Dorothy Eden Read Online Free Page B

steely glimmer of a lake and the pencilled shape of poplars, through the untidy overflow of swollen streams, always towards the white mountains, she remained silent, beyond an occasional question as to how far they still had to go. At last Davey turned the car down a rough road, little more than a track climbing across a hillside.
    “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said. “It’s just on midnight. You’ll see the house round this bend.”
    Julia could see nothing but what looked like a plantation of trees. Presently they were driving beneath them, the overhanging branches swinging against the car. Julia recognised oak and elm and the flickering white leaves of silver poplar. There was a small grove of pointed Christmas tree firs. Then suddenly, while still in the midst of the trees, they were at the front door of the house. It literally grew among the greenery, a large old wooden two-storey building with two rather pretentious pillars supporting a wide verandah.
    Davey stopped the car and Julia slowly climbed out. Instantly the wind seized her and nearly blew her off her feet. The air was full of the creaking and sighing of trees. She had a feeling of being imprisoned in a dark and stormy forest. She stared speechlessly at the house. Perhaps it was only the dim light that made it look so old and tumbledown, so forgotten among all this sad sighing greenery. Paul had written, “Mother wants the house dressed up,” but how had they come to let it get into such a dilapidated state? If it had not been for the faint yellow light in one of the upper windows she would not have believed that anyone lived here. Even as she looked a hand—was it a hand, it looked so thin and fleshless?—was silhouetted a moment against the pane, then the blind was pulled down and even that faint light vanished.
    Julia became aware that Davey was standing beside her.
    “You go in,” he said briskly. “The door won’t be locked. Just give a shout.”
    A shout! In that black deserted place? She would never be able to produce more than a quaver of sound.
    “Who—will wake up?” she said uncertainly. (The owner of that ghostly hand? Never could she believe that Paul, the blue-eyed healthy normal person she had known, was within these walls.)
    “Mrs. Blaine, I should think. Paul’s mother. I’ll bring your bags in.”
    Julia gave a swift glance at her stacked luggage in the back of the car. Now she understood Davey’s expression as he had looked at it in Timaru. All those elaborate clothes were ludicrous in this wild forsaken place.
    “Just give me that little bag,” she said swiftly. “That’s all I want tonight.”
    “Sure?” His voice indicated his disbelief that she could do with so little.
    “Of course I’m sure,” she snapped. Her momentary anger at his impertinence jerked her back into reality, and she was able to walk up the steps on to the porch, and then to turn the knob of the heavy door and open it slowly.
    The hall in which she found herself was in darkness except for a slip of light from a room at the far end. She gave a rather tremulous “Yoo hoo!” Then suddenly she seemed to awake at last to the fact that here she was at last under the same roof as Paul. In another moment, provided she could make someone hear, she would be taken to his bedside, she could be face to face with him, the man with whom she had only completely fallen in love after he had written her that tender sensitive letter. In an excess of excitement she ran stumblingly across the hall, which had a faint smell of old dusty carpet, towards the door through which the chink of light showed.
    She pushed open the door boldly and there, by a dying fire, was Paul. Of course it was Paul. The room was lit only by two candles on the mantelpiece and the glow of embers from the fire, but there distinctly was his fair head leaning against the back of his armchair, his injured foot resting on a stool.
    She tried to speak, but couldn’t. She could only