Columbella

by Whitney, Phyllis A. ;

  He had not moved from the clearing and I knew he studied me again while I stared at my hands. To what purpose I could not guess.

  “When are you going to stop running away?” he said.

  I looked at him then—in astonishment “But you want me gone. You’ve told me—”

  “From here, yes. I’m not talking about that. I mean when are you going to stand still and face the woman you ought to be? Do you know what I see when I look at you?”

  My fingers hurt with their twisting. “I don’t want to know! I don’t care!”

  But he was not a man who lacked knowledge of women and there was a brightness in his eyes as he watched me. “Of course you care,” he said, his tone roughening a little. “You’re a woman bound to the past. A woman without confidence or belief in herself. A woman grown accustomed to running. There’s nothing you could possibly do for Leila when you can’t act for yourself.”

  Aunt Janet had told me something of the same thing, but from this man it seemed far more outrageous. There was no chance to answer him, however, even if I’d known what to say. He swung about and went quickly away through the trees, leaving me alone and furious, hurt and frightened. Because if what he said was true, then there was very little hope for me in the future. But I could not accept his words as meekly as he expected. Some inner core of courage in me rejected them.

  I had a right to be angry! Lately, it was true, I had been running away from any commitment to life. But I ran as a woman who was drained and weary, who needed to renew herself before she faced the combat of living again. By coming here to Hampden House I had halted my flight from pain. I had made a small beginning. He couldn’t know that in my own way I had been a fighter of sorts, even in the past.

  While my mother was alive I had worked out a manner of living for myself that had permitted me to care for Helen as no one else would have. Yet I had also had my work and I had done it well. Nor had I been constantly unhappy during those years. I had too much pride for self-pity. What I did now was something else, and certainly no solution for my own problems lay in remaining here as Maud Hampden wished, or in the joining of so futile a battle as the one against Catherine Drew. King himself had not done so well in that fight. And Maud had trapped herself and her granddaughter long ago when she had not been able to keep Roger from destroying Catherine. It might already be too late to help Leila. None of this was my problem.

  What Kingdon Drew chose to think of me did not matter. Indeed, getting away from his disturbing presence was one of the first things to be considered in my own battle for life.

  I was free now to return to Aunt Janet whenever I liked. As I started back to the house I wished I could feel a greater sense of relief over a fact that should have been very welcome.

  The sound of a gong made me quicken my steps. That was undoubtedly the summons to dinner. There was still the ordeal ahead of dining with this ill-matched family. I would not enjoy the meal, but it must be lived through. Tomorrow I would be free of them all.

  As I followed the path back toward the terrace, the tropical growth that crowded along my way seemed twisted and strange in the unfamiliar shapes lent by early darkness. Ahead of me a small animal flashed across the path and disappeared into thick underbrush. It was probably no more than a mongoose—those little animals which had long overrun the island. Its darting passage startled me into hurrying further. In this place I no longer had any desire for loneliness.

  When I reached the terrace I found that the torches along the outer wall had been lighted, and wavering flames showed the family going up the steps to dinner. Maud saw me and beckoned and I went into the dining room at her side.

  The room opened off the great central hall, and was large and high-ceilinged. The walls were paneled in fine walnut, while the table and chairs were massive, old-fashioned mahogany. There were no touches of the modern Scandinavian here. If these pieces were Danish, they were very old. On two sides the room opened upon the circling gallery, so that evening breezes banished the day’s warmth. Candles down the center of the table were protected by tall hurricane globes, their flames steady and unblinking, unlike the windblown flares on the terrace.

  Maud sat at one end of the table, with King at the other, and I was placed on his right, beside Alex. King himself took the trouble to seat me and there was nothing in his manner to remind me of the harsh words he had spoken in the clearing above the catchment. Indeed, he seemed to put himself out to be kind to me, perhaps feeling that it did not matter now that I was leaving.

  As a maid placed cups of jellied consommé before us, Catherine leaned toward me from across the table, her green eyes bright with malice.

