CHAPTER XXXVII
關燈
小
中
大
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“Listen!what’sthat?”
Helensaid,“PerhapstheWilcoxesarebeginningthesiege.”
“Whatnonsense—listen!”
Andthetrivialityfadedfromtheirfaces,thoughitleftsomethingbehind—theknowledgethattheynevercouldbepartedbecausetheirlovewasrootedincommonthings.Explanationsandappealshadfailedtheyhadtriedforacommonmeeting-ground,andhadonlymadeeachotherunhappy.Andallthetimetheirsalvationwaslyingroundthem—thepastsanctifyingthepresentthepresent,withwildheart-throb,declaringthattherewouldafterallbeafuturewithlaughterandthevoicesofchildren.Helen,stillsmiling,cameuptohersister.Shesaid,“ItisalwaysMeg.”Theylookedintoeachother’seyes.Theinnerlifehadpaid.
Solemnlytheclappertolled.Noonewasinthefront.Margaretwenttothekitchen,andstruggledbetweenpacking-casestothewindow.Theirvisitorwasonlyalittleboywithatincan.Andtrivialityreturned.
“Littleboy,whatdoyouwant?”
“Please,Iamthemilk.”
“DidMissAverysendyou?”saidMargaret,rathersharply.
“Yes,please.”
“Thentakeitbackandsaywerequirenomilk.”WhileshecalledtoHelen,“No,it’snotthesiege,butpossiblyanattempttoprovisionusagainstone.”
“ButIlikemilk,”criedHelen.“Whysenditaway?”
“Doyou?Oh,verywell.Butwe’venothingtoputitin,andhewantsthecan.”
“Please,I’mtocallinthemorningforthecan,”saidtheboy.
“Thehousewillbelockedupthen.”
“InthemorningwouldIbringeggstoo?”
“AreyoutheboywhomIsawplayinginthestackslastweek?”
Thechildhunghishead.
“Well,runawayanddoitagain.”
“Nicelittleboy,”whisperedHelen.“Isay,what’syourname?Mine’sHelen.”
“Tom.”
ThatwasHelenallover.TheWilcoxes,too,wouldaskachilditsname,buttheynevertoldtheirnamesinreturn.
“Tom,thisonehereisMargaret.Andathomewe’veanothercalledTibby.”
“Minearelop-eareds,”repliedTom,supposingTibbytobearabbit.
“You’reaverygoodandratheracleverlittleboy.Mindyoucomeagain.—Isn’thecharming?”
“Undoubtedly,”saidMargaret.“HeisprobablythesonofMadge,andMadgeisdreadful.Butthisplacehaswonderfulpowers.”
“Whatdoyoumean?”
“Idon’tknow.”
“BecauseIprobablyagreewithyou.”
“Itkillswhatisdreadfulandmakeswhatisbeautifullive.”
“Idoagree,”saidHelen,asshesippedthemilk.“Butyousaidthatthehousewasdeadnothalfanhourago.”
“MeaningthatIwasdead.Ifeltit.”
“Yes,thehousehasasurerlifethanwe,evenifitwasempty,and,asitis,Ican’tgetoverthatforthirtyyearsthesunhasnevershonefullonourfurniture.Afterall,WickhamPlacewasagrave.Meg,I’veastartlingidea.”
“Whatisit?”
“Drinksomemilktosteadyyou.”
Margaretobeyed.
“No,Iwon’ttellyouyet,”saidHelen,“becauseyoumaylaughorbeangry.Let’sgoupstairsfirstandgivetheroomsanairing.”
Theyopenedwindowafterwindow,tilltheinside,too,wasrustlingtothespring.Curtainsblew,pictureframestappedcheerfully.Helenutteredcriesofexcitementasshefoundthisbedobviouslyinitsrightplace,thatinitswrongone.ShewasangrywithMissAveryfornothavingmovedthewardrobesup.“Thenonewouldseereally.”Sheadmiredtheview.ShewastheHelenwhohadwrittenthememorablelettersfouryearsago.Astheyleantout,lookingwest
