like a curtain going up. I—I can see myself standing on a chair, trying to find out where the river came from.”
    She had come close to the cabinet as she spoke. It was very large. It towered over Chloe’s head even now; to the child it had seemed unbelievably tall. The river began in the left-hand top corner. It was a golden river, winding its way amongst mountains and trees. Sometimes there was a boat upon it; sometimes tiny golden men stood amongst the rushes on its banks. Chloe gazed at it, fascinated.
    â€œI remember it more and more. I always med it.”
    The river wound upon its golden way. They reared themselves upon the bank. Chloe put out her finger and touched the little shining waves that lapped against the rushes. She was little Chloe Dane again, escaped from the nursery and looking into a Chinese fairy-land. Three little men in the rushes. One had a hat; and one had a basket; and one had speared a fish. Their names back with a rush, the ridiculous, make-believe names which she had given them. Timmy Jimmy, that was the one with the hat; and the fisherman was Henry Planty; and the man with basket was Mr. Dark. The child Chloe had loved Timmy Jimmy and Henry Planty, but she had always been a little bit afraid of Mr. Dark.
    Mitchell Dane saw her touch two of the little men and draw her finger back from the third. He saw the colour come with a rush to her cheeks, and watched her with interest. He was always interested in people; but it was years since that interest had come so near a normal human feeling as it had during the past week. He wondered what Chloe was thinking of.
    Chloe was not in the drawing-room at Danesborough at all. There was a black, muddy marsh under her feet, and tall rushes that rose between her and a night-black sky. All the light came from the golden river. Chloe stood amongst the rushes, and heard people moving. She knew who the people were. They were Timmy Jimmy, and Henry Planty, and Mr. Dark. The child Chloe had made rhymes about them. Each little man had his own rhyme, and the ridiculous jingling words said themselves over to Chloe across the forgotten years:
    â€œTimmy Jimmy has a hat,
    Very wide and very flat.
    Oh, how I wish I had a hat
    Just like Timmy Jimmy’s hat!”
    That was the first rhyme. And then there was one about Henry Planty:
    â€œHenry Planty caught a fish,
    And put it on a golden dish.
    Henry Planty’s golden fish
    Gives a golden wish.”
    That was a perfectly thrilling rhyme. Chloe could see the golden wishes there in the dark. They were little bright things like fire-flies, and if you caught one, you could have your wish. Only they were just terribly