  “So King has shown you our private jungle?” she said. “What do you think of it?”

  How closely she must have been watching to know we were there, I thought, but when I expressed my interest in the forest, she was soon bored, her purpose having been fulfilled—to let me know that I had not gone unobserved.

  Alex had brought the murex shell to the table with him and he pushed it across to Catherine. “I thought you wanted this,” he said. “It seems to have been traveling around the house all day.”

  Catherine pounced on it with an air of mock delight, and put the black-spined shell to her ear, listening raptly.

  “Is the ocean very loud tonight?” Maud’s tone was dry.

  “It’s not the ocean I listen to!” Catherine gave her mother a tantalizing smile. “The voices are there in the shell, talking to me. But they whisper so softly that I can’t understand what they’re trying to tell me.”

  “It’s just as well.” Maud picked up her spoon. “Voices giving advice from seashells are a bit too much at dinnertime.”

  “A teacup over the ear will do just as well,” Edith said. “Catherine is performing again.”

  “I’m not altogether sure it’s nonsense,” Alex said.

  His pale eyes were alight as though what he had done to Catherine on the terrace still pleased him. The candlelight gave a warm gloss to his beard—a warmth, however, that did not reach his eyes.

  “There’s a recognized phenomenon called ‘shell hearing,’ you know,” he went on. “I suppose it’s akin to automatic writing, or speaking in tongues. Something managed by the subconscious, perhaps—with a touch of self-hypnosis. So perhaps Catherine’s voices are not to be sneered at. Perhaps she’s telling herself something we ought to know about.”

  Edith seemed to find it difficult to swallow her consommé. She bent her head over the soup cup and even by candlelight her off-red hair lacked life and sheen. Maud made an effort to turn the talk onto safer ground by launching into a discussion of plans for next week’s buffet supper to be held at Hampden House.

  Apparently old friends were coming from the States to move into one of the new houses King had built in St. Thomas. So this was to be a party of welcome for them. Ostensibly. But I quickly sensed familiar strains running beneath the surface, tensions that were common to this family, whether one understood the cause or not.

  I ate my cold consommé in silence, hardly relishing its flavor. With one part of me I listened and watched, while another part, perhaps as astral as the voices in Catherine’s shell, distracted me, whispering unhappy accusations in my ear; accusations that were an echo of words so recently hurled at me: “A woman bound to the past . . . a woman accustomed to running . . . without confidence in herself.”

  King’s voice, breaking through, caught my attention.

  “I thought we’d agreed to hold no more such entertainments for a while,” he said abruptly.

  “It’s my parties you don’t like,” Catherine reminded him, slyly. “This is Edith’s affair—so you can’t object to that.”

  “I fancy it’s Edith’s affair because Catherine has been twisting my wife’s arm,” Alex put in. There was a good deal of malice in the man, I thought, and it seemed to be directed at Cat
herine as often as not.

  A dark flush came into Edith’s face, making her hair look an uglier color than ever. She threw her sister a quick glance that hinted more of fright than anything else.

  “Of course it’s my affair. We owe invitations to everyone—everyone!” she protested, and dropped her soup spoon on the floor. “We can’t go into retirement and never invite anyone over.”

  “Of course not,” Catherine agreed, still slyly sweet. “Especially when it’s just that King thinks I spend too much money.”

  Maud seemed to lack all energy tonight, but she made an effort to stop her two daughters.

  “This party is not to get out of hand. It’s to be a small, informal affair—let’s keep it that way.”

  “Besides,” said Alex, “we need a bit of divertissement, don’t you think? Providing it doesn’t go too far. I believe Catherine has given her promise to behave this time, and not indulge in whimsical games.”

  Catherine laughed softly, and Leila, who had been watching as uncomfortably as her grandmother, suddenly held out her hand.

  “Let me listen to your shell, Cathy. Perhaps your voices will talk to me.”

