"Hurry up," Karen said impatiently. "I want to get out of here before noon. It's a long . . . What's that?"
"Seems to be a diary," Peggy said, riffling through the pages. " 'I have been reading the new novel by Mr. Hardy. It does not seem to me to measure up to his earlier works.'
"It must be one of Eliza's. Same binding, same metal clasp. I wonder why it didn't end up at the Historical Society with the others."
"My, my, she did think well of herself, didn't she? 'There are few individuals, particularly among the ladies, with whom I can converse without feelings of boredom. Their intellectual capacities ..." "Chuckling, Peggy turned over a few pages.
"You can keep it if you insist," Karen said resignedly. "It's not that big, I can probably squeeze it in somewhere. Come on, we've got another box of clothes to ... Peggy?"
She had stiffened, eyes wide, mouth ajar.
"Peggy! What is it?"
"It's the answer," Peggy said in a queer choked voice. "All the answers. My God, how could I have been so stupid? I should have known it was Eliza."
"Eliza was Ismene? That's impossible!"
"That's why she hid this volume of her diary," Peggy muttered. "She had enough intellectual integrity to refrain from destroying the truth, but that awful Victorian prudery kept her from publishing it."
"What are you talking about?" Karen demanded, leaning over her shoulder to peer at the close-written pages. " 'Houses of Stone' could not have been written by—"
"Listen." Peggy cleared her throat and began to read. " 'I watched the fire take hold and then I knew I could not do what I had contemplated. I took it out with the tongs and beat out the flames. Only a few pages were lost. They were the ones that mattered, for they contained the awful accusation that had moved me to destroy the papers. It is only a story, of course, pure fiction, without foundation in fact; but anyone who read it would recognize the individuals on whom she had based her characters, and those readers would believe the worst, as people always do. The malicious gossip, the whispers would ruin us and cast a stain on the character of my sainted mother. I cannot allow it to be published or even read by another. But neither can I destroy it. Would that I had never found that recess in the paneling of the room that must have been hers! Would that I had never read it, or the little sheaf of verses! Would that my antiquarian research, my pride in the antiquity of my family, had not led me to search out the evidence that has provoked such fearful doubts!
" 'My mother never spoke of her. She does not lie in the family plot. It was not until I began looking through old newspapers in the hope of finding information for the genealogy that I came upon the notice of her death. She had fallen or thrown herself from the cliff, it said; there had been a witness who tried in vain to hold her back, but the body had not been found. The river was high, it must have washed her far away.
" 'I know this is true. The story is only a story. But I will hide it away, with this journal. Fate will determine what becomes of it. I cannot.' '
For a while there was no sound except the patter of rain against the window. Then Peggy muttered, in obvious chagrin, "And I call myself a historian! The clothes in that trunk were Late Victorian in style, so the manuscript must have been hidden after that time. Well, there won't be any difficulty identifying Ismene now. Her sister was Eliza's mother. Hand me my briefcase, will you, please?"
Karen obliged. It didn't take Peggy long to find the genealogy. She was as methodical about her work as she was careless about her personal property. "Here she is. Helena Cabot, wife of Frederick."
"Her brothers and sisters aren't listed." Karen craned her neck to see over Peggy's shoulder.
"Well, you knew that. I understand how you feel," Peggy said with a wry smile. "We're so close now, closer than we ever hoped; and yet we still don't know Ismene's real name. But now we know her last name, and we can go on from there."
"Cabot's an awfully common name," Karen muttered.
"Not as bad as Smith. And it's commoner in New England than in the South."
"That's right," Karen exclaimed. "And according to the manuscript, Ismene's father came from 'a northern city.' "
"Interesting," Peggy muttered. "Am I stretching things, or is Helena's name significant?"
"You probably are stretching things. But . . . Peggy, look at the dates. Helena was two years older than her husband. Edmund was born after Ismene and Clara's mother left her husband, so he would have been ..."
"Younger than either of the girls," Peggy finished. "So—how much of the novel is autobiographical?"
"We'll never know. We don't even know how it ended."
"Ah, but we can make some educated guesses." Peggy's eyes gleamed. Karen recognized the look; it was the pleasurable anticipation of scholarly speculation. Peggy went on, "If those bones are Ismene's—"
"There should be enough left to indicate sex, age and race. If they are those of a female Caucasian under thirty, she's the most logical candidate. Her body was never found, remember." Karen stared at her clenched hands. "Of course we can't be certain until the experts have examined them. I don't know anything about anthropology. I'm jumping to the wildest of all possible conclusions."
"But you're sure, aren't you?"
"Yes," Karen said quietly. "I'm sure."
Peggy nodded thoughtfully. "All right, let's accept that as a working hypothesis. Let's also accept the likelihood that the book had a happy ending; most of the novels of that type did. Even if Ismene the heroine met a tragic end, it would be too much of a coincidence to suppose the author died in exactly the same way as her heroine. However,
