Eustace and Hilda (9 page)

“Oh, she knows the way home,” said Eustace.

“Where is your home?”

“It's a house called Cambo, in Norwich Square. We used to live in Ousemouth where Daddy's office is. He's a chartered accountant.” Eustace brought this out with pride.

“Are you going to be a chartered accountant, too?”

“Yes, if we can afford it, but Baby makes such a difference.... I may go into a shop....”

“Should you like that?”

“Not much, but of course I may have to earn a living for everybody in the end.”

“Helen,” said Miss Fothergill, “run back, would you mind, and ask the little girl to come with us? I shall be safe, I think, for a moment.”

Miss Grimshaw departed.

“I should like to know your sister,” said Miss Fothergill.

“Yes, you would,” cried Eustace enthusiastically. Since he was in no danger of seeing any more of Miss Fothergill than the back of her hat, his self-confidence had returned to him. He remembered how Mrs. Steptoe had described Hilda. “She's a most unusual girl.”

“In what way? I saw she was very pretty, quite lovely, in fact.”

“Oh, do you think so? I didn't mean that. She doesn't care how she looks. She's so very good—she does everything—she does all the shopping—she's not selfish at all, you know, like me—she doesn't care if people don't like her—she wants to do what she thinks right, and she wants me to do it—she quite prevents me from being spoilt, that's another thing.”

“Does anyone try to spoil you?”

“Well, Minney does and Daddy would, I think, only Aunt Sarah doesn't let him and Hilda helps.”

“Does your mother——?” Miss Fothergill began, and stopped.

“Mother died when Barbara was born. It was a great pity, because only Hilda can really remember her. But we don't speak of her to Hilda because it makes her cry. Oh, here she is!”

Striding along beside Miss Grimshaw, Hilda drew level with the bath-chair.

“Stop a moment, Eustace,” said Miss Fothergill, “and introduce me to your sister.”

“Oh, I thought you understood, it's Hilda!”

“Good-morning, Hilda,” said Miss Fothergill. “Your brother had been kind enough to take me for a ride.”

Eustace looked at Hilda a little guiltily.

“Good-morning,” said Hilda. “I hope you feel a little better?”

“I'm quite well, thank you.”

Hilda looked faintly disappointed.

“We didn't think you could be very well, that's why I said to Eustace——”

“What did you say to him?”

Hilda reflected. “I can't remember it all,” she said. “He didn't want to do something I wanted him to do, so I said he ought to do it.”

There was a rather painful pause. Eustace let go the handle and gazed at Hilda with an expression of agony.

“I see,” said Miss Fothergill. “And now he's doing what you told him.”

“He was a moment ago,” replied Hilda, strictly truthful.

“I'm enjoying it very much,” said Eustace suddenly. “Of course, when Hilda told me to, I didn't know you would be so nice.”

“Eustace is always like that,” said Hilda. “When I tell him to do something, well, like taking the jelly to old Mrs. Crabtree, he always makes a fuss but afterwards he enjoys it.”

Eustace, who had a precocious insight into other people's feelings, realised that Hilda was mishandling the situation. “Oh, but this is quite different,” he cried. “Mrs. Crabtree is very poor and she has a tumour and she's very old and there's a nasty smell in the house and she always says, ‘Bless you, if you knew what it was to suffer as I do——'” Eustace paused.

“Well?” said Miss Fothergill.

“I mean, it's so different here, on the cliffs with the birds and the lighthouse and that hedge which I like very much, and—and you, Miss Fothergill—you don't seem at all ill from where I am, besides you say you're not, and I ... I like pushing, really I do; I can pretend I am a donkey—I can't think of anything I'd rather do except perhaps make a pond, or paddle, or go on the pier, or ride on a toboggan—and, of course, those are just pleasures. If you don't mind, let's go on as we were before Hilda interrupted.”

“All right,” said Miss Fothergill, “only don't go too fast or you'll make me nervous.”

“Of course I won't, Miss Fothergill. I can go slowly just as easily as fast.”

The cavalcade proceeded in silence for a time, at a slow march. Eustace's face betrayed an almost painful concentration. “Is that the right pace?” he said at last.

“Exactly.”

They passed the Second Shelter, and immediately Eustace felt the atmosphere of the town closing round him. Suddenly Hilda burst out laughing.

