The Greater Trumps (23 page)

While he was dressing, he went on trying over various words to say. Every now and then the English language appeared to Mr. Coningsby almost incapable of expressing his more delicate shades of emotion. But then life—getting other people to understand exactly what you meant and wanted and thought and felt—was a very complex business, and, as he never wanted to push himself on others, he was usually satisfied if he could lightly indicate what he was feeling. One mustn't be selfish—especially on Christmas Day. He abandoned a plaintive, “I thought perhaps you wouldn't
mind
me coming down,” in favor of a jocund, “Ha, ha! Well, you see, I didn't need much putting right. Ah, Sybil, you … your … you don't …” Rather peevishly he gave that up. He simply could not think of anything at all jocund to say to Sybil. He finished dressing and went to the door. His hand on it, he switched off the light, opened it, and stepped out. His room was near the top of the staircase, next to Aaron's bedroom. The corridor into which he came ran to his right and left, at each end turning into a short concluding corridor. In the extreme corner to his right was the door of Aaron's study, within which lay that curious inner room, exposed to the wind on almost all sides, where were the absurd little marionettes. He had been rather pleased when he used the word to Henry, and it recurred to him as he stared towards it. For, much to his surprise, he saw a small procession going stealthily along the corridor. It had only just passed his door when he opened it, quietly, as it happened, and had not heard him. Indeed, the tall young masculine back at which he found himself gazing was what had startled him. It wasn't Henry's; it wasn't anybody's that he knew. It was wearing a chauffeur's outdoor coat, but as its arms stuck inches out beyond the sleeves and its neck rose high and thick over the collar it probably wasn't the chauffeur. Besides the chauffeur wouldn't be wandering about like that in his master's house. Mr. Coningsby's eyes passed it as he wondered, and lit on someone whom he vividly remembered. There, her eyes on the ground, a blanket clutched round her—“extraordinary dress!” the astonished and already indignant visitor thought—was the old madwoman they had encountered on their journey down. Oh it was she undoubtedly; the tangled white hair brought that other evening back in full recognition, and the bent form, and the clutching hand holding the blanket round its neck. She was following something; her head was thrust forward and downwards. Mr. Coningsby instinctively leaned sideways and craned to see what it was, and saw, a yard or so in front of her, a kitten. He stared blankly, as the curious train went on—first the kitten, going gently, pausing now and then with a sudden kittenish crouch, then getting up and going on again, its head turning from side to side; and after it the old woman, with that amazing blanket; and after her the young man in the coat three sizes and more too small for him. Mr. Coningsby's flesh crept at the mere sight of them. Why a kitten? Why should even a mad old hag go so softly and carefully after a kitten? Perhaps it was her kitten and she was trying to catch it; she wasn't hurrying it or hurrying after it; if it stopped, she stopped; when it went on, she went on. And so with the third member of the procession, who copied her in all things—moving or staying as she did. It was uncanny; it was rather horrible. His hand still on the door-handle, Mr. Coningsby for a few moments stood gaping after them.

Aaron presumably knew about it—but did he? This wretched woman had seemed to dislike Aaron; supposing he didn't know! It didn't seem very likely he'd let her meander round the house in a blanket after a kitten, nor a young ruffian covered only by a coat that didn't fit him—not anyhow with Nancy and Sybil about. Sybil, it was true, had seemed to get on with them remarkably well, but even so … Suppose Nancy had met them … what on earth would a—for all her faults—ordinary nice young girl do? Suppose the old devil dropped the blanket by accident—or purposely? Mr. Coningsby revolted at the idea—revolted against the whole mad fact. He let go of the handle and said in a surprisingly firm voice, “Hello, there!”

No one took the smallest notice of him. By now he couldn't see the kitten, but the procession was nearing the end of the corridor. At least he ought to see where they went. It was possible that they'd been having baths or something, like himself—no, not like himself. The notion that he and the old woman had shared a bath, that they could have anything at all in common—even the very idea of a bath—was extraordinarily offensive. Besides, why the kitten? The kitten might, from the way it was going, have been a maid showing a visitor to her room, but of course it wasn't. Unless it was a new kind of marionette. If any kitten started to show him to his room——Well, he was going after them, he was going to make quite certain that they didn't run into Nancy. It'd be enough to give her a shock. And he wasn't going to have Sybil kneeling down as if she were in church; she'd been to church once today already. Blessing, indeed! Mr. Coningsby went down the corridor after the others with a firm determination to allow no sort of blessing whatever within any reasonable distance of him while he was alive and sane. Except, of course, in a church.

