Eustace and Hilda

by L. P. Hartley

  At her wedding how the dusty human scene had freshened up and blossomed, like a suburban garden after rain! Even Hilda had felt the genial excitement; perhaps she had felt it more than anyone. When she was bombarding the happy pair with confetti, did she remember the clinic and its cares? Did she even remember Eustace and his career?

  With his hand on the dining-room door, he paused to compose his features for the rebuke, explicit or implied, with which Aunt Sarah would receive his unpunctuality at the breakfast-table.

  It was after nine, and breakfast was supposed to be at half-past eight. Resolutely smiling, he entered, but there was no one there; a few crumbs testified to the fact that Aunt Sarah had come and gone. The rebuke was postponed. How absurd that he should mind it just as if he were a little boy! He must adopt a more adult attitude towards Aunt Sarah; it wasn’t really fair to her that he should continue to be frightened of her. He must be more forthcoming, take her into his confidence, draw her out. He had got it into his head that she was not really interested in his doings, and for that reason he seldom spoke of them; but how could she be, if he always kept them to himself?

  Meanwhile there were two letters by his plate, one from Stephen, one in a handwriting he did not know. He scrutinised them. Of late, with time hanging heavy on his hands, he had resorted to various devices to make the day pass more quickly. One was to put off reading his letters as long as he could. Dangled carrot-wise before him they filled the future with promise. Every hour that passed with them unread gave him a sense of virtue and increasing will-power. Sometimes he managed to go through the morning without indulging his curiosity. Usually he kept till last the letters he most looked forward to; bills he opened at once.

  This other letter was not a bill, though the envelope was addressed in a handwriting so lacking in reserve or affectations of prettiness that it might almost be called commercial. Hilda’s handwriting was a little like that, straightforward and unselfconscious, but this letter was certainly not from her. He slipped it into his pocket, and after a momentary struggle with his dæmon, opened Stephen’s.

  My Dear Eustace [he read],

  I tried to get in touch with you before you went down, but failed, so abrupt, so almost incontinent, was your departure.

  I wanted to see you for many reasons. You have been in hiding this term. I suppose I could have got news of you by applying to Lakelike or His Royal Highness, but pride would have forbidden such a course, even if I knew them, which (owing to my restricted social orbit) I do not.

  I should like to think of you living in solitary confinement, preparing for the ordeals before us, though how much nearer mine is than yours; but I happen to know that that was far from being the case, and that you were closely involved in the latest outbreak of hooliganism at St. Joseph’s (the Lauderdale Larks, I think they were called). I forbear to ask if that was why you went down so suddenly...

  Eustace smiled. The outbreak had really been a very small one. Nothing in the J.C.R.—time-honoured victim of the Lauderdale’s after-dinner frenzy—had been seriously damaged: even the umbrella-stand, against which their rage was traditionally severe, suffered no worse affront than that of being carried into the lavatory. Eustace had acquired merit, as well as demonstrated his sobriety, by helping the Junior Dean to put it back in its proper place.

  He read on:

  ...or if your conscience approved of smashing crockery, breaking windows, nailing the Bursar into his room, and tarring and feathering several of the harder-working undergraduates. I think you must have come to terms with your conscience, at any rate you have kept its problems hidden from me. How many of your visits, I begin to ask myself, do I owe to the activity of your guilt-complex? I feel like St. George, who was always cold-shouldered when there was no dragon about. But what would Miss Hilda say? Have you confessed to her?

  Apropos, perhaps she has told you that she has appointed me, or rather my father’s firm, solicitors to the clinic. I had a typewritten letter, but signed with her own hand, asking whether we would act for her in the purchase of a small plot of land that, like King David, she coveted for her vineyard. The Naboths were unwilling to sell because they need it for a chicken-run, but I am glad to report that we are breaking down their resistance. Also, Miss Hilda has entrusted her investments to our supervision, and I think we shall dispose of her shares in the Chimborazo Development Trust, which does not (to our attentive ears) have the ring of a gilt edged-security. (Guilt-edged, it would be, in your case.)

  You can imagine the commendation I have earned from Hilliard, Lampeter and Hilliard, for making this important capture. I shall expect to be created a partner at once.

  There is no need for me to paint a rosy picture of the Highcross Hill Clinic—for the Press has already done so—or the unending possibilities of litigation it presents. Of course we never canvass for clients, but I feel that your financial affairs should not be kept separate from Miss Hilda’s and that where your heart is, there should your share certificates be also.

  Yours ever,

  STEPHEN.

  P.S.—Miss Hilda has suggested that I might perhaps like to see the chicken-run for myself, which I shall be honoured to do. Of course, I shall have to warn her, as I warn you, against ill-considered outlays.

  Eustace let his tea grow cold while he pondered over this letter. Hilda’s overture to Stephen was news to him. That she had not told him of it was nothing to wonder at. Hilda rarely wrote letters, she was too busy. But the fact of her having removed her business affairs from the nerveless hands of Ruston and Liebig, their joint solicitors, was rather curious. Now he would have to follow suit and it would involve some unpleasantness. Miss Cherrington’s entrance cut short his meditation.

