not rid herself of the idea that the tower was actually very tiny - a tower for an ant or a bee or a bird.
"I suppose it is that monstrous hedge that confuses one. It must be a summerhouse. I wonder how you get inside - I do not see a door. Oh! Someone is playing a pipe! Yet there is no one here. And now a drum! How odd it is that I cannot see who is playing! I wonder if . . . Two steps forward, curtsey and turn . . ."
The words came from nowhere into her head and the steps came from nowhere into her feet. She began to dance and was not at all surprized to find that, at the appropriate moment, someone took her outstretched hand.
Someone was crying very quietly and, just as before, Mr Hawkins knelt by Venetia's chair and washed her feet.
"And yet," she thought, "they will never be clean if he washes them in blood."
The water in the basin was bright red.
"Fanny," said Venetia.
The crying stopt and a small sound - something between a squeak and a sniff - seemed to shew that Fanny was nearby.
"Fanny, is it evening?"
"It is dawn," said Fanny.
"Oh!"
The curtains in Fanny's parlour were drawn back, but in the grey light of early dawn they had lost all their primrose colour. And everything outside the window - Fanny's vegetable-garden, Robin Tolliday's barn, John Harker's field, God's sky, England's clouds - all could be seen with perfect clarity but all had lost their colour as if all were made of grey water. Fanny began to cry again. "Perhaps she is in pain," thought Venetia, "for there is certainly a pain somewhere."
"Fanny?" she said.
"Yes, my love?"
"I am very tired, Fanny."
Then Fanny said something which Venetia did not hear and Venetia turned her head and when she opened her eyes she was in bed and Fanny was sitting in the wicker-chair, mending a hole in Mr Hawkins' shirt, and the curtains were drawn against the bright sunshine.
"Oh, Venetia!" said Fanny with a sigh and a despairing shake of her head. "Where in the world have you been? And what in the world have you been doing?"
It was not the sort of question that expected an answer but Venetia attempted one anyway; "I remember that I drank a glass of wine at Mr Grout's house, but I told him very plainly that I must come home, for I knew you were waiting for me. Did I not come home, Fanny?"
"No, Venetia," said Fanny, "you did not." And Fanny told Venetia how she and Mr Hawkins and their neighbours had searched through the night, and how, just before dawn, John Harker and George Buttery had looked into the churchyard and seen the pale shape of Venetia's gown billowing out in the darkness. She had been under the big yew tree, turning and turning and turning, with her arms spread wide. It had taken both of them holding tight on to her to make her stop.
"Two pairs of shoes," sighed Fanny, "one entirely gone and the other in tatters. Oh, Venetia! Whatever were you thinking of?"
Venetia must have fallen asleep again for when she woke it seemed to be late evening. She could hear the clatter of plates as Fanny got the supper ready downstairs; and as Fanny went back and forth between parlour and kitchen she talked to Mr Hawkins: ". . . and if it should come to that, she shall not be sent to the madhouse - I could not bear that she should go to one of those horrid places and be ill-treated. No, indeed! Take warning, Mr Hawkins, that I expressly forbid it . . ."
"As if he would suggest such a thing!" thought Venetia. "So good as he is to me."
" . . . I dare say that mad people are no more expensive to keep than sane ones - except perhaps in the articles of medicines and restraining chairs."
Early next morning Fanny, Venetia and Mr Hawkins were at breakfast in the parlour when there was a loud knocking at the door. Fanny went to the door and returned in a moment with Mr Grout, who wasted no time upon apologies or explanations but immediately addressed Venetia in accents of great displeasure.
"Young lady! I am expressly sent to you by Mrs Mabb who has bid me tell
"I suppose it is that monstrous hedge that confuses one. It must be a summerhouse. I wonder how you get inside - I do not see a door. Oh! Someone is playing a pipe! Yet there is no one here. And now a drum! How odd it is that I cannot see who is playing! I wonder if . . . Two steps forward, curtsey and turn . . ."
The words came from nowhere into her head and the steps came from nowhere into her feet. She began to dance and was not at all surprized to find that, at the appropriate moment, someone took her outstretched hand.
Someone was crying very quietly and, just as before, Mr Hawkins knelt by Venetia's chair and washed her feet.
"And yet," she thought, "they will never be clean if he washes them in blood."
The water in the basin was bright red.
"Fanny," said Venetia.
The crying stopt and a small sound - something between a squeak and a sniff - seemed to shew that Fanny was nearby.
"Fanny, is it evening?"
"It is dawn," said Fanny.
"Oh!"
The curtains in Fanny's parlour were drawn back, but in the grey light of early dawn they had lost all their primrose colour. And everything outside the window - Fanny's vegetable-garden, Robin Tolliday's barn, John Harker's field, God's sky, England's clouds - all could be seen with perfect clarity but all had lost their colour as if all were made of grey water. Fanny began to cry again. "Perhaps she is in pain," thought Venetia, "for there is certainly a pain somewhere."
"Fanny?" she said.
"Yes, my love?"
"I am very tired, Fanny."
Then Fanny said something which Venetia did not hear and Venetia turned her head and when she opened her eyes she was in bed and Fanny was sitting in the wicker-chair, mending a hole in Mr Hawkins' shirt, and the curtains were drawn against the bright sunshine.
"Oh, Venetia!" said Fanny with a sigh and a despairing shake of her head. "Where in the world have you been? And what in the world have you been doing?"
It was not the sort of question that expected an answer but Venetia attempted one anyway; "I remember that I drank a glass of wine at Mr Grout's house, but I told him very plainly that I must come home, for I knew you were waiting for me. Did I not come home, Fanny?"
"No, Venetia," said Fanny, "you did not." And Fanny told Venetia how she and Mr Hawkins and their neighbours had searched through the night, and how, just before dawn, John Harker and George Buttery had looked into the churchyard and seen the pale shape of Venetia's gown billowing out in the darkness. She had been under the big yew tree, turning and turning and turning, with her arms spread wide. It had taken both of them holding tight on to her to make her stop.
"Two pairs of shoes," sighed Fanny, "one entirely gone and the other in tatters. Oh, Venetia! Whatever were you thinking of?"
Venetia must have fallen asleep again for when she woke it seemed to be late evening. She could hear the clatter of plates as Fanny got the supper ready downstairs; and as Fanny went back and forth between parlour and kitchen she talked to Mr Hawkins: ". . . and if it should come to that, she shall not be sent to the madhouse - I could not bear that she should go to one of those horrid places and be ill-treated. No, indeed! Take warning, Mr Hawkins, that I expressly forbid it . . ."
"As if he would suggest such a thing!" thought Venetia. "So good as he is to me."
" . . . I dare say that mad people are no more expensive to keep than sane ones - except perhaps in the articles of medicines and restraining chairs."
Early next morning Fanny, Venetia and Mr Hawkins were at breakfast in the parlour when there was a loud knocking at the door. Fanny went to the door and returned in a moment with Mr Grout, who wasted no time upon apologies or explanations but immediately addressed Venetia in accents of great displeasure.
"Young lady! I am expressly sent to you by Mrs Mabb who has bid me tell
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