Eustace and Hilda (55 page)

“You couldn't possibly see, Anne, from where you were. What do you think, Antony?”

“Well,” said Antony, “I'm not unbiased, of course, but I thought it was dead.”

“Let's appeal to the gallery.” Dick's voice rang with confidence. “What's your verdict, Aunt Nelly?”

“I haven't one,” said Lady Nelly. “I've been too busy admiring you all.”

“Eustace?” said Dick, on a rising note of hopefulness, and as though the decision had already been given in his favour.

Eustace drew a long breath. How cruel to leave the casting-vote to him. He felt as though it would alter the whole course of history.

“Well,” he said, “it was a very, very near thing, but I thought you were just too late.”

Dick's brow darkened.

“Lookers-on see most of the game, eh?”

“I thought so, too,” said Hilda suddenly.

Dick's face cleared as though by magic, and he was all bonhomie again.

“That settles it,” he said. “You're all against me, even my partner, whom I trusted. Never mind, we had a good game, didn't we? Next time you'll have to take a hand, Eustace—won't he, Hilda?”

“I'm afraid it's too energetic for him,” said Hilda. Nervous, she spoke more emphatically than she meant to. “You see, he has a weak heart.”

Eustace was relieved that nobody looked at him.

“Well, so long as it's in the right place,” said Dick carelessly, dismissing Eustace's heart. But Lady Nelly turned to him and said:

“Venice is just the place for a tired heart. No hills, no billiard-fives, no excitements. Just a few bridges to cross between getting up and going to bed. To-morrow I shall talk it over with your sister,” she said, rising from the sofa. “Thank you all for the thrilling entertainment. But look at your poor hands!”

“Shall we have a hand inspection?” said Dick, spreading his hands out on the billiard-table. “Put yours there, next mine, Hilda, and then yours, Anne, and yours, Antony.”

Obediently they lined up and pressed their hands on the table as if for ‘Up Jenkins,' while Lady Nelly leaned over their bent heads to make her report.

“Well, Antony's hands are black and yellow,” she said judicially; “Anne's are black and blue, Miss Cherrington's hands I won't attempt to describe—my dear, why did you use such beautiful hands for such a purpose?—but there's nothing at all wrong with Dick's—they must be made of leather.”

“Do you think Hilda's require immediate attention?” Dick asked as he put on his coat. “She'd better fall out and report sick in the housekeeper's room. I know where the surgical stores are kept.”

“I shouldn't let him try, if I were you, Miss Cherrington,” said Anne, “he's much better at killing than curing.”

“Oh, really, Anne, and I've been a brother to you all these years,” said Dick. “I should ask you to help if I didn't know you fainted at the sight of sticking-plaster.”

Standing in the shadow of the doorway, Eustace managed to possess himself of one of Hilda's hands. To his surprise, she did not snatch it away; she let it lie in his. But before he had time to look, another hand closed over Hilda's, and Dick said, in a serious voice, “Bad show, I'm afraid. Better let me see what I can do—don't you think so, Eustace?”

Lady Nelly answered for him.

“You've done quite enough already. If you come to my room, Miss Cherrington, I'll give you something of mine. It's guaranteed to heal anything, from a broken heart downwards.”

“Or upwards,” said Dick, with a gusty sigh. “Hands are more in my department than hearts, Aunt Nelly.”

“The proper place for the hand is on the heart,” said Aunt Nelly lightly. “Come along, Miss Cherrington.”

They returned to the drawing-room, but it was empty, and the bridge players had gone to bed. There was a chorus of good-nights at the foot of the staircase.

“I'll turn the lights out, Antony,” Eustace heard Dick say, as the others were drifting up. “And here's what I owe you on the evening.” He took something from his pocket.

“Oh, that doesn't matter, Dick,” said Antony.

“Yes, it does,” said Dick, “I should have claimed it from you. Good-night, Antony; good-night, Eustace.”

Antony and Eustace walked across the courtyard. The moon shone through a slight haze, the night was deliciously warm. The sense of privacy and relaxation that Eustace always enjoyed with Antony came like balm after the varied and tumultuous impressions of the evening.

