Eustace and Hilda (11 page)

“Have you ever been for a paper-chase?” asked Nancy.

“No, I should like to. But what do the hounds do to the hare if they catch him? Do they hurt him?”

Nancy smiled. “Oh no. Somebody touches him and then he gives himself up and they all go home together ... Eustace!”

“Yes, Nancy.”

“Would you like to try?”

“What, hare and hounds? Oh, I should.”

“Well, come with us to-morrow. I was going to ask you, only it's not much fun being one of the hounds. But Gerald's got a cold and he can't go.”

“Should I be a hare, then?”

“Yes, one of them.”

“Who's the other?”

“I am.”

“And it's to-morrow afternoon?”

Nancy nodded.

Eustace was silent. His mind was suddenly possessed by a vision of to-morrow afternoon, in all its horror. To-morrow afternoon meant Miss Fothergill, her gloves, her veil, her.... His imagination tried not to contemplate it; but like a photographic plate exposed to the sun, it grew every moment darker.

He turned to Nancy, golden, milk-white and rose beside him. “I'm sorry, Nancy, I can't,” he said at length.

“You mean Hilda wouldn't let you?”

Eustace winced. “It's not altogether her. You see I said I would go to tea with Miss Fothergill and I don't want to, but I must because I promised.”

“What, that funny old hag who goes about in a bath-chair?”

“Yes,” said Eustace miserably, though his chivalrous instincts perversely rebelled against this slighting description of Miss Fothergill.

“But she's old and ugly, and I suppose you know she's a witch?”

Eustace's face stiffened. He had never thought of this. “Are you sure?”

“Everyone says so, and it must be true. You know about her hands?” Eustace nodded. “Well, they're not really hands at all but steel claws and they curve inwards like this, see!” Not without complacency Nancy clenched her pretty little fingers till the blood had almost left them. “And once they get hold of anything they can't leave go, because you see they're made like that. You'd have to have an operation to get loose.”

Eustace turned pale, but Nancy went on without noticing.

“And she's mad as well. Mummy called on her and she never returned it. That shows, doesn't it? And you've seen that woman who goes about with her—well, she's been put there by the Government, and if she went away (I can't imagine how she sticks it) Miss Fothergill would be shut up in an asylum, and a good thing too. She isn't safe.... Oh, Eustace, you can't think how worried you look. I know I wouldn't go if I were you!”

As a result of the waltz and four minutes' polite conversation Eustace had begun to feel quite sick.

“They'll make me go,” he said, trying to control the churning of his stomach by staring hard at the floor in front of him, “because I promised.”

His tone was pathetic but Nancy preferred to interpret it as priggish.

“If you'd rather be with her than me,” she said tartly, “you'd better go. She's very rich—I suppose that's why you want to make friends with her.”

“I don't care how rich she is,” Eustace wailed. “If she was as rich as ... as the Pope, it wouldn't make any difference.”

“Don't go then.”

“But how can I help it?”

“I've told you. Come with me on the paper-chase.”

Miss Wauchope had risen and was walking into the middle of the room. There was a general scraping of chairs and shuffling of feet. The voices changed their tone, diminished, died away. Nancy got up. Eustace's thoughts began to whirl. “Don't go,” he whispered.

“Well?”

“But how can I do it?”

“Meet me at the water-tower at half-past two,” Nancy said swiftly. “We're going to drive to the place.”

“Oh, Nancy, I'll try.”

“Promise?”

“Yes.”

“You must cross your heart and swear.”

“I daren't do that.”

“Well, I shall expect you. If you don't come the whole thing will be spoilt and I'll never speak to you again!”

Quite dazed by the turmoil within him Eustace heard Miss Wauchope's voice: “Hurry up, you two. You've talked quite long enough.”

E
USTACE
was faced with nothing more dreadful than the obligation to choose between a paper-chase and a tea-party, but none the less he went to bed feeling that the morrow would be worse than a crisis; it would be a kind of death. To his imagination, now sickened and inflamed with apprehension, either alternative seemed equally desperate. For the first time in his life he was unable to think of himself as existing the next day. There would be a Eustace, he supposed, but it would be someone else, someone to whom things happened that he, the Eustace of to-night, knew nothing about. Already he felt he had taken leave of the present. For a while he thought it strange that they should all talk to him about ordinary things in their ordinary voices; and once when Minney referred to a new pair of sand-shoes he was to have next week he felt a shock of unreality, as though she had suggested taking a train that had long since gone. The sensation was inexpressibly painful, but it passed, leaving him in a numbed state, unable to feel pain or pleasure.

