‘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,
Vera Verdew.
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.’
For a few minutes, such was the force of this inward monitor, Jimmy did contemplate setting the butterfly at liberty. He was prone to sudden irrational scruples and impulses, and if there was nothing definite urging him the other way he often gave in to them. But in this case there was. Manners demanded that he should accede to his host’s request; the rules of manners, of all rules in life, were the easiest to recognize and the most satisfactory to act upon. Not to go would be a breach of manners.
‘How kind of you,’ said Randolph, coming forward and shaking Jimmy’s hand, a greeting that, between two members of the same household, struck him as odd. ‘You have brought your invention with you?’
Jimmy saw that it was useless to disclaim the honour of its discovery. He unwrapped the bottle and handed it to Randolph.
Randolph carried it straight away to a high window, the sill of which was level with his eyes and above the top of Jimmy’s head. He held the bottle up to the light. Oblong in shape and about the size of an ordinary jam jar, it had a deep whitish pavement of plaster, pitted with brown furry holes like an overripe cheese. Resting on the plaster, billowing and coiling up to the glass stopper, stood a fat column of cotton-wool. The most striking thing about the bottle was the word poison printed in large, loving characters on a label stuck to the outside.
‘May I release the stopper?’ asked Randolph at length.
‘You may,’ said Jimmy, ‘but a whiff of the stuff is all you want.’
Randolph stared meditatively into the depths of the bottle. ‘A rather agreeable odour,’ he said. ‘But how small the bottle is. I had figured it to myself as something very much larger.’
‘Larger?’ echoed Jimmy. ‘Oh, no, this is quite big enough for me. I don t need a mausoleum.’
‘But I was under the impression,’ Randolph Verdew remarked, still fingering the bottle, ‘that you used it to destroy pests.’
‘If you call butterflies pests,’ said Jimmy, smiling.
‘I am afraid that some of them must undeniably be included in that category,’ pronounced Mr. Verdew, his voice edged with a melancholy decisiveness. ‘The cabbage butterfly, for instance. And it is, of course, only the admittedly noxious insects that need to be destroyed.’
‘All insects are more or less harmful,’ Jimmy said.
Randolph Verdew passed his hand over his brow. The shadow of a painful thought crossed his face, and he murmured uncertainly:
‘I think that’s a quibble. There are categories . . . I have been at some pains to draw them up. . . . The list of destructive lepidoptera is large, too large. . . . That is why I imagined your lethal chamber would be a vessel of considerable extent, possibly large enough to admit a man, and its use attended by some danger to an unpractised exponent.’
‘Well,’ said Jimmy, ‘there’s enough poison here to account for half a town. But let me show you how it works.’ And he took the pill-box from his pocket. Shabby, battered and cowed, the butterfly stood motionless, its wings closed and upright.
‘Now,’ said Jimmy, ‘you’ll see.’
The butterfly was already between the fingers and half-way to the bottle, when he heard, faint but clear, the sound of a cry. It was twosyllabled, like the interval of the cuckoo’s call inverted, and might have been his own name.
‘Listen!’ he exclaimed. ‘What was that? It sounded like Mrs. Verdew’s voice.’ His swiftly turning head almost collided with his host’s chin, so near had the latter drawn to watch the operation, and chased the tail-end of a curious look from Randolph Verdew’s face.
‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
Alas, alas, for the experiment in humane slaughter! The butterfly must have been stronger than it looked; the power of the killing bottle had no doubt declined with frequent usage. Up and down, round and round flew the butterfly; its frantic flutterings could be heard through the thick walls of its glass prison. It clung to the cotton-wool, pressed itself into corners, its straining, delicate tongue coiling and uncoiling in the effort to suck in a breath of living air. Now it was weakening. It fell from the cotton-wool and lay with its back on the plaster slab. It jolted itself up and down and, when strength for this movement failed, it clawed the air with its thin legs as though pedalling an imaginary bicycle. Suddenly, with a violent spasm, it gave birth to a thick cluster of yellowish eggs. Its body twitched once or twice and at last lay still.
Jimmy shrugged his shoulders in annoyance and turned to his host. The look of horrified excitement whose vanishing vestige he had seen a moment before, lay full and undisguised upon Randolph Verdew’s face. He only said:
‘Of what flower or vegetable is that dead butterfly the parasite?’
‘Oh, poor thing,’ said Jimmy carelessly, ‘it’s rather a rarity. Its caterpillar may have eaten an elm-leaf or two—nothing more. It’s too scarce to be a pest. It’s fond of gardens and frequented places, the book says—rather sociable, like a robin.’
