Eustace and Hilda (96 page)

“Isn't he coming now?” asked Eustace.

Again Miss Cherrington hesitated. “He seemed to think you might not wish to see him.”

“He's wrong,” said Eustace. “I should be most happy to see him.”

Something in his voice and manner struck Miss Cherrington, and she looked at him curiously. “I'm glad you say so,” she said. “Mr. Hilliard has been an invaluable friend to us; indeed, I don't know what we should have done without him. If he wrote to you anything that was hasty or unwise, it was the result of his deep attachment to Hilda's interests.”

“Yes,” said Eustace, “I realise that.”

“I'll be open with you,” Miss Cherrington said, “as I trust I always am: I had hoped, and I still haven't given up hoping, that when she is herself again Hilda and he may find their happiness in each other.”

“I hope so too,” said Eustace. “But do you think she will ever care for him?”

“She might, now that this other man has gone out of her life.”

She bent a look on Eustace when she said this, but to her surprise he seemed unmoved. “Tell me,” he said, “why did she want to come here?”

Miss Cherrington looked uneasy and unwilling, but Eustace knew she would tell him the truth.

“It was after her last interview with him,” she said, “when he broke off their—their—relationship. He told her then that he was going abroad, and that Miss Sheldon had become engaged to him.”

“But I thought——” began Eustace, almost rudely.

“That she learned that she had been deserted from the morning newspaper? No, they thought so at the hospital, because she was taken ill while she was reading the announcement. She knew two days before, but she didn't believe he meant it. We must give him the credit of having had the courage to tell her he had jilted her.”

“Jilted?” said Eustace. “But had he asked her to marry him?”

“I am surprised at your using that tone,” said Miss Cherrington, “after everything your sister has suffered. You sound as if you were defending him. Do you realise what those months cost her? Her reputation, her living, almost her life. Does it make much difference whether or not they were formally engaged? He certainly behaved as if—no, I can't speak of it. You have picked up some very strange notions, Eustace, from the people you have been associating with.”

Eustace looked at her expressionlessly. To some a love-affair would always seem amusing, exciting, delicious, the sweetest of stolen waters, an inevitable adjunct of civilisation, a renewal of life. To others it was simply a denial of morals, a lapse from right living to be unequivocally condemned. One thing was certain: it did not suit the temperament of the Cherringtons.

“But you still haven't told me,” he said, “why Hilda came to Anchorstone.”

Miss Cherrington ignored the impatience in his voice and answered evenly: “If you had been here at the time, Eustace, you would realise how difficult it is for me to remember every little detail of those most distressing days. Indeed, I try to forget them. In my letter to you I made as light of everything as I could. Hilda was abnormally excited and the doctor—feared for her reason. Before the announcement came out she knew she was on the verge of a breakdown, and she had persuaded herself that if she came here, where—where he was, he—well—he might change his mind. Also I think the place had associations for her, with you as well as with him. I tried to dissuade her, pointing out that she would cheapen herself and alienate the sympathy which everyone felt for her, but she was immovable; and the doctor said that in her state she must not be crossed, and she might even benefit from the air here, which did you all so much good as children. But I'm afraid she hasn't benefited from it much as yet, because we can't induce her to go out of the house.”

Miss Cherrington stopped and looked at Eustace. She could not tell what was passing in his mind. His face, which usually followed and even forestalled the changes in an interlocutor's mood, and was never more responsive than when he was being scolded, looked stony and rather cross, and the curves that the habit of amiability had stamped on his mobile features now belied their spirit. And the smudge of moustache was like a scrawled placard closing a right of way. Another Eustace was wearing his face. Instinctively, if against her will, Miss Cherrington was impressed by these signs of male independence; she felt she had made a false step, and her concern for Hilda, whose fate she believed to lie in Eustace's hands, made her try, almost for the first time in her life, to conciliate him.

“But all these are rather sad things,” she said. “You haven't told me about your time in Venice, though you wrote me two very interesting letters. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Venice?” said Eustace. “Oh yes, I enjoyed myself. I had a very good time, but I don't think you'd be specially interested to hear about it.”

