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In the Closed Room
by
“If they would look like that,” the little girl said, “she would see. But no one sees them like that–when the Life goes away with me.”
After that the game was finished and they went out on the roof garden and stood and looked up into the blue above their heads. How blue–how blue–how clear–how near and real! And how far and unreal the streets and sounds below. The two children stood and looked up and laughed at the sweetness of it.
Then Judith felt a little tired.
“I will go and lie down on the sofa,” she said.
“Yes,” the little girl answered. “It’s time for you to go to sleep.”
They went into the Closed Room and Judith lay down. As she did so, she saw that the door was standing open and remembered that her mother was coming up to see her and her playmate.
The little girl sat down by her. She put out her pretty fine hand and touched Judith for the first time. She laid her little pointed fingers on her forehead and Judith fell asleep.
It seemed only a few minutes before she wakened again. The little girl was standing by her.
“Come,” she said.
They went out together onto the roof among the flowers, but a strange–a beautiful thing had happened. The garden did not end at the parapet and the streets and houses were not below. The little garden ended in a broad green pathway–green with thick, soft grass and moss covered with trembling white and blue bell-like flowers. Trees–fresh leaved as if spring had just awakened them–shaded it and made it look smiling fair. Great white blossoms tossed on their branches and Judith felt that the scent in the air came from them. She forgot the city was below, because it was millions and millions of miles away, and this was where it was right to be. There was no mistake. This was real. All the rest was unreal–and millions and millions of miles away.
They held each other’s slim-pointed hands and stepped out upon the broad, fresh green pathway. There was no boundary or end to its beauty, and it was only another real thing that coming towards them from under the white, flowering trees was Aunt Hester.
In the basement Jane Foster was absorbed in her labours, which were things whose accustomedness provided her with pleasure. She was fond of her scrubbing, she enjoyed the washing of her dishes, she definitely entertained herself with the splash and soapy foam of her washtubs and the hearty smack and swing of her ironing. In the days when she had served at the ribbon counter in a department store, she had not found life as agreeable as she had found it since the hours which were not spent at her own private sewing machine were given to hearty domestic duties providing cleanliness, savoury meals, and comfort for Jem.
She was so busy this particular afternoon that it was inevitable that she should forget all else but the work which kept her on her knees scrubbing floors or on a chair polishing windows, and afterwards hanging before them bits of clean, spotted muslin.
She was doing this last when her attention being attracted by wheels in the street stopping before the door, she looked out to see a carriage door open and a young woman, dressed in exceptionally deep mourning garb, step onto the pavement, cross it, and ascend the front steps.
“Who’s she?” Jane exclaimed disturbedly. “Does she think the house is to let because it’s shut?” A ring at the front door bell called her down from her chair. Among the duties of a caretaker is naturally included that of answering the questions of visitors. She turned down her sleeves, put on a fresh apron, and ran up-stairs to the entrance hall.
When she opened the door, the tall, young woman in black stepped inside as if there were no reason for her remaining even for a moment on the threshold.