Honeycomb

When Miriam got out of the train into the darkness she knew that there were woods all about her. The moist air was rich with the smell of trees⁠—wet bark and branches⁠—moss and lichen, damp dead leaves. She stood on the dark platform snuffing the rich air. It was the end of her journey. Anything that might follow would be unreal compared to that moment. Little bulbs of yellow light further up the platform told her where she must turn to find the things she must go to meet. “How lovely the air is here.”⁠ ⁠… The phrase repeated itself again and again, going with her up the platform towards the group of lights. It was all she could summon to meet the new situation. It satisfied her; it made her happy. It was enough; but no one would think it was enough.

But the house was two miles off. She was safe for the present. Throughout the journey from London the two-mile drive from the station had stood between her and the house.

As the footman opened the door of the brougham, a door far back in the dim porch was flung back, letting out a flood of light, and the swift figure of a parlourmaid who seized Miriam’s Gladstone bag and the silver-mounted Banbury Park umbrella and led the way across the porch into the soft golden blaze. The Saratoga trunk had gone away with the brougham, and in a moment the door was closed and Miriam was standing, frightened and alone, in a firelit, lamplit, thickly carpeted enclosure within sound of a thin chalky voice saying “Ello, ello.” It seemed to come from above her. “Ello⁠—ello⁠—ello⁠—ello,” it said busily, hurrying about somewhere above as she gazed about the terrifying hall. It was somehow like the box office of a large theatre, only much better; the lamplight, there seemed to be several lamps shaded with low-hanging old gold silk, and the rosy light from the huge clear fire in a deep grate fell upon a thick pale greeny yellow carpet, the little settees with their huge cushions, and the strange-looking pictures set low on dull gold walls. In two directions the hall went dimly away towards low archways screened by silently hanging bead curtains. “Ello⁠—ello⁠—ello⁠—ello,” said the voice coming quickly downstairs. Half raising her eyes Miriam saw a pale turquoise blue silk dress, long and slender with deep frills of black chiffon round the

“Mélie’s coming on Friday.”

The parlourmaid set before Miriam a small shapely fish, with scales like mother-of-pearl and pink fins, lying in a curl of paper. “Red mullet,” she exclaimed to herself; “how on earth do I know that it’s red mullet? And those are olives, of course.” Mrs. Corrie was humming to herself about Mélie as the fork in her thin little fingers plucked fitfully at the papered fish. “Do you know planchette?” she asked, in a faint singsong, turning with a little bold pounce to the saltcellar close at Miriam’s left hand. “Oh-h-h” said Miriam intelligently.⁠ ⁠… “Planchette⁠ ⁠… Planchette⁠ ⁠… Cloches de Corneville. Planquette. Is planchette a part of all this?⁠ ⁠… Planchette, a French dressmaker, perhaps.” She turned fully round to Mrs. Corrie and waited, smiling sympathetically. “It’s deadly uncanny,” Mrs. Corrie went on, “I can tell you. Deadly.” Her delicate voice stopped fearfully and she glanced at Miriam with a laugh. “I don’t believe I know what it is,” said Miriam, sniffing in the scent of the mimosa and savouring the delicate flavour of the fish. These things would go on after planchette was disposed of, she thought, and took a sip of hock.

“It’s deadly. I hope Mélie’ll bring one. She’s a fairy; real Devonshire fairy. She’ll make it work. We’ll have such fun.”

“What is it?” said Miriam a little uneasily.⁠ ⁠… A fairy and a planchette and fun⁠—silly laughter, some tiresome sort of game; a hoax.

“I tell you all about it, all, all⁠ ⁠…” intoned Mrs. Corrie provisionally, whilst the maid handed the tiny ready-cut saddle of lamb. “Spinnich?

Opening the door she found the landing empty and quiet, the setting sun streamed across its coloured spaces, the flowers blazed as if they were standing in a garden.⁠ ⁠… Joey always went for walks if she were feeling thick and fat, she always went for a long walk; in coats with skirts to match; a costume; never a jacket with a different skirt⁠ ⁠… the long cool passage leading away to the invisible door of Mr. Corrie’s room was full of wreathing smoke. Wiggerson rushed across the landing along the passage, followed by Mrs. Corrie, with her head up and her handkerchief to her nose and all her figure tense and angular and strong. Both had passed silently; but there were shriekings on the stairs and the children came at Miriam with cries and screams. “Rollo’ll be killed”; “Go to her”; “Go and save vem”; the children shrieked and leaped up and down in front of her. The boy’s white features worked as if they must dislocate; his eyes were black with terror; he wrung his hands. Sybil’s face, scarlet and shapeless and streaming with tears, blazed wrath at Miriam through her green eyes. “Be quiet,” Miriam said in loud tones. “I shall do nothing till you are quiet.” With a shriek the girl lashed at her with the dog-whip. “Save vem, save vem,” shrieked the boy, twisting his arms in the air. “Will you both be quiet instantly?” shouted Miriam, as the blood rose to her head, catching and holding the boy. Both children howled and choked; Sybil flung herself forward howling, and Miriam felt her teeth in her wrist.