“What makes you think that?” Miss Cherrington's voice had the ironical inflection she so often used to Eustace. “I hope I take an interest in all your doings.” She gave an uncertain little laugh and awaited, but not quite confidently, the facial adjustments, and the “well, you sees” with which he was wont to refashion for her benefit a story of which he knew she wouldn't approve.

But he only said, “I don't think that sort of thing is quite in your line.”

Miss Cherrington was very much taken aback. She stifled an obvious retort, and at that moment a bell, which might have been the whole house cheeking her, buzzed like an angry wasp. Eustace turned white, and looked quickly to right and left. Then Minney was standing in the doorway, her face portentous with the gravity of her errand. She nodded and beckoned, but did not speak. Trembling, Eustace got up and followed her.

Miss Cherrington scarcely noticed his agitation, so astonished was she by the act of rebellion that had preceded it. She had caught in his face what she seldom allowed herself to see—a likeness to his father whom she had loved. Yes, in this very room, though it was so different then, Alfred Cherrington, fortified by whisky and a cigar, had defied her to refuse Miss Fothergill's legacy. He had imposed his will on hers. Eustace had been upstairs with Minney, having his bath; she remembered the gush of the outgoing water, she almost expected, so rife were domestic sounds at Cambo, to hear it again. Hilda had been taking care of Barbara while they went to the funeral; dear little thing, she always was a pickle.

The day Miss Fothergill was laid to rest, the day that changed their lives, the day that gave Eustace back to Hilda. But only for a time: school stretched the elastic; the war, Oxford, Venice, they all stretched it, but now it had snapped to again. What had she wanted of Eustace? In what had he always fallen short? Why was she permanently discouraged and irritated by him? Except that once, when he ran away, he always did what he was told. Why did she wish that he belonged to someone else? Why could he only do right when he was carrying out Hilda's orders? Why did she resent her brother's occasional outbursts of fondness for him? Was it because he reminded her of his mother, Alfred's plaything?

Miss Cherrington nodded. Alfred was wearing his straw hat; it had a guard, a black blob with a cord coming from it that fastened in his button-hole. His fair moustache was waxed at the ends—no, he had taken the wax off: wax was no longer the fashion. He looked gay and dashing in his new suit, and she felt proud of him. But no, it wasn't his suit, it was a present from Eustace, who had got hold of some money and put them all permanently in his debt. Eustace had apologised for that many times, but he wasn't apologising now. He had grown a moustache too, and was telling her, in effect, to mind her own business, and she felt she liked him better.

The door opened, and she started and must have looked alarmed, for Minney, who was obviously labouring under strong excitement, began reassuringly, “It's all right, dear.” Horrified at the slip, she hastily corrected herself. “I mean, it's all right, Miss Cherrington. They're getting on beautifully. He's sitting close beside her and talking to her just as if she were herself. I'd taken so much trouble with her to make her look nice—you know, she doesn't want to be bothered sometimes, and get's fretful and fidgety like a child. She would wear the uniform, but I pressed it and cleaned it, and put her chair with its back to the light—the way Miss Fothergill used to, you remember.” Miss Cherrington frowned, but Minney didn't notice.

“And then I did something I'd never done before, and I wasn't sure you'd like it, Miss Cherrington; but she's got so pale these last weeks, and I knew she must have some make-up put away somewhere in that lovely gold compact-set he gave her. So I found it, and oh, Miss Cherrington, she didn't want me to put it on, she shook her head and cried, but I said, ‘You must think of him, too, dear, as well as yourself; he won't like to see you looking pale, it'll give him quite a shock.' So at last she gave way. Of course I didn't quite know how to do it, I've never done such a thing before, and I don't hold with it, but they all say you mustn't put on too much, so I was very careful, and I think she does look nice—you'll see her before you go away, won't you?” Minney paused for breath.

“I've already said good-bye to her,” said Miss Cherrington. “I'm not sure it would be wise to disturb her a second time.”

“Just as you like of course, Miss Cherrington, only it seems a pity. Well, he came in and was breathing rather hard, but he went straight to her and took her hands, which were lying quite natural in her lap, in both his and said, ‘Oh, Hilda, I am glad to see you,' or something like that.”

