Hungry Hill

by Daphne Du Maurier

  "One does not love people for what they are worth," she said gently. "One loves them for themselves."

  What did she mean? When she said the word love, did she mean pity? Did she discuss him with Henry when they were alone together, saying, "Something must be done about him"?

  "If you think you can reform me at this late hour you're wasting your time," he said.

  She went over to the window and stared out across the garden.

  "This could be such a happy, peaceful house," she said, "and you don't allow it to be so. You put your sad, angry thoughts about it."

  "It would be happy and peaceful if you lived here always," he said, "instead of coming for one night."

  "You mean," she said, smiling, "that my cheerful thoughts would dispel your gloomy ones? I wonder if they would be strong enough."

  Her profile was turned from him again towards the window. That is how I would have her painted, he said to himself, if she were mine comstanding so, with that wrap about her shoulders, and her hair gathered low on the nape of her neck.

  "Anyway, you will live here one day," he said, "you and Henry, after I am dead. And your portrait will hang on the wall in the dining-room, beside Aunt Jane and the picture of us all as children. Perhaps it will bring back the peace that I have destroyed."

  She looked at him gravely, and he wanted to kneel beside her and hide his face in the folds of her gown like a shame-faced lad.

  "You may marry, Johnnie," she said; "you may have children."

  Her words stung him to the reality of the present.

  Once again he saw the gate-house kitchen, the priest, the weeping Kate.

  "Never," he said violently, "never, I swear it."

  The horror of his position came upon him with renewed force; he began walking up and down the room, running his hands through his hair.

  "I shall have to leave Clonmere," he said, "I shall have to get away. I can't possibly stay now this has happened."

  "What has happened, Johnnie?" she said.

  He had spoken without thinking, and now he stopped short, flushed, and guilty, and confused. What in heaven's name would she. think of him if she knew what he had been doing these past months, culminating in the present degradation at the gate-house? She would be aghast, revolted. .

  "If you have done something you are ashamed of," she said quietly, "why don't you ask God to help you?"

  He stared at her hopelessly.

  "The Almighty has no time for people like me, Katherine," he said. "If he did I should not be in the mess I am now."

  And suddenly he was aware, fully and unmistakably, of the great gulf between them, which because of his years of guilt, and vice, and self-indulgence could never be bridged. He saw the gentle pattern of her life, calm, and quiet, and untroubled, believing in God because she was naturally good, naturally free from temptation and trial. She told him, with simplicity, that one day he might marry, not knowing that the only woman he would ever want as a wife would be herself, the only children he could ever bear to hold the children she might have given him. Would he ask God to help him? Yes, if Katherine had taught him how to pray, if Katherine had knelt beside him every night, if Katherine had been the mistress of Clonmere, his wife, his loved one, then indeed there would be peace in his house, and peace in his heart too, and godliness, and joy. Should he tell her? he wondered. Should he risk everything and confess his love, his misery, his shame?

  "Katherine," he said slowly, and came towards her, his hands outstretched, his eyes beseeching, and he saw the sudden understanding in her eyes, the blinding flash of intuition, as she turned white and leant against the wall.

  "Why, Johnnie," she said in wonder, "why, Johnnie…? And then there was a sudden footstep beneath the window, the crunch of gravel, and the sound of Henry's voice, gay and confident, calling to his wife. She turned, and Went out of the library, leaving him alone. He stood there staring at the place where she had been.

  Johnnie sat in the cabin of the Princess Victoria, in Slane harbour, waiting for the steamer to weigh anchor. His manservant had stowed away his trunks and baggage beneath the berth, and had taken himself off to his own quarters. The vessel rocked slightly, and now and again, through the open port-hole, came the mournful hooting from another ship progressing down the harbour. From the deck above came the tramp of feet, and an occasional whistle.

  Through the darkness glimmered the lights of Slane.