‘It could not be described a
s injurious to human life?’
‘Oh, no. It’s a collector’s specimen really. Only this is too damaged to be any good.’
‘Thank you for letting me see the invention in operation,’ said Randolph Verdew, going to his desk and sitting down. Jimmy found his silence a little embarrassing. He packed up the bottle and made a rather awkward, self-conscious exit.
The four bedroom candles always stood, their silver flashing agreeably, cheek by jowl with the whisky decanter and the hot-water kettle and the soda. Now, the others having retired, there were only two, one of which (somewhat wastefully, for he still had a half-empty glass in his hand) Rollo was lighting.
‘My dear fellow,’ he was saying to Jimmy, “I’m sorry you think the new model insecticide fell a bit flat. But Randolph’s like that, you know: damned undemonstrative cove, I must say, though he’s my own brother.’
‘He wasn’t exactly undemonstrative,’ answered Jimmy, perplexity written on his face.
‘No, rather like an iceberg hitting you amidships,’ said his friend. ‘Doesn’t make a fuss, but you feel it all the same. But don’t you worry, Jimmy; I happen to know that he enjoyed your show. Fact is, he told me so.’ He gulped down some whisky.
‘I’m relieved,’ said Jimmy, and he obviously spoke the truth. ‘I’ve only one more whole day here, and I should be sorry if I’d hurt his feelings.’
‘Yes, and I’m afraid you’ll have to spend it with him alone,’ said Rollo, compunction colouring his voice. ‘I was coming to that. Fact is, Vera and I have unexpectedly got to go away to-morrow for the day.’ He paused; a footman entered and began walking uncertainly about the room. ‘Now, Jimmy,’ he went on, ‘be a good chap and stay on a couple of days more. You do keep us from the blues so. That’s all right, William, we don’t want anything,’ he remarked parenthetically to the footman’s retreating figure. ‘I haven’t mentioned it to Randolph, but he’d be absolutely charmed if you’d grace our humble dwelling a little longer. You needn’t tell anyone anything: just stay, and we shall be back the day after to-morrow. It’s hellish that we’ve got to go, but you know this bread-winning business: it’s the early bird that catches the worm. And talking of that, we have to depart at cock-crow. I may not see you again—that is, unless you stay, as I hope you will. Just send a wire to the old blighter who works with you and tell him to go to blazes.’
‘Well,’ said Jimmy, delighted by the prospect, ‘you certainly do tempt me.’
‘Then fall, my lad,’ said Rollo, catching him a heavy blow between the shoulder-blades. ‘I shan’t say good-bye, but “au revoir.” Don’t go to bed sober; have another drink.’
But Jimmy declined. The flickering candles lighted them across the hall and up the stone stairs.
And it’s lucky I have a candle, Jimmy thought, trying in vain the third and last switch, the one on the reading-lamp by the bed. The familiar room seemed to have changed, to be closing hungrily, with a vast black embrace, upon the nimbus of thin clear dusk that shone about the candle. He walked uneasily up and down, drew a curtain and let in a ray of moonlight. But the silver gleam crippled the candlelight without adding any radiance of its own, so he shut it out. This window must be closed, thought Jimmy, that opens on to the parapet, for I really couldn’t deal with a stray cat in this localized twilight. He opened instead a window that gave on to the sheer wall. Even after the ritual of tooth-cleaning he was still restless and dissatisfied, so after a turn or two he knelt by the bed and said his prayers—whether from devotion or superstition he couldn’t tell: he only knew that he wanted to say them.
‘Come in!’ he called next morning, in answer to the footman’s knock.
‘I can’t come in, sir,’ said a muffled voice. ‘The door’s locked.’
How on earth had that happened? Then Jimmy remembered. As a child he always locked the door because he didn’t like to be surprised saying his prayers. He must have done so last night, unconsciously. How queer! He felt full of self-congratulation—he didn’t know why. ‘And—oh, William!’ he called after the departing footman.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘The light’s fused, or something. It wouldn’t go on last night.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Jimmy addressed himself to the tea. But what was this? Another note from Mrs. Verdew!
Dear Jimmy (he read),
You will forgive this impertinence, for I’ve got a piece of good news for you. In future, you won’t be able to say that women never help a man in his career! (Jimmy was unaware of having said so.) As you know, Rollo and I have to leave to-morrow morning. I don’t suppose he told you why, because it’s rather private. But he’s embarking on a big undertaking that will mean an enormous amount of litigation and lawyer’s fees! Think of that! (Though I don’t suppose you think of anything else.) I know he wants you to act for him: but to do so you positively must leave Verdew to-morrow. Make any excuse to Randolph; send yourself a telegram if you want to be specially polite: but you must catch the night train to London. It’s the chance of a life. You can get through to Rollo on the telephone next morning. Perhaps we could lunch together—or dine? À bientôt, therefore.
