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

‘I don’t like it,’ she said, a sudden energy in her voice.

‘I thought you said it was a pretty hand,’ murmured Jimmy.

‘I did; you know I don’t mean that. It is pretty: but you don’t deserve to have it, not your eyes, nor your hair; you are idle and complacent and unresponsive and ease-loving—you only think of your butterflies and your killing bottle!’ She looked at him fondly; and Jimmy for some reason was rather pleased to hear all this. ‘No, I meant that I see danger in your hand, in the lines.’

‘Danger to me?’

‘Ah, the conceit of men! Yes, to you.’

‘What sort of danger—physical danger?’ inquired Jimmy, only moderately interested.

‘ Danger de mort ,’ pronounced Mrs. Verdew.

‘Come, come,’ said Jimmy, bending forward and looking into Mrs. Verdew’s face to see if she was pretending to be serious. ‘When does the danger threaten?’

‘Now,’ said Mrs. Verdew.

Oh, thought Jimmy, what a tiresome woman! So you think I’m in danger, do you, Mrs. Verdew, of losing my head at this moment? God, the conceit of women! He stole a glance at her; she was looking straight ahead, her lips pursed up and trembling a little, as though she wanted him to kiss her. Shall I? he thought, for compliance was in his blood and he always wanted to do what was expected of him. But at that very moment a wave of irritability flooded his mind and changed it: she had taken his killing bottle, spoilt and stultified several precious days, and all to gratify her caprice. He turned away.

‘Oh, I’m tougher than you think,’ he said.

‘Tougher?’ she said. ‘Do you mean your skin? All Englishmen have thick skins.’ She spoke resentfully; then her voice softened. ‘I was going to tell you——’ She uttered the words with difficulty, and as though against her will. But Jimmy, not noticing her changed tone and still ridden by his irritation, interrupted her.

‘That you’d restore my killing bottle?’

‘No, no,’ she cried in exasperation, leaping to her feet. ‘How you do harp on that wretched old poison bottle! I wish I’d broken it!’ She caught her breath, and Jimmy rose too, facing her with distress and contrition in his eyes. But she was too angry to heed his change of mood. ‘It was something I wanted you to know—but you make things so difficult for me! I’ll fetch you your bottle,’ she continued wildly, ‘since you’re such a child as to want it! No, don’t follow me; I’ll have it sent to your room.’

He looked up; she was gone, but a faint sound of sobbing disturbed the air behind her.

It was evening, several days later, and they were sitting at dinner. How Jimmy would miss these meals when he got back to London! For a night or two, after the scene with Mrs. Verdew, he had been uneasy under the enforced proximity which the dining-table brought; she looked at him reproachfully, spoke little, and when he sought occasions to apologize to her, she eluded them. She had never been alone with him since. She had, he knew, little control over her emotions, and perhaps her pride suffered. But her pique, or whatever it was, now seemed to have passed away. She looked lovely to-night, and he realized he would miss her. Rollo’s voice, when he began to speak, was like a commentary on his thoughts.

‘Jimmy says he’s got to leave us Randolph,’ he said. ‘Back to the jolly old office.’

‘That is a great pity,’ said Randolph in his soft voice. ‘We shall miss him, shan’t we, Vera?’

Mrs. Verdew said they would.

‘All the same, these unpleasant facts have to be faced,’ remarked Rollo. ‘That’s why we were born. I’m afraid you’ve had a dull time, Jimmy, though you must have made the local flora and fauna sit up. Have you annexed any prize specimens from your raids upon the countryside?’

‘I have got one or two good ones,’ said Jimmy with a reluctance that he attributed partially to modesty.

‘By the way,’ said Rollo, pouring himself out a glass of port, for the servants had left the room, ‘I would like you to show Randolph that infernal machine of yours, Jimmy. Anything on the lines of a humane killer bucks the old chap up no end.’ He looked across at his brother, the ferocious cast of his features softened into an expression of fraternal solicitude.

After a moment’s pause Randolph said: ‘I should be much interested to be shown Mr. Rintoul’s invention.’

‘Oh, it’s not my invention,’ said Jimmy a little awkwardly.

‘You’ll forgive me disagreeing with you, Rollo,’ Mrs. Verdew, who had not spoken for some minutes, suddenly remarked. ‘I don’t think it’s worth Randolph’s while looking at it. I don’t think it would interest him a bit.’

‘How often have I told you, my darling,’ said Rollo, leaning across the corner of the table towards his wife, ‘not to contradict me? I keep a record of the times you agree with me: December, 1919, was the last.’

‘Sometimes I think that was a mistake,’ said Mrs. Verdew, rising in evident agitation, ‘for it was then I promised to marry you.’ She reached the door before Jimmy could open it for her.

‘Ah, these ladies!’ moralized Rollo, leaning back and closing his eyes. ‘What a dance the dear things lead us, with their temperaments.’ And he proceeded to enumerate examples of feminine caprice, until his brother proposed that they should adjourn to the bridge table.

The next morning Jimmy was surprised to find a note accompany his early morning tea.

Dear Mr. Rintoul (it began), since I mustn’t say ‘Dear Jimmy.’ (‘I never said she mustn’t’ Jimmy thought.) I know it isn’t easy for any man, most of all an Englishman, to understand moods, but I do beg you to forgive my foolish outburst of a few days ago. I think it must have been the air or the lime in the water that made me un po’ nervosa , as the Italians say. I know you prefer a life utterly flat and dull and even—it would kill me, but there! I am sorry. You can’t expect me to change, à mon âge ! But anyhow try to forgive me.

Yours,

P.S.—I wouldn’t trouble to show that bottle to Randolph. He has quite enough silly ideas in his head as it is.

What a nice letter, thought Jimmy drowsily. He had forgotten the killing bottle. I won’t show it to Randolph, Jimmy thought, unless he asks me.

But soon after breakfast a footman brought him a message: Mr. Verdew was in his room and would be glad to see the invention (the man’s voice seemed to put the word into inverted commas) at Mr. Rintoul’s convenience. ‘Well,’ reflected Jimmy, ‘if he’s to see it working it must have something to work on.’ Aimlessly he strolled over the drawbridge and made his way, past blocks of crumbling wall, past grassy hummocks and hollows, to the terraces. They were gay with flowers; and looked at from above, the lateral stripes and bunches of colour, succeeding each other to the bottom of the hill, had a peculiarly brilliant effect. What should he catch? A dozen white butterflies presented themselves for the honour of exhibiting their death-agony to Mr. Randolph Verdew, but Jimmy passed them by. His collector’s pride demanded a nobler sacrifice. After twenty minutes’ search he was rewarded; his net fell over a slightly battered but still recognizable specimen of the Large Tortoiseshell butterfly. He put it in a pill-box and bore it away to the house. But as he went he was visited by a reluctance, never experienced by him before, to take the butterfly’s life in such a public and coldblooded fashion; it was not a good specimen, one that he could add to his collection; it was just cannon-fodder. The heat of the day, flickering visibly upwards from the turf and flowers, bemused his mind; all around was a buzzing and humming that seemed to liberate his thoughts from contact with the world and give them the intensity of sensations. So vivid was his vision, so flawless the inner quiet from which it sprang, that he came up with a start against his own bedroom door. The substance of his day-dream had been forgotten; but it had left its ambassador behind it—something that whether apprehended by the mind as a colour, a taste, or a local inflammation, spoke with an insistent voice and always to the same purpose: ‘Don’t show Randolph Verdew the butterfly; let it go, here, out of the window, and send him an apology.’