The Travelling Grave and Other Stories

by L. P. Hartley

  ‘Really I don’t know; he was wearing a sort of death-mask that covered him almost completely, and he was made up as well, I thought, with French chalk.’

  ‘What else was queer about him?’

  ‘He didn’t talk. I couldn’t get a word out of him.’

  ‘Perhaps he was deaf.’

  ‘That occurred to me. But he heard the music all right; he danced beautifully.’

  ‘Show him to me.’

  Marion’s eyes hovered round the room without catching sight of her late partner.

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be here.’

  ‘Perhaps he’s our uninvited guest,’ said Jane, laughing. ‘Jack told me there was an extra person who couldn’t be accounted for. Now, darling, you mustn’t miss this figure: it’s the most amusing of them all. After that, there arc some favours to be given, and then supper. I long for it.’

  ‘But don’t we take off our masks first?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’d forgotten that.’

  The figure described by Mrs. Manning as being the most amusing of all would have been much more amusing, Marion thought, if they had played it without masks. If the dancers did not recognize each other, it lost a great deal of its point. Its success depended on surprise. A space had been cleared in the middle of the room, an oblong space like a badminton court, divided into two, not by a net but by a large white sheet supported at either end by the leaders of the cotillon, and held nearly at arm’s length above their heads. On one side were grouped the men, on the other the women, theoretically invisible to each other; but Marion noticed that they moved about and took furtive peeps at each other round the sides, a form of cheating which, in the interludes, the leaders tried to forestall by rushing the sheet across to intercept the view. But most of the time these stolen glimpses went on unchecked, to the accompaniment of a good deal of laughter; for while the figure was in progress the leaders were perforce stationary. One by one the men came up from behind and clasped the top edge of the sheet, so that their gloved fingers, and nothing else, were visible the farther side. With becoming hesitation a woman w’ould advance and take these anonymous fingers in her own; then the sheet was suddenly lowered and the dancers stood face to face, or rather mask to mask. Sometimes there were cries of recognition, sometimes silence, the masks were as impenetrable as the sheet had been.

  It was Marion’s turn. As she walked forward she saw that the gloved hands were not resting on the sheet like the rest; they were clutching it so tightly that the linen was caught up in creases between the fingers and crumpled round their tips. For a moment they did not respond to her touch, then they gripped with surprising force. Down went the leader’s arms, down went the comers of the sheet. But Marion’s unknown parmer did not take his cue. He forgot to release the sheet, and she remained 'with her arms held immovably aloft, the sheet falling in folds about her and almost covering her head.

  ‘An unrehearsed effect, jolly good, I call it,’ said somebody. At last, in response to playful tugs and twitches from the leaders, the man let the sheet go and discovered himself to the humiliated Marion. It was her partner of the previous figure, that uncommunicative man. His hands, that still held hers, felt cold through their kid covering.

  ‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘I can’t understand it —I feel so cold. Let’s dance.’

  They danced for a little and then sat down. Marion felt chillier than ever, and she heard her neighbours on either side complaining of the temperature. Suddenly she made a decision and rose to her feet.

  ‘Do take me somewhere where it’s warmer,’ she said. ‘I’m perished here.’

  The man led the way out of the ballroom, through the ante-room at the end where one or two couples were sitting, across the corridor into a little room where a good fire was burning, throwing everv now and then a ruddy gleam on china ornaments and silver photograph frames. It was Mrs. Manning's sitting-room.

  ‘We don’t need a light, do we?’ said her companion. ‘Let’s sit as we are.’

  It was the first time he had volunteered a remark. His voice was somehow familiar to Marion, yet she couldn’t place it; it had an alien quality that made it unrecognizable, like one’s own dress worn by someone else.

  ‘With pleasure,’ she said. ‘But we mustn’t stay long, must we? It’s only a few minutes to twelve. Can we hear the music from here?’

  They sat in silence, listening. There was no sound.

  ‘Don’t think me fussy,’ Marion said. ‘I’m enjoying this tremendously, but Jenny would be disappointed if we missed the last figure. If you don’t mind opening the door, we should hear the music begin.’