  There was a draught coming from the port-hole, and Johnnie's ulster, hanging on the door, swayed back-Wards and forwards. His light portmanteau, placed on a chair by his servant, slid gently to the cabin floor. The label upon it stared up at the owner. "Captain Brodrick. Destination London." And then what? Johnnie shrugged his shoulders. London and beyond…

  He had only a hazy recollection of the past few weeks, and an imperfect memory as to how he had got himself upon the Princess Victoria at all. He had written dozens of letters. That was the chief thing that stood out in his mind. He had sat down to his grandfather's desk in the library at Clonmere and written letters to everyone who knew him, letters asking forgiveness of his relatives and friends. Why had he done so? He did not know. He could not remember.

  But that the letters had been written and dispatched was as clear as the fact that he was now on board the Princess Victoria, because some of the answers to them lay upon the berth beside him. The vessel, proceeding down-stream, hooted again, mournful, insistent.

  Johnnie got up and closed the port-hole, and reached for the flask in his ulster pocket. Five hours until midnight. . And then farewell to Slane, farewell to this country of mist and tears, and away to what future, what ultimate destination, only the Almighty in his heaven knew.

  Johnnie picked up one of his letters at random.

  It was from his brother-in-law, Bill Eyre, and was written from the parsonage at East Ferry.

  My dear John, I thank you from my heart for your most kind and considerate letter, I feel too deeply my own weakness and sins of omission not to pity and pray for you, who are now so greatly tempted. I have not allowed a single day since leaving your house to pass without imploring the Holy Spirit's inspiration and direction for you. God forbid that I should cease to pray for you.

  And now, my dear Johnnie, don't think I am taking an unwarrantable liberty in beseeching you by all the mercies of God, by the value of your immortal soul, by all you hope of a future state, by every consideration which is dear to you, to abstain from your soul and body destroyer (drink). Oh, my dear Johnnie, how I tremble, fearing some awful calamity may occur which might bring you to an early and dishonourable grave. No words can express the agony I felt, for your family's sake, during that last visit to Clonmere, when I saw you hastening to an end too dreadful to think of, and observed the fearful excitement under which you laboured at that time. I am sure you will not take offence at anything I have written. My dear Johnnie, commending you to the care of your heavenly Father, and again imploring His grace for you, believe me your most affectionate brother-in-law, Bill Eyre.

  Johnnie threw the letter aside, and took another drink from his flask. He picked up a second letter from the pile. This was from Henry.

  My very dear Johnnie, I have had a long talk with Uncle Willie Armstrong about you and matters in Doonhaven. The lady may leave this country for America, if Jack Donovan and Father Healey will let her. But I much fear that these two people are playing a very deep game. They want you to marry her, make you a R. c., and get the property into their hands. You may be angry with me for writing this, and you may also be angry when I beg of you, as your brother and friend, to make Jack Donovan and his sister leave the gate-house. I wish he would leave the country, and if not, be out of your sight and out of your way as much as he can. I beg and pray of you not to drink; all will be well if you do not. The many talents God has given you ought not to be thrown away. Give it up, old fellow, and make yourself, and every friend (and they are note few), happy…

  There was more of it, but Johnnie pu
t it down, and took up a third. This was from his godfather.

  I have seen Kate Donovan, and she is willing to leave the country in a few months' time. There is no evidence at all as to her condition. Donovan professes his willingness to agree to any arrangement it may please you to make with regard to his sister, and I suggest that the next step is for them to quit Doonhaven, and for you to authorize me or your brother to pay their travelling expenses to wherever they think fit to go, and when I hear from them that they have arrived at their destination, Henry or I will state, through you, what you are prepared to do for their benefit. My reason for this, of course, it will be perfectly superfluous for me to tell you, as you will see at once the advisability of not perpetrating a scandal by the presence of the parties in the place where such scandal occurred. Your absence, however, will conduce most of all to the proposed arrangement. I am every hour more confirmed that you ought to remain away for some time.

  Believe me, dear Johnnie, Yours ever, William Armstrong.

