Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

‘I think I’ll walk,’ said Maggie. ‘It’ll do me good.’

‘I managed that very clumsily,’ she thought, ‘so how shall I persuade Antony to tell me the address of his firm?’

To her surprise his room was empty. He must have gone away in the middle of writing a letter, for there were sheets lying about on the writing-table and, what luck! an envelope addressed to Higgins & Stukeley, 312 Paternoster Row. A glance was all she really needed to memorize the address; but her eyes wandered to the litter on the table. What a mess! There were several pages of notepaper covered with figures. Antony had been making calculations and, as his habit was, decorating them with marginal illustrations. He was good at drawing faces, and he had a gift for catching a likeness. Maggie had often seen, and been gratified to see, slips of paper embellished with portraits of herself—full-face, side-face, three-quarter-face. But this face that looked out from among the figures and seemed to avoid her glance, was not hers. It was the face of a woman she had never seen before but whom she felt she would recognize anywhere, so consistent and vivid were the likenesses. Scattered among the loose leaves were the contents of Antony’s pocket-book. She knew he always carried her photograph. Where was it? Seized by an impulse, she began to rummage among the papers. Ah, here it was. But it was no longer hers! With a few strokes Antony had transformed her oval face, unlined and soft of feature, into a totally different one, a pinched face with high cheekbones, hollow cheeks, and bright hard eyes, from whose corners a sheaf of fine wrinkles spread like a fan: a face with which she was already too familiar.

Unable to look at it she turned away and saw Antony standing behind her. He seemed to have come from the bath for he carried a towel and was wearing his dressing-gown.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Do you think it’s an improvement?’

She could not answer him, but walked over to the washstand and took up the thermometer that was lying on it.

‘Ought you to be walking about like that,’ she said at last, ‘with a temperature of a hundred?’

‘Perhaps not,’ he replied, making two or three goat-like skips towards the bed. ‘But I feel rather full of beans this morning.’

Maggie edged away from his smile towards the door.

‘There isn’t anything I can do for you?’

‘Not to-day, my darling.’

The term of endearment struck her like a blow.

Maggie sent off her telegram and turned into the village street. The fact of being able to do something had relieved her mind: already in imagination she saw Antony being packed into the Ampleforths’ Daimler with rugs and hot-water bottles, and herself, perhaps, seated by the driver. They were endlessly kind, and would make no bones about motoring him to London. But though her spirits were rising her body felt tired; the day was sultry, and she had hurried. Another bad night like last night, she thought, and I shall be a wreck. There was a chemist’s shop over the way, and she walked in.

‘Can I have some sal volatile?’

‘Certainly, madam.’

She drank it and felt better.

‘Oh, and have you anything in the way of a sleeping draught?’

‘We have some allodanol tablets, madam.’

‘I’ll take them.’

‘Have you a doctor’s prescription?’

‘No.’

‘Then I’m afraid you’ll have to sign the poison book. Just a matter of form.’

Maggie recorded her name, idly wondering what J. Bates, her predecessor on the list, meant to do with his cyanide of potassium.

‘We must try not to worry,’ said Mrs. Ampleforth, handing Maggie her tea, ‘but I must say I’m glad the doctor has come. It relieves one of responsibility, doesn’t it? Not that I feel disturbed about Antony—he was quite bright when I went to see him just before lunch. And he’s been sleeping since. But I quite see what Maggie means. He doesn’t seem himself. Perhaps it would be a good plan, as she suggests, to send him to London. He would have better advice there.’

Rundle came in.

‘A telegram for Mr. Fairfield, madam.’

‘It’s been telephoned: “Your presence urgently required Tuesday morning—Higgins & Stukeley.” Tuesday, that’s to-morrow. Everything seem to point to his going, doesn’t it, Charles?’

Maggie was delighted, but a little surprised, that Mrs. Ampleforth had fallen in so quickly with the plan of sending Antony home. ‘Could he go to-day?’ she asked.

‘To-morrow would be too late, wouldn’t it?’ said Mr. Ampleforth drily. ‘The car’s at his disposal: he can go whenever he likes.’

Through her relief Maggie felt a little stab of pain that they were both so ready to see the last of Antony. He was generally such a popular guest.

‘I could go with him,’ she said.

Instantly they were up in arms. Ronald the most vehement of all. ‘I’m sure Antony wouldn’t want you to. You know what I mean, Maggie, it’s such a long drive, in a closed car on a stuffy evening. Charlie says he’ll send a man, if necessary.’ Mr. Ampleforth nodded. ‘But if he were ill!’ cried Maggie.

The entrance of the doctor cut her short. He looked rather grave. ‘I wish I could say I was satisfied with Mr. Fairfield’s progress,’ he said, ‘but I can’t. The inflammation has spread up the arm as far as the shoulder, and there’s some fever. His manner is odd, too, excitable and apathetic by turns.’ He paused. ‘I should like a second opinion.’ Mr. Ampleforth glanced at his wife.

‘In that case wouldn’t it be better to send him to London? As a matter of fact, his firm has telegraphed for him. He could go quite comfortably in the car.’

The doctor answered immediately:

‘I wouldn’t advise such a course. I think it would be most unwise to move him. His firm—you must excuse me—will have to do without him for a day or two.’

‘Perhaps,’ suggested Maggie trembling, ‘it’s a matter that could be arranged at his house. They could send over someone from the office. I know they make a fuss about having him on the spot,’ she concluded lamely.

‘Or, doctor,’ said Mr. Ampleforth, ‘could you do us a very great kindness and go with him? We could telephone to his doctor to meet you, and the car would get you home by midnight.’

The doctor squared his shoulders: he was clearly one of those men whose resolution stiffens under opposition.

‘I consider it would be the height of folly,’ he said, ‘to move him out of the house. I dare not do it on my responsibility. I will get a colleague over from Ipswich to-morrow morning. In the meantime, with your permission, I will arrange for a trained nurse to be sent to-night.’

Amid a subdued murmur of final instructions, the doctor left.

As Maggie, rather late, was walking upstairs to dress for dinner she met Rundle. He looked anxious.

‘Excuse me, miss,’ he said, ‘but have you seen Mr. Fairfield? I’ve asked everyone else, and they haven’t. I took him up his supper half an hour ago, and he wasn’t in his room. He’d got his dress clothes out, but they were all on the bed except the stiff shirt.’

‘Have you been to look since?’ asked Maggie.

‘No, miss.’

‘I’ll go and see.’

She tiptoed along the passage to Antony’s door. A medley of sounds, footsteps, drawers being opened and shut, met her ears.

She walked back to Rundle. ‘He’s in there all right,’ she said. ‘Now I must make haste and dress.’

A few minutes later a bell rang in the kitchen.

‘Who’s that?’

‘Miss Winthrop’s room,’ said the cook. ‘Hurry up, Lettice, or you’ll have Rundle on your track—he’ll be back in a minute.’

‘I don’t want to go,’ said Lettice. ‘I tell you I feel that nervous——’