Hungry Hill

by Daphne Du Maurier

  She broke off, as her father came into the room, followed by Molly, who was white and strained. Henry shut the door. He went and stood over by the fire-place. He too looked anxious.

  Perplexed also, as though he did not understand what was the matter with Molly.

  "You must be sensible, dear girl," he was saying.

  "Why, it's for all your sakes, far more than for my own, that I have done this. Do you think it's been easy for me all these years?"

  "We were happy as we were," said Molly, "we don't want anyone else."

  She began to cry, like a little girl, not like someone of fifteen. Kitty ran over to her and stood beside her.

  Hal said nothing. He stared at his father.

  "She's a wonderful woman," Henry said, "so efficient and so intelligent. The trouble is I've let things go to pieces for too long. You've all been allowed to do as you like-the servants, Miss Frost, and all of you. Now your stepmother will take a hand and put everything to rights. If you have any affection for me at all, you will be glad that, this has happened.

  You'll soon become fond of her, I know you will.

  I can't tell you what she hasn't done for me already."

  Stepmother… Hal went on staring at his father.

  "You and Kitty were not in the room when I told Moily," said Henry, feeling his son's eyes upon him. "I married Mrs. Price in Nice a fortnight ago. She has been a wonderful friend to me. One day, when you are older, I may tell you all about it. In the meantime I ask you to give her a welcome, and to try to show her some sign of appreciation. Molly seems to have taken it badly, I don't quite know why. It does not mean I love her any the less."

  Molly was still crying, biting and twisting the ends of her handkerchief. Her eyes were red and swollen.

  "You'd better go upstairs," said Henry in despair. "If Adeline sees you like that she will wonder what on earth is the matter. My God, what a welcome home! I wish to heaven we had stayed out in Nice."

  He began pacing up and down the room.

  "Will she live here always?" said Kitty. "Is that why she brought all those trunks?"

  "Of course she will live with us," said Henry impatiently. "She is Mrs. Brodrick now.

  You can call her Adeline."

  Molly ran out of the room. Hal could hear her rush up the stairs and slam her bedroom door.

  Kitty followed her. Hal felt sick. He did not say anything. He and his father were alone. From the room above came the sound of trunks being dragged across the floor and the low murmur of voices. The little gold clock on the mantelpiece ticked fast and rather shrill.

  "It's for your good," repeated Henry, "you must try to realise that. The two girls need a woman of culture and breeding to look after them. Miss Frost is no earthly use. It's not quite the same for you, because you will be at Eton most of the time, but there are always the holidays. Besides, one wants companionship. When you are my age'"

  He left the rest of his sentence in the air. What was he doing, appealing to this boy of fourteen for sympathy and understanding; who could not possibly know what he had endured these last years? The unprofitable days, the lonely nights, which now could be blotted out and forgotten.

  "It's very hard for a parent," he said, "to be left alone with the responsibility of a young family on his shoulders. It happened to my mother. I believe now that she found it a great burden. Your uncles and I could not understand, naturally, and I have no doubt we were a trial to her."

  Still Hal said nothing. He went on staring at his father with blank eyes.

  Henry walked over to his desk, and opened it, and began looking through the pile of letters that had accumulated during his absence. He tore them open one by one, scarcely reading the contents. He could hear Adeline's brisk, firm tread in the bedroom above as she unpacked her things. There was a constant coming and going on the stairs as the servants carried up the remainder of the luggage. Suddenly a small package and a piece of paper caught his eye: "Father- from his loving son, Hal." He picked it up, and glanced across at the boy.

  "Is this your present?" he said, summoning a smile. "Thank you very much, old fellow."

  He began to unwrap the paper.

  Hal did nothing. He made no effort to stop him. It was as though he could not move, could not speak.

  He stood in the middle of the room like a dumb thing, powerless to help, his heart aching with a strange anguish but imperfectly understood, his mind mocking, bitter, and a black devil whispering, "Go on, open it, open it; damn you."