  “Good morning, Aunt Sarah,” he said brightly.

  A very slight modification in Miss Cherrington’s expression acknowledged his greeting.

  “Oh, you are here,” she said. “It was a better morning an hour ago.” She went over the table to pick up the plate on which Eustace had had his eggs and bacon, and looked round for something else to clear away. Flustered by her waiting eye, Eustace began to bolt his toast and marmalade.

  “I’ve just had a letter from Stephen,” he announced, as chattily as hurried mastication would allow.

  “I don’t think I quite remember who Stephen is,” said Miss Cherrington, pouncing on the toast-rack. “Ought I to know?”

  “Stephen Hilliard, I mean. He lunched with us the day Hilda came up to Oxford.”

  “I can’t keep pace with all the meals you have, you seem to have so many,” said Miss Cherrington. She opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out a crumb-brush and a tray. “And you have a good many friends too. But I think I do remember his name. Didn’t Hilda say he was well dressed and a little affected?”

  Eustace could not help flinching at this unflattering description of his friend, but he kept to his resolution to be more communicative with his aunt.

  “Well, you could describe him like that. But there’s more in him really. He’s—he’s going to be a solicitor quite soon.” Hoping Miss Cherrington would be impressed, he paused.

  “Doesn’t that take rather a long time?” asked Miss Cherrington, her eye wandering from the clock to the calendar.

  “Oh, not in his case,” said Eustace eagerly. “You see, special arrangements are being made for ex-servicemen, and men with university degrees. Besides,” Eustace added vaguely, “he’s going into his father’s firm.”

  “He’s very fortunate, then,” said Miss Cherrington, “in having a position ready for him. Have you finished with your teaspoon, Eustace?”

  Eustace gave his cup a hasty stir and handed the teaspoon to her. “Here it is, Aunt Sarah,” he said, trying to sound as though he was giving her a present. “Yes, he is lucky. But what I was going to tell you was, Hilda has taken her business affairs away from Ruston and Liebig, and given them to Stephen—or rather to his firm.”

  “Really,” said Miss Cherrington. “Thank you, Eust
ace, I’ll take the tea-cosy. That is very unexpected. I wonder if it’s wise?”

  “Oh, I think it must be,” cried Eustace enthusiastically. “Ruston and Liebig are such stick-in-the-muds. I’m not sure if they even exist. Besides, he’s a German.”

  “They must exist, Eustace,” said Miss Cherrington, reasonably. “What makes you think they don’t? Your father always found them quite satisfactory.” She coloured slightly and broke off. “Hilda must have great confidence in this Mr. Hilliard. She is rather impulsive sometimes—I wonder how much she knows about him?”

  “Only what I’ve told her, I suppose,” said Eustace, “and what she gathered from meeting him at lunch.”

  “I suppose so,” said Miss Cherrington, her tone somehow implying that any information Eustace might give would not weigh much with her. “Quite sure you don’t want any more tea, Eustace?”

  “Quite sure, Aunt Sarah,” said Eustace virtuously.

  “I think I’ll just wash these things up myself. Annie will be doing your bedroom now. I want to save her all I can. She isn’t very strong. If you could just open the door for me, Eustace.”

  Eustace sprang to his feet and knocked over his chair in doing so. One of the slender ribs in its false Chippendale back was seen to be fractured by the fall.

  “Oh, dear,” cried Eustace. “I am sorry.”

  Miss Cherrington paused, tray in hand, and looked over the edge of it.

  “Never mind,” she said. “It might easily have been worse. When I go out I’ll get some Seccotine. I think our tube is nearly finished. With a little scheming I shall find time to mend the break. We’ll let the chair rest for a day or two, and you must be careful how you lean back in it.”

  Shutting the door after her, Eustace sighed. He raised the fallen chair and sat down gingerly on another, conscientiously refraining from leaning back. Then, annoyed with himself for this illogical and poor-spirited behaviour, he suddenly threw all his weight against the chair-back. It creaked warningly, and he started and sat bolt upright. Nothing seemed safe. He sighed again. What uphill work it was. He looked round the room to see if any of his cherished knick-knacks would launch a ray of sympathy. The bronze Kelim dog on the chimney-piece gnashed its teeth at him. In certain lights it seemed to be laughing but not in this one. ‘Why does it always look as if it wanted dusting?’ he thought irritably and stroked it with his finger, but there was no dust, only that sullen, lustreless surface, deliberately tarnished, it seemed, as though to testify to the Chinese hatred of the shiny. He sat down again and wondered whether he should do his work here, where Annie would presently want to lay the table, or in the drawing-room which would take some time to warm up, and anyhow, Aunt Sarah, studying economy, did not like the gas-fire lit until tea-time. He was trying to decide whether interruption was preferable to cold, when Miss Cherrington reappeared. She opened and shut one or two drawers, and then said:

  “How old did you tell me this Mr. Hilliard was?”

  Eustace was surprised. He couldn’t remember having told his aunt how old Stephen was, but he welcomed her interest in the subject.

  “Nearly a year older than I am.”

