The Feast (21 page)

‘S’awful!’ said Fred again.

‘I’d better go myself,’ decided Miss Ellis, with some satisfaction. ‘Since nobody else seems to have thought of the poor thing.’

She solemnly mounted the stairs and Fred went to the kitchen, where all the Coves and Evangeline were drinking hot tea. He took a cup himself and felt no qualms at having described them as bodies. When he had seen them in the boat they had looked like bodies.

Nancibel took the Coves upstairs to bed as soon as they had had a hot drink. But Evangeline stayed in the kitchen with Gerry and Bruce to dispense tea to anyone who came. Mrs. Siddal, Sir Henry, Caroline, and all the boys appeared, and they lingered for a while, drinking and chattering in the idle mood which succeeds tension. Caroline was questioned more closely about the Covenant of Spartans and her embarrassed reticence intensified the general impression that Hebe had been bullying the other children in a most reprehensible way.

‘But it’s a secret society,’ she protested. ‘We promised we’d never give away its secrets. I wouldn’t have told to-day if I hadn’t thought it was too dangerous.’

‘Hebe made us promise,’ said Luke. ‘We all hated having to be Spartans, but Hebe made us do it.’

And Michael obliged the company with the most horrifying details.

‘I think you’re both very unloyal,’ said Caroline hotly. ‘You enjoyed a great deal of it. You both begged Hebe to let you be Spartans when she started it.’

‘But why do you let her boss you all like that?’ asked Robin. ‘You’re three to one.’

Sir Henry said despondently that Hebe should be reprimanded. His wife would … But he was
interrupted
by Mrs. Siddal, who said sharply that Lady Gifford and Mrs. Cove were apparently the only people in the house who had, so far, suffered no alarm whatever. Where were they, and why were they not looking after their own children?

‘My wife is upstairs,’ he said. ‘She’s having her afternoon rest. I’d better go up and tell her.’

He hurried up and knocked at Eirene’s door. A harsh, unexpected voice told him to come in. He did so and was confronted by Mrs. Cove, who told him grimly that his wife had fainted.

‘She’s heard, then?’ he said, looking at Eirene, who lay senseless upon the bed.

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Mrs. Cove. ‘I rang the bell repeatedly, but nobody came. I dashed water in her face.’

He went to get brandy from the flask in Eirene’s
dressing-case
. Mrs. Cove had certainly dashed water. She must have dashed a whole jugful, for when he tried to
administer
the brandy he found the bed was soaked.

‘How long has she been like this?’ he asked.

‘I really don’t know. She was like this when I got here. I was just coming in from my walk when that stupid housekeeper called over the bannisters, shouting for help, so I came up. She told me … what has happened, but beyond that she wasn’t the slightest use, so I sent her off to get someone. I’ve been here ever since. I didn’t like to leave your wife, but I think
somebody
should have come.’

‘I’m very sorry. It must have been the shock. Could you hold her up a little?’

Mrs. Cove roughly jerked Eirene up while he gave her the brandy, and then let her fall back again. A faint flush lit up in the ashy cheeks.

‘It’s a good thing I’m not given to fainting,’ muttered Mrs. Cove.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he agreed. ‘It must have been quite a shock for you too.’

‘Quite a shock?’ she repeated, staring at him.

There was in her gaze such a strange mixture of alarm, suspicion and defiance that he was puzzled. She plainly thought that he had meant to insult her. He remembered the taxi ride and realized that she might be vulnerable to an accusation of callousness.

‘An awful shock,’ he amended. ‘But they’re really quite all right, you know. Blanche and Beatrix are still a bit shaky, but Hebe and Maud don’t seem to be a penny the worse.’

‘
What?
’

Her expression changed. It dissolved into blank astonishment.

‘Then they’re not … they’re not …’ she whispered.

‘Didn’t Miss Ellis tell you that? What did she say?’

She did not answer. She dropped her eyes and a slow crimson spread all over her square, pale face, up to the roots of her hair.

‘What did she tell you?’ he repeated.

‘She said they were’ drowned,’ muttered Mrs. Cove in a thick voice. ‘All four of them.’

‘Drowned? Good God? No wonder Eirene fainted!’

He seized his wife’s hands and began to call to her eagerly:

‘Eirene! Eirene! It’s all right, darling! It’s all right! Hebe is quite all right. They’re all safe….’