“Did you and Dick have a bet on the game?” Eustace asked.

“Yes, he always likes a stake,” said Antony. “He would have had something on if we'd been playing Postman's Knock.”

As they reached their doorway, which reminded Eustace of the entrance to a college staircase, Antony said, “I think I maligned Dick to you. He isn't so bad. He was really rather fun this evening.”

“I was surprised that he called Hilda by her Christian name,” said Eustace, turning on the light to go into his room. “When did he begin to do that?”

“He said he couldn't teach her the game unless he did,” said Antony. “He made quite a thing about it. You don't mind, do you?”

Eustace thought a moment.

“No, not at all. I felt a little funny when he said it. I don't know why.”

“He's not a bad sort of chap,” said Antony. “Of course, he doesn't want one to know what he's really like. All that patter is a kind of smoke-screen. I think he was really sorry about your sister's hands.”

“He seemed to be,” said Eustace. “I didn't see them properly.”

He remembered that his good-night to Hilda had been a mere conventional salute. All the evening he had been trying to get a special message through to her, and always, it seemed, she had been looking the other way.

“I should hate it if she was really hurt,” he said anxiously. “I was responsible for her coming here in a way. It would be awful if she had really injured herself and couldn't go back to work.”

“Oh, I shouldn't bother,” Antony stifled a yawn and smiled in apology. “Lady Nelly would look after her. She is an angel, isn't she? How did you find her after dinner?”

“Quite irresistible.” Eustace felt this was the right thing to say. “I'll tell you all about it to-morrow.”

When Antony had gone, the thought of the invitation to Venice flooded Eustace with happiness. So overpowering was the sensation that he could hardly get undressed. Each garment as he shed it seemed to bring him nearer to his goal. But when he got into bed doubts began to rise. What would they say? What would Aunt Sarah say to a proposal that had so little the appearance of taking life seriously? And what would Hilda say—Hilda, who didn't like to let a day pass without some effort that taxed her to the utmost? While he was lounging in a gondola, she would be bearding a Board of Directors.

‘But how did you come to injure your hands, Miss Cherrington?'

‘Oh, I did that at Anchorstone Hall. It was just a game, rather a rough game, too rough for my brother Eustace, so I played instead of him.'

‘But didn't he attend to your hands afterwards?'

‘Oh no, he left that to Lady Nelly Staveley—a society woman. She did her best, of course, but it wasn't the way a professional would have done it.'

‘We sincerely hope you'll recover the use of, at any rate, one of your hands, Miss Cherrington—otherwise, of course, we shall be obliged——'

‘Oh, I'm sure I shall, if you give me time.'

Perhaps Hilda was still with Lady Nelly; perhaps Lady Nelly had gone down to the housekeeper's room to find some lint. The passages would be in darkness; how would she find the way? The clock struck one. Hilda'll be in her own room now, thought Eustace; I ought to go to her; I can soon put my clothes on, or just wear my dressing-gown. But I should look very funny if they caught me wandering about so late, striking matches and dropping the heads everywhere.

There were so many doors in the corridor, that was the trouble, and he had no idea which was Hilda's. Ah, she would have left her shoes outside the door, her blue shoes; he would know them because he had helped her to choose them. But none of the doors had shoes outside, for this was a private house, and to put one's shoes outside the door would be a social solecism. Still, he mustn't give up the quest; he couldn't rest till he had seen Hilda's hands; he must try every door. But what would they say, what would Lady Staveley say, for instance, if he came creeping into her room? She would think he was mad, and scream, and raise the house, and perhaps he would spend the rest of the night in a dungeon, before being taken away the next morning under a guard. Never mind, he must find Hilda and ask if she was in great pain and tell her how sorry he was.

But surely these were Hilda's shoes? She didn't know the rule about not putting shoes outside your door. He would have to tell her some time. But perhaps no one had seen them except the servants, who would laugh a little, but not think seriously the worse of her.

The handle turned easily and noiselessly, and he went in.

But could this be Hilda's room when Dick was sitting on the bed clad only in his pyjama trousers?