Vera Verdew.
P.S.—I shall be furious if you don’t come.
Jimmy pondered Mrs. Verdew’s note, trying to read between its lines. One thing was clear: she had fallen in love with him. Jimmy smiled at the ceiling. She wanted to see him again, so soon, so soon! Jimmy smiled once more. She couldn’t bear to wait an unnecessary day. How urgent women were! He smiled more indulgently. And, also, how exacting. Here was this cock-and-bull story, all about Rollo’s ‘undertaking’ which would give him, Jimmy, the chance of a lifetime ! And because she was so impatient she expected him to believe it! Luncheon, indeed! Dinner! How could they meet for dinner, when Rollo was to be back at Verdew that same evening? In her haste she had not even troubled to make her date credible. And then: ‘I shall be furious if you don’t come.’ What an argument! What confidence in her own powers did not that sentence imply! Let her be furious, then, as furious as she liked.
Her voice, just outside his door, interrupted his meditation. ‘Only a moment, Rollo, it will only take me a moment!’ And Rollo’s reply, spoken in a tone as urgent as hers, but louder: ‘I tell you there isn’t time: we shall miss the train.’ He seemed to hustle her away downstairs, poor Vera. She had really been kind to Jimmy, in spite of her preposterous claims on his affection. He was glad he would see her again to-morrow. . . . Verdew was so much nicer than London. . . . He began to doze.
On the way back from the woods there was a small low church with a square tower and two bells—the lower one both cracked and flat. You could see up into the belfry through the slats in the windows. Close by the church ran a stream, choked with green scum except where the cattle went down to drink, and crossed by a simple bridge of logs set side by side. Jimmy liked to stand on the bridge and listen to the unmelodious chime. No one heeded it, no one came to church, and it had gone sour and out of tune. It gave Jimmy an exquisite, slightly morbid sense of dereliction and decay, which he liked to savour in solitude; but this afternoon a rustic had got there first.
‘Good-day,’ he said.
‘Good-day,’ said Jimmy.
‘You’re from the castle, I’m thinking?’ the countryman surmised.
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you find Mr. Verdew?’
‘Which Mr. Verdew?’
‘Why, the squire, of course.’
‘I think he’s pretty well,’ said Jimmy.
‘Ah, he may appear to be so,’ the labourer observed; ‘but them as has eyes to see and ears to hear, knows different.’
‘Isn’t he a good landlord?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Yes,’ said the old man. ‘He’s a tolerably good landlord. It isn’t that.’ He seemed to relish his mysteriousness.
‘You like Mr. Rollo Verdew better?’ suggested Jimmy.
‘I wouldn’t care to say that, sir. He’s a wild one, Mr. Rollo.’
‘Don’t you be too sure, sir.’
‘I’ve never seen him so.’
‘There’s not many that have. And those that have—some won’t tell what they saw and some can’t.’
‘Why won’t they?’
‘Because it’s not their interest to.’
‘And why can’t the others?’
‘Because they’re dead.’
There was a pause.
‘How did they die?’ asked Jimmy.
‘That’s not for me to say,’ the old man answered, closing his mouth like a trap. But this gesture, as Jimmy had already learned, was only part of his conversational technique. In a moment he began again:
‘Did you ever hear of the Verdew murders?’
‘Something.’
‘Well, ‘twasn’t only dogs that was killed.’
‘I know.’
‘But they were all killed the same way.’
‘How?’
‘With a knife,’ said the old man. ‘Like pigs. From ear to ear,’ he added, making an explanatory gesture; ‘from ear to ear.’ His voice became reminiscent. ‘Tom Presland was a friend o’ mine. I seed him in the evening and he said, he says, “That blamed donkey weren’t worth a ten-pound fine.” And I said, “You’re lucky not to be in prison,” for in case you don’t know, sir, the Bench here don’t mind fellows being a bit hasty with their animals, although Mr. Verdew is the chairman. I felt nigh killing the beast myself sometimes, it was that obstinate. “But, Bill,” he says, “I don’t feel altogether comfortable when I remember what happened to Jack Didwell.” And sure enough he was found next morning in the ditch with his throat gapin’ all white at the edges, just like poor old Jack. And the donkey was a contrary beast, that had stood many a knock before, harder than the one what killed him.’
The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley Page 32