The Thirteenth Tale- 第15部分

when　he　turned　back　to　where　isabelle　had　been；　she　was　already　gone。　only　her　laughter　came　back　to　him　from　the　darkness；　her　laughter　and　the　low　rumble　of　roland’s　voice。　he　would　get　his　own　back　later。　he　would。　time　and　time　again　she　would　pay　for　this。

in　the　meantime　he　had　to　vent　his　feelings　somehow。

he　turned　to　sybilla。

the　summer　was　full　of　picnics。　and　for　charlie；　it　was　full　of　sybillas。　but　for　isabelle　there　was　only　one　roland。　every　day　she　slipped　out　of　charlie’s　sight；　escaped　his　grasp　and　disappeared　on　her　bicycle。　charlie　could　never　find　out　where　the　pair　met；　was　too　slow　to　follow　her　as　she　took　flight；　the　bicycle　wheels　spinning　beneath　her；　hair　flying　behind。　sometimes　she　would　not　return　until　darkness　had　fallen；　sometimes　not　even　then。　when　he　scolded　her；　she　laughed　at　him　and　turned　her　back　as　though　he　simply　wasn’t　there。　he　tried　to　hurt　her；　to　maim　her；　but　as　she　eluded　him　time　after　time；　slipping　through　his　fingers　like　water；　he　realized　how　much　their　games　had　been　dependent　on　her　willingness。　however　great　his　strength；　her　quickness　and　cleverness　meant　she　got　away　from　him　every　time。　like　a　boar　enraged　by　a　bee；　he　was　powerless。

once　in　a　while；　placatory；　she　gave　in　to　his　entreaties。　for　an　hour　or　two　she　lent　herself　to　his　will；　allowing　him　to　enjoy　the　illusion　that　she　was　back　for　good　and　that　everything　between　them　was　as　it　always　had　been。　but　it　was　an　illusion；　as　charlie　soon　learned；　and　her　renewed　absence　after　these　interludes　was　all　the　more　agonizing。

charlie　forgot　his　pain　only　momentarily　with　the　sybillas。　for　a　time　his　sister　prepared　the　way　for　him；　then　as　she　became　more　and　more　delighted　with　roland；　charlie　was　left　to　make　his　own　arrangements。　he　lacked　his　sister’s　subtlety；　there　was　an　incident　that　could　lave　been　a　scandal；　and　a　vexed　isabelle　told　him　that　if　that　was　how　he　intended　to　go　about　things　then　he　would　have　to　choose　a　different　sort　of　woman。　he　turned　from　the　daughters　of　minor　aristocrats　to　those　of　farriers；　farmers　and　foresters。　personally　he　couldn’t　tell　the　difference；　yet　the　world　seemed　to　mind　less。

frequent　though　they　were；　these　instances　of　forgetfulness　were　fleeting。　the　shocked　eyes；　the　bruised　arms；　the　bloodied　thighs　were　erased　from　memory　the　moment　he　turned　away　from　them。　nothing　could　touch　the　great　passion　in　his　life：　his　feelings　for　isabelle。

one　morning　toward　the　end　of　the　summer；　isabelle　turned　the　blank　pages　in　her　diary　and　counted　the　days。　she　closed　the　book　and　replaced　it　in　the　drawer　thoughtfully。　when　she　had　decided；　she　went　downstairs　to　her　father’s　study。

her　father　looked　up。　“isabelle！”　he　was　pleased　to　see　her。　since　she　had　taken　to　going　out　more　he　was　especially　gratified　when　she　came　to　seek　him　out　like　this。

‘darling　pa！“　she　smiled　at　him。

he　caught　a　glint　of　something　in　her　eye。　“is　there　something　afoot？”

her　eyes　traveled　to　a　corner　of　the　ceiling　and　she　smiled。　without　lifting　her　gaze　from　the　dark　corner；　she　told　him　she　was　leaving。

at　first　he　hardly　understood　what　she　had　said。　he　felt　a　pulse　beat　his　ears。　his　vision　blurred。　he　closed　his　eyes；　but　inside　his　head　there　were　volcanoes；　meteorite　strikes　and　explosions。　when　the　flames　died　down　and　there　was　nothing　left　in　his　inner　world　but　a　silent；　devastated　landscape；　he　opened　his　eyes。

what　had　he　done？

in　his　hand　was　a　lock　of　hair；　with　a　bloodied　clod　of　skin　attached　at　one　end。　isabelle　was　there；　her　back　to　the　door；　her　hands　behind　her。　one　beautiful　green　eye　was　bloodshot；　one　cheek　looked　red　and　slightly　swollen。　a　trickle　of　blood　crept　from　her　scalp；　reached　her　eyebrow　and　was　diverted　away　from　her　eye。

he　was　aghast　at　himself　and　at　her。　he　turned　away　from　her　in　silence　and　she　left　the　room。

afterward　he　sat　for　hours；　twisting　the　auburn　hair　that　he　had　found　in　his　hand；　twisting　and　twisting；　tighter　and　tighter　around　his　finger；　until　it　dug　deep　into　his　skin；　until　it　was　so　matted　that　it　could　not　be　unwound。　and　finally；　when　the　sensation　of　pain　had　at　last　pleted　its　slow　journey　from　his　finger　to　his　consciousness；　he　cried。

charlie　was　absent　that　day　and　did　not　return　home　until　midnight。　finding　isabelle’s　room　empty　he　wandered　through　the　house；　knowing　by　some　sixth　sense　that　disaster　had　struck。　not　finding　his　sister；　he　went　to　his　father’s　study。　one　look　at　the　gray…faced　man　told　him　everything。　father　and　son　regarded　each　other　for　a　moment；　but　the　fact　that　their　loss　was　shared　did　not　unite　them。　there　was　nothing　they　could　do　for　each　other。