They were outside the door of Aaron's study; he heard the kitten mewing at it. Joanna—if that was her name—opened it. Mr. Coningsby called out again, quite loudly this time, “Hello, you there!” But the “you there” took no notice; they were going in. Mr. Coningsby broke into a run and then checked—after all, his host
might
have given Joanna the use of the room. He considered the possibility and rejected it; Aaron had apparently had a quite different view of Joanna. No, there was some hanky-panky about.

An awful thought for a moment occurred to him that she might be merely going to let the kitten out into the garden or somewhere; people did let kittens out into gardens, and a nice fool he'd look if that were so. But surely on a night like this—and anyhow not on the first floor—and not into a study. He became shocked at himself; he was almost vulgar. Very much more angry, he reached the study door.

The others, including the kitten, were inside. As Mr. Coningsby came into the room he heard the mewing again, plaintive and insistent; he saw the little beast on its hind legs against the inner door—not that it was so little; it struck him that it was within an inch or so of being a proper cat, and the noise it was making was much louder than feline infancy produces. Joanna was almost beside it, but she had to go round Aaron's great table while the cat had dashed below it. And a little behind her, just turning the table-corner, was Stephen. Mr. Coningsby remembered that behind that other door were the images of gold. Those were what she was after, of course—gipsies—golden statues—theft. He said loudly, “Now then, now then, what are you doing there?”

She stopped, for this time she heard him, and looked over at him. Her eyes blinked at him from the tanned wrinkled old face under the matted hair, over the blanket fastened together (he now saw) by a strap round her. She said, “Keep away; you're too late.”

“I fancy you'll find I'm just in time,” Mr. Coningsby answered, and walked into the room, going round the table on the opposite side to Stephen. “Does Mr. Lee know you're here?”

She chuckled unpleasantly, then nodded at him. “He'll know,” she said, “he'll soon know. Wait till I bring him out.”

“Out?” Mr. Coningsby said. “What do you mean—out?”

She pointed to the door, and her voice sank to a whisper as she said, “What he has
there.
”

“What he has there,” Mr. Coningsby said, “is his business. I thought that was what you were after, and it's a good thing for you I happened to be about. I suppose you were going to rob him? Well, you won't this time. Now you get away, and take your damned kitten with you—if it is yours.”

She clutched the handle of the door and began to speak, but Mr. Coningsby, in the full tide of satisfaction, swept on.

“Leave go of that door. Come on; we'll go downstairs together. A nice piece of work, upon my word! You ought to know better, at your age.”

The cat yowled at the door. Joanna glowered, and then said, “You—
you'll
stop me finding my baby?”

“Your what?” Mr. Coningsby exclaimed. “Oh don't be silly; there's no baby there. There's only a set of marionettes—pretty things, but nothing like a baby. And don't you try and put me off with that kind of talk. Get you away.”

“Ah! ah!” the old creature cried out with extraordinary force, “you're one of them, you're one of the sons of Set.”

The cat yowled louder than ever. For a moment Mr. Coningsby felt strangely alone, as the sound went through the room, and he heard and saw the claws tearing at the door. He thought of that continuous movement behind it; he saw the straining beast and the snarling woman; he saw the dull face of the idiot behind her; he heard the noise of the storm without—and he wished very much that someone else was by his side. There was something wrong about the images, the house, the very wind; cat and storm howled together, and the old woman suddenly shrieked, “He's over you, he's over you. Get away before he strikes. All his enemies are close to death. The cats are up; the god's coming.”

“Nothing is over me,” Mr. Coningsby said in a voice that became high and shrill in spite of himself. “Leave that door alone.”

“It isn't you that'll stop it,” she screeched back, “nor a million like you. They'll take you and cut you in a thousand pieces; they'll embalm you alive in the pyramids of hell; they'll drown you among the crocodiles that are tearing your father; they'll flay you with the burning knives of Anubis, and your heart shall be eaten in the place of justice.” She moved towards the door and turned the handle. Mr. Coningsby was on her in a moment, pressing it shut, and incidentally kicking the cat away. As he jumped he almost wished that he'd left her alone; it was all horrible, and he loathed the old voice screaming curses at him. It was of course absolute nonsense, but some minute atom of his mind dragged on the words “embalmed alive.” Embalmed alive—he of all people!

