A Barmecide Feast

He realised that he was asleep⁠—sure sign that he was just about to wake: and something whispered that it was very early, and that it would be far better if he could prevent waking. For a long time he made a halfhearted effort, craving a continuation of the delicious state of unconsciousness. But it lay beyond his powers. He moved: he turned over in bed, yet still keeping his eyes tightly shut. “I’m waking,” he whispered to himself. “What a bore!” The springs in his eyelids were released. The room, he saw, was tinged with that thin, clear light which means very early morning, and he gave up the struggle. “Hang this early waking! I shall be tired all day now!” And he noticed with disgust the candle and pillow-book, left hours ago in the comforting darkness. He lay back, staring angrily at the white ceiling. But nothing banishes sleep so effectively as anger. Jones, disgruntled and annoyed, sat up in bed at two o’clock in the morning, in the little Sussex cottage where he was spending the weekend with a married cousin of slight acquaintance, and remembered next that even in his sleep there was something that had bothered him. His dreams, now forgotten, had been anxious, troubled, searching. What was it? His mind sent scurrying messengers. Memory became active. He was painfully wide awake now. Ah! He had found it. The night before⁠—it seemed so long ago, so far away⁠—a plan had been arranged: a bicycling trip across the Downs, himself as leader; the children had been sent early to bed on purpose, and he had fallen asleep, thinking hard about the route, yet uncertain of It. He dared not fail, for the children thought him marvellous. And the search had been continued in his dreams, endlessly, in vain. He had failed utterly; the children would never believe in him again. There was still a sinking sensation at his heart, a kind of gnawing that craved for satisfaction. And then, suddenly, he realised the truth: that he was hungry! Accustomed to late dinners in London, the light country supper in the cottage at seven o’clock had damaged interior routine, and his interior had wakened him at 2  a.m. to inform him of the fact. Jones felt very empty indeed. The next minute he stood in the middle of the room, his mind holding but a single thought⁠—Larder. His interior and the cottage larder were two points in space, and he sought the straight line between them. Behind this flickered lighter pictures, which explained themselves without effort on his part, as he remembered the wife’s apology that the butcher in this isolated region often failed them, that F.H.B. (family hold back) had been mentioned at the table, and that his two helpings of bread-and-butter pudding, so stuffing at the moment, could not possibly be expected to satisfy for long. But it was the geographical situation of the larder, what he might find there, and how awkward it would be if he were discovered on the prowl⁠—it was this that occupied his thought as, in slippers and pyjamas, he cautiously opened his door and peered forth into the silent emptiness of the outside world. His one terror was that he might see, or be seen by, his cousin’s wife⁠—his hostess. Why, exactly, he could not explain quite; but it would reflect on her housekeeping, for one thing; she would be so full of apologies, for another: and, for a third, she would load him with more than he wanted. She might even watch him eat, or catch him disappearing into his room with a plateful of assorted nourishment stolen from her larder. He felt guilty and ashamed the moment he opened his bedroom door and stole softly on tiptoe down the narrow corridor, that creaked beneath his tread as though each separate board was loose. He felt so light and empty that this surprised him; his weight, though small, seemed centred in his feet. The thick matting on the stairs was a great relief, and he crept safely past his hostess’ door, astonished at the extraordinary silence everywhere. Husband and wife, both of heavy build, were born snorers, he would have said, yet no faintest sound was audible, and he pictured them now, sitting up in bed, disturbed by the creaking that he made⁠—and listening. Distributing his weight carefully with one hand on the banisters and another on the wall, he next got past the maid’s room, and the room where the children slept with the diminutive watchdog, and successfully reached the ground floor, where the bricks of the hall struck chill through his thin Egyptian slippers. Those pointed yellow slippers, from a Cairo bazaar, looked painfully ludicrous, he realised, and the colour of his pyjamas was in shouting contrast. The whole house watched him with a grin. Everywhere was a silence of tombs and catacombs. Only a rustling of early wind against the black front door was audible The dining-room and drawing-room stared suspiciously at his back; but already a certain carelessness was in him, for no one slept on this floor, and he could move with greater freedom. Would the larder door be locked? What would he find there? Should he take the food upstairs with him or⁠—horrors! Was that whispering? The long, dark passage gaped before him, and at the further end, behind a door it seemed, came a faint sound of voices, subdued and cautious. There was a stealthy step. A latch rattled. He shrank against the wall, standing stock still. In the semi-gloom he might have been hidden but for those glaring yellow slippers, a size too large for him, and for the striped pyjamas, looking like a convict’s dress. He waited, breathing only through his nose⁠—trying, indeed, not to breathe at all. Yes; the steps and voices were unmistakable No thought of ghosts or burglars had yet entered his mind, and a