The long eyelashes fluttered and Eirene moaned faintly.

‘It was all a mistake. Hebe is safe. She’s safe, darling. I’ll bring her to you….’

He ran to the door and told Fred, who who as listening outside, to find Hebe and send her up. Then he returned to the bed.

‘Oh, Harry …’

‘I know, darling. I know. But it’s quite all right.
She’s safe. Young Siddal saved them. He had a boat out there….’

‘They said she was … oh …’

‘Oh, my poor darling! My poor, poor darling!’

‘And what about me?’

Mrs. Cove’s voice was not loud, but it broke on them like a scream.

‘Hebe is only one child, and not your own either. I was told that all mine were lost. Where are they?’

‘They’re in their beds. Nancibel is seeing to them. Yes, darling … Hebe is coming….’

Mrs. Cove went towards the door. But her rage was too much for her. She turned, came to the foot of the bed, and addressed Lady Gifford.

‘Stop that whimpering, you silly creature. You’ve nothing to cry for.’

Astonishment silenced Eirene. She stared at Mrs. Cove, who went on:

‘There’s nothing in the world the matter with you except over-eating and no exercise. If you’d been left as I was, a penniless widow, with three children to fend for, you’d be as strong as a horse. You’d have to be. You wouldn’t be able to afford these fainting fits.’

‘You know nothing about it,’ cried Eirene, finding her tongue. ‘I happen to love Hebe. You don’t love your children so, of course, it wasn’t such a shock to you.’

‘Why do you suggest I don’t love my children?’

‘Anybody can see you don’t. You neglect them. You sell their sweets.’

‘Which you aren’t ashamed to eat.’

There was a tap at the door and Hebe looked in, half frightened, half impish.

‘Fred sent me up,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter? Am I wanted?’

‘No,’ said Sir Henry, crossing the room, ‘you aren’t. Go to bed.’

He pushed her out and slammed the door. Neither lady had noticed her brief appearance. They were too
deeply absorbed in their battle, each intent upon an utter condemnation of the other. But neither listened much to what the other said.

Beatrix and Maud were asleep. Blanche lay awake, staring at the sunset hues on the ceiling. Their mother had gone down to dinner. She was very angry but she had not whipped them because they were still unwell. They were, however, to be punished. They were never to play with any of the Giffords again.

But it was not this woe which kept Blanche awake after her sisters had sobbed themselves into a doze. It was something much more dreadful—a discovery so terrifying that, for the first time in her life, she felt no impulse to share it with the others.

Mrs.
Pearce’s
little
carving
was
locked
up
in
the
suitcase
under
the
bed.

Not many of their possessions were left in the
wardrobe
or the chest of drawers for fear that Nancibel or Fred or Miss Ellis might be thieves. As much as possible was kept locked up in the suitcases, the keys of which lived in Mrs. Cove’s handbag. Just before supper she had pulled this particular suitcase out and unlocked it, in order to find a pair of stockings. Maud was suddenly sick again, so that it had been left on the floor with all its contents displayed, while Mrs. Cove jumped up to fetch a basin. Blanche, peering over the edge of her bed, had caught a glimpse of the little carving, where it lay in a tumble of handkerchiefs and gloves. She recognized it at once.

She said nothing, but she was profoundly shocked.

She did not love her mother. None of them did, nor had it ever occurred to them that they ought to do so.
She had never asked for their affection. But neither did they criticize or rebel against her. She pervaded and ruled their lives like some unpropitious climate, and they accepted her rule as inevitable, evading its harshness by instinct rather than by reason. For she only dominated their outward and material existences; over their minds she had no sway. She never invaded their imaginations or attempted to impart to them any ideas. The very aridity of her character had been their salvation. Nothing of importance had ever been said to them in their mother’s voice, and many characters in their favourite books were more real to them than she was. They seldom thought about her.

But Blanche was thinking now. At the sight of that dark little lump among the handkerchiefs a sudden illumination had come to her. For she had already decided that the person who bought Mrs. Pearce’s carving must be very cruel and wicked.

Her thoughts were oppressed by a frightening sense of solitude. She felt as though she had been transported to some strange desert where she was completely lost. In the past she had always shared any new idea with her sisters. She hardly knew how to make any decision quite alone. Yet she flinched from the thought of telling them, or of putting her discovery into words.