  As he did not offer to move, she got up to open it herself, but before she reached the door she heard her name called.

  ‘Marion!’

  ‘Who said that, you?’ she cried, suddenly very nervous.

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘Harry!’

  Her voice shook and she sank back into her chair, trembling violently.

  ‘How was it I didn’t recognize you? I’m—I’m so glad to sec you.’

  ‘You haven’t seen me yet,’ said he. It was like him to say that, playfully grim. His words reassured her, but his tone left her still in doubt. She did not know how to start the conversation, what effect to aim at, what note to strike; so much depended on divining his mood and playing up to it. If she could have seen his face, if she could even have caught a glimpse of the poise of his head, it would have given her a cue; in the dark like this, hardly certain of his whereabouts in the room, she felt hopelessly at a disadvantage.

  ‘It was nice of you to come and see me —if you did come to see me,’ she ventured at last.

  ‘I heard you were to be here.’ Again that non-committal tone! Trying to probe him she said:

  ‘Would you have come otherwise? It’s rather a childish entertainment, isn’t it?’

  ‘I should have come,’ he answered, ‘but it would have been in —in a different spirit.’

  She could make nothing of this.

  ‘I didn’t know the Mannings were friends of yours,’ she told him. ‘He’s rather a dear, married to a dull woman, if I must be really truthful.’

  ‘I don’t know them,’ said he.

  ‘Then you gate-crashed?’

  ‘I suppose I did.’

  ‘I take that as a compliment,’ said Marion after a pause. ‘But — forgive me —I must be very slow—I don’t understand. You said you were coming in any case.’

  ‘Some friends of mine called Chillingworth offered to bring me.’

  ‘How lucky I was! So you came with them?’

  ‘Not with them, after them.’

  ‘How odd. Wasn’t there room for you in their car? How did you get here so quickly?’

  ‘The dead travel fast.’

  His irony baffled her. But her thoughts flew to his letter, in which he accused her of having killed something in him; he must be referring to that.

  ‘Darling Hal,’ she said. ‘Believe me, I’m sorry to have hurt you. What can I do to —to------’

  There was a sound of voices calling, and her attention thus awakened caught the strains of music, muffled and remote.

  ‘They want us for the next figure. We must go,’ she cried, thankful that the difficult interview was nearly over. She was colder than ever, and could hardly keep her teeth from chattering audibly.

  ‘What is the next figure?’ he asked, without appearing to move. ‘Oh, you know —we’ve had it before —we give each other favours, then we unmask ourselves. Hal, we really ought to go! Listen! Isn’t that midnight beginning to strike?’

  Unable to control her agitation, aggravated by the strain of the encounter, the deadly sensation of cold within her, and a presentiment of disaster for which she could not account, she rushed towards the door and her outstretched left hand, finding the switch, flooded the room with light. Mechanically she turned her head to the room; it was empty. Bewildered she looked back over her left shoulder, and there,
within a foot of her, stood Harry Chichester, his arms stretched across the door.

  ‘Harry,’ she cried, ‘don’t be silly! Come out or let me out!’

  'You must give me a favour first,’ he said sombrely.

  Of course I will, but I haven’t got one here.’

  ‘I thought you always had favours to give away.’

  ‘Harry, what do you mean?’

  ‘You came unprovided?’

  She was silent.

  ‘I did not. I have something here to give you-a small token. Only I must have a quid pro quo.’

  He’s mad, thought Marion. I must humour him as far as I can.

  Very well, she said, looking around the room. Jenny would forgive her-it was an emergency. ‘May I give you this silver pencil?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Or this little vase?’

  Still he refused.

  ‘Or this calendar?’

  ‘The flight of time doesn’t interest me.’

  ‘Then what can I tempt you with?’

  ‘Something that is really your own —a kiss.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Marion, trembling, ‘you needn’t have asked for it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘And to prove I don’t want something for nothing, here is your favour.’