“You're very silent, Eustace,” said his father, who had come back for a late tea. “What's up with the boy?”

Eustace gave an automatic smile. His quandary had eaten so far into him that it seemed to have passed out of reach of his conscious mind: and the notion of telling anyone about it no longer occurred to him. As well might a person with cancer hope to obtain relief by discussing it with his friends.

This paralysis of the emotions had one beneficial result—it gave Eustace an excellent night, but next day, the dreaded Wednesday, it relaxed its frozen hold, and all the nerves and tentacles of his mind began to stir again, causing him the most exquisite discomfort. Lessons were some help; he could not give his mind to them, but they exacted from him a certain amount of mechanical concentration. At midday he was free. He walked down to the beach without speaking to Hilda; he felt that she was someone else's sister. Meanwhile a dialogue began to take place within him. There was a prosecutor and an apologist, and the subject of their argument was Eustace's case. He listened. The apologist spoke first —indeed, he spoke most of the time.

‘Eustace has always been a very good boy. He doesn't steal or tell lies, and he nearly always does what he is told. He is helpful and unselfish. For instance, he took Miss Fothergill for a ride though he didn't want to, and she asked him to tea, so of course he said he would go, though he was rather frightened.' ‘He must be a bit of a funk,' said the prosecutor, ‘to be afraid of a poor old lady.' ‘Oh no, not really. You see she was nearly half a lion, and a witch as well, and mad too, so really it was very brave of him to say he would go. But it kept him awake at night and he didn't complain and bore it like a hero....' ‘What about his sister?' said the prosecutor. ‘Didn't he ask her to come to bed early, because he was frightened? That wasn't very brave.' ‘Oh, but she always thinks of what's good for him, so naturally she didn't want him to be frightened. Then he went to the dancing class and danced with a girl called Nancy Steptoe because she asked him to, though she is very pretty and all the boys wanted her to dance with them. And he danced very well and then they talked and she said Miss Fothergill was a witch and not quite all there, and tried to frighten him. And at last she asked him to go with her for a paper-chase instead of having tea with Miss Fothergill. But he said, “No, I have given my promise.” He was an extremely brave boy to resist temptation like that. And Nancy said, “Then I shan't speak to you again,” and he said “I don't care.”'

At this point the prosecutor intervened violently, but Eustace contrived not to hear what he said. He was conscious of a kind of mental scuffle, in the course of which the prosecution seemed to be worsted and beaten off the field, for the apologist took up his tale uninterrupted.

‘Of course Eustace could never have broken a promise because it is wrong to, besides Hilda wouldn't like it. Naturally he was sorry to disappoint Nancy, especially as she said she was relying on him and the paper-chase couldn't happen without him. But if he had gone he would have had to deceive Hilda and Minney and everyone, and that would have been very wicked. Eustace may have made mistakes but he has never done anything wrong and doesn't mean to. And now he's not afraid of going to see Miss Fothergill: as he walks to her house with Minney he'll feel very glad he isn't being a hare with Nancy. For one thing he is delicate and it would have been a strain on his heart.

‘When he got to Miss Fothergill he told her about Nancy and she said I'm so glad you came here instead. I like little boys who keep their word and don't tell lies and don't deceive those who love them. If you come a little nearer, Eustace, I'll let you see my hand—no one has ever seen it before—I'm going to show it to you because I like you so much. Don't be frightened....'

The reverie ceased abruptly. Eustace looked round, they had reached the site of the pond. It was a glorious day, though there was a bank of cloud hanging over the Lincolnshire coast.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said Hilda.

“They're too expensive now. Perhaps I'll tell you this afternoon.”

“What time?”

“When I get back from Miss Fothergill's.”

They began to dig, and the pond slowly filled with water.

“Hilda,” said Eustace, pausing with a spadeful of sand in his hand, “should you go on loving me if I'd done anything wrong?”

“It depends what.”

“Supposing I broke a promise?”

“Perhaps I should, if it was only one.”

Eustace sighed. “And if I was disobedient?”

“Oh, you've often been that.”

“Suppose I deceived you?”

“I'm not afraid of that. You couldn't,” said Hilda.

“Supposing I told a lie?”

“After you'd been punished, I suppose I might. It wouldn't be quite the same, of course, afterwards.”

“Supposing I ran away from home,” said Eustace, looking round at the blue sky, “and came back all in rags and starving, like the Prodigal Son?”