  The distraction served momentarily. Catherine pushed the spiked shell toward her daughter and Leila picked it up, her rapt expression duplicating Catherine’s as she held the prickly thing to her ear. After a moment she shook her head regretfully.

  “All I hear is the sea, as usual. Rushing in and rushing out.”

  “Let’s not have that shell with dinner again,” King said, his voice taut.

  Again Catherine’s disturbing laughter rang out. “Besides, there’s no point in worrying about money spent on a party when I’m really going to splurge pretty soon. I’m going to start fixing up Caprice. Have I told you about that? I’m going to buy new furniture and stop the leaks and mend the stonework, and the woodwork where termites have got in. Perhaps I’ll even live there when I’m through, and give all the parties I like for as many people as I like. Wouldn’t you enjoy living there, King? After all, you admire the house so much! You have to admit that it’s handsomer than anything you’ve been able to build.”

  King said nothing, but I saw the pulse in his temple, the tightness of his mouth. She was pushing him too far.

  “That’s enough, Catherine,” Maud said. “This is something to discuss at another time. We have a guest—”

  The flush in Edith’s cheeks had darkened painfully, replacing with anger the almost fearful look she had earlier given Catherine. Without warning she leaned across the table and clasped her sister by the wrist.

  “Where did you go last night? Why did you go outside so late?”

  Once more Maud made an effort. “Please, Edith dear—let’s not—at dinner—”

  But it was too late. Everything was out of hand. In these civilized surroundings the veneer was cracking badly. Catherine drew away in distaste from her sister’s touch.

  “Why shouldn’t I go out? I was lonely. I have a husband who stays away all hours, so I got up to look for company.”

  “Did you find it?” Edith’s face seemed to be breaking up, shattering like a cracked cup along minute trembling lines—a dreadful thing to see.

  “Why not?” said Catherine lightly. “Don’t I always?”

  King stood up, flinging down his napkin, and strode from the room. I wished with all my heart that I could go with him. It was appalling to glimpse the savagery beneath what was happening, with Catherine always the catalyst deliberately stirring passions to the seething point. She was a dangerous woman, I thought, and evil—evil!

  Maud’s voice was stronger as her own indignation restored flagging energy. She spoke not to Edith, or to Catherine, but to me.

  “I apologize for the shocking behavior of my family, Jessica. Please believe that we’re not always like this. Such an outburst—of which I am soundly ashamed—is hardly our common pattern.”

  Alex came to her support, his faintly malevolent gaze missing nothing. “I agree, Maud dear. At least at mealtime we can be light and superficial. We can avoid subjects that bring on indigestion.”

  Catherine put the shell to her ear and murmured that there was nothing wrong with her indigestion—it was Edith who did all the suffering. Edith and King.

  Maud and Alex ignored her and for the rest of the meal they engaged each other and the rest of us in forced conversation. All except Edith, who sat at her place eating little, looking pale and shaken, as though she would have liked to follow King’s example if she dared. I did my best to help Maud Hampden in her effort to restore peace to the meal, answering casual questions that were asked me about my home-town suburb on Lake Michigan, about my impressions of St. Thomas, and other innocuous topics. As I talked Catherine began to watch me, and I soon became aware of her fixed attention, of the way she hung on my every word in a manner calculated to make me feel self-conscious and ill at ease.

  Eventually Maud brought up the subject of Leila’s lessons, which must surely start tomorrow, and at once Leila began to protest.

  “I don’t want to spend the summer on lessons! I want to be outdoors. I want to swim and go out in Steve’s boat, and have fun in my own way. Cathy, will you take me along the next time he runs you over to Caprice? I don’t want more lessons when school is out. It’s silly!”

  “And you needn’t have them, darling, if you don’t wish it,” Catherine said with a glance at me. “We all know that Miss Jessica Abbott is here to keep you away from my dreadful influence, but perhaps I’ll have something to say about that. As for Caprice, we’ll see. That depends on how I feel when the time comes.”