  He felt in his pocket. Marion saw a dark silvery gleam; she held her hand out for the gift.

  It was a revolver.

  ‘What am I to do with this?’ she asked.

  ‘You are the best judge of that,’ he replied. ‘Only one cartridge has been used.’

  Without taking her eyes from his face she laid down the revolver among the bric-à-brac on the table by her side.

  ‘And now your gift to me.’

  ‘But what about our masks?’ said Marion.

  ‘Take yours off,’ he commanded.

  ‘Mine doesn’t matter,’ said Marion, removing as she spoke the silken visor. ‘But you arc wearing an entirely false face.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ he asked, gazing at her fixedly through the slits in the mask.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I was always an empty-headed fellow,’ he went on, tapping the waxed covering with his gloved forefinger, so that it gave out a wooden hollow sound —‘there’s nothing much behind this. No brains to speak of, I mean. Less than I used to have, in fact.’

  Marion stared at him in horror.

  ‘Would you like to see? Would you like to look right into my mind?’

  ‘No! No!’ she cried wildly.

  ‘But I think you ought to,’ he said, coming a step nearer and raising his hands to his head.

  ‘Have you seen Marion?’ said Jane Manning to her husband. ‘I’ve a notion she hasn’t been enjoying herself. This was in a sense her party, you know. We made a mistake to give her Tommy Cardew as a partner; he doesn’t carry heavy enough guns for her.’

  ‘Why, does she want shooting?’ inquired her husband.

  ‘Idiot! But I could see they didn’t get on. I wonder where she’s got to —I’m afraid she may be bored.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s having a quiet talk with a howitzer,’ her husband suggested.

  Jane ignored him. ‘Darling, it’s nearly twelve. Run into the anteroom and fetch her; I don’t want her to miss the final figure.’

  In a few seconds he returned. ‘Not there,’ he said. ‘Not there, my child. Sunk by a twelve-inch shell, probably.’

  ‘She may be sitting out in the corridor.’

  ‘Hardly, after a direct hit.’

  ‘Well, look.’

  They went away and returned with blank faces. The guests were standing about talking; the members of the band, their hands ready on their instruments, looked up inquiringly.

  ‘We shall have to begin without her,’ Mrs. Manning reluctantly decided. ‘We shan’t have time to finish as it is.’

  The hands of the clock showed five minutes to twelve.

  The band played as though inspired, and many said afterwards that the cotillon never got really going, properly warmed up, till those last five minutes. All the fun of the evening seemed to come to a head, as though the spirit of the dance, mistrustful of its latter-day devotees, had withheld its benison till the final moments. Everyone was too excited to notice, as they whirled past that the butler was standing in one of the doorways with a white and anxious face. Even Mrs. Manning, when at last she saw him, called out cheerfully, almost without pausing for an answer:

  ‘Well, Jackson, everything all right, I hope?’

  ‘Can I speak to you a moment, Madam?’ he said. ‘Or perhaps Mr. Manning would be better.’

  Mrs. Manning’s heart sank. Did he want to leave?

  ‘Oh, I expect I shall do, shan’t I? I hope it’s nothing serious.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Madam, very serious.’

  A minute later her husband saw her threading her way towards him. ‘Jack! Just a moment.’

  He was dancing and affected not to hear. His partner’s eyes looked surprised and almost resentful, Mrs. Manning thought; but she persisted none the less.

  ‘I know I’m a bore and I’m sorry, but I really can’t help myself.’ This brought them to a stand.

  ‘Why, Jane, has the boiler burst?’

  ‘No, it’s more serious than that, Jack,’ she said, as he disengaged himself from his partner with an apology. ‘There’s been a dreadful accident or something at the Chilling worths’. That guest of theirs, do you remember, whom they were to have brought and didn’t---------’

  ‘Yes, he stayed behind with a headache — rotten excuse — ’

  ‘Well, he’s shot himself.’

  ‘Good God! When?’

