Daphne du Maurier - Hungry Hill

We had a letter from some friends of ours, the Mallets, who met Henry here and gave a very poor account of his health, so I threw up my plan for returning to Clonmere and came here instead. I might have saved myself the trouble."

Fanny-Rosa seemed relieved. She sat down beside her mother, and played with the fringe of her dress.

"I think possibly the carnival festivities were a little too much for Henry," she said. "He looked rather unwell afterwards. He was in bed two or three days."

"Such a charming young man, Mr. Brodrick," said Mrs. Flower; "we were all quite delighted with him. It must have been the last evening of the carnival that exhausted him; he and Fanny-Rosa went to see some procession or other-did you not, my dear? — and returned very late. I know I had gone to bed, and was asleep when you came in. Heaven knows what happened to your father, he never came back for the night, but it was the next day that Henry kept to his room, was it not, Fanny-Rosa?"

"I'm afraid I've forgotten," said her daughter.

She made a little curtsey to Copper John, asked to be remembered to Henry when he met with him, hesitated a moment, and then left the room. Soon after John Brodrick also made his excuses, and departed. He found he had time to dine, rest for a few hours, and then catch the coach for the homeward route.

The Flowers had not been very helpful, he considered.

Their whole attitude to the business was typical of them-they were as careless and as improvident here in Italy as they were at home at Castle Andriff.

It was disgraceful to see a man of middle-age like himself, with a grown family, sitting in a Neapolitan cafe and drinking with some woman of the town, in the middle of the afternoon, as he had seen Simon Flower, and to reflect that the money he did it on, which the luckless proprietor of the hotel had apparently not yet seen, was no doubt a gift from Simon Flower's father-in-law, Robert Lumley, as a result of last summer's profit from the mine on Hungry Hill. He, John Brodrick, the Director, worked ten hours a day to obtain the greatest efficiency from the mine, so that it was probably the best-conducted mine in the kingdom, and an idle good-for-nothing toper like Simon Flower sat on his backside in the sun and reaped the benefit.

He left Naples weary and low in spirits, and the tedious homeward journey, with no certainty of coming up with his son, loomed as a nightmare before him.

Stage after stage was passed, and town after town, and all along the route he made enquiries after a young man of fair complexion and slight build, who would seem fatigued and possibly unwell. Once or twice he met with success. Yes, the people of the hotel in question had seen a young man answering to the description. He had stayed a night under their roof a week or ten days ago. The young gentleman seemed much tired, and coughed a great deal. He had given a letter to be posted. No, they did not recollect to whom. Not to England. To an address in Naples, they thought. No doubt the present gentleman would soon catch up with his son…

And at the next town there would be a blank stare to his question, a shrug of the shoulders, an expression of regret. The young gentleman described had not been seen. '

It was strange, thought Copper John, that the Flowers had made no mention of hearing from Henry.

He would hardly have written to anyone else in Naples. Possibly the letter, or letters, had miscarried, And on he went, day after day, in France now, the heat somewhat less oppressive, but the route dusty and exhausting and the sun staring down from a glazed blue sky. On the evening of the fourth of June the coach rattled into the little old town of Sens, some seventy miles south-east of Paris, and drew up at the Hotel de l'Ecu. Tomorrow, thought Copper John, as he descended stiffly from the vehicle, I shall be in the capital, where I am more than certain to have news of Henry. He would no doubt have called upon the Mallets, and might even be staying in their apartment. What a relief it would be to have the journey three-parts done, and to return home together.

He made his way into the hotel, a dark, stuffy, old-fashioned sort of building, and asked for the proprietor. He came at once, a large man with a cheerful round face, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, for he was in the middle of supper. Copper John, in his poor, careful French, asked him the inevitable question. Had he met with a young man, of slight build and fair complexion, who might seem fatigued or unwell? At his words the expression on the landlord's face changed instantly.

He put his hand on John Brodrick's shoulder, and burst into a torrent of French that the other could not follow, and then turned, and disappeared a moment, returning with a woman, his wife, and one or two other persons. They all began to question Copper John, each one talking above the other, and finally the traveller, in desperation, said: "I am the father of the young man. In God's name, does anyone here speak English?"

There was immediate silence. The woman said softly: "C'est le pere. Quelle tristesse! Faut lui montrer la chambre…?

There was another consultation, in low tones, and then the landlord, his face very grave, asked Copper John to have the goodness to wait a few minutes; he would send for Monsieur Getif, the doctor, who would explain everything, and knew a few words of English.

Copper John was now greatly alarmed. The people at the hotel had obviously seen Henry, and this doctor they spoke of had attended him. The woman offered him refreshment, which he refused, and he sat down to wait, while they stood respectfully at a distance, watching him, and now and again exchanging whispered words the sense of which he could not catch. The suspense of waiting was well-nigh intolerable, but in about twenty minutes the landlord returned, accompanied by a tall, thin man, bearded, and spectacled, who at the sight of Copper John came forward and bowed, removing his spectacles and polishing them, as a little instinctive sign of nervousness.

"You are the father, monsieur?" he said, in a hushed tone.

"I am," replied Copper John. "I beg you to tell me immediately, is there anything amiss with my son?"

Monsieur Getif swallowed, and made a gesture with his hands.

"I regret very much," he said, "you have to prepare yourself for a great shock, monsieur. Your son has been gravely ill, with a congestion pulmonaire.

I did what I could, but the disease was too advanced."

"What exactly are you trying to tell me?" asked Copper John steadily.

"Monsieur, you must have courage… Your son died yesterday, at five o'clock in the morning…

. His body lies in the room above."

Copper John did not answer. He stared past the doctor and the sympathetic, curious faces of the landlord and his wife, out of the window to the dusty, cobbled street. A cart rumbled past, and a boy driving called loudly to the horse, cracking his whip. The bells on the cart tinkled. The clock on the old church across the square chimed out the hour. He loosened his cravat, and then tightened his hold on his stick.

"Would you take me upstairs to my son?" he said.

The doctor led the way, the landlord and his wife following in the rear. They went to a room on the first floor, overlooking the street. The curtains were drawn against the light. Two candles were burning at the head of the bed, and two at the foot. Henry lay between them. There was only a white sheet over him, and his face was uncovered. He looked very young, and peaceful, and still. His clothes were folded neatly on the chair against the wall. His wallet, and keys, and books were on the mantelpiece. A whisper from the wife of the landlord broke the silence.

"She says nothing has been touched," said the doctor, "it is just as he arranged his things."