He rose from the bed and moved slowly towards Eustace, his eyes glittering in the moonlight.

‘I was expecting you,' he said. ‘I knew you'd come sneaking in.'

‘I'm looking for Hilda,' said Eustace wildly. ‘Haven't you made a mistake? Isn't this her room?'

‘It's you who've made the mistake,' said Dick, coming nearer....

Eustace woke with a start. There was a thin strip of sunlight on the wall and the birds were singing. Greatly relieved, he fell asleep again.

A
T THE
stroke of nine Sir John Staveley laid his cap and stick on their accustomed chair in the Banqueting Hall. The room was empty, but a glance at the table showed him that someone had already breakfasted. He went to the great window and looked across the wide lawn. The heads of the rhododendrons and azaleas, white, crimson and orange, still looked heavy with sleep. Unconsciously making allowance for the ever-optimistic forecast of the amber-tinted glass, he knew that none the less this was going to be an exceptionally fine day.

Turning back, he went down the steps into the body of the Hall. Heaping his plate with bacon and eggs, he returned to the daïs and sat down. At that moment his wife came in.

“Good-morning, my dear.” He rose and kissed her. “Is this too substantial for you?”—he waved to the eggs and bacon.

“Yes, I think it is,” said Lady Staveley. “I'll get something myself, if you don't mind.”

“Quite a good game of bridge we had,” he remarked when she came back. “But it was a pity you didn't return my heart lead.”

“I couldn't know you had the Queen,” said Lady Staveley defensively.

“You must have known I had something, or I shouldn't have declared an original No Trump.”

An expression of uneasy vagueness crossed Lady Staveley's face. “I expect I was thinking about something else,” she said.

“Well, you shouldn't have been. Bridge isn't like a game. Monica wasn't up to her usual form, either. Pity Dick doesn't really care for bridge.”

Lady Staveley looked at the tell-tale crumbs.

“Has he been down already?”

“Somebody has—might have been anyone,” said Sir John, “when you fill the house with strangers.”

“You seemed to enjoy talking to Miss Cherrington at dinner last night,” said Lady Staveley.

Sir John sat up and took hold of the lapels of his coat, which was a Sunday version of his country wear, and hardly distinguishable from it.

“Striking-looking young woman, isn't she? A bit shy to begin with, but she talked away all right about that hospital of hers. I nearly promised her a subscription.”

“Did she ask you for one?”

“Oh Lord, no; but it's clear she's going all out to make the thing a success. Doesn't seem to care much about anything else—rather remarkable in a young girl, don't you think?”

“She's not so very young,” said Lady Staveley. “Her brother told me she was nearly four years older than he is.”

“What did you make of him?” Sir John's nose wrinkled. “Bit namby-pamby, what?”

“He's very easy to talk to,” Lady Staveley said. “We had quite a good gossip about books. He's a little too eager to please for my taste. He seemed anxious about his sister—he kept looking across to see how she was getting on.”

“I don't blame him,” said Sir John. “Good-looking girl like that.” He checked his laugh midway, and they were both silent for a moment. “I wonder what the others did with themselves after dinner,” he went on; and then, as the door opened, “Ah, here's Anne, she can tell us.”

“What can I tell you?” inquired Anne, when she had greeted her parents.

“How you all occupied yourselves while we were playing bridge.”

“Well,” said Anne, from the chafing-dish, “I can't tell you what Aunt Nelly and Mr. Cherrington did, because we left them sitting on the sofa.”

“I expect they had a heart-to-heart talk,” said Lady Staveley. “And what did you do?”

“Need you ask?” said Anne. “Dick made us play billiard-fives. Look at my hands.”

She held them up.

“Poor darling!”

“I don't expect you were hitting the ball the right way,” said Sir John robustly. “If you hit with your hand flat, of course you'll hurt yourself.”

“I don't hit with my hand flat, Papa.”

“It's a barbarous game, anyway, and ruinous to the table,” said Sir John. “Not that anyone plays billiards nowadays—too slow for 'em, I suppose. Who won?”

“Antony and I, by a very short head,” said Anne. “Dick tried to cheat us of our victory, but he didn't succeed.”