Honeycomb · Chapter 1 (2/2)

“I tell you all about it, all, all⁠ ⁠…” intoned Mrs. Corrie provisionally, whilst the maid handed the tiny ready-cut saddle of lamb. “Spinnich? Ah, nicey spinnich; you can leave us that, Stokes.⁠ ⁠… Oh, you must have Burgundy⁠—spin-spin and Burgundy; awful good; a thimble-full, half a glass; that’s right.”

The clear dry hock had leapt to Miriam’s brain and opened her eyes, the Burgundy spread through her limbs, a warm silky tide. The green flavour of the spinach, tasting of earth, and yet as smooth as cream intoxicated her. Surely nothing could so delicately build up your strength as these small stubby slices of meat so tender that it seemed to crumble under your teeth.⁠ ⁠… “It’s an awful thing. It whirls about and writes with a pencil. Writes. All sorts of things,” said Mrs. Corrie, with a little frightened laugh. “Really. No nonsense. Names. Anythin’. Whatever you’re thinkin’ about. It’s uncanny, I can tell you.”

“It sounds most extraordinary,” said Miriam, with a firm touch of scepticism.

“You wait. Oh⁠—you wait,” sang Mrs. Corrie in a whisper. “I shall find out, I shall find out, if you’re not careful, I shall find out his name.”

Miriam blushed violently. “Ah-ha,” beamed Mrs. Corrie in a soft high monotone. “I shall find out. We’ll have such fun.”

“Do you believe in it?” said Miriam, half irritably.

“You wait⁠—you wait⁠—you wait, young lady. Mélie’ll be here on Friday day.”

The rich caramel, the nuts and dessert, Mrs. Corrie’s approval of her refusal of port wine with her nuts, the curious, half-drowsy chill which fell upon the table, darkening and sharpening everything in the room as the broken brown nutshells increased upon their trellis-edged plates were under the spell of the strange woman. Mrs. Corrie kept on talking about her; Mélie⁠—born in Devonshire, seeing fairies, having second sight, being seen one day staring into space by a sportsman, a fisherman, a sort of poet, who married her and brought her to London. Did Mrs. Corrie really believe that she knew everything? “I believe she’s a changeling,” laughed Mrs. Corrie at last⁠—“oh, it’s cold. Chum-long, let’s go.”

“We can’t go into my little room,” said Mrs. Corrie, turning to Miriam with a little excited catch in her voice, as the bead curtain rattled gently into place behind them. “It’s bein’ redone.” Just ahead of them, beyond a mystery of palms to right and left, a door opened upon warm brilliance. Miriam heard the busy tranquil flickering of a fire. “I see,” she said eagerly. “Why does she explain?” she wondered, as they passed into the large clear room. How light it was, fairyland, light and fragrant and very warm. The light was high; creamy bulbs, high up, and creamy colour everywhere, cream and gold stripes, stripy chairs of every shape, some of them with twisted gilt legs, curious oval pictures in soft halftones, women in hats, strange groups, all tilted forward like mirrors.

“Ooogh⁠—barracky, ain’t it? I hate empty droin’-rooms,” said Mrs. Corrie, sweeping swiftly about, pushing up great striped easy chairs towards the fire. Miriam stood in a dream, watching the little pale hands in the clear light, dead white fingers, rings, twinkling green and sea blue, and the thin cruel flash of tiny diamonds⁠ ⁠… harpy hands⁠ ⁠… dreadful and clever⁠ ⁠… one of the hands came upon her own and compelled her to drop into a large cushioned chair.

“Like him black?” came the gay voice. Coffee cups tinkled on a little low table near Mrs. Corrie’s chair. “I’m glad you’re tall. Kummel?”

“She doesn’t know German pronunciation,” thought Miriam complacently.

“I suppose I am,” she said, accepting a transparent little cup and refusing the liqueur. Those strange eyes were blue with dark rings round the iris and there were fine deep wrinkles about the mouth and chin. She looked so picturesque sitting there, like something by an “old master,” but worn and tired. Why was she so happy⁠—if she thought so many things were deadly awful.⁠ ⁠…

“How’s Gabbie Anstruther?”

“Oh⁠—you see⁠—I don’t know Mrs. Anstruther. They are patients of my future brother-in-law. It was all arranged by letter.”

“About your comin’ here, you mean. I say⁠—you’ll never get engaged, will you? Promise?”

Miriam got up out of her deep chair and stood with her elbow on the low mantel staring into the fire. She heard phrases from Mrs. Anstruther’s letter to Bennett as if they were being spoken by a tiresome grave voice. “She doats upon her children. What she really wants is someone to control her; read Shakespeare to her and get her into the air.” Mrs. Corrie did not want Shakespeare. That was quite clear. And it was quite clear that she wanted a plain dull woman she could count on; always there, in a black dress. She doted. Someone else, working for her, in her pay, would look after the children and do the hard work.

“The kiddies were ’riffickly ’cited. Wanted to stay up. I hope you’re strict, very strict, eh?”

“I believe I’m supposed to understand discipline,” said Miriam stiffly, gazing with weary eyes at the bars of the grate.