“No, you don't!” he said. “Leave that door alone. Ah! ow!”

The cat had leaped back at him and was madly clawing at his legs. Mr. Coningsby kicked at it and missed. It hung on to his trousers, then it fell off and flung itself at his ankles. It was in a state of raging lunacy, almost as wild as Joanna, who dropped the blanket so that it fell back from her shoulders and herself clutched at him with clawing fingers. Mr. Coningsby avoided her, kicked again at the cat, and desperately held on to the door. But he was suddenly torn from it. Joanna, as she clawed at his throat, had shrieked out a call to her companion, and Stephen, leaping past her, caught Coningsby round the waist, and with a great heave wrenched him away from the door and held him high in the air. Head and feet downwards, he hung, jerking kicking, choking out anathemas.

“What shall I do with him, grandmother?” Stephen said. “Shall I throw him out into the storm?”

The old woman turned her eyes to the window, but, alert in hatred, saw that it was too small; to push a struggling full-sized body through it would not easily be done even by Stephen. “Throw him there,” she said, pointing across the room, and at once Stephen obeyed. Mr. Coningsby was sent hurtling through the air into the extreme corner of the room, where he hit the walls first and then crashed to the floor. By mere chance his head escaped; he fell bruised, shocked, and dazed, but still in some sort of consciousness. For one fratricidal second fear and pride warred in his heart, and pride won. He lay for some minutes where he had been flung, till rage so bubbled in him that he began painfully to wriggle over, obstinately determined to see what those creatures were doing. He could not see, for the inner door was open and they had disappeared. They were busy then—he had been right—about the golden images; robbery—robbery with violence. A long, long, long sentence for Stephen, and Joanna—Mr. Coningsby's professional knowledge supplied him with a clear view of Joanna's future. But that couldn't happen if they got away, and unless he did something they might get away. He was too confused by his fall to think of the extreme unlikelihood of Joanna's going out into the storm clothed only in a blanket and carrying in a fold of it a collection of little golden figures; had he thought of it he would have believed Joanna capable of it, and perhaps he would have been right. For when she stood on the threshold of that inner room and peered into the cloud that filled it, when she beheld the rich mystery that enveloped the symbols of our origins, she had cried out once upon the name of the god, and from that moment she lost touch with the actualities of this world. She pressed on. Stephen, behind her, made violent movements and noises as if to hold her back, but over her shoulder she turned on him a face of such destructive malignity that he shrank back and crouched defensively down by the door, only whispering from there, “Don't go, don't go.”

All this was hidden from Mr. Coningsby, who, with a growing determination to stop it, was getting, slowly and gruntingly, to his feet. “Fortunate,” he thought as he did so, “fortunate I brought my other glasses with me! Losing one pair in the storm—shouldn't have seen anything of this—didn't someone say Ralph had called? Get hold of Ralph—not always thoughtful—couldn't stand seeing his father thrown about the room, like a … like a
quoit
. Just as well he didn't see—soon settle this nonsense. Ugh! What's that?”

As he came finally to his feet and adjusted the extra pair of glasses, the gold chain of which had kept them attached if not in position, he saw the first wraiths of mist faintly exuding from the inner room. “What the devil is it?” he thought, staring. “'Tisn't snow; 'tisn't smoke … or is it? Has that infernal old woman set the place on fire?” He went forward a little, keeping the big table between himself and the other door, just in case Joanna and Stephen dashed out at him again, and then he saw the whole doorway filling with it. He had an impression that there were a great many people before his eyes, a crowd of them, just there in the doorway, but that could hardly be so, unless of course other wanderers had taken refuge in this house from the storm, but then they wouldn't be here, they'd be in the kitchen or somewhere. It wasn't people; it was mist or smoke or something. He remembered suddenly that such a faint vapor had seemed to enwrap Nancy and the table when she had her fortune told, but he hadn't taken much notice, because he had then been, as ostentatiously as possible, looking another way. If the old woman was asking about
her
fortune, Mr. Coningsby felt he could tell exactly what it would be, only she wasn't there to be told. Nothing was there but the cloud and … again … an indefinable sensation of lots of people, all moving and turning.