  How glad they must all be, thought Johnnie, in the secrecy of their hearts, to be rid of him, and what a fine, noble exit he was making, running away from responsibility like a rat, leaving other people to clear up the mess he had made. He was certainly heroic, was Captain John Brodrick, late of Clonmere Castle, Doonhaven. And here was the gem of them all, here was the scrap from his aunt Eliza.

  My dear Johnnie, Do not make me unhappy in talking as if there was anything to forgive between us, as I assure you most solemnly there is nothing on earth that would give me greater delight than to promote your happiness in every way. I suspect that your affections are concerned in some way at the moment, causing you to write as you have done, and I only wish that the lady whom you honour, whoever she is, could reciprocate your feelings, for all our sakes. I know not how to thank you sufficiently for making me a present of able100, and also for the loan of the 300 I had from you previously. I have always considered you the kindest and most honourable of my nephews, and the longer I live the more reason I have to do so. My dear love to you, and my sincere thanks for all your kindness.

  Your affectionate aunt, Eliza, Johnnie laughed. The kindest and most honourable of all her nephews… He picked up the bunch of letters, and threw them in a corner of the cabin.

  Someone tapped on his door.

  "If you want to stretch your legs ashore, sir, the last boat is just due to leave," called the steward. "She will be bringing the pilot aboard shortly after eleven, and you could return with him."

  Johnnie glanced round the lonely, dingy cabin that was to be his home for the next forty-eight hours.

  "Thank you," he said. "I shall take advantage of it."

  The lights of Slane beckoned across the water, and Johnnie, his hands deep in his ulster pockets, thought of the one letter he had not written, therefore receiving no answer in return.

  What could he have said to her that was not better expressed by his silence? Since that morning when he had looked at her in the library, and she had understood, and had gone from the room, they had not been alone together. The day had passed, and the night, and nothing more was said; and in the morning she had gone. They had all departed-Henry, and Katherine, and Bill Eyre, and his godfather-and the words he had wished to speak were never uttered, the help he yearned to ask for would never be given. Captain John Brodrick.

  Destination London…

  He wondered, standing there on the quay-side, whether she was sitting now in the drawing-room at East Grove. Perhaps she was playing the piano, and Henry was lying in his chair before the fire, listening to her. He began to walk, heedless of his direction.

  And staring straight in front of him, brushing the people from the pavements as he was wont to do, he found himself presently standing before her house, with no knowledge of how he had reached it. The curtains were drawn across the windows, and a chink of light came from the shutters.

  He stood there, his hands in his pockets, looking at the door. A cab passed along the street, and in the distance he could still hear the muffled river noises-a whistle, the clanging of a bell. He went forward and lifted the knocker on the door. In a few minutes it was opened by Thomas, who peered at him through the darkness without recognition.

  "Is Mrs. Brodrick at home?" said Johnnie.

  Then Thomas gave a start, and opened the door wider.

  "I didn't see it was you, sir," he said apologetically. "No, I'm afraid Mr. and Mrs. Henry have gone out to dinner."

  "Never mind," said Johnnie, "it doesn't matter."

  "Would you care to come in and wait, sir? They may not be home until after ten. There's a nice fire in the drawing-room."

  Johnnie hesitated. Even here, standing on the threshold, the peace of the house enfolded him, the kindliness, the warmth.

  "Perhaps I will, Thomas," he said slowly.

  The man showed him into the drawing-room and withdrew, shutting the door behind him, first turning up the lamps and poking the fire.

  Johnnie went and sat in Henry's chair.

  Opposite him was Katherine's chair where she had sat before she went out to dinner, because on the chintz cover was the imprint of where she had been. There was her needlework on the low stool before the fire, and a book she had been reading. In the corner of the chair was a little white woolly lamb. She must have been sitting with her baby daughter on her lap, showing her the lamb, while Henry, in the chair where Johnnie sat now, leant back and watched them both. Then the nurse would have come down and taken the child up to bed, and Katherine, moving on to the stool to have the warmth of the fire, would take her needlework and talk to Henry, ask him questions about his day. Then they would go upstairs to their room and dress for dinner, Henry grumbling a little, perhaps, because of the inconvenience of turning out, but content enough at heart because he always enjoyed himself wherever he went, on all occasions.

