A Wrinkle in Time - Madeleine L'Engle [6]
“But that’s probably why he is out,” Meg wailed, “trying to find a place not to be out.”
“In which case I’ll 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 for—was 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—uh—Whatsit—says 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 the 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.
“I’ll fix it,” Meg offered, going to the pantry for a can of tuna fish.
—For crying out loud, she thought,—this 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. I’ll 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.—Though