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

The hours passed on leaden feet. She tried to distract herself by reading the light literature with which her hostess had provided her. Though she could not keep her attention on the books, she continued to turn their pages, for only so could she keep at bay the conviction that had long been forming at the back of her mind and that now threatened to engulf her whole consciousness: the conviction that the legend about Low Threshold was true. She was neither hysterical nor superstitious, and for a moment she had managed to persuade herself that what she had seen in Antony’s room was an hallucination. The passing hours robbed her of that solace. Antony was the victim of Lady Elinor’s vengeance. Everything pointed to it: the circumstances of her appearance, the nature of Antony’s illness, the horrible deterioration in his character—to say nothing of the drawings, and the cat.

There were only two ways of saving him. One was to get him out of the house; she had tried that and failed; if she tried again she would fail more signally than before. But there remained the other way.

The old book about The Tragicall Happenings at Low Threshold Hall still reposed in a drawer; for the sake of her peace of mind Maggie had vowed not to take it out, and till now she had kept her vow. But as the sky began to pale with the promise of dawn and her conviction of Antony’s mortal danger grew apace, her resolution broke down.

‘Whereby we must conclude,’ she read, ‘that the Lady Elinor, like other Apparitions, is subject to certain Lawes. One, to abandon her Victim and seeking another tenement enter into it and transfer her vengeance, should its path be crossed by a Body yet nearer Dissolution. . . .’

A knock, that had been twice repeated, startled her out of her reverie.

‘Come in!’

‘Miss Winthrop,’ said the nurse, ‘I’m sorry to tell you the patient is weaker. I think the doctor had better be telephoned for.’

‘I’ll go and get someone,’ said Maggie. ‘Is he much worse?’

‘Very much, I’m afraid.’

Maggie had no difficulty in finding Rundle; he was already up.

‘What time is it, Rundle?’ she asked. ‘I’ve lost count.’

‘Half-past four, miss.’ He looked very sorry for her.

‘When will the doctor be here?’

‘In about an hour, miss, not more.’

Suddenly she had an idea. ‘I’m so tired, Rundle, I think I shall try to get some sleep. Tell them not to call me unless . . . unless . . .’

‘Yes, miss,’ said Rundle. ‘You look altogether done up.’

About an hour! So she had plenty of time. She took up the book again. ‘Transfer her vengeance . . . seeking another tenement . . . a Body nearer Dissolution.’ Her idle thoughts turned with compassion to the poor servant girl whose death had spelt recovery to Lord Deadham’s cousin but been so little regarded: ‘the night was spent’ before they heard that she was dead. Well, this night was spent already. Maggie shivered. ‘I shall die in my sleep,’ she thought. ‘But shall I feel her come?’ Her tired body sickened with nausea at the idea of such a loathsome violation. But the thought still nagged at her. ‘Shall I realize even for a moment that I’m changing into . . . into?’ Her mind refused to frame the possibility. ‘Should I have time to do anyone an injury?’ she wondered. ‘I could tie my feet together with a handkerchief; that would prevent me from walking.’ Walking . . . walking. . . . The word let loose on her mind a new flood of terrors. She could not do it! She could not lay herself open for ever to this horrible occupation! Her tormented imagination began to busy itself with the details of her funeral; she saw mourners following her coffin into the church. But Antony was not amongst them; he was better but too ill to be there. He could not understand why she had killed herself, for the note she had left gave no hint of the real reason, referred only to continual sleeplessness and nervous depression. So she would not have his company when her body was committed to the ground. But that was a mistake; it would not be her body, it would belong to that other woman and be hers to return to by the right of possession.

All at once the screen which had recorded such vivid images to her mind’s eye went blank; and her physical eye, released, roamed wildly about the room. It rested on the book she was still holding. ‘She cannot possess or haunt the corpse,’ she read, ‘after it has received Christian Buriall.’ Here was a ray of comfort. But (her fears warned her) being a suicide she might not be allowed Christian burial. How then? Instead of the churchyard she saw a cross-roads, with a slanting signpost on which the words could no longer be read; only two or three people were there; they kept looking furtively about them and the grave-digger had thrown his spade aside and was holding a stake. . . .

She pulled herself together with a jerk. ‘These are all fancies,’ she thought. ‘It wasn’t fancy when I signed the poison book.’ She took up the little glass cylinder; there were eighteen tablets and the dose was one or two. Daylight was broadening apace; she must hurry. She took some notepaper and wrote for five minutes. She had reached the words ‘No one is to blame’ when suddenly her ears were assailed by a tremendous tearing, whirring sound: it grew louder and louder until the whole room vibrated. In the midst of the deafening din something flashed past the window, for a fraction of a second blotting out the daylight. Then there was a crash such as she had never heard in her life.

All else forgotten, Maggie ran to the window. An indescribable scene of wreckage met her eyes. The aeroplane had been travelling at a terrific pace: it was smashed to atoms. To right and left the lawn was littered with fragments, some of which had made great gashes in the grass, exposing the earth. The pilot had been flung clear; she could just see his legs sticking out from a flower-bed under the wall of the house. They did not move and she thought he must be dead.

While she was wondering what to do she heard voices underneath the window.

‘We don’t seem to be very lucky here just now, Rundle,’ said Mr. Ampleforth.

‘No, sir.’

There was a pause. Then Mr. Ampleforth spoke again.

‘He’s still breathing, I think.’

‘Yes, sir, he is, just.’

‘You take his head and I’ll take his feet, and we’ll get him into the house.’

Something began to stir in Maggie’s mind. Rundle replied:

‘If you’ll pardon my saying so, sir, I don’t think we ought to move him. I was told once by a doctor that if a man’s had a fall or anything it’s best to leave him lying.’

‘I don’t think it’ll matter if we’re careful.’

‘Really, sir, if you’ll take my advice——’

There was a note of obstinacy in Rundle’s voice. Maggie, almost beside herself with agitation, longed to fling open the window and cry ‘Bring him in! Bring him in!’ But her hand seemed paralysed and her throat could not form the words.

Presently Mr. Ampleforth said:

‘You know we can’t let him stay here. It’s beginning to rain.’

(Bring him in! Bring him in!)

‘Well, sir, it’s your responsibility . . .’

Maggie’s heart almost stopped beating.

‘Naturally I don’t want to do anything to hurt the poor chap.’

(Oh, bring him in! Bring him in!)

The rain began to patter on the pane.

‘Look here, Rundle, we must get him under cover.’

‘I’ll fetch that bit of wing, sir, and put over him.’

(Bring him in! Bring him in!)

Maggie heard Rundle pulling something that grated on the gravel path. The sound ceased and Mr. Ampleforth said:

‘The very thing for a stretcher, Rundle! The earth’s so soft, we can slide it under him. Careful, careful!’ Both men were breathing hard. ‘Have you got your end? Right.’ Their heavy, measured footfalls grew fainter and fainter.