Eustace and Hilda (93 page)

‘And when the people saw him coming back, they pointed their fingers at him and cried, “Coward, Eustace, coward! For what you did in ignorance we can excuse you; but not for this. You have sacrificed your sister's honour, and you will not raise a finger to avenge her. You're thinking of your precious skin, that's what it is. You remember Dick's big hairy wrists sticking out of his shirtcuffs, and his knuckles showing white over the bone! You're afraid of all that, as Hilda was. Your heart may bleed for her, but your flesh never will! You're yellow, and no decent person will ever speak to you. We won't let you land here. Go back! Go back!” And Eustace went back and slew the false knight who had dishonoured his sister, and his blood stained the pavement where they fought.'

Eustace leaned forward, and with a great effort pushed open the doors of the felze. Straight in front of him, framed in the aperture, soared up the tremendous angle from which the converging walls of the Palazzo Sfortunato swung right and left into the darkness. But the walls were not all dark; light shone from the Gothic windows of the piano nobile and from the room beyond it, the dining-room. Inside by the column under the arch, on a tall crimson chair with finials carved like a crown, sat Lady Nelly, her soft white hands folded in her lap, her figure all curves and comfort, her amethyst eyes shining mistily, her voice warm with welcome.

‘Why, Eustace, here you are at last! We were wondering what had become of you! Ring the bell, Eustace, and we'll have some champagne to toast you on your last night.'

Silvestro was putting on the spurt he always mustered to bring the boat home in style; the water flew back from the blade in a diaphanous arc, splendid to see. But when he heard the doors open he checked his stroke in a smother of spray and turned round.

“Signore?”

“Torniamo, torniamo,” cried Eustace.

The gondolier's face fell. Seldom had Eustace felt the current of a will flowing so strongly against his own.

“Where do you want to go now?” he asked almost rudely. “It is late, signore, and the Countess is expecting you.”

Eustace answered angrily, “Take me back to the hotel.”

Cowed by his tone, Silvestro turned the boat round without a word.

A
T THE
hotel landing-stage Eustace dismissed the gondola. He would walk home, he said. Please tell the Countess not to wait: his business was taking him longer than he expected. Unescorted he passed through the double doors. No sound came from the bar. Everyone was at dinner. Breathing rather quickly, he went in.

Dick was sitting alone by the far window, looking out on to the water. A whisky and soda stood in front of him. As Eustace came towards him he turned, and a puzzled frown appeared on his face. Then he recognised Eustace, his jaw dropped slightly, his face cleared, and he rose to his feet and held out his hand.

“Eustace!” he said. “Imagine meeting you here.”

Eustace ignored his hand and came a step nearer.

“I've come to tell you you're a blackguard,” he said.

The words were out, and he still lived. Dick's hand dropped to his side. He was wearing a grey suit, a linen shirt so fine it might have been silk, and a blue tie with white spots. His eyes were tired and wary; he looked fit but not well.

“Sit down,” he said, “and let's talk about this. Waiter, my friend here would like a drink.”

“I'm not your friend,” said Eustace. It cost him something special to say that. “And I won't drink with you. I came to say you're a scoundrel, and that's all I have to say.”

At this moment he should have gone, but he lingered to see the effect of his words.

“All right, waiter,” said Dick to Tonino, invisible to scowling Eustace. “The gentleman doesn't want a drink.”

With the slow gesture that Eustace remembered, Dick pulled out his cigarette-case.

“If you won't drink, perhaps you'll smoke.”

Eustace shook his head.

“Then if you won't I will.”

Eyeing Eustace across the flame, he lit his cigarette with a hand that trembled slightly.

“Too many late nights,” he said, and when Eustace did not answer but still stood in an attitude as truculent as he could make it, he added, “Let's be more comfortable. There's a chair here.”

Eustace looked at the chair as if it had been a scorpion. Hitherto he had felt nothing but the wild elation of an actor who has succeeded against all belief in an impossible rôle; but embarrassment was rising in him, and another sensation that he knew and dreaded.

