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

‘We don’t need a light, do we?’ said her companion. ‘Let’s sit as we are.’

It was the first time he had volunteered a remark. His voice was somehow familiar to Marion, yet she couldn’t place it; it had an alien quality that made it unrecognizable, like one’s own dress worn by someone else.

‘With pleasure,’ she said. ‘But we mustn’t stay long, must we? It’s only a few minutes to twelve. Can we hear the music from here?’

They sat in silence, listening. There was no sound.

‘Don’t think me fussy,’ Marion said. ‘I’m enjoying this tremendously, but Jenny would be disappointed if we missed the last figure. If you don’t mind opening the door, we should hear the music begin.’

As he did not offer to move, she got up to open it herself, but before she reached the door she heard her name called.

‘Marion!’

‘Who said that, you?’ she cried, suddenly very nervous.

‘Don’t you know who I am?’

‘Harry!’

Her voice shook and she sank back into her chair, trembling violently.

‘How was it I didn’t recognize you? I’m—I’m so glad to see you.’

‘You haven’t seen me yet,’ said he. It was like him to say that, playfully grim. His words reassured her, but his tone left her still in doubt. She did not know how to start the conversation, what effect to aim at, what note to strike; so much depended on divining his mood and playing up to it. If she could have seen his face, if she could even have caught a glimpse of the poise of his head, it would have given her a cue; in the dark like this, hardly certain of his whereabouts in the room, she felt hopelessly at a disadvantage.

‘It was nice of you to come and see me—if you did come to see me,’ she ventured at last.

‘I heard you were to be here.’ Again that non-committal tone! Trying to probe him she said:

‘Would you have come otherwise? It’s rather a childish entertainment, isn’t it?’

‘I should have come,’ he answered, ‘but it would have been in—in a different spirit.’

She could make nothing of this.

‘I didn’t know the Mannings were friends of yours,’ she told him. ‘He’s rather a dear, married to a dull woman, if I must be really truthful.’

‘I don’t know them,’ said he.

‘Then you gate-crashed?’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘I take that as a compliment,’ said Marion after a pause. ‘But—forgive me—I must be very slow—I don’t understand. You said you were coming in any case.’

‘Some friends of mine called Chillingworth offered to bring me.’

‘How lucky I was! So you came with them?’

‘Not with them, after them.’

‘How odd. Wasn’t there room for you in their car? How did you get here so quickly?’

‘The dead travel fast.’

His irony baffled her. But her thoughts flew to his letter, in which he accused her of having killed something in him; he must be referring to that.

‘Darling Hal,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I’m sorry to have hurt you. What can I do to—to——’

There was a sound of voices calling, and her attention thus awakened caught the strains of music, muffled and remote.

‘They want us for the next figure. We must go,’ she cried, thankful that the difficult interview was nearly over. She was colder than ever, and could hardly keep her teeth from chattering audibly.

‘What is the next figure?’ he asked, without appearing to move.

‘Oh, you know—we’ve had it before—we give each other favours, then we unmask ourselves. Hal, we really ought to go! Listen! Isn’t that midnight beginning to strike?’

Unable to control her agitation, aggravated by the strain of the encounter, the deadly sensation of cold within her, and a presentiment of disaster for which she could not account, she rushed towards the door and her outstretched left hand, finding the switch, flooded the room with light. Mechanically she turned her head to the room; it was empty. Bewildered she looked back over her left shoulder, and there, within a foot of her, stood Harry Chichester, his arms stretched across the door.

‘Harry,’ she cried, ‘don’t be silly! Come out or let me out!’

‘You must give me a favour first,’ he said sombrely.

‘Of course I will, but I haven’t got one here.’

‘I thought you always had favours to give away.’

‘Harry, what do you mean?’

‘You came unprovided?’

She was silent.

‘ I did not. I have something here to give you—a small token. Only I must have a quid pro quo .’

He’s mad, thought Marion. I must humour him as far as I can.

‘Very well,’ she said, looking around the room. Jenny would forgive her—it was an emergency. ‘May I give you this silver pencil?’

He shook his head.

‘Or this little vase?’

Still he refused.

‘Or this calendar?’

‘The flight of time doesn’t interest me.’

‘Then what can I tempt you with?’

‘Something that is really your own—a kiss.’

‘My dear,’ said Marion, trembling, ‘you needn’t have asked for.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And to prove I don’t want something for nothing, here is your favour.’

He felt in his pocket. Marion saw a dark silvery gleam; she held her hand out for the gift.

It was a revolver.

‘What am I to do with this?’ she asked.

‘You are the best judge of that,’ he replied. ‘Only one cartridge has been used.’

Without taking her eyes from his face she laid down the revolver among the bric-à-brac on the table by her side.

‘And now your gift to me.’

‘But what about our masks?’ said Marion.

‘Take yours off,’ he commanded.

‘Mine doesn’t matter,’ said Marion, removing as she spoke the silken visor. ‘But you are wearing an entirely false face.’

‘Do you know why?’ he asked, gazing at her fixedly through the slits in the mask.

She didn’t answer.

‘I was always an empty-headed fellow,’ he went on, tapping the waxed covering with his gloved forefinger, so that it gave out a wooden hollow sound—‘there’s nothing much behind this. No brains to speak of, I mean. Less than I used to have, in fact.’

Marion stared at him in horror.

‘Would you like to see? Would you like to look right into my mind?’

‘No! No!’ she cried wildly.

‘But I think you ought to,’ he said, coming a step nearer and raising his hands to his head.

‘Have you seen Marion?’ said Jane Manning to her husband. ‘I’ve a notion she hasn’t been enjoying herself. This was in a sense her party, you know. We made a mistake to give her Tommy Cardew as a partner; he doesn’t carry heavy enough guns for her.’

‘Why, does she want shooting?’ inquired her husband.

‘Idiot! But I could see they didn’t get on. I wonder where she’s got to—I’m afraid she may be bored.’

‘Perhaps she’s having a quiet talk with a howitzer,’ her husband suggested.

Jane ignored him. ‘Darling, it’s nearly twelve. Run into the ante-room and fetch her; I don’t want her to miss the final figure.’

In a few seconds he returned. ‘Not there,’ he said. ‘Not there, my child. Sunk by a twelve-inch shell, probably.’

‘She may be sitting out in the corridor.’

‘Hardly, after a direct hit.’

‘Well, look.’

They went away and returned with blank faces. The guests were standing about talking; the members of the band, their hands ready on their instruments, looked up inquiringly.

‘We shall have to begin without her,’ Mrs. Manning reluctantly decided. ‘We shan’t have time to finish as it is.’

The hands of the clock showed five minutes to twelve.