Chapter 21 ghost lover

After staying in London for a day, Mrs. Drouot was leaving.She went to her closed house to find something to take.Some belonged to her, others belonged to her family, who were all used to country life by now.It was the end of August, and it was hot and steamy all day, with occasional showers.The trees down the road shone in the wet yellow afternoon sun as she went.Against the backdrop of gray clouds, broken chimneys and parapets stood out.On the once-familiar street, as in any unused ditch, a strange feeling of strangeness had pooled.A cat crawled around the railing.But no one saw her come back.She clamped the paper bag she was carrying with her arms, turned the key vigorously in the awkward lock, and then pushed the crooked door with her knee.When she walked in, a suffocating air hit her face.

The windows to the stairs were nailed up, and there was no light in the foyer.All she could see was a door that was ajar, and she walked quickly through it and opened the shutters of the house.The unimaginative lady looked around, and what she saw, traces of a long previous life, bewildered her more than familiar.Yellow smoke stained the white marble mantelpiece, and there were ring marks from vases on the top of the writing desk.The scratch on the wallpaper was caused by the magnetic door handle when the door was suddenly opened.The piano had been sent away for storage, and there were claw marks on the parquet floor.Although not much dust had seeped in, every piece of furniture was covered with a film of dust; and only the chimney was ventilated, and the whole drawing-room smelled of a dead hearth.Mrs. Du put the paper bag on the desk, left the room and went upstairs; the things she needed were in the box in the bedroom.

She had been anxious to see how the house was doing—some of the part-time housekeepers hired by the neighbors had gone on vacation this week and wouldn't be back.Usually he doesn't come into the house to see, and she never trusts him.There is a crack in the room, left by the last bombing, she has been paying attention to it, not that there is any way to fix it—a ray of refracted sunlight across the hall, she stood still, staring at the table in the hall—— There was a letter to her on it. At first she thought—then the housekeeper must be back.Anyway, who would put a letter in the mailbox when the house was closed?Not your average notice or bill.But everything sent to her by the post office went to a country address.The steward (even if he came back) did not know that she was bound to come to London today--he came here with the intention of keeping him from knowing--and it would show his negligence to leave the letter there, waiting in the gloom and dust. and disturbed her.She picked up the letter uneasily. There was no stamp on it.But it couldn't be any important letter, or they would know... She walked quickly upstairs with the letter, and didn't look at it until she was in the former bedroom and brought in the light.There is a garden under this room, and you can also see the gardens of other people's homes.Jagged clouds hung low, blocking the sun, and the trees and long-growth lawns seemed to have cast twilight.A feeling of intrusion by the habit of being slighted made her reluctant to read the letter.Still, in the tense atmosphere before the rain, she read.That's no more than a few lines.

According to Mrs. Du, the date of writing the letter is today.She tossed the letter on the mattress spring and read it again—her lips were white from the residue of lipstick.She felt that her complexion had changed drastically, so she went to the mirror to wipe out a space, and took a nervous and covert look.The figure in the mirror was a forty-four-year-old woman, her eyes staring open under a cap that had been pulled down carelessly.She had not put on powder since she drank tea alone and left the shop.A wedding gift from her husband, a pearl necklace, hanging loosely around her now thinner neck, slipped into a pink V-neck cardigan that she My sister knitted it.Mrs. Du usually has an expression of restrained annoyance, but it is an expression of agreement.After she gave birth to her third boy, she became seriously ill and had intermittent muscle tremors at the corner of her left mouth.But despite this, she always maintains a demeanor that is both energetic and calm.

She turned her face away as suddenly as when she looked in a mirror, walked to the box, unlocked it, lifted the lid, and knelt down to find something.The rain started to fall, and she couldn't help but look back at the bare bed with the letter on it.Behind the curtain of rain, the still standing church clock struck six.She counted the slow tones of the clock, rapidly growing more and more frightened. "The appointed hour—my God," she said, "what hour?—how shall I—? After twenty-five years—" In the garden a girl and a soldier were talking.She never saw his face clearly.It was dark and they bid farewell under a tree.At that critical moment, she couldn't see him clearly, as if she had never seen him before-she often stretched out her hand to prove that he had been there for more than these few minutes.Every time he pressed it against the buttons of his uniform without tenderness, it hurt her so much.The military was on leave from France, and now it was so close to the end that she could only hope that he was gone.The time was August, 1916.He didn't kiss, but pushed the terrified Catherine away to look at it, and she felt that there was a ghost in his eyes.She turned to look across the lawn, and among the trees, she could see the lights on in the living room.She took a breath and imagined running into the arms of her mother and sister, crying, "What should I do? What should I do? He's gone."

Hearing her breathing, her fiancé said indifferently, "Is it cold?" "You've got to go that far." "Not as far as you think." "I don't understand?" "You don't have to understand," he said, "you will. You know what we said." "But that's—if you—I say, if." "I'll be with you," he said. "Sooner or later. You have nothing to do but wait." After just over a minute, she ran freely across the still lawn.Through the window she saw her mother and sister, who did not notice her for a moment.She already felt that this strange promise separated her from the rest of humanity.No other way of dedicating herself made her feel more alone, bewildered and doomed to be damned.She could not have made a more ominous covenant.

