Seven-thirty o’clock. The old nurse in an older dressing-gown was waking up the kitchen life. He asked for Scylla, the easiest and the hardest person to see, and waited for her below. She came down, heavenly sleepy. He told her that he was sorry, and what had happened at Starn.
“That’s all right,” she said, “everyone gets worked at times. I only wish you had not sprung it on Clarence—I’d like you to be sorry for that—no, not because it was bad manners but because it was cruel and damned silly—” That punished him, though he did not understand her aversion to cruelty, that kind. She went on—“But a worse thing has happened, it may be for the best. It usually is—” Suddenly, the complications of the story came over her, and he heard a sort of cry: “What is it all about—I don’t like this,” and he saw that he meant to stay if he had to sleep out on the earth and gnaw grass to help her. Then she told him to go down and bathe before breakfast, while she told the rest, and gave his case to the old nurse.
“Take it up to Mr. Carston’s room. He did good work for us last night at Starn.”
A little breakfast with the Borgia’s. Poison anyhow, hurrying up over the hills. No woodpecker, no appetites. Clarence handing back with interest his insolence of the day before.
Scylla said:
“Clarence, we must be practical. Go and find out what Picus has tried to do.” And Carston could have kicked the man when he assured her that it was now her business.
“It’s not become that,” she answered, steadily—“go you and manage him, as you have always done.”
No, Clarence would not. Waited to be entreated to have more fun in refusing.
“Are we going to lie, or aren’t we?” said Felix.
“That depends on Picus.” It did.
“Whatever we do, he’ll do the opposite.” Felix got up and put the cup in a drawer.
“The book goes on the fire.”
It is not easy to burn a book. He was banging it down on the kitchen fire when Mr. Tracy walked into the house. Carston retreated backwards through the kitchen, where Felix pushed him into a cupboard, and kindly got him out again, and up the backstairs to the attic and left him alone with the bees. There he meditated on what was going on below, whether the bees would attack him, and what it would be like if they brought the old man up there.
Below, Scylla thought: Keep things amiable: keep things casual: pay out what rope we have.
She constrained Picus’s father to breakfast, because his son was unwell, and noticed how Clarence slipped away to warn him, now that the worst had come to the worst.
“It was nice of you to come,” she said—“just as the place is at its loveliest.” Ross despised her for that, and Felix admired, while her spirit was falling away into pockets of pain like dropped heartbeats, because in everything Picus was a lie. Excepting under Gault Cliff, and they would never go there again. Never again. That brought up bubble upon bubble of agony each time they rose, with attention to the unpleasant details of his father’s visit. That sinister antique was saying:
“Call that old nurse of yours. I want to ask her a question.” And she did not dare to be anything but unspeakably civil, while he said:
“Did you unpack for Mr. Tracy, and if so did you find a green bowl in his case, or a book that wasn’t a novel?”
Trust Nanna. She almost put Mr. Picus’s father in his place. Felix’s business to have done that. Felix had gone out. Oh, God! to collect more fish?
Ross helped: “Picus is pretty unwell. Shall I take you up?”
And she managed to say, coolly: “I don’t see why a book not a novel or even a cup should be out of order in anyone’s luggage. I could have asked Nanna that myself.”
That bothered the old man’s exit. Ross went too, and she sat alone, wondering where Carston had got to. “He’s up with the bees, honey,” said her nurse. Tell the bees. Nanna did that when one of them died. Which of them was going to die first?
Picus had taken his father’s cup.
Picus had stunted its origin.
Picus had had an idea, or why the book?
Picus had run into small mystifications.
Picus had made love to her.
Picus would not make love again, because they had been found out.
Picus led Clarence a hard life.
No one could go to Picus and say: “So much for your silly devilries. Turn ye to me.” And I even thought of marrying him because of his beauty. I did not catch the joy as it flew. Damn female instincts. Picus should not have pretended it was the cup of the Sanc-Grail. That will do in weaker minds and more violent imaginations than mine and Ross’s.
Meanwhile, Carston had discovered a dormer in the attic roof, and saw her walking the lawns. He stuck his head out, powdered with the shells of dead bees, and called. She ran in and up to the attic door.
“Couldn’t you,” he whispered, “get him over to Tollerdown to look for himself? Get Clarence to take him. That will give us time.”
“Good,” she said, “I’ll go down and try it.” They both saw that the real need was to get rid of the old man. But as she opened Picus’s door, she heard:
“Go over to Tollerdown to satisfy myself. Why? You’ve got it and you can keep it. Would you like to know its history? In India it was the poison-cup of a small rajah I knew. He was poisoned, all the same, drinking out of it. I saw him with a yard of froth bubble coming out of his mouth. Burnt up inside, I believe. I brought it away and gave
