if you want—but… Yes.… All right, then.… Good-bye.”
Replacing the receiver, she put the instrument back on the stand from which Blanche had first taken it. Turning, she started toward the gallery and the stairs.
“Jane!”
As Blanche moved her chair forward, Jane reappeared in the doorway, her eyes enormous with innocent enquiry.
“That was Bert on the phone, wasn’t it?”
For a long moment Jane simply stood there. Then, finally, she shook her head. “It was one of those women who advertise on the phone. Something about having the furniture reupholstered. I said you weren’t interested.”
“But you said I had changed my mind. Jane, I know you’re not——”
“She said you were on their interested list,” Jane explained blandly, “but of course she was lying.” Again the faintest shadow of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. “If I were you, I wouldn’t wear myself out talking to people on the phone.”
“Jane…”
“Any other calls—I’ll take them downstairs—so you won’t have to talk to anyone.”
“Jane, please…”
But Jane had already moved off into the dimness, and Blanche knew she would not turn back.
Rolling her chair to the doorway, she sat looking out at the phone. It was Bert who had called. There wasn’t the least bit of doubt in her mind about that. And there wasn’t any doubt, either, that Jane had warned her not to try to call Bert back. But suppose she defied her and called anyway? What would Jane do? Blanche’s gaze fell briefly to her withered legs and then moved away again. The silence there in the old house seemed almost to congeal and contract around her. With a feeling of sudden panic, she turned back into her room.
She spent a long moment reasoning with herself, scolding herself back into a state of calmness. How silly to be upset by Jane’s shenanigans. At this late date! Nothing so terrible had happened. Jane had always been like this, always trying to worry her and frighten her. When they were little girls, Jane had repeatedlytaken her toys from her and withheld them—just as she had taken the phone from her now by threat.
She was simply allowing herself to get into a nervous state over nothing. And she knew what she must do—she would wait for a bit and then, when she was fully composed and sure of herself, she would call Bert and tell him what had happened. And Jane—well, let her do her worst.
She turned her chair toward the window, stopping it in mid-turn as her eye was caught by the sight of the lunch tray on the desk. Lunch. Yes, that was a good idea. First, she would have her lunch. She would eat slowly and calmly and get herself completely under control. She would relax as she ate and forget all about the incident with the phone—and her abortive attempt to “explain” to Jane about selling the house. And afterward, allowing the proper interval for digestion, she would go straight to the phone and call.
In a mood of self-congratulation she moved her chair toward the desk. She was being very sensible, keeping her emotions admirably in check. And the more she thought of it, too, the more she began to see that this morning’s upset was at least partly due to yesterday’s discussion with Mrs. Stitt. Well, she would just let that be a lesson to her. Henceforth, she would turn a deaf ear to the alarms of others; she would refuse absolutely to give audience to tales out of school.
With the beginning of a smile on her lips, Blanche reached out to the tray, picked up the cloth and pulled it away. Instantly the smile fell from her face, and her hand froze in mid-air. Her eyes stared from a face white with shock. She darted a hand to her mouth, to stifle the scream that was already rising in her throat.
It seemed ages that she sat there staring at the dreadful thing on the plate, at the bird stiff with death that lay there before her, returning her gaze of horror from empty eye sockets. It had been a small bird, a sparrow or robin
Replacing the receiver, she put the instrument back on the stand from which Blanche had first taken it. Turning, she started toward the gallery and the stairs.
“Jane!”
As Blanche moved her chair forward, Jane reappeared in the doorway, her eyes enormous with innocent enquiry.
“That was Bert on the phone, wasn’t it?”
For a long moment Jane simply stood there. Then, finally, she shook her head. “It was one of those women who advertise on the phone. Something about having the furniture reupholstered. I said you weren’t interested.”
“But you said I had changed my mind. Jane, I know you’re not——”
“She said you were on their interested list,” Jane explained blandly, “but of course she was lying.” Again the faintest shadow of a smile touched the corners of her mouth. “If I were you, I wouldn’t wear myself out talking to people on the phone.”
“Jane…”
“Any other calls—I’ll take them downstairs—so you won’t have to talk to anyone.”
“Jane, please…”
But Jane had already moved off into the dimness, and Blanche knew she would not turn back.
Rolling her chair to the doorway, she sat looking out at the phone. It was Bert who had called. There wasn’t the least bit of doubt in her mind about that. And there wasn’t any doubt, either, that Jane had warned her not to try to call Bert back. But suppose she defied her and called anyway? What would Jane do? Blanche’s gaze fell briefly to her withered legs and then moved away again. The silence there in the old house seemed almost to congeal and contract around her. With a feeling of sudden panic, she turned back into her room.
She spent a long moment reasoning with herself, scolding herself back into a state of calmness. How silly to be upset by Jane’s shenanigans. At this late date! Nothing so terrible had happened. Jane had always been like this, always trying to worry her and frighten her. When they were little girls, Jane had repeatedlytaken her toys from her and withheld them—just as she had taken the phone from her now by threat.
She was simply allowing herself to get into a nervous state over nothing. And she knew what she must do—she would wait for a bit and then, when she was fully composed and sure of herself, she would call Bert and tell him what had happened. And Jane—well, let her do her worst.
She turned her chair toward the window, stopping it in mid-turn as her eye was caught by the sight of the lunch tray on the desk. Lunch. Yes, that was a good idea. First, she would have her lunch. She would eat slowly and calmly and get herself completely under control. She would relax as she ate and forget all about the incident with the phone—and her abortive attempt to “explain” to Jane about selling the house. And afterward, allowing the proper interval for digestion, she would go straight to the phone and call.
In a mood of self-congratulation she moved her chair toward the desk. She was being very sensible, keeping her emotions admirably in check. And the more she thought of it, too, the more she began to see that this morning’s upset was at least partly due to yesterday’s discussion with Mrs. Stitt. Well, she would just let that be a lesson to her. Henceforth, she would turn a deaf ear to the alarms of others; she would refuse absolutely to give audience to tales out of school.
With the beginning of a smile on her lips, Blanche reached out to the tray, picked up the cloth and pulled it away. Instantly the smile fell from her face, and her hand froze in mid-air. Her eyes stared from a face white with shock. She darted a hand to her mouth, to stifle the scream that was already rising in her throat.
It seemed ages that she sat there staring at the dreadful thing on the plate, at the bird stiff with death that lay there before her, returning her gaze of horror from empty eye sockets. It had been a small bird, a sparrow or robin
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