A few months later, it was reported that her fiancé had disappeared, presumed killed in action.Her family not only supported her, but was able to praise her bravery without hesitation, because they knew almost nothing about the fiancé and had no regrets.They hoped she'd be able to comfort herself in a year or two - it would be easier if it was just a matter of comfort.Her trouble was that, behind the unseen grief, she was completely out of touch with everything.She didn't turn down the proposals because they never showed up.For several years she was unattractive to men.When she was approaching the age of thirty, she naturally shared the family's anxiety about her growing age, and began to make arrangements and guess her own fate.When she was thirty-two, William Drouot proposed to her, which was a great relief.She married him.They settled down in this quiet, wooded Kensington neighborhood.Years accumulate, and in this house, the children grow up.The bombs of World War II drove them away.As Mrs. Drouot, her circle of life was limited, and she never wanted to think that anyone was watching her life.

That's the way it is--whether the writer lives or dies, he sends threats.Mrs. Du couldn't keep kneeling, with her back to the empty room, she got up from the box and sat in a straight-backed chair, which was firmly leaned against the wall.The old bedroom was abandoned.The whole atmosphere of her married London home was like a cracked cup in which memory evaporated or escaped with all its soothing force.All this formed a crisis—and at this juncture, the letter writer wisely dealt her a blow in the head.On this evening, the emptiness of the house erased years of laughter, noise, habit, footsteps.Through the closed windows, she could only hear the sound of rain on the roofs around her. To cheer herself up, she said that she was in a mood - she closed her eyes for two or three seconds and told herself that the letter was just a fantasy, but when she opened her eyes, It's on the bed.

The mysterious side of how the letter had come in she would not think about.Does anyone in London know that she intends to come to this house today?In any case, someone obviously knew about it.Even if the housekeeper returned, there was no reason to expect her; he would pocket the letter and go off to post it as usual.There was no other indication that the housekeeper had been there--but what if it hadn't been the housekeeper?A letter left at the door of an empty house will not fly, nor will it walk on a table in the hall.The letter was not going to sit in the dust on an empty table, with an air of certainty that it would meet its addressee.It required a human hand—but only the housekeeper had the key.In this case, she did not want to think that it was possible to enter the house without the key.It is very likely that she is not the only one here now, and there may be someone waiting for her downstairs.Wait - until when?Wait until the "scheduled moment".At least it wasn't six o'clock, which had already struck.

She got up and walked over, locking the door. The question is to get out, to fly?No, no.She has to catch a train.She was a reliable anchor in the family life, unwilling to go back to the country without getting what she wanted, to her husband and son and sister.She picked up things in the box again, quickly, stuffed them indiscriminately, and tied several packages firmly.In this way, together with the original purchases, you will not be able to take them.That means taxis are required.At the thought of the taxi, her heart relaxed and she resumed her normal breathing.I'll call for a car now, it won't be coming anytime soon, and when I hear the motor, I'll calmly go downstairs and through the hall.I want to call—but no, the line is dead.She tugged at the knot on the wire, which she had tied by mistake.

Run away...he's never been nice to me, not really.I don't remember him being better, not at all.Mother said he never cared about me.He just wanted to get me, and that was his affection, not love.It's not love, I don't want to make others feel better.What did he do to make me make that promise?I don't remember--but she found that she did. She remembered, so terribly accurately, that the next twenty-five years had vanished; so that she had instinctively looked for the imprints the buttons had left on her palms.Not only did she remember his every word and every movement, but she also remembered all the details of her own existence during that week in August.I'm not myself anymore, that's what they all said back then.Like the blanks caused by hydrochloric acid dripping on the photo, she couldn't remember his face anyway. So, wherever he waits, I don't know him.You don't have time to run away from a face you didn't even expect to show up. You must get into the taxi before the stipulated time when the clock strikes, no matter what time it is.She was going to slip into the street and turn around the square, and from there onto the main street.She will return safely to her home in the car.She'd ask the driver, who actually existed, to come and go with her in the room picking up packages.The thought of the taxi driver gave her determination and courage, and she unlocked the door, went up the stairs, and listened. Nothing could be heard - but at that moment a draft blew into her face.It was from the cellar; someone had chosen this moment to leave, to open a door or a window. The rain had stopped, the sidewalks glistened dimly, and Mrs. Du scraped from her front door onto the empty street.The blasted facade of the empty house met her gaze.Trying not to look behind her, she walked forward up the street to find a taxi.Really, it was so quiet--this summer, the devastation of war made the lonely streets of London even quieter--so quiet that no footsteps could be heard, and she was not aware of herself until she reached the populated square. Unusual pace, adjusted it.At the other end of the square, two buses pass nonchalantly across from each other.People roam the streets, there are women, cyclists, a man pushing a cart with a signal light, here again is the normal flow of life.The most crowded corner of the square should be—was—a short row of taxis.There is only one car this night.Although the expressionless rear of the car was facing her, it seemed to be waiting vigilantly.Panting, she went to open the door from behind.The driver didn't even look back, he was already starting the engine.The clock struck seven when she got into the car.The car was facing the street, and it was time to turn back to her house. She sat down and the car turned.She was amazed at how it knew which way to go, and suddenly remembered that she hadn't said where.She leaned forward to grab the pane of glass between the driver and her. The driver slammed on the brakes, the car nearly stopped, and he turned and pulled the glass panel away.The car stopped suddenly, causing Mrs. Du to rush forward, her face almost hitting the glass.Through this slit, the faces of the driver and passenger are less than six inches apart, seemingly facing each other for eternity.Mrs. Du opened her mouth, unable to yell out for several seconds.Then she yelled one after another, tapping her gloved hand on the glass around the car.And the car ruthlessly accelerated, driving her to the uninhabited wilderness.