We Have Always Lived in the Castle by Shirley Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

very well. “It’s so exciting,” she said across to Mrs. Wright. “Perhaps you’re a gardener, too? These first bright days are so exciting for a gardener.”
    She was talking a little too much and a little too fast, but no one noticed it except me.
    â€œI do love a garden,” Mrs. Wright said in a little burst. “I do so love a garden.”
    â€œHow is Julian?” Helen Clarke asked before Mrs. Wright had quite finished speaking. “How is old Julian?”
    â€œVery well, thank you. He is expecting to join us for a cup of tea this afternoon.”
    â€œHave you met Julian Blackwood?” Helen Clarke asked Mrs. Wright, and Mrs. Wright, shaking her head, began, “I would love to meet him, of course; I have heard so much—” and stopped.
    â€œHe’s a touch . . . eccentric,” Helen Clarke said, smiling at Constance as though it had been a secret until now. I was thinking that if eccentric meant, as the dictionary said it did, deviating from regularity, it was Helen Clarke who was far more eccentric than Uncle Julian, with her awkward movements and her unexpected questions, and her bringing strangers here to tea; Uncle Julian lived smoothly, in a perfectly planned pattern, rounded and sleek. She ought not to call people things they’re not, I thought, remembering that I was to be kinder to Uncle Julian.
    â€œConstance, you’ve always been one of my closest friends,” she was saying now, and I wondered at her; she really could not see how Constance withdrew from such words. “I’m going to give you just a word of advice, and remember, it comes from a friend.”
    I must have known what she was going to say, because I was chilled; all this day had been building up to what Helen Clarke was going to say right now. I sat low in my chair and looked hard at Constance, wanting her to get up and run away, wanting her not to hear what was just about to be said, but Helen Clarke went on, “It’s spring, you’re young, you’re lovely, you have a right to be happy. Come back into the world.”
    Once, even a month ago when it was still winter, words like that would have made Constance draw back and run away; now, I saw that she was listening and smiling, although she shook her head.
    â€œYou’ve done penance long enough,” Helen Clarke said.
    â€œI would so like to give a little luncheon—” Mrs. Wright began.
    â€œYou’ve forgotten the milk; I’ll get it.” I stood up and spoke directly to Constance and she looked around at me, almost surprised.
    â€œThank you, dear,” she said.
    I went out of the drawing room and into the hall and started toward the kitchen; this morning the kitchen had been bright and happy and now, chilled, I saw that it was dreary. Constance had looked as though suddenly, after all this time of refusing and denying, she had come to see that it might be possible, after all, to go outside. I realized now that this was the third time in one day that the subject had been touched, and three times makes it real. I could not breathe; I was tied with wire, and my head was huge and going to explode; I ran to the back door and opened it to breathe. I wanted to run; if I could have run to the end of our land and back I would have been all right, but Constance was alone with them in the drawing room and I had to hurry back. I had to content myself with smashing the milk pitcher which waited on the table; it had been our mother’s and I left the pieces on the floor so Constance would see them. I took down the second-best milk pitcher, which did not match the cups; I was allowed to pour milk, so I filled it and took it to the drawing room.
    â€œâ€”do with Mary Katherine?” Constance was saying, and then she turned and smiled at me in the doorway. “Thank you, dear,” she said, and glanced at the milk pitcher and at me. “Thank you,” she said again, and I