Hungry Hill

by Daphne Du Maurier

  "Keep your animal under control, can't you?" shouted Copper John to the owner, who appeared at the door of the shop, flushed and scowling, and ready to give quarrel. When Copper John saw who it was he turned his back, and walked away from the quay to the market-square, his son and his daughters following.

  The man watched them, sullen resentment in his face, and then bent down to his injured dog, muttering to himself, while from nowhere a crowd collected about him, asking questions and giving shrill advice.

  "How unfortunate!" whispered Barbara, flushing.

  "Did you see?"

  "Yes," said Jane slowly, "yes '

  Looking over her shoulder, she saw the Henrietta gathering way through the water, as the boats towed her into mid-channel, and the sails broke out upon the yards.

  Their father made no allusion to the incident. He helped Fanny-Rosa to mount her horse, and then exchanged a word or two with Bob Flower, giving him some message to take to Robert Lumley, their grandfather, on the next visit to Duncroom.

  Doctor Armstrong and the officers shook hands and departed, the Flowers rode away up the hill on the road to Andriff, and the Brodricks, climbing into their father's carriage, drove home to Clonmere. The sun had gone down behind the trees, and the castle and the creek were in shadow. They stood out on the drive for a moment or two, watching the Henrietta in the distance, and then she disappeared behind Doon Island and they saw her no more.

  Copper John went slowly into the house, his hands clasped behind his back. Barbara and Eliza followed. Only John and Jane walked down to the far end of the grounds, where the last fir tree spread his bent branches above the sea, and they looked out over the wide harbour water to the last gleam of sunshine that played on Hungry Hill.

  "I wish it had not happened," said Jane.

  "What do you mean?" asked John.

  "I wish that father had not hit Sam Donovan's dog."

  "Oh, that… Yes, it leaves a sort of sourness to the day. I would have had a look at the dog, but it would have been no use. My father would have been angry, and Sam Donovan taken it the wrong way."

  "You could have done nothing. I only wish it had not happened… Do you really think the Barbados will make Harry better?"

  "I am sure of it. He will be in Naples in the spring. You must have heard him arrange a meeting with Fanny-Rosa."

  John turned, and began to stroll back towards the house. Jane took his arm. Both were silent, both were thinking about Henry. Jane remembered his gay smile, his laugh, his wave of the hand from the little boat as it drew away from the quay-side to the Henrietta, and she wondered how much of it was spontaneous, natural, and how much might be assumed, a mask hiding his illness from his family and from himself. John saw only a balcony in Naples, and on that balcony a girl who was Fanny-Rosa, with a flower behind her ear that she threw to Henry. Perhaps there were lakes in the hills behind Naples, like the lake on Hungry Hill. Perhaps Fanny-Rosa would bathe there too, and show her nakedness to Henry. Perhaps she would walk with him, hand in hand, and then lie down and let him kiss her.

  Henry, who was so much worthier than himself, who was clever, who was charming, who was finer in every way.

  Henry, who was ill… The jealousy that possessed him was so shameful and despicable a thing that he was filled with hatred for himself and for his thoughts.

  Loving his brother, he yet grudged him one glance, one smile, one touch from Fanny-Rosa, even though that glance and that smile brought a few weeks of gaiety, of forgetfulness, to a sick, perhaps a dying, man. Not only grudged, but hated. And for Henry to think even of Fanny-Rosa in an idle moment was a thing so monstrous and so damnable that Jane, seeing John's white face and burning eyes, was startled and afraid, and said: "What is it? Are you ill?"

  "No," he said, "no, it's nothing."

  She hesitated a moment, and then went indoors, and John, looking up at the windows of Clonmere, saw that the candles were being lighted, and the curtains drawn, and the evening had come, and it seemed to him that nothing mattered in the world, or would ever matter, but the longing he had for Fanny-Rosa, and he would perjure himself, commit murder, and go to the devil, to have her waiting for him above there, in his room in the tower; waiting for him, John Brodrick, and not for Henry.

  The autumn of 1827 was exceptionally trying to Copper John. The weather was wild and stormy, so that shipments of ore from Doon-haven to Bronsea were quite impossible during November, and the new mine that had been sunk was proving less profitable than had been expected. For one thing, Captain Nicholson had gone down too deep, and had reached a level where the amount of water made work quite impracticable, in spite of the new pump, erected at a cost of several hundred pounds. It was therefore decided to abandon the spot, and to take soundings a little farther east, and here, though results at once justified the trial, the ground was so rocky that there was not an inch of it that could be worked without the use of gunpowder. Here again expense was considerable. An Order in Council was obligatory for every ounce of powder imported into the country, and Copper John had to keep his barrels stored in the magazine at the garrison on Doon Island, and sign a form every time a fresh barrel was taken across the harbour. Then the price of copper, which had been exceptionally high, dropped considerably.