“Did he kiss her?” asked Miss Cherrington.

“Yes, he did, and then I was a little afraid for the rouge, what with that little moustache he's got which makes him look so funny—but it was quite all right, and you wouldn't have noticed any difference in her except for the cast and the eyelid that droops and the stiff, still way she sits. And then he began to talk to her and tell her how much he'd missed her and how he'd been thinking of her, all the way from Venice, he said, and that he knew she was going to get better, and he would never leave her till she did.”

Miss Cherrington nodded. “Did he refer to her—to her other trouble?”

“Mr. Staveley? No, he didn't say anything about that, not while I was there; he talked about the room and how changed it was, but still the same in a way, and how he was looking forward to seeing all the old places again and the rides they would go together in the bath-chair.”

“Did she agree to that?” said Miss Cherrington eagerly. “I think that is so important.”

“I couldn't quite tell, because he didn't give her time to show whether she would or not; he seemed to take it for granted she would. And then he started telling her about Venice, how it was all canals and bridges—so inconvenient, I think—and how he'd written a book.”

“A book?” queried Miss Cherrington almost incredulously. “How could he have written a book?”

“Well, that's what he said; but he didn't tell her what it was about, and of course she couldn't ask him, that was what made the conversation so one-sided. You say something to her, but you can't be sure whether it's what she wants to hear or not; you get discouraged when she makes no answers, though of course in the nature of things it can't be otherwise. You might even think she wasn't interested, though I've got so I can tell when she is. And sometimes when she didn't answer he'd turn to me and say, ‘Isn't that so, Minney?' almost as if I was her. And then he slowed down a bit, and seemed to be wondering what to say next, so then I saw the ice was broken and I thought they'd get on better with me away, and I slipped out.”

“Thank you very much, Minney,” Miss Cherrington said. “I am devoutly thankful Mr. Eustace has come back at last. Did you notice any difference in her, in her physical condition, I mean? I suppose it's too early to look for that.”

“I can't say I did,” said Minney. “But I'm sure she hasn't been quite so helpless this last day or two. Mr. Eustace, now, he looked as if he might be sickening for something. We shall have to feed him up. Of course he never was very strong.”

“I expect he's been leading a rather tiring life,” said Miss Cherrington, “and then the journey on top of it. But you'll take care of him, Minney; he was always your favourite.”

She made it sound an accusation.

“Well, I used to think Miss Hilda was a bit hard on him, but of course she can't be now.”

“No, indeed.”

“I expect he'll be glad to talk to me, just as a change from always asking questions. He seems quite the young man now, don't you think so, Miss Cherrington?”

“Yes, I think he has changed. When did you last see him, Minney?”

“About two years ago. Of course he hadn't the moustache then. That makes a man look more himself.”

“Is it a moustache?” Miss Cherrington asked. “I thought he had perhaps forgotten to shave.”

“Oh no, he told me it was on purpose. You see, it's only had the journey and those two days in London. I wonder if it will be stiff or silky?”

“He may not keep it,” said Miss Cherrington. “I mean,” she added rather primly, “men don't always.”

The grinding of brakes and other smaller sounds announced that a car was stopping at the door.

Miss Cherrington picked up her bag. Arm in arm, Barbara and Jimmy strolled past the window, opened the white gate, and stood looking critically at the car.

“Shall I fetch Mr. Eustace?” Minney asked. “He said be sure to tell him when you were going.”

“Better not, I think,” said Miss Cherrington. “I shall soon be seeing him again, and if he's talking to Miss Hilda, and helping her, he couldn't be more usefully employed.”

T
HE WORSE
is the enemy of the bad, and now that the worse had happened, Eustace felt much calmer. Sorrow inflicts a deeper wound, but nervous dread deranges all the processes of living. Eustace did not realise how much he had suffered from the uncertainty of what was happening to Hilda until the smoke had cleared away and the full extent and meaning of the disaster lay patent to his view. Suffering tempers the spirit and hardens it. Eustace's moustache concealed a stiffening upper lip.