is
your girl: she’s arrived.”
At once, a voice let out a triumphant “
Ah
!” A female form came
gliding into the hall, and both Phyllida’s hands were seized in a
clawlike grip. “I told them you wouldn’t fail us!” cried Mrs.
Throcksby.
“I missed my train, I – ”
“Oh, never mind, never mind, dear!” cut in her hostess, peering at
her intently. “The important thing is that
here
you are, just in time!”
She divested Phyllida of her overcoat, and removed her gloves and
even her bag from her, with the air of making quite certain she
should now remain. “Now,” she said, “come along, come along.”
In the drawing-room into which Phyllida was propelled, three
more people sat, tensely, round the smouldering fire. The atmos
phere was so charged with expectation that the girl almost turned
and ran out again – for why
should
such importance attach itself to
the late arrival of a young, unknown, quite insignificant Christmas
guest? An inscrutable, aged gentleman in a wheeled chair continued
to sit like an image, but darted a snake-like look: Mrs. Throcksby
introduced him as her Uncle Ben. A very thin, long-faced lady,
knitting away beside him, proved to be Miss Battiter – the cultured
companion referred to in Mrs. Throcksby’s letter.
4
Miss Battiter
swiftly eyed Phyllida, up and down, gave a slight nod, exchanged a
glance with her patron, but said nothing. A nice-looking fair young
man – till now engaged in frowning down at the carpet, whistling
soundlessly – shot up, when Phyllida entered, to his full height and
stood staring towards her. Admiration, quick interest, but something
more – one might have said, foreboding – were in his eyes: he
appeared to be trying to signal an urgent warning.
“And that,” explained Mrs. Throcksby, indicating the youth, “is
my great-nephew, Felix – Why, wake up, Felix: shake hands! Where
are your wits?” Felix held out his right hand, awkwardly. “And my
other nephew, Claud,” the hostess went on, “you’ve already met: he
welcomed you at our door. – Come, Claud, dear, come and sit down
again.” Claud took his place, morosely, in the family circle. He
looked like a clever, crossgrained, middle-aged schoolboy – one
with something dire upon his mind.
5
Phyllida wondered whatever
made Claud so hostile.
6
It struck her, too, that ever since she had entered, no one but
Mrs. Throcksby had uttered a single word. Tongue-tied herself, she
sat and looked round the drawing-room – which was enlarged by
cavernous tarnished mirrors around its walls, and lit by lamps whose
reflections bleakly faded away. Against the mirrors, on tables, stood
transparent cases of stuffed night-birds, some posed with beaks
open, others with outstretched wings. A set of ebony chairs, carved
in strange designs, all faced the same way and seemed to stand at
alert: small tables were dotted about between them, and on one of
these stood objects draped in a sheet – possibly, she thought, glanc
ing that way again, those might be some of the presents for to
morrow? So far, she admitted with sinking heart, Ravenswood failed
to resemble Dingley Dell. On the chimneypiece, below a sombre
engraving representing a scene from
Macbeth
, vases held a few sprigs
of berry-less holly – stuck in, she guessed, for her benefit, at the last
moment. This was, however, the room’s sole Christmassy touch.
“Are you looking for anything, dear?” asked Mrs. Throcksby.
“Why, no!” said Phyllida, giving a violent start.
“You’re beginning to feel at home, I hope, already? How pleased
she would be, your poor Aunt Beattie Haughton, to think of you
safe here under my roof at last!” Mrs. Throcksby rapidly licked her
lips, then added, “and after all your adventures. Tell us about them,
do.”
7
A ripple of impatience, at this, seemed to run through the others
– Miss Battiter looked up anxiously at the clock; Uncle Ben let out
a frustrated bleat and began, like a baby, to slap the arms of his
chair. Mrs. Throcksby quelled them all with a glance. “Plenty of
time,” she told them. “Pussy hasn’t been found yet. – Go on, dear,
about your dreadful journey.” Phyllida, turning to face her hostess,
began her tale of lost trains and confused arrival, but, somehow,
made little headway with it – she was put off by something avid in
those glittering eyes. What did they make her think of? – the Wolf
Grandmother. Mrs. Throcksby, draped in blackish-purple, wore her
hair in a frizzed fringe over her bony forehead: her somewhat
peculiar smile darted in and out, overshadowed by a long, beaklike
nose. Though concentrated, overpoweringly, upon Phyllida, she
seemed to be hardly listening to her story, till it came to a certain
point – she then interrupted: “Bus? – Oh, I hope you did not get into
talk with those country people? An inquisitive, ignorant, super
stitious lot! I do hope you did not mention this house?”