  The large smelting companies at Bronsea could pretty well dictate their own terms, and Copper John was of the opinion that he would do well to get rid of some of his produce by private contract.

  A hard frost succeeded the wet winds of November, and this brought fresh difficulties to the owner of Clonmere, for the potato crop had largely failed, and many of his tenants were in a fair way to starvation. Under the circumstances he was obliged to tell Ned Brodrick to be lenient with the half-yearly rent roll, and those tenants who were rather better off than their neighbours seized advantage of this, and kept back their payments. The inevitable disputes between one tenant and another, which appeared rooted in the character of the people, broke out, and after a long day's consultation at the mine Copper John would return to Clonmere to be faced with some ridiculous tale by his agent which had neither rhyme nor reason to it, and on which he would be expected to give judgement.

  It was a little hard, he reflected, that he was the only man in the neighbourhood to take strong measures, and that he received no thanks and no assistance from the adjoining landlords. Robert Lumley was seldom at Duncroom, and when he was there it was only to drive down to Doonhaven and go through the mining accounts, complaining of his percentage. The Earl of Denmare was never in the country, except to fish for salmon, and Lord Mundy was very much an invalid these days, and hardly well enough to bestir himself in local affairs. As for Simon Flower, it was quite useless to appeal to him on any question at all. A man who drank in the stables with his own grooms, and even sat carousing with them in the drawing-room when his wife was a-bed, so the story ran, was no use as an upholder of truth and justice. Besides, the Flowers were abroad, in Italy — Henry had come across them in Florence, and had some idea of joining them in Naples, which his father felt was a waste of time. The voyage to the Barbados had done him a world of good, so he wrote to his family. He was certainly coughing less, and his father was on no account to worry about him. He had no doubt that a few months in Italy would perfectly restore him to health.

  It was in the middle of April that Copper John, while spending Easter with his daughters in Lletharrog, decided to abandon his plan of returning to Doonhaven at the end of the month, where the new mine was giving excellent results, and travel out to Italy instead. The decision was taken after Barbara had received a letter at breakfast from a friend of hers, a Miss Lucy Mallet, written from Paris, where she and her mother were renting an apartment.

  "We have just come on here from Italy," she said, "having been in Rome, and also Naples, where we had the pleasure of meeting your brother, in company with some friends of yours, a Mr. and Mrs.

  Flower, and their daughter. My mother and myself were much distressed to hear how ill your brothe
r had been, indeed he looked very poorly when we saw him, and had been in bed all the week, so Mrs. Flower informed us…? The letter continued with a description of the sights in Italy, which Copper John did not bother to read. He stared in front of him, tapping with his fingers on the breakfast table, and his daughters sat beside him, white-faced and serious.

  "I shall go out to Italy myself," he said at length.

  "I have been a little uneasy in my mind about Henry all the winter, and now this news decides me."

  "Could we not come with you?" urged Barbara.

  "No, my dear, I would prefer to go alone. It is rather extraordinary that we have not had an account of Henry's health from the Flowers themselves, if he is so much with them. Simon Flower would not write, but Mrs. Flower is not altogether lacking in sense."

  "No doubt Henry did not wish any of us to be anxious," said Barbara, "and perhaps made light of his illness, even to them."

  "It is quite possible," said Eliza, "that Lucy Mallet has exaggerated. She cannot have seen Henry for two or three years, and anyone would be shocked at his appearance these days, compared to what he used to be. His letters always seem cheerful enough, and indeed in his letter to Jane before Easter he talked of taking part in some carnival."

  "And probably overtaxed his strength in the doing of it," said her father. "No, I am quite resolved to go to Italy, and shall in all probability set forth towards the end of the coming week. I had hoped to see Robert Lumley in Cheltenham, but that must go by the board, and I will see him on my return."

