Of course it would be convenient to have a door through to the dining-room, but why had she always gone so unerringly to that one particular spot? Anywhere on the dividing wall would have done equally well, but she had always gone automatically, thinking of other things, to the one place where a door had actually been.
I hope, thought Gwenda uneasily, that I’m not clairvoyant or anything.
There had never been anything in the least psychic about her. She wasn’t that kind of person. Or was she? That path outside from the terrace down through the shrubbery to the lawn. Had she in some way known it was there when she was so insistent on having it made in that particular place?
Perhaps I am a bit psychic, thought Gwenda uneasily. Or is it something to do with the house?
Why had she asked Mrs. Hengrave that day if the house was haunted?
It wasn’t haunted! It was a darling house! There couldn’t be anything wrong with the house. Why, Mrs. Hengrave had seemed quite surprised by the idea.
Or had there been a trace of reserve, of wariness, in her manner?
Good Heavens, I’m beginning to imagine things, thought Gwenda.
She brought her mind back with an effort to her discussion with Taylor.
“There’s one other thing,” she added.
“One of the cupboards in my room upstairs is stuck. I want to get it opened.” The man came up with her and examined the door.
“It’s been painted over more than once,” he said. “I’ll get the men to get it open for you tomorrow if that will do.” Gwenda acquiesced and Taylor went away.
That evening Gwenda felt jumpy and nervous. Sitting in the drawing-room and trying to read, she was aware of every creak of the furniture. Once or twice she looked over her shoulder and shivered. She told herself repeatedly that there was nothing in the incident of the door and the path.
Theyweifc just coincidences. In any case they were the result of plain common sense.
Without admitting it to herself, she felt nervous of going up to bed. When she finally got up and turned off the lights and opened the door into the hall, she found herself dreading to go up the stairs.
She almost ran up them in her haste, hurried along the passage and opened the door of her room. Once inside she at once felt her fears calmed and appeased. She looked round the room affectionately. She felt safe in here, safe and happy. Yes, now she was here, she was safe. (Safe from what, you idiot? she asked herself.) She looked at her pyjamas spread out on the bed and her bedroom slippers below them.
Really, Gwenda, you might be six years old! You ought to have bunny shoes, with rabbits on them.
She got into bed with a sense of relief and was soon asleep.
The next morning she had various matters to see to in the town. When she came back it was lunchtime.
“The men have got the cupboard open in your bedroom, madam,” said Mrs.
Cocker as she brought in the delicately fried sole, the mashed potatoes ratyi the creamed carrots.. f.1 “Oh good,” said Gwenda.
She was hungry and enjoyed her lunch.
After having coffee in the drawing-room, she went upstairs to her bedroom. Crossing the room she pulled open the door of the corner cupboard.
Then she uttered a sudden frightened little cry and stood staring.
The inside of the cupboard revealed the original papering of the wall, which elsewhere had been done over in the yellowish wall paint. The room had once been gaily papered in a floral design, a design of little bunches of scarlet poppies alternating with bunches of blue cornflowers…
II
Gwenda stood there staring a long time, then she went shakily over to the bed and sat down on it.
Here she was in a house she had never been in before, in a country she had never visited — and only two days ago she had lain in bed imagining a paper for this very room — and the paper she had imagined corresponded exactly with the paper that had once hung on the walls.