  ‘They found him half an hour ago, apparently, but they couldn’t telephone because the machine was out of order, and had to send.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes, quite so. He blew his brains out.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘The man told me. He was called Chichester.’

  They were standing at the side of the room, partly to avoid the dancers, partly to be out of earshot. The latter consideration need not have troubled them, however. The band, which for some time past had been playing nineteenth-century waltzes, now burst into the strains of John Peel. There was a tremendous sense of excitement and climax. The dancers galloped by at break-neck speed; the band played fortissimo; the volume of sound was terrific. But above the din —the music, the laughter and the thud of feet —they could just hear the clock striking twelve.

  Jack Manning looked doubtfully at his wife.‘Should I go and tell Chillingworth now? What do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better—it seems so heartless not to. Break it to him as gently as you can, and don’t let the others know' if you can help it.’

  Jack Manning’s task was neither easy nor agreeable, and he was a born bungler. Despairing of making himself heard, he raised his hand and cried out, ‘Wait a moment!’ Some of the company stood still and, imagining it was a signal to take off their masks, began to do so; others went on dancing; others stopped and stared. He was the centre of attention; and before he had got his message fairly delivered, it had reached other ears than those for which it was intended. An excited whispering went round the room: ‘What is it? What is it?’ Men and women stood about with their masks in their hands, and faces blanker than before they were uncovered. Others looked terrified and incredulous. A woman came up to Jane Manning and said:

  ‘What a dreadful thing for Marion Lane.’

  ‘Why?’ Jane asked.

  ‘Didn’t you know? She and Harry Chichester were the greatest friends. At one time it was thought — ’

  ‘I live out of the world, I had no idea,’ said Jane quickly. Even in the presence of calamity, she felt a pang that her friend had not confided in her.

  Her interlocutor persisted: ‘It was talked about a great deal. Some people said —you know how they chatter—that she didn’t treat him quite fairly. I hate to make my
self a busybody, Mrs. Manning, but I do think you ought to tell her; she ought to be prepared.’

  ‘But I don’t know where she is!’ cried Jane, from whose mind all thought of her friend had been banished. ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Not since the sheet incident.’

  ‘Nor have I.’

  Nor, it seemed, had anyone. Disturbed by this new misadventure far more than its trivial nature seemed to warrant, Jane hastened in turn to such of her guests as might be able to enlighten her as to Marion’s whereabouts. Some of them greeted her inquiry with a lift of the eyebrows but none of them could help her in her quest. Nor could she persuade them to take much interest in it. They seemed to have forgotten that they were at a party, and owed a duty of responsiveness to their hostess. Their eyes did not light up when she came near. One and all they were discussing the suicide, and suggesting its possible motive. The room rustled with their whispering, with the soft hissing sound of ‘Chichester’ and the succeeding ‘Hush!’ which was meant to stifle but only multiplied and prolonged it. Jane felt that she must scream.

  All at once there was silence. Had she screamed? No, for the noise they had all heard came from somewhere inside the house. The room seemed to hold its breath. There it was again, and coming closer; a cry, a shriek, the shrill tones of terror alternating in a dreadful rhythm with a throaty, choking sound like whooping-cough. No one could have recognized it as Marion Lane’s voice, and few could have told for Marion Lane the dishevelled figure, mask in hand, that lurched through the ballroom doorway and with quick stumbling steps, before which the onlookers fell back, zigzagged into the middle of the room.

  ‘Stop him!’ she gasped. ‘Don’t let him do it!’Jane Manning ran to her.

  ‘Dearest, what is it?’

  ‘It’s Harry Chichester,’ sobbed Marion, her head rolling about on her shoulders as if it had come loose. ‘He’s in there. He wants to take his mask off, but I can’t bear it! It would be awful! Oh, do take him away!’

  ‘Where is he?’ someone asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know! In Jane’s sitting-room. I think, He wouldn’t let me go. He’s so cold, so dreadfully cold.’

  ‘Look after her, Jane,’ said Jack Manning. ‘Get her out of here. Anyone coming with me?’ he asked, looking round. ‘I’m going to investigate.’