“What's the matter?” Eustace asked.

“I was laughing at what you said about pretending to be a donkey,” Hilda remarked. “He doesn't have to pretend, does he, Miss Fothergill?”

“I'm very fond of donkeys,” said Miss Fothergill. “They are so patient and hard-working and reliable and independent.”

“I've taught Eustace not to be independent,” said Hilda. “But he's very fond of carrots. You ought to have some carrots in your hat, Miss Fothergill.” She laughed again.

“Oh no,” said Eustace. “That would spoil it. I'm so glad I'm at the back here, because I can see the lovely violets. The violets are so pretty in your hat, Miss Fothergill, I like looking at them.”

“Why do all donkeys have a cross on their backs?” asked Hilda.

“Because a donkey carried Jesus,” Miss Fothergill said.

“Wouldn't it be funny if Eustace got one?”

“Minney says my skin is very thin,” said Eustace seriously.

“He oughtn't to say that, ought he, Miss Fothergill? It's tempting Providence,” said Hilda.

“I'm afraid his back may be rather stiff to-morrow after all this hard work.”

“Hard work is good for donkeys,” said Hilda.

Eustace felt hurt and didn't answer. They were approaching the flight of steps that led to the beach. On the downward gradient the bath-chair began to gather way. Eustace checked it in alarm.

“There,” said Miss Fothergill, “thank you very much for the ride. But you mustn't let me spoil your morning for you. Isn't it time you went to play on the beach?”

“Eustace doesn't expect to play this morning,” remarked Hilda. “He played a great deal yesterday on the Downs.”

“Yes, but I count this play,” said Eustace stoutly.

Miss Fothergill smiled. “I'm not sure that Helen would agree with you.”

“Of course,” Hilda began, “when you've done a thing a great many times ... Eustace doesn't like taking Barbara out in the pram.”

“It's because of the responsibility,” said Eustace.

“And don't you feel me a responsibility?”

“Not with Miss Grimshaw there.”

“But supposing Miss Grimshaw didn't happen to be here. Supposing you took me out alone?”

A little frown collected between Miss Grimshaw's thick eyebrows, which Eustace did not fail to notice.

“Oh, I should ask her to join us in about ... about a quarter of an hour.”

“He's a tactful little boy,” said Miss Grimshaw coldly.

“Yes, I'm afraid so. Now, Eustace, you've been very kind but you mustn't waste your time any longer with an old woman like me. He wants to go and play on the sands, doesn't he, Hilda?”

Hilda looked doubtfully at Eustace.

“Very likely he does want to,” she said, “but I'm afraid it's too late now.”

“Oh dear, I
have
spoilt your morning,” cried Miss Fothergill in distress.

“Oh no,” said Eustace. “You hardly made any difference at all. You see, we didn't have time to do anything really, because I got up so late. So this was the best thing we could do. I ... I'm very glad we met you.”

“So am I. Now let's make a plan. Perhaps you and your sister could come and have tea with me one day?”

The two children stared at each other. Consternation was written large on Eustace's face. Hilda's recorded in turn a number of emotions.

“Perhaps you'd like to talk it over,” suggested Miss Fothergill.

“Oh yes, we should,” said Hilda, gratefully acting upon the proposal at once. “Do you mind if we go a little way away?” Seizing Eustace's hand she pulled him after her. At a point a few yards distant from the bath-chair they halted.

“I knew she was going to say that,” moaned Eustace.

“You'll enjoy it all right when you get there.”

“I shan't, and you'll hate it, you know you will.”

“I shan't go,” said Hilda. “I shall be too busy. Besides it's you she wants.”

“But I daren't go alone,” cried Eustace, beginning to tremble. “I daren't look at her, you know I daren't, only from behind.”

“Don't make a fuss. She'll hear you. You won't have to look at her very much. She'll be pouring out the tea.”

“She can't. Her arm's all stiff and she has hands like a lion.” Eustace's voice rose and tremors started through his body.

“Very well then, I'll tell her you're afraid to go.”

Eustace stiffened. “Of course I'm not afraid. It's because she's so ugly.”

“If Nancy Steptoe had asked you instead you'd have said, ‘Thank you very much, I will.'”

“Yes, I should,” said Eustace defiantly.