voice, if any should have come from overhead: “Who’s there?” or “I’ll fire unless you come out and show yourself;” but whispers and steps so close to him were an unexpected shock. For a moment he hardly knew what was best to do. He forgot his hunger altogether, and braced himself for action. It was quite plain that strangers had broken into the cottage, attracted by its extreme loneliness, and were at this very moment in larder or kitchen at the end of the passage, arranging their booty, perhaps just making ready to depart. And he remembered then that he had smelt flowers and grass and earth as he came down the staircase⁠—sign that a door or window had been opened below⁠—and that the air in the hall was uncommonly fresh and sweet. “There are two of them,” Jones reflected, in this awkward moment of greatness which had been thrust upon him, “and I have no weapon, not even a poker!” ’ A door halfway down the passage opened softly, so close that the gush of warmer air reached his nostrils, and he knew it was the kitchen; while a voice, whispering to his companion, was just audible: “There’s no one. It’s all right. We might go upstairs now if you’re⁠—” The stealthy closing of the door smothered the rest of the sentence, but not before he had caught another sentence spoken simultaneously by the companion. Jones heard both. And the other was a man’s voice, gruff and short and cautious: “What did you do with the knife? You had it last⁠ ⁠…” And, hearing it, Jones, in his unsheltering pyjamas, felt so helpless that his modicum of courage failed him. Hungry, cold and weaponless, taken utterly by surprise, he felt in no condition to meet two desperate tramps at close quarters, one of them with a knife. He hurriedly, wildly, reviewed a dozen possibilities. It was a moment for clear, quick thinking and decisive action. Shouting was useless; there were no passersby or policemen in the lonely country lane outside. Had there been a single burglar only he might have faced him, rousing the household at the same time by cries for help. But against two he could do nothing And cold steel always filled him with peculiar terror. His mind flashed the only possible course⁠—to dart upstairs and waken his cousin. His cousin was sure to have a pistol in his bedroom. And Jones was in the very act of turning to put his plan in execution when the door of the kitchen opened wide again. He had been too slow, too long reflecting. He was fairly caught. Two figures, he saw, were already in the passage. They moved quickly and on tiptoe. They were within three feet of him. He knew a sharp moment of hysterical terror first before his courage⁠—at heart he was no coward⁠—came to help him. “Arthur!” he yelled, at the top of his voice. “Arthur! There are burglars in the house. Quick! With the pistol⁠—!” and flung himself at the same moment with violence against the still advancing figures. And to protect his body from the point of entering steel, he caught at the first thing handy he could find⁠—the thick doormat on which he stood. Holding it before him like a shield, still shouting for help as he charged, Jones hurled himself with reckless onslaught against⁠—his hostess and her husband. All three collapsed against the wall with a crash, then sprawled through the open door into the kitchen. The disentanglement was at first in silence, for the shock of bewildered astonishment was too great for speech, The breathless chorus of explanation, apology, unanswered questions and questionable answers came next, pell-mell. “I thought⁠—I was sure⁠—I heard a noise,” prevaricated Jones, “and came down to see.” The elucidation, all three, clothed not for daylight, standing upon the kitchen floor, lasted some time, for Jones stuck to his story so manfully that the burden of explanation was transferred to his host and hostess. It was resourceful, but not strictly honest, on his part For the life of him, however, he could not find it in his heart to admit the truth. Only a portion of the truth he told. “Of course, I thought you were burglars,” he repeated. “I heard steps and voices, and something about a knife when you opened the door first to go upstairs⁠—” He looked his cousin straight in the eye, as a brave man should. It was left to his hostess to confess her soul and her husband’s, too. They looked so sheepish, standing ther in the morning light without an adequate reason for being out of their bedroom together at such an hour. Jones had managed the situation admirably⁠—for himself⁠—in one way. “The fact is, Mr.  Jones,” she said, then paused a moment; “we both woke up⁠—” “Yes,” he helped her. She said it so awkwardly, almost guiltily, that he wondered what was coming. “Feeling hungry,” she concluded, with a little, shamefaced laugh, “dreadfully hungry⁠—” “And stole down to get something to eat,” put in her husband, boldly filling in the pause. “I’m frightfully sorry⁠—so ashamed⁠—we disturbed your sleep like this,” she added, and then went softly upstairs again to see if the children had slept safely through the noise of battle. Jones waited a little longer while his cousin, laughing over the adventure, put away the delicious eatables. But, somehow or other, he had not the courage to ask a single crumb. There was loaf and butter on the kitchen table, cake as well, but he did not touch them. He put away the saw-toothed bread knife in the drawer his cousin opened, then followed him upstairs to bed again. But not to sleep. He ate nothing till nine o’clock, when he came down to breakfast, weary and unrefreshed, obliged to tell his story all over again with convincing detail for the children’s benefit, joining in the laugh against himself, while he devoured the biggest breakfast of his life.