“What do you want to do?” said Dick. “Knock me down?”

All at once Eustace felt the floor coming up at him. Vaguely wondering whether Dick had hit him, he swayed and clutched at the chair. It would have overbalanced if Dick had not caught the other arm and steadied it. But Eustace had not the strength to hold himself up, his knees buckled, and his feet began to slide from under him. With a quick movement Dick got hold of him before he fell and supported him on to the chair.

“Put your head between your knees,” he said; “you'll be all right in a moment.”

Eustace lowered his head into what is one of the least impressive postures that the body can assume.

“Waiter,” Dick called, “we want some brandy here.”

Tonino, who had discreetly withdrawn out of sight, returned with the bottle and poured out a wine-glassful. He looked down at Eustace with concern.

“Povero Signor Shairington,” he said.

“You know him, then?” said Dick.

“He is a guest of the Countess of Staveley, a very nice gentleman.” Tonino spoke as if Eustace was not there.

“See if we can make him swallow some of this,” said Dick, holding the glass to Eustace's pale lips.

Eustace tried to push the glass away. “I have some,” he muttered, “here.” Gropingly he steered his other hand towards his pocket.

“Damn his pride,” said Dick in exasperation. “Here, swallow it down, there's a good fellow. It's not a drink, it's medicine, and you can pay for it afterwards.”

Eustace drank some of the brandy and began to feel a little better.

“The gondola,” he said, turning to Tonino. “I sent it away.”

“Shall I telephone for one from the traghetto?” said Tonino solicitously. “It won't be many minutes.”

“Thank you,” said Eustace. “I'll go down to the hall and wait.”

He tried to get up, but the room began to swim, and he sat down again, resolutely looking away from Dick.

“Take it easy,” Dick said. “You were like this once before, you know.”

Eustace tried not to answer, but social instinct and the memory of an episode which had sweetened his whole life overcame the bitterness of the moment, and he said:

“Yes, it all began with that.”

Dick, who had been standing, sat down and lit another cigarette.

“Don't think too badly of me,” he said.

Eustace swallowed hard. “I'd rather not think of you.” He forced himself to utter the words, but they sounded false in his ears and he felt himself weakening. He had said his say, he had called Dick a blackguard and a scoundrel, he had broken irreparably the thin shell of their friendship, he had done all that Hilda could expect, that anyone could expect. The elation, the intoxicating moment of self-pride, the clear flame of anger had faded with his fading senses, and he found himself coming back to a sick sorry self, that had no impulse left but to terminate the interview and get away.

“You're looking better now,” said Dick. “Not quite so green.”

Green, yes, he had been very green. At the same time he was touched by the casual kindness in Dick's voice, the kindness a soldier might show for a wounded enemy who had fallen in the attempt to kill him; and for the first time he allowed his eyes to rest unbalefully on Dick's face. It was thinner than he remembered, and wore a look of strain.

“You know,” Dick said, “I think you may not have got this quite right.”

Using his will like a bellows, Eustace kindled a flame in the embers of his anger. “I know as much as I want to, thank you.”

Dick's hands were resting on the table, and he studied the sleeve of his coat.

“Who told you?”

“Does that make any difference?”

“Yes,” said Dick. “I think it does.” He spoke with a touch of his old authority, which Eustace at once welcomed and resented.

“Why?”

“I can't tell you why,” said Dick. “That's just it. If I told you, you'd think me a worse cad than you do now.”

“I couldn't,” said Eustace, but his heart was not in the words, and his nature, though not his will, regretted them.

“Yes, I gave you an easy score there,” said Dick. It was the first time he had acknowledged the hostility of Eustace's attitude. “But tell me this. Has Hilda written to you?”

Eustace flushed at her name on Dick's lips and said angrily:

“Not since. How can she, when she's paralysed?” The lines of strain deepened in Dick's face, but he made no other sign.

“Has Miss Cherrington written?”

“Yes, but I haven't got the letter. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” said Dick, “I think you have only heard one side. If you'd been in England——”

“I wish to God I had been,” said Eustace.

