Free Weekend with Death by Patricia Wentworth Page A

good. I learned a piece of poetry about something of the same sort when I was a child. I don’t think it was a very suitable piece for a child really, and I know it kept me awake for hours at a time after I got it by heart. I don’t remember it all now, but it was something about a man who was walking across a moor and was afraid to turn his head—‘As one who fears a frightful ghost doth close behind him tread.’ I used to know it all off by heart, but that is the only bit I can remember now. And I am not sure whether it is Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner or The Dream of Eugene Aram . I think it was one of them, but I can’t be sure, because we had a governess who was very fond of poetry and always made us learn a great deal of it.”
    It was a relief to have got Joanna away from her dream, but Sarah began to wonder if she was feverish. There was a flickering colour in the hollow cheeks, a fixed brightness in the sunken eyes, and the voice was like the voice on a gramophone record—it went on, and on, and on.
    She said, “Would you like me to read to you a little?”
    Rather to her surprise, Joanna said, “Yes.”
    â€œWhat would you like?”
    The bright eyes dwelt on her, but not at all as if they saw Sarah Marlowe.
    â€œOh, anything—it doesn’t matter at all.”
    There were books in a trough by the head of the bed. Sarah stood up and picked one out. Then she kneeled down under the light, found a page at random, and began to read:
    â€œArt thou not void of guile—
    A lovely soul formed to be blessed and bless—
    A well of sealed and sacred happiness,
    Whose waters like blithe light and music are,
    Vanquishing dissonance and gloom—a star
    Which moves not in the moving heavens, alone—
    A smile amid dark frowns—a gentle tone
    Amid rude voices—a beloved light—
    A solitude, a refuge, a delight—
    A lute which those whom love has taught to play
    Make music on to soothe the roughest day,
    And lull fond Grief asleep—a buried treasure—
    A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure—
    A violet-shaded grave of woe?—I measure
    The world of fancies seeking one like thee,
    And find—alas! mine own infirmity.”
    Sarah paused slightly and went on, her voice soft and grave:
    â€œShe met me, Stranger, upon life’s rough way,
    And lured me towards sweet death—”
    There was a small choking sound. Sarah leaned out of her circle of light and saw that the tears were running down Joanna’s face. Such a poor wizened little creature, with her face all puckered up like a baby’s.
    Sarah’s soft heart smote her.
    â€œIs anything the matter? I’m so sorry—I’m afraid it’s rather melancholy, but I just began where the book opened, and I liked the singing sound it made. Did it upset you?”
    Joanna’s thin fingers fastened upon Sarah’s wrist. They were very cold. She said in a weak, stifled voice,
    â€œNo—no—it is very beautiful. I have always been fond of poetry. I once had some verses printed in the parish magazine. That was Shelley, wasn’t it? A friend gave me the book—a long time ago—”
    â€œWould you like me to go on?”
    Joanna shook her head.
    â€œNo—it brings things back. He used to read—very beautifully. Just put the book away and stay a little longer, and then I think I shall be able to go to sleep.”
    As Sarah turned with the book in her hand, something fluttered out from between the pages and lay on the table under the light—the small unmounted photograph of rather an arty young man with longish hair and a small pointed beard. The features were without character, the photograph a faded snapshot. Sarah put it back and replaced the book.
    After a few minutes Joanna began to talk about other things—a book she had read, a book she wanted to read, a letter she meant to write, and would Sarah please