  He consulted with Barbara as to whether Henry should be informed or not of the proposed journey, and finally decided, rather against her advice, that nothing should be said, and he would arrive in Naples as a complete surprise to his son. It so happened that business matters once more obliged him to delay the date of departure, and it was not until May that Copper John finally set out for the Continent. He avoided the long sea route, and travelled by easy stages through France and Italy, spending most of his journey in writing out, from memory, the profits and expenses of the mine on Hungry Hill, from its beginning in 1820 until the present month of the current year. He ignored the scenery entirely, found the heat excessive, the flies troublesome, the people robbers, and wondered why anyone should waste time and money in travelling for pleasure.

  When he alighted from the coach at Naples in the third week in May, hot, dusty, and irritable, the first person to meet his gaze was Simon Flower, seated in a cafe on the square, smoking an immense cigar, and being entertained by an Italian lady of doubtful respectability. Simon Flower seemed quite unperturbed by the sudden appearance of a neighbour from home amongst the cosmopolitan crowd of Naples, and, holding his hat above his head, waved John Brodrick to a seat.

  "My "dear fellow, what a delightful encounter," he said. "This little lady speaks no English, so it does not matter what you say before her. I am very glad to see you. What in the world are you doing here?"

  Copper John, who found Simon Flower a poor companion at the best of times, and even more so at the end of a long journey, replied shortly that he had not time to sit down, that he was on his way at once to Henry's hotel, and perhaps Simon Flower could direct him.

  "Henry?" said the other, his mouth falling open.

  "But Henry has been gone from Naples for a fortnight."

  Copper John stared at him a moment without speaking. Then he sat down at the table, his composure shaken, his plans all fallen to pieces at the news he had just received. He accepted the drink offered him without a word, nor did he protest when Simon Flower pressed a further one upon him.

  "You had better tell me," he said at length, "what has happened."

  "Nothing has happened," said Simon Flower, "except that you have had a long journey for nothing.

  No doubt you passed Henry on the road. He was not very well, poor fellow, and decided to go home before this heat grew too much for him. The best thing you can do is to take the next coach and follow him back along the route you came. But stay a night or two in Naples first. I can promise you an amusing forty-eight hours. If this little lady will bring a friend-I know one or two places that…"

  "Was Henry in a very bad state of health?" interrupted Copper John. "Please understand that I, and my whole family, are extremely anxious about him."

  "Well, now, I hardly think so. Have another drink, will you not? It's the only thing to do in this climate, I assure you. My daughter would really know more about Henry's health than I do. She trotted him round, you know, and had him esquire her about the town. You had better ask my daughter."

  "Would I be likely to find Mrs. Flower and Miss Flower at your hotel?"

  "You would, I have no doubt. They are generally resting at this time of the day. That is why I take the opportunity of coming here. This little lady has not the pleasure of my wife's acquaintance."

  "I hardly supposed she had," said Copper John, and rising to his feet, he bade his neighbour good-afternoon, ignoring his companion, and leaving the pair in a state of benign and delightful intoxication.

  He threaded his way through the busy streets, a tall, purposeful figure, the strong shoulders and the square jaw causing many of the idling people he jostled to turn and stare at him, until finally he came to the hotel he sought, and sent his card up to the apartment of Mrs. Flower.

  She received him with a wealth of apology and fuss-the rooms were most insignificant, there had been the usual misunderstanding with the manager, and really she felt quite ashamed, Simon was so forgetful in money matters, and her dress was not suitable for callers, Mr. Brodrick must excuse her. Yes, indeed, Henry had been gone quite two weeks; they had seen such a lot of him, Fanny-Rosa had been so glad of his company, and then really, she hardly knew how it was, but the poor boy must have done rather too much, he seemed sadly pulled down, and one morning he told them he was going home, Fanny-Rosa had been most upset, and said he was jealous of an Italian count-you know the nonsense girls talk-no truth in it at all of course, just some little folly between them, but anyway, yes, Henry did seem to be coughing, and he had left Naples on such a very hot day, dust everywhere, she did so hope it would be better and cooler in France, Mr.

  Brodrick would no doubt catch up with him, she understood Henry was not going to rush the journey. '

  The door opened, and Fanny-Rosa came into the room. She had a lace shawl thrown over her chestnut hair, in the fashion of the country, and even Copper John, who had little time for admiration, was struck by the vivid colouring, the slanting green eyes, and the real beauty of Simon Flower's daughter. She looked startled when she saw her mother's visitor, and went white.

  "What is the matter? Has anything happened?" she asked.

  "I've come on a fruitless errand," replied Copper John. "I came to see Henry, and I am told he has left, and is on his way home.

  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 ma
de 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.