“We were in an awful fix before we heard about you. Poor old Bunnikin breakin’ down. She adored them⁠—they’re angels. But she hadn’t the tiniest bit of a hold over them. Used to cry when they were naughty. You know. Poor old kiddies. Want them to be awfully clever. Work like a house afire. I know you’re clever. P’raps you won’t stay with my little heathens. Do try and stay. I can see you’ve got just what they want. Strong-minded, eh? I’m an imbecile. So was poor old Bunnikin. D’you like kiddies?”

“Oh, I’m very fond of children,” said Miriam despairingly. She stared at the familiar bars. They were the bars of the old breakfast-room grate at home, and the schoolroom bars at Banbury Park. There they were again hard and black in the hard black grate in the midst of all this light and warmth and fragrance. Nothing had really changed. Black and hard. Someone’s grate. She was alone again. Mrs. Corrie would soon find out. “I think children are so interesting,” she said conversationally, struck by a feeling of originality in the remark. Perhaps children were interesting. Perhaps she would manage to find the children interesting. She glanced round at Mrs. Corrie. Her squarish white face was worn. Her eyes and neck looked as though all the life and youth had been washed away from them by some long sorrow. Her smile was startling⁠ ⁠… absolute confidence and admiration⁠ ⁠… like mother. But she would find out if one were not really interested.

That night Miriam roamed about her room from one to another of the faintly patterned blue hangings. Again and again she faced each one of them. For long she contemplated the drapery of the window space, the strange forest-like confusion made in the faint pattern of tiny leaves and flowers by the many soft folds, and turned from it for a distant view of the draperies of the bed and the French wardrobe. Sitting down by the fire at last she had them all in her mind’s eye. She was going to be with them all night. If she stayed with them long enough she would wake one day with red bronze hair and a pale face and thin white hands. And by that time life would be all strange draperies and strange inspiring food and mocking laughing people who floated about hiding a great secret and servants who were in the plot, admiring and serving it and despising as much as anybody the vulgar things outside.

Her black dress mocked at these thoughts and she looked about for her luggage. Finding the Saratoga trunk behind the draperies of the French wardrobe she extracted her striped flannelette dressing-gown and presently sat down again with loosened hair. Entrenched in her familiar old dressing-gown, she felt more completely the power of her surroundings. Whatever should happen in this strange house she had sat for one evening in possession of this room. It was added forever to the other things. And this one evening was more real than all the fifteen months at Banbury Park. It was so far away from everything, trams and people and noise⁠—it was in the centre of beautiful exciting life; perfectly still and secure. Creeping to the window she held back the silk-corded rim of a curtain⁠—a deep window-seat, a row of oblong lattices with leaded diamond panes. One of the windows was hasped a few inches open. No sound came in⁠ ⁠… soft moist air and the smell of trees. Nothing but woods all round, everywhere.

The next morning a housemaid tapped at Miriam’s door half an hour after she had called her to say that her breakfast was laid in the schoolroom. Going out on to the landing she discovered the room by a curious rank odour coming towards her through a half-opened door. Pushing open the door she found a large clear room, barely furnished, carpeted with linoleum and cold in the morning light pouring through an undraped window. In the grate smoked a half-ignited fire and one corner of the hearthrug caught by a foot lay turned back. Across one end of the baize-covered table a cloth was laid, and on it stood a small crowded tray: a little teapot, no cosy, some rather thick slices of bread and butter, a small dish of marmalade, a small plate and cup and saucer piled together, and a larger plate on which lay an unfamiliar fish, dark brown, curiously dried and twisted and giving out a strong salt smoky odour. Miriam sat uncomfortably on the edge of a cane chair getting through her bread and butter and tea and one mouthful of the strong dry fish, feeling, with the door still standing wide, like a traveller snatching a hasty meal at a buffet. She tried to collect her thoughts on education. Little querulous excited sounds came to her from across the wide landing. Presently there came the swift flountering of a print dress across the landing and Wiggerson, long and willowy and capless with a cold red nose and large red hands, her thin small head looking very young with its revealed bunch of untidy hair, appeared in the schoolroom doorway with an unconscious smile hesitating on her pale lips and in her pale blue eyes. “It isn’t very comfortable for you,” she said in a hurried voice. “I say, my word”; she went to the chilly grate and bent down for the poker. Miriam glanced at the solicitous droop of her long figure. “Stokes hasn’t half laid it,” went on Wiggerson; “if I were you I should have breakfast in my room. They all do, except Mr. Corrie when he’s at home. The other young lady was daily; she didn’t stop. I should, if I were you,” she finished, getting lightly to her feet. She stood between the door and the fireplace, half turned away, and gazing into space with her pale strong eyes, every line in her long pure unconscious figure waiting for Miriam’s response.

“Do you like me, Wiggerson?” said Miriam within, “you’ll have toothache and neuralgia with that thin head. You’re devoted to your relations. You’ve got a tiresome sickly old mother. You’ll never know you’re a servant.⁠ ⁠…” “I think perhaps I will,” she drawled, clearing her throat.

“All right,” said Wiggerson, with a lit face. “I’ll tell them.”