“Of course she chattered,” Claud put in. “Girls always do.”
Mrs. Throcksby looked blackly put out: silence once more fell.
Outdoors, in the distance, a villager crossing the fields could be
heard whistling a Christmas carol; elsewhere a late train whistled, a
dog barked. Those sane sounds called straight to Phyllida’s heart –
Oh
to be out of Ravenswood, free again, in the kindly country! How
ever was she to live through this pent-up visit? Instinctively she
turned and looked round for Felix – who, still in that state of
agitation, hovered always not far from her chair. Hunching his
shoulders in his nice tan tweed coat, he kept tensely driving his fists
down into the pockets. Was he, in spite of his refreshingly normal
looks, just one more of those “cases” one heard of? Or, was this love
at first sight,
8
slightly out of control? Nonsense, thought Phyllida
briskly. Nonsense apart, however, she had been about enough to
know that romance did tend to surround her path; or, to put the
matter more modestly, that she was not so bad. She was, in point of
fact, strikingly pretty – sitting buttoned up to the throat in her
cherry-red suit, bright tips of hair curling out from under her beret,
small feet in their fur-lined bootees tucked back under her chair, she
shone like a lamplit flower in this grim drawing-room. She sent a
smile, with just a hint of inquiry, in the direction of Felix. Here – she
hoped – was a friend!
Miss Battiter, at a sign from Mrs. Throcksby, skewered her
knitting, got up and hurried out of the room. Phyllida’s hostess, her
brow clearing with the same alarming suddenness as it had dark
ened, said: “We’ve been keeping a little something warm for you,
dear; we thought you’d need it, after travelling so far. You’ll enjoy it
– one of our special home-made brews.” Phyllida, who had subsisted
since leaving London on nothing but buns and sandwiches out of
paper bags, murmured thanks. “And you, Claud,” his aunt said, “go
out and look again!” Claud also rose, to pad out after Miss Battiter.
The others sat with eyes fixed on the clock – Uncle Ben’s frustrated
excitement became quite painful.
“It’s very kind of you,” Phyllida repeated.
“Not at all: you’ll do well to keep up your strength. This being
Christmas Eve, we all sit up late. In a minute, we are going to play
some games.”
“
Ah
!” squeaked the uncle, showing his toothless gums and
jubilantly rubbing his hands together.
“Games?” echoed Phyllida, faintly. The yawn she smothered ran
away in a shudder all down her spine.
“Yes, indeed. We’ve been only waiting for you.”
“But your nephew, Claud, just now, said you’d given me up.”
“That was only Claud’s fun, dear. He doesn’t care for girls; but, as
I said to him, ‘
This
year, we cannot get on without one.’”
“Cannot get on with what?”
“Why, our games,” explained Mrs. Throcksby, licking her lips.
Claud reappeared, with a black cat under his arm – he dropped
the beast on the hearthrug and said: “Here’s pussy.” The cat, swaying
its bristling tail, turned its head and looked slowly at those around
it with an at once conspiratorial and malignant air. Miss Battiter,
having re-entered on Claud’s heels, meanwhile advanced towards
Phyllida with a large cup and saucer on a small tray.
9
Felix shot
forward, seized the tray from Miss Battiter, swayed in his tracks a
moment, appeared to stumble, dropped it. Of the steaming liquid
soaking into the carpet, no small part had splashed on Phyllida’s
skirt, and objects which must have been floating in the brew lay
around on all sides, among the broken china – one, at least, looked
oddly like a toad’s leg.
Felix, going down on one knee by the arm of Phyllida’s chair,
went through the motions of clearing up the mess – she, at the same
time, leaned forward to mop her skirt. Swiftly, wildly, he whispered
into her ear: “You’re in
danger
!
Must
have a word with you – get out
of here
somehow
!”