“I should be very angry, of course,” said Hilda, “and I should feel it was my fault for not watching you. But I should have to forgive you, because it says so in the Bible.”

Eustace drew a long breath.

“But supposing I did all those things at once, would that make you hate me?”

“Oh yes,” Hilda answered without hesitation. “I should just hand you over to the police.”

Eustace was silent for a time. Some weak places in the bank needed attention. When he had repaired them with more than usual care he said:

“I suppose you couldn't come with me this afternoon to Miss Fothergill?”

Hilda looked surprised. “Good gracious, no,” she said. “I thought that was all settled. Minney's going to take you and I'm to stay and look after Baby till she comes back. She won't be long, because Miss Fothergill didn't ask her to stay to tea.”

Almost for the first time in the history of their relationship Eustace felt that Hilda was treating him badly. Angry with her he had often been. But that was mere rebelliousness and irritation, and he had never denied her right of domination. Lacking it he was as helpless as the ivy without its wall. Hilda's ascendancy was the keystone in the arch that supported his existence. And the submissiveness that he felt before her he extended, in a lesser degree, to almost everyone he knew; even Nancy and the shadowy Miss Fothergill had a claim on it. At Hilda's peremptory and callous-seeming refusal to accompany him into the lion's den, to which, after all, she had led him, he suddenly felt aggrieved. It did not occur to him that he was being unfair. After her first refusal he hadn't urged her to go; and she might be excused for not taking his night fears very seriously. To be sure he had complained and made a fuss in the family circle, at intervals, ever since the invitation had been given, but this was his habit when made to do something he did not want to do. He had cried ‘Wolf!' so often that now, when the beast was really at the door, no one, least of all the unimaginative Hilda, was likely to believe him. Moreover, there was just enough pride and reserve in his nature to make an unconditional appeal to pity unpalatable. He did not hesitate to do so when his nerves alone were affected, as they were the evenings he could not sleep; but when it was a question of an action demanding will-power he tried to face the music. He made a trouble of going to the dentist, but he did not cry when the dentist hurt him.

For the first time, then, he obscurely felt that Hilda was treating him badly. She was a tyrant, and he was justified in resisting her. Nancy was right to taunt him with his dependence on her. His thoughts ran on. He was surrounded by tyrants who thought they had a right to order him about: it was a conspiracy. He could not call his soul his own. In all his actions he was propitiating somebody. This must stop. His lot was not, he saw in a flash of illumination, the common lot of children. Like him they were obedient, perhaps, and punished for disobedience, but obedience had not got into their blood, it was not a habit of mind, it was detachable, like the clothes they put on and off. As far as they could, they did what they liked; they were not haunted, as he was, with the fear of not giving satisfaction to someone else.

It was along some such route as this, if not with the same stopping-places, that Eustace arrived at the conviction that his servitude must be ended and the independence of his personality proclaimed.

‘Eustace had never been disobedient before,' ran the self-congratulatory monologue in his mind, ‘except once or twice, and now he was only doing what Gerald and Nancy Steptoe have always done. Of course they would be angry with him at home, very angry, and say he had told a story but that wouldn't be true, because he had slipped out of the house without telling anyone.' (Eustace's advocate unscrupulously mixed his tenses, choosing whichever seemed the more reassuring.) ‘And it was not true that acting a lie was worse than telling one. Eustace would have liked to tell Minney but knew she would stop him if he did. He was a little frightened as he was running along in front of the houses in case they should see him, but directly he was out of sight in Lexton Road he felt so happy, thinking that Miss Fothergill would be there all alone, with no one to frighten. And Nancy came out from under the water-tower and said, “Eustace, you're a brick, we didn't think you'd dare, we're so grateful to you and it's going to be a lovely day.” Then they drove off to the place, and the hounds went to another, and he and Nancy each had a bag full of paper and they ran and ran and ran. Nancy got rather tired and Eustace helped her along and even carried her some of the way. Then when the hounds were close Eustace laid a false trail, and the hounds went after that. But of course Eustace was soon back with Nancy, and after running another hour or two they got home. The hounds didn't come in till much later, they said it wasn't fair having to hunt the two best runners in Anchorstone. And Major Steptoe said, “Yes, they are.” And when Eustace got back to Cambo they were all very glad to see him, even Hilda was, and said they didn't know he could have done it, and in future he could do anything he wanted to, as long as it wasn't wicked.'