  Henry held the miniature in his hands. The paper wrapping fell to the floor. Hal watched his face, but no change came upon it, save that his lips tightened, making two hard lines at the corners of his mouth. It seemed to Hal that eternity passed as his father looked upon the miniature. The clock went on ticking. A cab passed in the street outside. A piece of coal fell from the fire into the hearth and smouldered there. Then his father spoke, his voice sounding distant," coming from afar.

  "It's very good," he said, "very capably done.

  Thank you." He opened a little drawer in his desk and put the miniature inside. Then he took a key from the bunch on his chain and locked the drawer. "You had better go up to Molly," he said. "See that she does something to her face before dinner. By the way, Adeline likes it punctually at half-past seven, so you must all be ready and changed five minutes before."

  "Yes, father," said Hal.

  He waited a moment, but Henry did not meet his eyes. He had turned away, and was staring at the fire. Hal left the room and climbed the stairs to the first floor. The spare bedroom door was open.

  There were folds of tissue paper on a chair, and silver brushes on the dressing-table. A strange black evening frock lay on the bed. Someone was drawing the water in his father's bathroom… Hal climbed slowly to the second floor.

  It was worse for the girls, of course. They had to suffer and endure the changes, while he was at Eton. Molly and Kitty had to see poor Frostie go, and have that vile Swiss maid take her place. Lizette had five different nurses in nine months, because no one was supposed to treat her foot correctly. Letter after letter would come from Molly, furious and miserable in turn.

  "We never see father alone," she would write.

  "She sticks to him like glue, and if he gets up and goes out of the room she follows him. And at meal-times she talks all the time through us to him, and looks daggers if Kitty or I try to get in a word. And she's changed all the furniture round in the drawing-room, and had new covers made, which Kitty and I think are hideous, and I'm sure father does too, but he won't say so. He seems unable to cope."

  Father, who had always been so magnificent a person, so reliable, so strong, was now, it seemed, a man of no account. The god had fallen from his pedestal. He had no will, no mind of his own.

  Whatever Adeline declared in her brisk, downright way, he echoed, not from conviction, but because it was less troublesome. Once only did they come down together to visit Hal at Eton, and the day was a miserable failure. First of all she criticised his room, found fault with his appearance.

  "Don't stoop so," she said, "you're positively round-shouldered. Henry, this boy ought to have sat with a backboard for an hour every day. And he's far too pale. He ought to go for a good run.

  Why don't you join the beagles?"

  "I don't want to," Hal answered.

  "In the summer, of course, you'll be made to play cricket. Oh, but you're a wet bob, aren't you? I suppose you chose that because it meant less exertion. Boys are all alike. They need driving."

  She spoke always in that bright, aggressive manner which was so characteristic of everything she did, and which made argument impossible. Her blue eyes flitted up and down the walls of his room, seized upon his pictures. Hal could see her mouth twitch in amusement.

  "Studying for the Academy, I suppose?" she said. "That tree is a bit out of drawing, isn't it? Not that I'm a judge of these things, but I do know a crooked line when I see one." She laughed over her shoulder at Henry. "If
that's what your old Clonmere looks like, I'm not surprised you let it," she said. "I'll be bound it was damp too, with all that water so close. Well, Hal, what else have you got to show us?"

  "Nothing," he said, "nothing at all."

  "Not very prolific, are you? You'll never make your fortune. What about some lunch in Windsor?

  I'm starving."

  And throughout the day it was the same; mocking, teasing, contrasting his lanky, overgrown figure with that of other boys of his own age.

  "You seem to lack ambition," she said, "you have no interest in anything. Wouldn't you like to be Captain of the Cricket Eleven one day, or head of Pop, or whatever they call it?"

  "Not particularly," said Hal.

  "It's no use, Adeline," said his father. "I'm fated to have a son who is totally undistinguished.

  It's a pity, but there it is."

  He spoke lightly, shrugging his shoulders, but his words stung'

  "Your uncle Herbert has asked you all to Lletharrog in the summer," he said. "Adeline and I will probably go abroad."

