Mr. Coningsby had been lying in bed for some time, but he was not asleep. He was restless; his mind was restless. It was all very well, this going to bed, this being put to bed in case he got a bad cold, but — but — he had a continual vision of Sybil before his eyes. Sybil, he had rather dimly gathered, wasn’t in bed, and wasn’t in the least proposing to go: and if she was up, why was he where he was? Of course, it showed a very nice spirit, no more than he would have expected of the old man, who didn’t seem to know anything about Henry’s indescribable fatuous insolence in hoping, in rather more than hoping, even expecting, or something like it, that he should be given a set of cards which were part of the only memory he himself possessed of an old and dear friend, a friendship the value of which a young pigeon-stealer like Henry couldn’t possibly know; gipsies never made friends, or only of their own kind, vagrants and beggars, the kind of person Nancy had never met — though certainly the grandfather seemed different: probably the mother — the daughter — had run away, only the name was identical, so it must have been the father, but then the family would be the same — however, Aaron Lee was a very different kind of creature, and had behaved very properly. Still, though in the first shock of getting back he had allowed himself to be looked after and waited on and almost cosseted — still, the fact remained that after an hour or so of solitude he didn’t like the idea. He wasn’t so old that he couldn’t be out in a snowstorm and laugh at it. He did a kind of mocking laugh at the blizzard swirling about the curtained windows, to which the blizzard responded by making such a frantic attack on the house that Mr. Coningsby unintentionally abandoned his laughter and looked uneasily at the curtains. If the infernal thing broke the glass and burst in, a nice sight he’d look, dancing round the room and trying to get dressed in a hurry. He had a momentary glimpse of himself feeling for a stud on a snowy dressing-table and trying to fix a tie which continually, “torn but flying”, streamed away upon the wind. Really, there was a lot to be said for getting up. Besides, Sybil was up, and Sybil wasn’t a girl any longer, and, though he’d been out in the storm longer than she had, yet he was a man and he had been rather underlining his own active habits, in an only half-conscious comparison of himself with the rest. Aaron, Sybil — he supposed Nancy and Henry were up too — while he was tucked up with a hot-water bottle. A hot-water bottle! That was all that the young thought their parents wanted. “And when,” thought Mr. Coningsby, led on by the metaphor, “when they get into hot water, with their jumpings and their jazzings, and their nigger-minstrels and their night-clubs, who do they go to to get them out? To the old fellow tucked up with the bottle.” Nothing less likely than any appeal in a crisis by Nancy or Ralph to their father could well have been imagined, but that actual division was hidden from him in his view of the sentimental. They were all up — dining probably. No one so far had brought him any dinner: however, perhaps they weren’t dining yet. “I’m a fair-minded man,” Mr. Coningsby thought; “I dare say dinner’s a bit late. So much the better. I shall get up. If my sister can be about, so can I.”
The feeling under the last sentence was, in fact, not so simple as it seemed — and he knew it. There floated in his mind, though he avoided it, a horrible wonder whether in effect he had really saved Sybil quite as much as he thought. Lothair Coningsby was in many things fantastic, but he was not merely stupid. He never insisted on seeing facts wrongly, though he did a busy best to persuade the facts to arrange themselves according to his personal preference. But sometimes a fact refused — Nancy’s arrangement with Henry, Ralph’s determined departure for Christmas — and then there was nothing to do but to condole with himself over it or to look at it and send it away. The afternoon’s experience had been a fact of such a kind. He had meant to be saving Sybil, he had thought he was saving her, he had been very anxious about her, but now, in his warm comfort of repose, he couldn’t help seeing that she had been very active about it all; her voice had been very fresh, and she had . . . she certainly had . . . been gently singing to herself while they waited for the door to open. He himself had not been singing, but then he didn’t generally sing; he believed in opening his mouth at the proper times, and outside a shut door in a howling snowstorm wasn’t one of them. She’d come out to meet him — yes, of course; but which of them — O, good heavens, which of them — had really been thankful for the other’s presence? Perhaps it didn’t matter; perhaps they’d both been thankful? Reciprocal help. Sybil rather believed in reciprocity, so that all was right. So did he, only, in the way the world went, he always seemed having to be more reciprocal than anybody else. But this afternoon?
This was becoming intolerable. The wind banged at the window again and startled him into decision. He would get up. It was Christmas Day — by heaven, so it was! He had never spent Christmas evening in bed. He always took a good-natured part in any fun that there was. Fun perhaps was too much to expect in this house, but there’d be talk, no doubt, and perhaps — Aaron had hinted as much — a rather unusual wine; perhaps a little music or what not. Anyhow, what not or no what not, he wasn’t going to lie here like an abandoned log while the other logs were . . . well, were downstairs. Sybil should see that if she had helped him, it was only momentary: and if he’d helped her, then it was silly for her to be up and him not. And then, if the storm did burst his window, he’d be able to move to another room more easily. So any way and every way it was better to get up. Especially as everyone seemed to have forgotten him: his host, Henry, Nancy, Sybil — everyone. Well, he would go down: he wouldn’t complain, but if anyone expressed surprise he might just say a word —“O, well, lying by oneself —”; “Unless one’s really ill, one likes to see something of people —”; perhaps, even better, “I thought I’d rather be among you,” with just the faintest stress on the “among you”— not enough for them to treat him as an invalid, but just enough to cause a flicker of regret in Sybil’s and perhaps Aaron’s heart; he didn’t much expect to cause even a flicker in Nancy’s, and he rather hoped that Henry would be a little annoyed.
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 favour 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; 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. O, 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, “Hallo, 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, 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, “Hallo, 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 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’ll stop me finding my baby?”
“Your what?” Mr. Coningsby exclaimed. “O, 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 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. “Let 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 turned 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 the door alone. Ah! ow!”
The cat had leapt 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............