  Katherine would wear the white gown she had worn that night at Clonmere, and before leaving the house she would look into the drawing-room a moment to see that the lamps had been turned down and that the guard was before the fire. He could see her standing there by the door, the light in the hall shining in her hair, her cloak about her shoulders, and she would leave behind her something of herself, fragrant, indefinable, the blessed peace of her presence that he felt now, as he sat there, in the chair that was not his… But it was not any use sitting there, because he had to go away, he had to go to the ship and across the water and not return again, perhaps, for months, for years. It was no use sitting there in this house that did not belong to him.

  He got up, and looked for the last time about the room. He touched the piano that was hers, the keys where her fingers had rested. He went over to her desk and saw the neatness of it, the stack of smooth white paper, the little scarlet pen. He wanted something of hers to take with him, and on a sudden impulse he picked up the small black leather volume that was lying on the top of the desk. It was a copy of the New Testament. He put it in his pocket, and going out into the hall, he lifted his coat and his hat from the chair where Thomas had placed them. The hall was deserted. Thomas had gone back to the kitchen.

  The grandfather clock ticked slowly in its corner.

  It was five minutes to nine. Two hours before the pilot boat would return to the ship. Johnnie opened the front door and again stood looking up and down the empty street. There were other places in Slane where there would be warmth and comfort, places where he might forget the dark, dreary cabin of the Princess Victoria and the grim finality of the labels on his luggage, "Captain John Brodrick. Destination London." A little wind blew round the corner of the street, and the door of Henry's house shut behind him with a slam. Farewell to Slane. Farewell to his country. Johnnie laughed, thinking once more of Aunt Eliza's letter, and turning his coat collar up against the wind, and pulling his hat over his eyes, he began to walk up the street towards the city.

  It was to East Grove that the police came, two days afterwards. They arrived while Henry and Katherine were having breakfast
, and the inspector asked to speak privately to Mr. Brodrick. Henry came out into the hall immediately, leaving Katherine in the dining-room.

  "You are a relative, I believe, sir, of Captain Brodrick?" said the man.

  "I am his brother," said Henry. "Is anything the matter?"

  The inspector explained to him, in brief words, what had happened. Henry went with him at once.

  They were narrow and dark and not of great attraction, the back streets of Slane, and the house to which the inspector brought him was grey, with a cheap, garish look about the beaded curtains at the window. A frightened-faced woman was waiting for them in the hall.

  "It's not my fault," she began, on sight of Henry. "I've never had anything happen in my house like this before, and you know it, Mr. Sweeny. You can't get me into trouble about it."

  Her voice was shrill and nervous. The inspector bade her hold her tongue. He led Henry upstairs to a bedroom on the second floor, and taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked the door. The room was in disorder. Johnnie's boots were in one corner, his clothes in another. There were some half-dozen empty whisky bottles, balanced with great nicety, one on top of the other, in the middle of the floor, and round the neck of the highest was a woman's garter, crimson in colour, made of shabby silk. Johnnie himself lay on the bed, half-dressed. He looked in death more peaceful than he had ever done in life. The sullen, angry expression had gone for ever. His eyes were closed, as though he slept, and his black hair was thick and tumbled like a little boy's.

  In one hand he clutched an empty bottle, and in the other the New Testament.

  BOOK FOUR

  Henry, 1858–1874

  IT WAS WINTER AGAIN at Clonmere, and the cap of Hungry Hill was white with snow. The sun shone brightly, and there was a crisp, fine tang about the air, a sense of lightness, as though the old, wet melancholy of autumn was laid aside forever and forgotten, while this new cold clarity heralded the spring. The fallen leaves in the park were dry, and crinkled with the frost. The naked trees lifted black branches to the blue sky, and the short grass before the castle was dusted with silver. The tide ebbed swiftly from the creek, the surface of the water shipped with a lively ripple, and the thin smoke from the castle chimneys rose straight in the air like a column.