Footsteps came softly along the passage and Nancibel looked in. She had stayed over time that evening until supper was served in order to oblige Mrs. Siddal, for the household was still disorganized.

Catching the watchful sparkle of Blanche’s eyes she came on tiptoe and knelt by the bed.

‘All right, ducks?’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ breathed Blanche.

‘Thought I’d just look in before I went home. You don’t look too grand, I must say. What is it, dear?’

She leant over and saw traces of tears on Blanche’s cheeks.

‘I’m frightened.’

‘I don’t wonder. We’ve all been frightened. But you’d better forget all about it now. Only you mustn’t be so silly another time.’

‘We’ll try not to. But we’re rather … queer
children
, aren’t we?’

Nancibel was taken aback.

‘I don’t know,’ she hedged. ‘Why do you think so?’

‘Our family is queer, don’t you think?’ whispered Blanche. ‘We have no friends. We don’t know any people. We don’t live like other people, do we?’

She gave Nancibel a straight, enquiring look, and Nancibel blushed.

‘Listen, Blanche! I’ve been thinking. I believe you could give that feast. I could get you some lobsters and cream and sweets if you like.’

‘Oh, Nancibel! How good you are! But it’s no use. We mayn’t play with the Giffords any more, so we couldn’t ask them.’

‘Well, then, ask somebody else. Ask me. I’ll come.’

‘And Angie and Gerry Siddal … all the Siddals. We could ask them. They’re so kind. And the chauffeur and Mrs. Paley … and Fred….’

‘That’s right,’ said Nancibel, laughing. ‘Ask the whole hotel, I would.’

Blanche glowed with pleasure.

‘The Giffords would have to come if we asked the whole hotel, wouldn’t they?’

‘You’d need a lot of lobsters, duckie.’

‘How much do they cost?’

‘You don’t get them for nothing. But you shall have your feast, I promise. Just a nice little feast. Now give me a kiss and go to sleep, and you’ll feel quite well
tomorrow
.’

Blanche flung her skinny arms round Nancibel and hugged her.

‘I wish you were our sister, Nancibel!’

‘Do you?’

‘I expect you have lovely times at your home.’ 

‘We have good times and bad times,’ said Nancibel, smiling. ‘Everybody has. Your good times are all coming.’

‘Are they? How do you know?’

‘The cat told me.’

‘What cat?’ cried Blanche, astonished. ‘Hebe’s cat?’

‘No. My great-grandmother’s cat.
Now
what’s the matter?’

For Blanche, reminded of old Mrs. Pearce, had looked woebegone.

‘Mrs. Pearce’s cat?’

‘No, no. It’s just a saying … what people say. It doesn’t mean anything. It means I’ve a sort of guess.’

She lingered for a while, wondering what had upset the child again, but Blanche would say no more; and at last she went off to climb the hill and tell the tale of the day’s adventure to her family at supper.

If she knew, thought Blanche, if she knew what’s in our suitcase! Mother will sell it to get a lot of money. She needs money because she is so poor. But Nancibel is poor and she is going to give us a feast. And Mrs. Pearce is poor, poorer than anybody.

The light faded and the noise of the sea grew fainter as the tide went out. At the last low tide she had been on the sands with her sisters, making their little castle. And she remembered how suddenly Sir Henry had
appeared
with a warning about old Mrs. Pearce. She fell into her usual habit of narrating the incident to herself as though it had been in a book.

And, all unknowing, footsteps were approaching across the sand, dear reader, the footsteps of the one who was to give us a warning. Give them a warning. Because the three sisters had been so intent upon their castle that they did not hear the rapid approach of the … of the baronet … until they were startled by his voice
speaking
in a fashionable drawl.
Beautiful.
French,
is
it
not
?
For he was a man of great culture and good taste, and
the
Tres
Riches
Heures
was a household word in his mouth. But after paying some florid compliments, he revealed the true purpose of his … his … his errand to that lonely spot. It was to give a warning.
Do
not,
he
whispered
,
breathe
a
word
about
Mrs,
Pearce’s
treasures.
There
are
some
very
Wicked
people
in
the
world.
We thought he meant robbers. They thought he meant robbers.