Free Ideal by Ayn Rand Page B

tired, she is. She needs a room, a place to sleep, at this hour of the night.”
    â€œYe come this way, ma’am . . . this way . . . the spare room. We have a nice spare room. No one’ll bother ye.”
    Jeremiah Sliney opened a door, bowing. They let their guest enter and shuffled in hurriedly, breathlessly, after her. The room smelt of dried hay and pickles. Mrs. Sliney brushed quickly a cobweb off the windowsill.
    â€œHere’s a bed for ye,” said Mrs. Sliney, hurriedly beating the pillow, pulling down a patched cotton blanket. “A nice soft bed for ye, ma’am. Just make yerself comfortable and sleep like a kitten.”
    â€œI’m sorry, ma’am, Miss Gonda. The place ain’t so swell for a great lady like ye, but it’s yours, same as this whole house. . . . My, I bet ye’ve seen some swell places out where the movie folk live!”
    â€œIt is very nice here, thank you.”
    â€œJust be careful of this chair, ma’am. It ain’t very steady. . . . I bet it must make ye scared, don’t it, when they work them cameras making pichurs?”
    â€œI’ll bring ye an extry blanket, ma’am. The nights are sorta chilly around here. . . . Oh my, what a pretty suit ye have, Miss Gonda! I reckon it cost all of twenty dollars, no less.”
    â€œI’ll get ye some water in that pitcher, ma’am. And some nice clean towels . . . Dear me, ye look just like in them movies! I knew ye right at once!”
    â€œDid it hurt ye, Miss Gonda, when that feller stuck you with that big knife, in the movie, last year that was?”
    They fluttered nervously, eagerly about the room, without tearing their eyes from the strange visitor. Her slender shadow rose up the whitewashed wall, and her hair looked like a huge black flower on the ceiling with tangled petals flung wide.
    â€œThank you,” she said, “I will be very comfortable here. . . . Please do not bother. I do not want to cause you so much trouble. Only, I will warn you, it’s very dangerous, you know, keeping me here.”
    Jeremiah Sliney straightened his stooped shoulders proudly.
    â€œDon’t you worry about that, Miss Gonda. There ain’t no cops in the world what can get you out of Jeremiah Sliney’s house. Not while he’s alive, they won’t!”
    Kay Gonda smiled and looked at them. Her eyes were round and clear and innocent like a frail little girl’s, a very young girl in a dress too severe for her fragile body. She leaned against the dresser, and her hand looked like a piece of clouded crystal chiseled into old planks with bald patches of faded varnish.
    â€œIt is very kind of you,” she said slowly. “But why do you want to take the chance? You do not know me.”
    â€œYe . . . ye don’t know, Miss Gonda,” said Jeremiah Sliney, “what ye mean to us. We’re old folks, Miss Gonda, poor old folks. We never had nothing like ye ever come to us. Cops, indeed! Ye don’t think of cops in church, Miss Gonda, no more’n in this here room right now. And if . . .oh gosh! Ye must forgive a driveling old fool like me! Just make yerself comfortable and don’t ye worry about a thing. We’ll be right here in the next room, if ye need anything. Good night, Miss Gonda.”
    There was no sound in the house, no light. Beyond the window, crickets chirped in the tall grass, a shrill, unceasing whistle, like the whining of a steady saw. A bird screamed somewhere in short, choked gasps and stopped, and screamed again. A moth beat dry, rustling wings against the window screen.
    Kay Gonda lay on the bed, dressed, her hands under her head, her thin black pumps crossed on the faded old blanket. She did not move.
    In the silence, she heard the bed creaking as someone turned over in the next room. She heard a heavy sigh. Then there was silence again.
    Then she