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

Soon his thoughts, exploring the future, encountered an obstacle and stopped short. He was looking ahead as though he had made up his mind to go. Well, hadn’t he? The invitation solved his immediate difficulty: the uncertainty as to where he should take his holiday. The charm of Swannick had failed to hold him. And yet, perversely enough, his old hunting-ground chose this very moment to trouble him with its lures: its willows, its alders, the silent clumps of grey rushes with the black water in between. The conservatism of his nature, an almost superstitious loyalty to the preferences of his early life, protested against the abandonment of Swannick—Swannick, where he had always done exactly as he liked, where bridge never intruded, and the politenesses of society were unknown. For Jimmy’s mind had run forward again, and envisaged existence at Verdew Castle as divided between holding open the door for Mrs. Rollo Verdew and exchanging compliments and forbearances and commiseration with Rollo’s elder (or perhaps younger, he hadn’t said) brother Randolph across the bridge-table, with a lot of spare time that wasn’t really spare and a lot of being left to himself that really meant being left to everybody.

Jimmy looked at the clock: it was time to go. If it amused his imagination to fashion a mythical Verdew Castle, he neither authorized nor forbade it. He still thought himself free to choose. But when he reached his office his first act was to write his friend a letter of acceptance.

Four days later a second blue envelope appeared on his breakfast-table. It was evidently a two-days’ post to Verdew Castle, for Rollo explained that he had that moment received Jimmy’s welcome communication. There followed a few references, necessarily brief, to matters of interest to them both. The letter closed with the promised itinerary:

So we shall hope to see you in ten days’ time, complete with lethal chamber and big-game apparatus. I forget whether you have a car; but if you have, I strongly advise you to leave it at home. The road bridge across the estuary has been dicky for a long time. They may close it any day now, since it was felt to wobble the last time the Lord-Lieutenant crossed by it. You would be in a mess if you found it shut and had to go trailing thirty miles to Amplesford (a hellish road, since it’s no one’s interest to keep it up). If the bridge carried the Lord-Lieutenant it would probably bear you, but I shouldn’t like to have your blood on my head! Come, then, by train to Verdew Grove. I recommend the four o’clock; it doesn’t get here till after dark, but you can dine on it, and it’s almost express part of the way. The morning train is too bloody for anything: you would die of boredom before you arrived, and I should hate that to happen to any of my guests. I’m sorry to present you with such ghastly alternatives, but the Castle was built here to be out of everyone’s reach, and by Heaven, it is! Come prepared for a long stay. You must. I’m sure the old office can get on very well without you. You’re lucky to be able to go away as a matter of course, like a gentleman. Let us have a line and we’ll send to meet you, not my little tin kettle but Randolph’s majestic Daimler. Good-bye.

Yours,

It was indeed a troublesome, tedious journey, involving changes of train and even of station. More than once the train, having entered a terminus head first, steamed out tail first, with the result that Rintoul lost his sense of direction and had a slight sensation of vertigo whenever, in thought, he tried to recapture it. It was half-past nine and the sun was setting when they crossed the estuary. As always in such places the tide was low, and the sun’s level beams illuminated the too rotund and luscious curves of a series of mud-flats. The railway-line approached the estuary from its marshy side, by a steep embankment. Near by, and considerably below, ran the road bridge—an antiquated affair of many arches, but apparently still in use, though there seemed to be no traffic on it. The line curved inwards, and by straining his neck Rintoul could see the train bent like a bow, and the engine approaching a hole, from which a few wisps of smoke still issued, in the ledge of rock that crowned the farther shore. The hole rushed upon him; Rintoul pulled in his head and was at once in darkness. The world never seemed to get light again. After the long tunnel they were among hills that shut out the light that would have come in, and stifled the little that was left behind. It was by the help of the station lantern that he read the name, Verdew Grove, and when they were putting his luggage on the motor he could scarcely distinguish between the porter and the chauffeur. One of them said:

‘Did you say it was a rabbit?’

And the other: ‘Well, there was a bit of fur stuck to the wheel.’

‘You’d better not let the boss see it,’ said the first speaker.

‘Not likely.’ And so saying, the chauffeur, who seemed to be referring to an accident, climbed into the car. As Rollo had said, it was a very comfortable one. Jimmy gave up counting the turns and trying to catch glimpses of the sky over the high hedges, and abandoned himself to drowsiness. He must have dozed, for he did not know whether it was five minutes or fifty before the opening door let in a gust of cool air and warned him that he had arrived.

For a moment he had the hall to himself. It did not seem very large, but to gauge its true extent was difficult, because of the arches and the shadows. Shaded lamps on the tables gave a diffused but very subdued glow; while a few unshaded lights, stuck about in the groining of the vault, consuming their energy in small patches of great brilliancy, dazzled rather than assisted the eye. The fact that the spaces between the vaulting-ribs were white-washed seemed to increase the glare. It was curious and not altogether happy, the contrast between the brilliance above and the murk below. No trophies of the chase adorned the walls; no stags’ heads or antlers, no rifles, javelins, tomahawks, assegais, or krisses. Clearly the Verdews were not a family of sportsmen. In what did Randolph Verdew’s interests lie? Rintoul wondered, and he was walking across to the open grate, in whose large recess a log-fire flickered, when the sound of a footfall startled him. It came close, then died away completely, then still in the same rhythm began again. It was Rollo.

Rollo with his black moustaches, his swaggering gait, his large expansive air, his noisy benevolence. He grasped Jimmy’s hand.

But before he could say more than ‘Damned glad,’ a footman appeared. He came so close to Jimmy and Rollo that the flow of the latter’s eloquence was checked.

‘Mr. Rintoul is in the Pink Room,’ announced the footman.

Rollo put his little finger in his mouth and gently bit it.

‘Oh, but I thought I said——’

‘Yes, sir,’ interrupted the footman. ‘But Mr. Verdew thought he might disturb Mr. Rintoul in the Onyx Room, because sometimes when he lies awake at night he has to move about, as you know, sir. And he thought the Pink Room had a better view. So he gave orders for him to be put there, sir.’

The footman finished on a tranquil note and turned to go. But Rollo flushed faintly and seemed put out.

‘I thought it would have been company for you having my brother next door,’ he said. ‘But he’s arranged otherwise, so it can’t be helped. Shall I take you to the room now, or will you have a drink first? That is, if I can find it,’ he muttered. ‘They have a monstrous habit of sometimes taking the drinks away when Randolph has gone to bed. And by the way, he asked me to make his excuses to you. He was feeling rather tired. My wife’s gone, too. She always turns in early here; she says there’s nothing to do at Verdew. But, my God, there’s a lot that wants doing, as I often tell her. This way.’