She never quite knew, later, how she achieved that hysterical dash
out into the hall – she called out something (she dimly recollected
about looking for water to sponge her best, new suit, and was at and
out of the door before they could stop her. From the hall, she fled
to the exit porch, to be confronted by bolts, bars, chains and turned
keys. Steps could be heard behind her; she moaned with fear – but
it was Felix who stole up and seized her wrist. “
Not
that way,” he
muttered, “not enough time!” and, pulling her with him, made off
down a stone-flagged passage. Through yet another doorway, she
caught a glimpse of a kitchen – ordinary-looking enough but for a
large black cauldron placed on the centre table, with the air of being
in transit to somewhere else. At the end of this passage, lit by a
glowering oil lamp, the way out was also barred and bolted, but
Felix, with Phyllida still in tow, took a sharp turn and began to
mount twisting back-stairs. The boy and girl crept and stumbled. At
the first landing he pulled up, and, cautiously, eased open a stiff sash
window. They crawled out through it on to a flat-topped roof, and
he pushed down the window behind them, silently as before.
Breathless, they sat leaning shoulder to shoulder. Below them,
down in the black-dark courtyard, something rattled its chain; far
above, steep gables, clusters of chimney-stacks took form slowly
against the clotted night sky.
10
Phyllida’s nervous system raced like
a little engine – coatless, she shivered, partly from reaction. Then,
comfort stole in from the warmth of Felix’s frame; and, relaxing,
wholly yielding herself to the sheer and blessed sensation of escape,
she allowed his hand to brush lightly over hers. “Gosh,” he sighed,
“you’ve been wonderful. – Cigarette?”
That, for some reason, unhappily broke the spell: she withdrew
her hand and said sharply: “Well? – What
are
we doing up here?”
“Lying low, till the hue-and-cry has died down.”
“But I can’t say I hear any hue-and-cry.” This was true: nothing
stirred indoors in the house behind them; Ravenswood seemed to be
locked in astounded silence – as it might well be, for how had its
guest behaved? How if her fears in the drawing-room had been
some mad delusion? Mrs. Throcksby’s family party might, after all,
have been nothing more than slightly stiff and eccentric – had she
not heard, at home, that the best English ancient families were like
this? This was, after all, her first visit to such a house; many more
might be like it – how was she to tell?
Oh
, how she had blotted her
copy book – what would they think of Canada? So kindly received
in the drawing-room, so quickly offered refreshment – then, tearing
out on to the roof like a hunted cat! “Cat,” it was true, immediately
brought to mind that ominous animal on the hearthrug; but might
not that be no more than an ancient and honoured pet? Who was
this young man, this Felix, to play such tricks on her nerves?
“If this is your fun,” she said, “I don’t think it’s funny. Cigarette,
indeed! Have we simply come here to smoke?”
“Later,” admitted Felix, “I’d love to kiss you. But I suppose you’re
wanting some explanation first?”
“I wouldn’t mind one,” she said, exceedingly drily. “As I see it
now, you’ve put me in bad with your aunt,
11
after all her kindness
asking me here for Christmas – a stray girl, with no friends in this
country and no other place to go.”
“
That
was what so exactly suited her book. – Who was to know if
you vanished?”
“You’re just setting out to scare me.”
“You were already scared stiff, when you first came in at the door
– and rightly. Didn’t anything warn you?”
“Warn me what of?”
“My aunt has taken up witchcraft.”
She pressed both hands flat on the roof, as though it suddenly
heaved; then heard her own voice dither: “Say that again.”
“You heard me.”
“But – your aunt was a friend of my aunt’s: she
must
be
respectable!”
“Witches frequently are. – What was your own aunt up to, for the
matter of that?”
Phyllida failed to answer: she could but recollect that for years
they’d hear nothing either from or of Aunt Beattie. “Then, the rest
of them?” she asked faintly. “Uncle Ben, Claud, so on?”
“All in the same boiling,” said Felix bitterly. “Uncle Ben’s a
proficient warlock, Claud’s coming along, and Miss Battiter’s under
instruction from Aunt Eugenia. Old Claud, I think, was a bit off his
stroke tonight – he rather funked this new project, involving you, on
the grounds that it could possibly lead to trouble. I’d hate to upset
you, but like to know