The whole situation was perfectly ridiculous. But ropes are ropes. They held. There was no miracle. Nothing happened during the night to loosen those bonds. When the light began to seep through the green leaves at last and touch the dirty glass, Francis was lying
exactly as he had been lying, exactly as helpless, hopeless and lost.
Oh, there was a tiny flicker of hope left, but really it was not sensible. The people going about their business up there in the world would have no suspicion. His helplessness and his plight would be unsuspected. So what he'd tried to do would be of no avail. The best he could do at the time, but it hadn't been good enough. No, no hope. Put it out. And pray for Mathilda. Pray for her.
Chapter Twenty-five
On Friday morning, Grandy s house had fallen into a normal rhythm. Life was going on. It was the reflection of Grandy's own mood, of course. His house and the people in it were susceptible to his moods and always reflected them. And Grandy had taken an interest in breakfast that morning. Grandy had parceled out the household chores in his usual gay fashion. Even Oliver had reached a state of calm and had gone off on errands.
Jane, looking about twelve years old in blue-and-white-checked gingham, was swabbing the floor of Grandy's glittering bathroom. Mathilda herself, in a black skirt and a peasant blouse, was changing linen on the beds. Mirrors reflected them many times.
Mathilda had a prevision of how life, going on, would fill in and smooth over the place where Althea had been. How it would always fill in the empty places, flowing, smoothing, covering. Grandy house was just the same. Although Althea was gone, Tyl had com back. Rosaleen was gone, but here was Jane. There would always be one girl or another reflected in the mirrors, changing the beds, mopping the floor. The changing of the beds would outlive them all. The little duties, the household chores, were immortal.
The enigma of Francis was gone too. Because everything was clear now about Francis. Grandy had said so. Grandy had explained his theories at the breakfast table. Jane had agreed. Oliver had agreed. Mathilda had . . . agreed.
She had a little headache this morning. She hadn't slept. She'd been listening in the night. Shed been waiting, in aimless tension, not knowing what she waited for. Briskly tucking in the sheets, Tyl realized that she still had the sensation of expectancy, of waiting for something, an anxiety that wouldn't rest, as if life could not take up, here and now, and go on, and fill in and cover over, with the inexorable wash of time. Although the whole house argued I against her and she argued against herself.
Francis was gone. The enigma was explained as well as it ever would be explained. There would be no more to it. The tides of time would wash in every morning and blot and obliterate and smudge and wear down and blur. This day or two, so full of Francis, would recede, would decline in importance, would fade and blur and blend in with all other days of her life. It would be an incident, a queer happening. Once upon a time. Grandy would no doubt make one of his stories out of it. There might even be supernatural overtones before he got through. Mathilda shivered.
Jane wrung out the mop and stood it up in her pail. "I'll help with that," she said, smiling.
How pretty she is, Tyl thought. I wish I could be just sweet and willing, like Jane.
They took hold of opposite ends of a blanket. Something was communicated through the length of woolen fabric. Tyl was aware suddenly that Jane was not as she appeared, neither sweet nor willing, not placid at all. Jane was strung up tight. Together, they spread the blanket, tucked it in, folded the sheet back over it, drew up and smoothed the spread.
Tyl said, "Where did he go, Jane?"
Jane said, "He went to the police.''
Mathilda sat down on the edge of the freshly made bed. She looked into Jane's eyes and saw the real girl, saw the hidden fear and sensed the hidden strength.
"Why?" she demanded.
Jane said, "He had things to tell them. If he had got to them, we'd know it. He didn't get there."
Mathilda blinked and groped back. "But you said he'd run away. You said— Grandy said—"
Jane said carefully, "He may have run away. He probably did." She was remote and closed off suddenly. Mathilda didn't want her to be closed off. She wanted to talk. She wanted to know. She wanted the real Jane.
"But you don't believe it," she whispered, "do you?"
"Do you?”
Something that seemed entirely outside of herself shook Mathilda's head for her, shook it in the negative sign. No, she thought, and she hadn't believed it at breakfast, either.
Jane leaned against the bed, bent a little closer. "Can I talk to you and be sure you won't. . . repeat it?"
Mathilda said, "Please."
Jane's doll face didn't belong to a doll any more. He was in danger. He really was. He was getting too close. How am I going to make you understand?"
"I wish you could," wailed Mathilda. "Because I don't understand anything at all. What danger? What do you think happened to him?"
"I don't know," said Jane, "but something's got to be done. She sat down on the other edge of the bed with her back to Mathilda and covered her face with her hands. "What have I been waiting for?" she said in tones of surprise.
"You're in love with him, aren't you?"
Jane shook her head. Her face was still hidden.
Mathilda said, "But I saw you. Out the window. There's something—"
"What difference does that make?" said Jane fiercely. "Never mind what Francis is to me. Or anybody. Or what he was to Rosaleen. You don't know, and you'll never know, and he's nothing at all to you. Just nothing. But if he's dead now, it'll be because you were so dumb."
"I?"
"I didn't mean that." Jane gulped, turned her face and tried to smile. "I'm worried just about sick."
"Why was I dumb? What do you mean?" Mathilda reached out to shake her.
"I mean he needed your help."
"Then why didn't he ask me or tell me? . . . Help for what?"
"He did. He tried. But you can't see things the way they are. Francis didn't blame you."
"What don't I see?"
"Listen," Jane said, "I was in New York the other day, tracking down something that absolutely proves—"
"Proves what?"
Jane said, "No, I can't tell you."
"Why not?"
"You— Nobody could tell you."
"What's the matter with me, that I can't be told? I'm listening, Jane. Please tell me."
Jane was watching her, searching her face, trying to read it.
Tyl said desperately, "You've got to tell me. I've got to understand, can't you see that? Jane, if you know what this is all about, please—" But Jane seemed to be withdrawing again. "What did you find in New York?" Mathilda begged. "What was it?"
"A record."
"A record?"
"The record they took of a radio program."
"Oh?"
"Yes, I timed it"
"Timed it?"
"It was a question of time. The time was ten thirty-five.”
"What time?"
“'Burn tenderly.' "