“So do I.”

Eustace stared at him unbelievingly, but doubt wriggled into his mind and his case against Dick seemed to weaken.

“You wish I'd been in England?” he blustered. “Why, it suited your book to get me out. It was just what you wanted. You and Lady Nelly between you——”

“Aunt Nelly? How does she come into it?”

“Well, she knew what you were up to, so she got me to come here to make things easier for you.”

“
Easier
for me,” said Dick. “
Easier?
Good God! That shows how little you know.” His tone changed. “But don't drag in Aunt Nelly. Believe me, she knew as little as you did—less, I dare say. She hadn't the faintest idea. You can count her out.”

The sound of Lady Nelly's footsteps climbing back to her pedestal was music to Eustace's heart.

“You think she didn't know?” he asked, in his eagerness forgetting to sound angry.

Dick smiled his old smile.

“Quite sure. She always meant to ask you, on the strength of what Antony told her about you. And I said something too. But I wish she hadn't.”

They were back at the same place.

“But if I'd been there,” said Eustace, resuming sternness, “none of this might have happened.”

“That's exactly what I mean.”

“Do you mean, you didn't want it to?”

Dick looked out of the window. The storm had abated, and the gondoliers were going past in their white coats. In the distance the minstrels of the Piccola Serenata were singing ‘La Donna è Mobile.'

“Eustace, I'm going away, and I'd rather you knew. I tried many times to break it off.”

“And Hilda wouldn't?”

“No.”

“I don't believe you,” cried Eustace passionately. “Why, there were all sorts of stories——”

“Oh yes, and most of them were true. But not the one you heard. At least, only partly true.”

“But you began it,” cried Eustace. “You—you——”

“Yes,” said Dick simply. “I don't excuse myself. I only mean that it was more than I bargained for.”

“What did you bargain for?” demanded Eustace.

Dick looked at him a little curiously. “You've always lived at home, haven't you, quietly? I mean, under your family's eye?”

“I suppose so,” said Eustace stiffly, yet feeling somehow that he had given ground. “Is there any harm in that?”

“None, but you're more of an exception than you think,” Dick said. “And so is Hilda.”

“I hate to hear you use her name,” cried Eustace.

“She asked me to use it,” said Dick. The flat statement somehow silenced Eustace's indignation. “But she only listened when she wanted to. Does she always listen to you?”

Like a great weight, impossible to hold, the thought of Hilda seemed to slip from Eustace's grasp. He said nothing.

“But perhaps you never tried to make her do something she didn't want to?”

“Only once, that I remember,” Eustace said. He added unwillingly, “I've sometimes tried to stop her doing things she wanted to.”

“Did you find that easy?”

“No.” He felt that Dick was confusing the issue and most unfairly manœuvring him into a defensive position when he had the right so clearly on his side. “But I only tried to prevent her making mistakes,” he said, his voice rising in self-righteousness.

“I tried to do that,” Dick said. “But it was no use. She wouldn't listen. That's why I'm here now.”

“In Venice?”

“Well, on my way out East. There's a spot of bother there.”

A faint chill crept into Eustace's heart, but he said hardily:

“You'll enjoy that.”

Dick raised his eyebrows, and a lot of little lines round his eyes showed white in his sunburned face.

“Why?”

“You like killing people.” Eustace tried to recall the taunt, it seemed especially unworthy, almost outrageous, coming from a civilian, who had lately fainted for no reason, to a soldier who was going to risk his life. Dick's face sagged in weariness, and for the first time a look of dislike and distaste flitted across it.

“If you weren't her brother——” he said.

“I didn't mean that,” said Eustace. “Forgive me. I'm sorry.” He saw a body lying on the desert, the same Dick as now, but for the blood flowing from him into the sands. And at Anchorstone Hall the doors shut, the blinds down, and no sound but the sound of sobbing. He wrenched his mind from the vision, from the fate of Hilda, betrayed and unavenged, from questions of right and wrong and said, “Perhaps you'll be back soon.”