  “Why not give Miss Abbott a chance?” Alex put in. “Perhaps she’ll provide Leila with something more interesting than she expects. Surely you aren’t afraid of her good works, Catherine?”

  Catherine touched her chin where the pin scratch showed, watching him. “I’m not afraid of Miss Abbott or anyone else,” she said. “If she wants to start these silly lessons, let her go ahead. They won’t last very long.”

  Maud said, “Thank you, Alex. Tomorrow you can get started, Jessica.”

  I withdrew into myself for the rest of the meal, venturing no further remarks. I did not care for the steady scrutiny of those faintly tilted, greenish eyes. Catherine’s look was venomous and I wanted to attract her attention no more than I could help. Yet the occasion of this already uncomfortable meal did not offer the proper time to make the announcement that I was leaving.

  We finished our dessert, a crisp native pastry filled with coconut, and it was a relief to get away from the table. As soon as I could, I left the others to return to the sweetly scented evening air of the terrace. Once more I needed desperately to quiet the turmoil of my own nerves. I must talk to Maud soon and tell her of my decision. She must not be allowed to count on me, or believe futilely that she had found a solution to her impossible problem.

  As I stood there, trying to form in my mind the words that I must speak to her, and finding them difficult to express, someone touched me lightly on the arm. I turned to find that Leila had come to stand beside me.

  She smiled at me shyly, seeming unsure of herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, doing a complete about-face. “It’s not your fault that you haven’t been able to get on with those lessons. I shouldn’t have said what I did at dinner. What I find to do around the island is just the same old thing, and it isn’t all that interesting. It’s only visitors who can keep busy every minute. Sometimes I’m dreadfully bored. I won’t mind working for a few hours every day. But if I promise to help you get started with what you’re here for, will you do something for me?”

  Considering the trend of my own thoughts, I hardly knew how to answer her. It would be cruel to reject her advance by announcing flatly that there would be no lessons tomorrow because I would not be here. I postponed the difficult moment and took a side road.

  �
�What would you like me to do for you?”

  She turned her head, not meeting my eyes, and the light from a nearby torch touched golden highlights into her smooth brown cap of hair.

  “It’s about that red dress. Uncle Alex says I can take it back and get something else. Will you help me pick out something that will look nice for the party?”

  In spite of myself, I was touched. It was so small a thing that she asked of me. Perhaps I could help her find something meant for her, instead of for Catherine. This was the least I could do before I left tomorrow. It would not be the first time I had helped a young girl to choose a dress. In fact, it was easier to help others than to help myself, since my mother’s voice was less apt to get in the way when others consulted me.

  “Of course I will,” I said. “I’ll try to help, if you think I can.”

  She looked more pleased than seemed right under the circumstances, betraying all the more evidence of her need.

  “Oh, I know you can!” she said eagerly. “I love that pink dress you’re wearing. Sometimes”—she cast a quick, uncertain look about the terrace—“sometimes I think Cathy chooses things that are a little too dramatic. Of course I’d never say that to her. She gets her feelings hurt so easily.”

  Yet with so little compunction about hurting others, I thought. At least what Leila had just said was heartening. Once more I had the feeling that her apparent adulation of her mother was cracking a little around the edges. Given time and opportunity, the right person might be able to help her change directions. But that right person was not me.

  Noreen, the little maid with the merry dark eyes and exuberant manner, came toward us across the terrace. Mr. Drew would like to see me, she said. Now, if I would please come. He was in his “office room” at the front of the house. I said I would come at once, and started to follow her, but Leila put a quick hand on my arm and I paused. Her words—meant, I suppose, to be encouraging—took me by surprise.

  “If Dad tries to scold you, don’t pay any attention,” she said lightly. “None of us do, you know. Cathy says he was born to be a feudal lord and he’s out of place in the twentieth century. So he shows his bad temper by jumping up from the table—all that sort of thing. He’s a bit silly sometimes. So never mind what he says.”