  He did not kiss him. The train steamed away, and Hal was left with the sovereign in his hand. They never came again.

  Holidays at Lletharrog or at Saunby became a method of escape. The girls were so pathetically glad to get away from Lancaster Gate. Now that Great-aunt Eliza was dead the house at Saunby belonged to Uncle Herbert too. His family would move there from Lletharrog "during the summer months.

  "I wish we could stay with you always," said Kitty.

  "I never want to go back to Lancaster Gate again."

  "Why, nonsense," smiled Uncle Herbert.

  "I know how fond you are of your father."

  "It's different now," said Kitty.

  Uncle Herbert did not say anything. But later, when the girls and their brother were walking on the sands, Kitty said: "I heard Uncle Herbert call Adeline that "damn woman" to Aunt Cathie. They were in the study, and the door was open. I heard him say the whole thing was a tragedy. Fancy him saying damn, and he's a clergyman."

  "No one likes her," said Molly fiercely.

  "If only I had the courage I'd run away and be a governess. She told father that poor little lizette was sly, and that all crippled children had something wrong mentally. Lizette, who is so clever and sweet. It's queer, she dislikes Clonmere, although she has never been there. She's even taken down the picture of it that used to hang in the drawing-room. And whenever anyone talks about the country she makes a laughing, sarcastic remark."

  "Just think," said Kitty. "Father has only gone across three times since mamma died, and then he stayed in a hotel in Slane and did his business from there. And when we lived at Clonmere he used to drive up to the mines every day. I don't understand how the mines go on without him."

  "A running concern doesn't need the proprietor's supervision," said Hal. "There's a chap at my tutor's whose father owns a coal mine, and he's never even seen the place. He just sits at home and rakes in the dividends. There's no point in working if you can get money for doing nothing."

  "Mamma would have hated to hear you say that, Hal," said Molly. "It goes against all she used to teach us."

  "I dare say it does," answered Hal, "but what's the use? No one ever talks to us in the way she did. And the fellows at Eton would think I was pi or a fool if I tried to keep it up. If we'd all been living at home at Clonmere it would be different. I dare say father and I would have gone up to the mines together, and I should have had a feeling for them, as though they were all bound up with the family. Now I don't care twopence. And anyway, there will always be loads of money coming from them, that's the main thing. I shall do myself well when I go up to Oxford, I don't mind telling you."

  "Don't forget what Uncle Herbert was telling us the other day about the copper trade falling to bits.

  Several mines in Cornwall have been closed," said Molly.

  "Yes, but he also said the more enterprising ones had discovered tin beneath the copper, and would be able to work the tin instead. The price of tin is very high, and the proprietors can go on making fortunes over that."

  "It may not be the same at home," said Molly. "Perhaps there isn't any tin on Hungry Hill."

  "Tin or copper, what does it matter," said Kitty, "if all the benefit we get from the stuff is living in Lancaster Gate with Adeline, and a Swiss maid spying on us all the time, and father washing his hands of us? I'd rather be poverty-stricken and live in a cabin on the Kileen moors."

  "Lancaster Gate and London would be all right if it wasn't for Adeline," said Molly. "We were happy enough when we were alone with father."

  "No, we were not," said Hal. "None of us has ever been really happy since we left Clonmere, and you know it. Nothing has been the same since mamma died, and never will be."

  His sisters stared at him. He looked white and strained, and there were tears in his eyes.

  "Oh, what's the use of anything?" he said.

  "Sometimes I wish I was dead."

  And he ran away from them across the Saunby sands, the dogs leaping and barking at his heels, the wind blowing his hair across his face.

  "He's got to the difficult stage," said Molly; "boys always get like that. Aunt Cathie said Bob used to be the same."

  "Bob had a home to go to," said Kitty.

  "Hal only has Lancaster Gate."