“Then I shall tell Miss Fothergill that.” Hilda was moving away, apparently to execute her threat, when Eustace caught at her arm. “All right, I'll go. But if I'm sick it'll be your fault. I shall try to be, too.”

“You wicked little boy!” said Hilda, but tolerantly and without conviction. The battle won, she led him back to the bath-chair. “We've talked it over,” she announced briefly.

“I hope the decision was favourable,” said Miss Fothergill.

“Favourable?” echoed Eustace.

“She means she hopes you'll go,” Hilda explained patiently. “It was him you wanted, Miss Fothergill, wasn't it? Not me?”

“No, I asked you both to come.”

“I expect you felt you had to, but I'm always busy at tea-time and Eustace is sometimes better without me, he's not so shy when he thinks he can do what he likes.”

Miss Fothergill exchanged a glance with her companion.

“Very well, we'll take the responsibility of him. Now what day would suit you, Eustace?”

“Would it have to be this week?” asked Eustace, but Hilda hastily added, “He can come any day except Tuesday, when he goes to the dancing class.”

“Let's say Wednesday then. That will give me time to have a nice tea ready for you.”

“Thank you very much, Miss Fothergill,” said Eustace wanly.

“No, thank
you
very much for helping me to pass the morning so pleasantly. Now”—for Eustace had sidled up to the bath-chair and was bracing himself to push—“you must run away and have luncheon. I'm sure you must be hungry after all that hard work.”

Flattered in his masculine pride Eustace answered, “Oh, that was nothing.”

“Yes it was, and we shan't forget it, shall we, Helen?”

Miss Grimshaw nodded a little doubtfully.

“Remember Wednesday. I shall count on you, and if you can persuade Hilda to come too I shall be delighted.”

Miss Fothergill began to withdraw her hand from her muff, perhaps in a gesture of dismissal, perhaps—who knows?—to wave good-bye. Suddenly she changed her mind and the hand returned to its shelter.

“Good-bye,” said the children. They walked a few paces in a sedate and dignified fashion, then broke into a run.

“Wasn't she nice after all?” said Eustace, panting a little.

“I knew you'd say that,” Hilda replied.

A
LL THE
same as the week wore on Eustace felt less and less able to face Wednesday's ordeal. The reassurance conveyed by Miss Fothergill's presence ebbed away and only her more alarming characteristics remained. With these Eustace's fertile fancy occupied itself ceaselessly. About her hands the worst was already known, and he could add nothing to it; but the worst was so bad that the thought of it was enough to keep him awake till Hilda came up to bed. In virtue of her years she was given an hour's grace and did not retire till half-past eight. On Monday night, three days after the encounter on the cliff, Eustace prevailed on her to sacrifice her prerogative, and she appeared soon after he had said his prayers. She was not at all angry with him and her presence brought immediate relief. Without too much mental suffering, Eustace was able to make a visual image of himself shaking hands (only the phrase wouldn't fit) with Miss Fothergill. He almost brought himself to believe—what his aunt and Minney with varying degrees of patience continually told him—that Miss Fothergill's hands were not really the hands of a lion, they were just very much swollen by rheumatism—“as yours may be one day,” Minney added briskly. But neither of his comforters could say she had ever seen the hands in question, and lacking this confirmation Eustace's mind was never quite at rest.

But it was sufficiently swept and garnished to let in (as is the way of minds) other devils worse than the first. With his fears concentrated on Miss Fothergill's hands, Eustace had not thought of speculating on her face. On Monday night this new bogy appeared, and even Hilda's presence was at first powerless to banish it. Eustace was usually nervous on Monday nights because on the morrow another ordeal lay before him—the dancing class. Now with the frantic ingenuity of the neurasthenic he tried to play off his old fear of the dancing class against the new horror of Miss Fothergill's face. In vain. He pictured himself in the most humiliating and terrifying situations. He saw himself sent by Miss Wauchope, the chief of the three dancing mistresses, alone into the middle of the room and made to go through the steps of the waltz. ‘You're the slowest little boy I've ever tried to teach,' she said to him after the third attempt. ‘Do it again, please. You know you're keeping the whole class back.' Never a Monday night passed but Eustace was haunted by this imaginary and (since Miss Wauchope was not really an unkind woman) most improbable incident, and nothing pleasant he could think of—ponds, rocks, volcanoes, eagles, Nancy Steptoe herself—would keep it at bay.