in　his　room　charlie　sat　on　the　chair　next　to　the　window；　sat　there　for　hours；　a　silhouette　against　a　rectangle　of　moonlight。　at　some　point　he　opened　a　drawer　and　removed　the　gun　he　had　obtained　by　extortion　from　a　local　poacher；　and　two　or　three　times　he　raised　it　to　his　temple。　each　time　the　force　of　gravity　soon　returned　it　to　his　lap。

at　four　o’clock　in　the　morning　he　put　the　gun　away；　and　took　up　instead　the　long　needle　that　he　had　pilfered　from　the　missus’s　sewing　box　a　decade　before　and　which　had　since　seen　much　use。　he　pulled　up　his　trouser　leg；　pushed　his　sock　down　and　made　a　new　puncture　mark　in　his　skin。　his　shoulders　shook；　but　his　hand　was　steady　as　on　his　shinbone　he　scored　a　single　word：　isabelle。

isabelle　by　this　time　was　long　gone。　she　had　returned　to　her　room　for　a　few　minutes　and　then　left　it　again；　taking　the　back　stairs　to　the　kitchen。　here　she　had　given　the　missus　a　strange；　hard　hug；　which　was　quite　unlike　her；　and　then　she　slipped　out　of　the　side　door　and　darted　through　the　kitchen　garden　toward　the　garden　door；　set　in　a　stone　wall。　the　missus’s　sight　had　been　fading　for　a　very　long　time；　but　she　had　developed　the　ability　to　judge　people’s　movements　by　sensing　vibrations　in　the　air；　and　she　had　the　impression　that　isabelle　hesitated；　for　the　briefest　of　moments；　before　she　closed　the　garden　door　behind　her。

when　it　became　apparent　to　george　angelfield　that　isabelle　was　gone；　he　went　into　his　library　and　locked　the　door。　he　refused　food；　he　refused　visitors。　there　were　only　the　vicar　and　the　doctor　to　e　calling　now；　and　both　of　them　got　short　shrift。　“tell　your　god　he　can　go　to　hell！”　and　“let　a　wounded　animal　die　in　peace；　won’t　you！”　was　the　limit　of　their　wele。

a　few　days　later　they　returned　and　called　the　gardener　to　break　the　door　down。　george　angelfield　was　dead。　a　brief　examination　was　enough　to　establish　that　the　man　had　died　from　septicemia；　caused　by　the　circle　of　human　hair　that　was　deeply　embedded　in　the　flesh　of　his　ring　finger。

charlie　did　not　die；　though　he　didn’t　understand　why　not。　he　wandered　about　the　house。　he　made　a　trail　of　footprints　in　the　dust　and　followed　it　every　day；　starting　at　the　top　of　the　house　and　working　down。　attic　bedrooms　not　used　for　years；　servants’　rooms；　family　rooms；　the　study；　the　library；　the　music　room；　the　drawing　room；　the　kitchens。　it　was　a　restless；　endless；　hopeless　search。　at　night　he　went　out　to　roam　the　estate；　his　legs　carrying　him　tirelessly　forward；　forward；　forward。　all　the　while　he　fingered　the　missus’s　needle　in　his　pocket。　his　finger…tips　were　a　bloody；　scabby　mess。　he　missed　isabelle。

charlie　lived　like　this　through　september；　october；　november；　december；　january　and　february；　and　at　the　beginning　of　march；　isabelle　returned。

charlie　was　in　the　kitchen；　tracing　his　footsteps；　when　he　heard　the　sound　of　hooves　and　wheels　approaching　the　house。　scowling；　he　went　to　the　window。　he　wanted　no　visitors。

a　familiar　figure　stepped　down　from　the　car—and　his　heart　stood　still。

he　was　at　the　door；　on　the　steps；　beside　the　car　all　in　one　moment；　and　isabelle　was　there。

he　stared　at　her。

isabelle　laughed。　“here；”　she　said；　“take　this。”　and　she　handed　him　a　heavy　parcel　wrapped　up　in　cloth。　she　reached　into　the　back　of　the　carriage　and　took　something　out。　“and　this　one。”　he　tucked　it　obediently　under　his　arm。　“now；　what　i’d　like　most　in　the　world　is　a　very　large　brandy。”

stunned；　charlie　followed　isabelle　into　the　house　and　to　the　study。　she　made　straight　for　the　drinks　cupboard　and　took　out　glasses　and　a　bottle。　she　poured　a　generous　slug　into　a　glass　and　drank　it　in　one　go；　showing　the　whiteness　of　her　throat；　then　she　refilled　her　own　glass　and　the　second；　which　she　held　out　to　her　brother。　he　stood　there；　paralyzed　and　speechless；　his　hands　full　with　the　tightly　wrapped　bundles。　isabelle’s　laughter　resounded　about　his　ears　again　and　it　was　like　being　too　close　to　an　enormous　church　bell。　his　head　started　to　spin　and　tears　sprang　to　his　eyes。　“put　them　down；”　isabelle　instructed。　“we’ll　drink　a　toast。”　he　took　the　glass　and　inhaled　the　spirit　fumes。　“to　the　future！”　he　swallowed　the　brandy　in　one　gulp　and　coughed　at　its　unfamiliar　burn。

‘you　haven’t　even　seen　them；　have　you？“　she　asked。

he　frowned。

‘look。“　isabelle　turned　to　the　parcels　he　had　placed　on　the　study　desk；　pulled　the　soft　wrapping　away；　and　stood　back　so　that　he　could　see。　slowly　he　turned　his　head　and　looked。　the　parcels　were　babies。　two　babies。　twins。　he　blinked。　registered　dimly　th