"L'Engle, Madeleine - Time Quartet 01 - A Wrinkle in Time 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Engle Madeleine)

"What's wrong?" she asked anxiously.


Fortinbras stared at the door that opened into Mrs. Murry's laboratory which was in the old stone dairy right off the kitchen. Beyond the lab a pantry led outdoors, though Mrs. Murry had done her best to train the family to come into the house through the garage door or the front door and not through her lab. But it was the lab door and not the garage door toward which Fortinbras was growling.
"You didn't leave' any nasty-smelling chemicals cooking over a Bunsen burner, did you, Mother?" Charles Wallace asked.
Mrs. Murray stood up. "No. But I think I'd better go see what's upsetting Fort, anyhow."
"It's the tramp, I'm sure it's the tramp," Meg said nervously.
"What tramp?" Charles Wallace asked.
"They were saying at the post office this afternoon that a tramp stole all Mrs. Buncombe's sheets."
"We'd better sit on the pillow cases, then," Mrs. Murry said lightly. "I don't think even a tramp would be out on a night like this, Meg."
"But that's probably why he is out," Meg wailed, "trying to find a place not to be out."
"In which case IТll offer him the barn till morning." Mrs. Murry went briskly to the door.
"I'll go with you." Meg's voice was shrill.
"No, Meg, you stay with Charles and eat your sandwich."
"Eat!" Meg exclaimed as Mrs. Murry went out through the lab. "How does she expect me to eat?"
"Mother can take care of herself," Charles said. "Physically, that is." But he sat in his father's chair at the table and his legs kicked at the rungs; and Charles Wallace, unlike most small children, had the ability to sit still.
After a few moments that seemed like forever to Meg, Mrs. Murry came back in, holding the door open forЧwas it the tramp? It seemed small for Meg's idea of a tramp. The age or sex was impossible to tell, for it was completely bundled up in clothes. Several scarves of assorted colors were tied about the head, and a man's felt hat perched atop. A shocking pink stole was knotted about a rough overcoat, and black rubber boots covered the feet.
"Mrs. Whatsit," Charles said suspiciously, "what are you doing here? And at this time of night, too?"
"Now don't you be worried, my honey." A voice emerged from among turned-up coat collar, stole, scarves, and hat, a voice like an unoiled gate, but somehow not unpleasant.
"Mrs.ЧuhЧWhatsitЧsays she lost her way," Mrs. Murry said. "Would you care for some hot chocolate, Mrs. Whatsit?"
"Charmed, I'm sure," Mrs. Whatsit answered, taking off the hat and die stole. "It isn't so much that I lost my way as that I got blown off course. And when I realized that I was at little Charles Wallace's house I thought I'd just come in and rest a bit before proceeding on my way."
"How did you know this was Charles Wallace's house?" Meg asked.
"By the smell." Mrs. Whatsit untied a blue and green paisley scarf, a red and yellow flowered print, a gold Liberty print, a red and black bandanna. Under all this a sparse quantity of grayish hair was tied in a small but tidy knot on top of her head. Her eyes were bright, her nose a round, soft blob, her mouth puckered like an autumn apple. "My, but it's lovely and warm in here," she said.
"Do sit down." Mrs. Murry indicated a chair. "Would you like a sandwich, Mrs. Whatsit? I've had liverwurst and cream cheese; Charles has had bread and jam; and Meg, lettuce and tomato."
"Now, let me see," Mrs. Whatsit pondered. "I'm passionately fond of Russian caviar."
"You peeked!" Charles cried indignantly. "We're saving that for Mother's birthday and you can't have any!"
Mrs. Whatsit gave a deep and pathetic sigh.
"No," Charles said. "Now, you mustn't give in to her, Mother, or I shall be very angry. How about tuna-fish salad?"
"All right," Mrs. Whatsit said meekly.
"Ill fix it," Meg offered, going to the pantry for a can of tuna fish.
ЧFor crying out loud, she thought, Чthis old woman comes barging in on us in the middle of the night and Mother takes it as though there weren't anything peculiar about it at all. I'll bet she is the tramp. Ill bet she did steal those sheets. And she's certainly no one Charles Wallace ought to be friends with, especially when he won't even talk to ordinary people.
"I've only been in the neighborhood a short time," Mrs. Whatsit was saying as Meg switched off the pantry light and came back into the kitchen with the tuna fish, "and I didn't think I was going to like the neighbors at all until dear little Charles came over with his dog."
"Mrs. Whatsit," Charles Wallace demanded severely, "why did you take Mrs. Buncombe's sheets?"
"Well, I needed them, Charles dear."
"You must return them at once."
"But Charles, dear, I can't. I've used them."
"It was very wrong of you," Charles Wallace scolded. "If you needed sheets that badly you should have asked me.
Mrs. Whatsit shook her head and clucked. "You can't spare any sheets. Mrs. Buncombe can."
Meg cut up some celery and mixed it in with the tuna. After a moment's hesitation she opened the refrigerator door and brought out a jar of little sweet pickles. ЧThough why I'm doing it for her I don't know, she thought, as she cut them up. ЧI don't trust her one bit.
"Tell your sister I'm all right," Mrs. Whatsit said to Charles. "Tell her my intentions are good."
"The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Charles intoned.
"My, but isn't he cunning." Mrs. Whatsit beamed at him fondly. "It's lucky he has someone to understand him."
"But I'm afraid he doesn't," Mrs. Murry said. "None of us is quite up to Charles."
"But at least you aren't trying to squash him down." Mrs. Whatsit nodded her head vigorously. "You're letting him be himself."
"Here's your sandwich," Meg said, bringing it to Mrs. Whatsit.
"Do you mind if I take off my boots before I eat?" Mrs. Whatsit asked, picking up the sandwich nevertheless. "Listen." She moved her feet up and down in her boots, and they could hear water squelching. "My toes are ever so damp. The trouble is that these boots arc a mite too tight for me, and I never can take them off by myself."
Ill help you," Charles offered.
"Not you. You're not strong enough."
Ill help." Mrs. Murry squatted at Mrs. WhatsitТs feet, yanking on one slick boot. When the boot came off it came suddenly. Mrs. Murry sat down with a thump. Mrs. Whatsit went tumbling backward with the chair onto the floor, sandwich held high in one old claw. Water poured out of the boot and ran over the floor and the big braided rug.
"Oh, dearie me," Mrs. Whatsit said, lying on her back in the overturned chair, her feet in the air, one in a red and white striped sock, the other still booted.