  The answer did not seem to please Aunt Sarah.

  “I had somehow imagined him older than that,” she said. “Perhaps it was because you told me he would soon be beginning his career.”

  “Twenty-five isn’t really young,” said Eustace.

  “Only relatively, of course. Youth ends with the acceptance of responsibility. For some this happens early, too early. They miss their youth, which is a pity. Barbara might well have waited a little, I think. But there comes a time after which it is unsuitable to cling to youth.”

  “Yes,” said Eustace uneasily. He could see that from his aunt’s point of view he was at once too young and too old, too young for his opinions to carry weight, too old to be at Oxford. Perhaps he would never be the right age. Against her standard of suitability —which was moral in origin, but with more than a dash of worldliness in it—he seemed to have no appeal. There was much to be said for suitability: it was the essence of good taste. His knick-knacks did not look right in this room because they were unsuitable; and perhaps that was why he did not feel right in it either. They were undeniably beautiful, he felt sure, in spite of his momentary exasperation with the Kelim dog, and might have retorted that the room was unsuitable to them. But Eustace did not feel he could adopt their argument. It would be safer to bring the conversation back to Stephen.

  “Stephen would soon catch up,” he said. “He’s a very able man.” He felt that Miss Cherrington would have to respect this definition. “I expect Hilda realised that, even at a single meeting.”

  “It’s possible she has seen him more than once,” said Miss Cherrington.

  Eustace was startled. “Oh no, I don’t think so,” he said. “They’re both too busy; besides, I should have heard.”

  Aunt Sarah looked as if he might not be as omniscient as he thought, and a doubt wriggled into Eustace’s mind.

  “Well,” she said, rising. “I only hope this new arrangement about the solicitor will turn out satisfactorily. Hilda does not often make a mistake. Thank you for telling me, Eustace. I must get ready to go out now.”

  Aunt Sarah often thanked Eustace as it were for nothing, but this time there was real gratitude in her voice, and he was reminded of his resolution to try to meet her on a more human plane.

  “Oh, where are you going?” he asked, with every appearance of interest.

  Miss Cherrington turned round, surprised.

  “To do a little shopping, and then to the Bank. It closes early on Thursdays.”

  “Oh, does it? How tiresome for you.”

  “Bank clerks must have their holidays as well as other people,” said Aunt Sarah. “Only this morning it does happen to be a little inconvenient.”

  “I should think so,” cried Eustace, with what he knew to be an unsuitable display of sympathy. “I can lend you some money if you like.”

  “Thank you, Eustace, but I don’t like borrowing, and I shall have to go some time.” She turned away.

  “Tell me,” implored Eustace, throwing into his voice all the interest he could muster, “what other errands have you? Anything really exciting?” He felt the inquiry to be a little fatuous.

  Miss Cherrington retreated a pace from the door.

  “I’m going to the butcher’s for one thing,” she said. “I don’t know if you would call that exciting.”

  “Oh, do bring back some of those delicious sausages,” said Eustace. “I enjoyed them so on Saturday night.”

  “We have had better, but I’m glad you appreciated them,” Miss Cherrington said.

  “They were absolutely divine,” said Eustace. Noticing a shadow cross her face at his use of such an inappropriate epithet, Eustace added hastily, “Where else are you going?”

  “To the grocer’s, and then to the library, and then to the chemist’s, if I have time.”

  “Will you have time for a cup of coffee at the Tivoli?”

  “Thank you, I don’t want to spoil my lunch.”

  “I adore chemists’ shops,” persisted Eustace. “All those fascinating new cures. They make one almost long to be ill, don’t they?”

  “They don’t have that effect on me,” said Aunt Sarah. “But if you’re so interested in them, why don’t you come with me, Eustace? There are one or two small commissions I could give you, and we should be back all the sooner.”

  “Oh well,” said Eustace, dismayed at the turn the conversation had taken, “I don’t think I could—you see, I ought to stay in and do this work. I’m a little behind-hand already, I’m afraid.”

  He glanced guiltily at the clock.

  “I see,” said Miss Cherrington, and Eustace felt he deserved the grimness in her tone. “And what will you be doing this afternoon, may I ask?”

  “This afternoon?” said Eustace, as if that date, with all its obligations of time properly spent, were a century distant
—“this afternoon?” he repeated; “why, this afternoon I thought of going to see Hilda. I’ve hardly seen her since the wedding. As you reminded me, it’s Thursday, and Thursday is one of the days she sees people. I can telephone to her.”

  He seized the back of an undamaged chair, and from behind this bulwark gazed defiantly at Miss Cherrington.

  “What sudden decisions you make,” she said. “But I think this may be a sensible one. You will have business matters to discuss with her. Would you like me to go with you?”

  Eustace hesitated only a split second before saying “Oh, Aunt Sarah!” with a gush of delighted invitation in his voice, but he hesitated too long. Or perhaps Miss Cherrington had merely wanted to test a second time the genuineness of his interest in her day’s employments. At any rate she said, “Perhaps, after all, you had better go by yourself,” and left the room with a dignity and an absence of visible disappointment that made Eustace feel more than ever ashamed.