  The problem of the holidays became more acute as the years passed. Henry's second wife made no secret of the fact that she disliked her stepchildren. There was no question of sharing Henry with his children. She wanted him for herself, and the only way to accomplish this was little by little to wean him from them, make him believe that they cared nothing for him, that none of his friends or relatives was worthy of him, and that she alone understood his needs, his comforts. She had rescued him from a life of wretched loneliness, and now he must cling to her only for consolation.

  It was exciting, at first, to be wanted with so much passion. It was a novelty to Henry, who took full advantage of it, thinking he could atone thus for the wasted years. He was roused and flattered. It was pleasing to know that Adeline adored him, and while she adored him she was also able to take all responsibilities upon her shoulders, run his house with efficiency, deal with his children, tell him all the things that he wanted to know, and keep from him what was better ignored. Marriage with Adeline made life easy, he said to himself, made life comfortable and soothing. If Molly and Kitty and Hal were difficult it was their fault, they should be more adaptable. Anyway, they must go their own way. He did not want to be worried about them. Adeline was right, they were an ungrateful trio, thinking only of themselves. They did not realise what he had been through.

  They did not understand that a man needed a wife in his home, otherwise he went to pieces. If the children did not get on with Adeline then they must go somewhere else for their holidays, to Herbert or to Edward.

  They had nothing to complain of, because he always insisted that they should have the best of everything. When it was a question of Molly coming out, parties were arranged and dinners given, and Edward and his wife came to London to take her about. Adeline refused, quite rightly too, when Molly had always shown her so little affection.

  Henry took Molly out once or twice, but somehow when he did it seemed to make trouble with Adeline afterwards.

  "I wish you would come too," said Henry.

  "Molly really did look very charming at the ball the Goschens gave."

  "No doubt she did, because I wasn't there," laughed Adeline. "Miss Molly likes to have all the attention, and always did. I remember the time she used to make eyes at the music-master."

  "Oh, come '?

  "My dear Henry, I'm not blind. Well, I suppose you are going out again tonight? You prefer your daughter's company to your wife's."

  "Of course I don't. If you'd rather I stayed…"

  "It's not a question of what I'd rather. You know I never think about myself. No, if you enjoy spending a heated evening in a ballroom watching your eldest daught
er doing her best to snaffle? husband, you're welcome. Personally, I shall go to bed early.

  I've had a wretched head all day."

  "Well then, I will stay. Edward can take Molly. I don't want to go."

  After two or three similar episodes it was simpler to leave Molly in Edward's hands altogether.

  The next difficulty was when Hal wrote asking Henry to come down on the fourth of June. He was rowing stroke in one of the senior boats, and he wanted his father there on the occasion.

  "Please come alone," he said, "or bring Molly and Kitty with you."

  Henry feared that this would go badly with Adeline, and tried to hide the letter from her on the breakfast-table.

  Her sharp eyes caught sight of the Eton post-mark and Hal's writing.

  "Well, what's your son got to say for himself?" she said. "Been get-ting into trouble with the authorities?"

  "He wonders if I'd take the girls down for the fourth. He's stroking one of the boats."

  "Doesn't ask me, I suppose."

  "No, not actually. But I'm sure he'd be delighted to see you."

  "My dear, don't pretend to me, I can't stand it. I wouldn't go to Eton if I was asked. As a matter of fact I'd arranged luncheon here with the Armitages and the Masons. I'd no idea you would want to go streaking off to Eton. It's going to be very awkward having to entertain them on my own. After all, they are your friends. But don't let me spoil your plans, please. I don't know why Hal should suddenly express a wish to have you down. I suppose he wants someone to show off before, as rowing seems to be his one accomplishment, besides drinking."

  "What the devil do you mean?"

  "Oh, I'm sorry. I forget you didn't see the photograph he sent Kitty. I happened to see it on her dressing-table. He and some other boy had a bet, it appears, as to who could drink down the most beer, out of a monster tankard. Your son distinguished himself by winning, and had his photograph taken doing it. Of course I always have thought him the image of that photograph of your brother Johnnie, but never liked to say so. You'll have to watch out. That sort of thing is hereditary, you know."