“When we get back to tea,” she said, as they moved off in the direction of the willows, “we’ll tell them we’ve had our escapade too.”
More than ever, Eustace felt in bliss.
“Why did you say ‘the sixth heaven’ a moment ago?” he asked.
“Oh, I expect you always keep one in reserve.”
But their return was not to be so triumphal. Faces looked up rather quickly and then away again, as though they had been expecting someone else. Sir John Staveley rose from the larger of the two round tea-tables and said, “Come and sit with us, Nelly.” Eustace’s orders seemed to hang fire, but presently he found himself installed at the other table, with Anne and Monica and Victor Trumpington, and an empty chair. Eustace glanced wistfully at the senior table and at the late companion of his walk, who now seemed separated from him by an unbridgeable gulf. Antony was there too, talking with immense animation to Lady Staveley, his elbow stuck out in the attitude of the fisherman in The Boyhood of Raleigh. As she warmed to the fire of his discourse, Eustace could see the family likeness. Sir John, talking to Lady Nelly, frowned occasionally, and drew back his head like an offended tortoise, as though to escape the impact of Antony’s volubility.
“Tea, Mr. Cherrington, or iced coffee?”
“Oh, tea, thank you,” said Eustace.
“I never drink tea if there’s iced coffee,” remarked Victor Trumpington.
Eustace wondered if this was a challenge. Victor’s face was perfectly impassive; he seemed too indolent to change his expression. Eustace started out with the intention of liking everyone, and regarded failure as his fault, not theirs. It might be true, as Stephen had more than once told him, that he had the instincts of an accompanist, and did not know what people were really like. But this did not seem the moment to change his social technique.
“I imagine that coffee keeps me awake,” he said placatingly.
“Well, you can’t always be asleep,” said Victor Trumpington in his lazy voice.
Eustace could think of no suitable riposte, and was relieved when Anne, handing Eustace his tea, said:
“That doesn’t come well from you, Victor. You’re a regular dormouse.”
“I certainly sleep more than Dick does,” Victor remarked. “He seems to me to be awake half the night.”
“Oh, he’s always kept very late hours,” said Anne.
“And early ones too.”
“Yes, he’s got too much energy. I wish I had. More coffee, Victor?”
“Thanks. But doesn’t this political business absorb some of it?”
“It seemed to, for a time. What do you think, Monica?”
Eustace looked at Monica. She had a large face, inclined to redness, a decided nose, gooseberry-green eyes that looked small between eyelids heavy from headache, and a halo of wiry hair the colour of dried hay. The whole effect was too vital and good-natured to be unpleasing, but Eustace missed the look of serenity she had worn the night before.
“I don’t think he quite knows what he wants,” she said. “I shouldn’t be surprised if he went back to Irak after all. In fact, he told me he might.”
“How terrible for those poor Arabs,” drawled Victor. “Excuse me, Anne, but you know what I mean, he must give them no peace. Physical jerks before breakfast and all tents neatly folded by nightfall.”
“I think he finds their way of life more to his taste than ours,” said Anne. “Freer, you know.”
“What do Arab women do?” asked Victor. “We never seem to hear about them. There must be some. I fancy they’re always being abducted; but what do they do between-times? Sit in their tents mending their yashmaks?”
“Dick says it’s a man’s country,” said Monica. “The women don’t count for much. He gave me some reports to read on that very question, and asked me to look up some facts for him in London; but we haven’t had a moment to go over them.”
“Isn’t it about time they were back?” said Victor. He made a movement to consult his watch, but finding that it was hidden under his sleeve, desisted. “How long do these joy-rides usually last?”
Involuntarily Anne looked at Monica.
“Not more than a couple of hours, generally,” she said. Since they had begun to talk about Dick she had recovered some of her lost liveliness. “He usually goes on for about half an hour after one has asked him to turn round—do you find that?”
“He certainly has no mercy,” said Anne. “But then, I don’t enjoy flying as you do.”
“Yes, I love it,” said Monica, and added vaguely, “in ordinary circumstances.”
Eustace got the impression that they all looked away from him, as though he were to blame for Monica’s missing her ride. Lady Nelly was right: there had been disappointment.
“Will they land on Palmer’s Plot?” asked Victor.
“Dairy Haye’s a better pitch, I think.”
“Dick says it’s too bumpy.”
“Why not the Old Meadow, then?”
“Not long enough.”
Lost among these allusions to places he did not know, which were household words and landmarks to the others, Eustace let his eyes slide from face to face, like a dog that waits to hear its name called.
“Either there or in the Forty Acre,” Monica was saying. “But that’s further away, and Dick hates walking. I often tease him about it. He’s so energetic in most ways, but he’d take a car to go a hundred yards. I remember——” She stopped.
“Did I hear you say the Forty Acre?” Sir John called out from the other table. “He’d better not try to land there—it’s full of cows.”
“Wouldn’t they be in the cow-shed by this time?” said Eustace, anxious to pull his weight in the conversation.
His contribution fell flat, but Victor said:
“It would take more than a cow to upset an aeroplane, surely.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the aeroplane, I was thinking of the cows,” said Sir John, “and the compensation we should have to pay.”
“Oh, Papa, what a heartless speech,” said Anne. “Here we are trying not to worry, and Mr. Cherrington has hardly touched his tea, and you talk about casualties to cows as if nothing else mattered.”
“You’re not really worried, are you?” said Sir John. “It’s six o’clock. Yes, I suppose they ought to be back.” He paused, and for the first time a tremor of anxiety made itself felt in the room.
“I’ve known him often come back later than this,” said Monica.
“What’s that? What’s that?” asked Sir John, who was apt to become deaf when preoccupied.
“Monica said she’s often known Dick come back later than this,” repeated Anne, raising her voice, and Monica reddened slightly.
“Pity you couldn’t go too, Monica,” said Sir John, “just to remind him of the time. He wouldn’t be so unpunctual with you, I dare say.”
Across the silver tea-kettle Lady Staveley’s straight gaze telegraphed a warning. Trying to repair his blunder Sir John floundered more deeply. “Miss... Miss...” He groped for the name.
“Cherrington, my dear,” prompted his wife.
“Of course—how stupid of me. Miss Cherrington doesn’t know Dick’s habits as well as Monica does.”
No one found anything to say to this. Eustace felt himself the object of resentful thoughts, and suddenly realised how little he must mean to most of these people who had never seen him before and probably did not want to see him again. In spite of their friendly manner they had a common life behind park walls and ring fences which he did not share. They were withdrawing from him, all of them, even Lady Nelly, even Antony, and looking down at him from upper windows, belonging to bedrooms he could not trace, as he stood alone in the courtyard, with his luggage beside him. He was alone, Hilda was not with him, and for a frightening moment he saw himself as something alien and inimical, a noxious little creature from outside who had crept into this ancient and guarded enclosure to do it harm.
“Perhaps Miss Cherrington’s sense o
f time is just as good as Monica’s,” said Victor Trumpington in his flat voice. “What do you think, Cherrington?”
Eustace started.
“Hilda’s absolutely punctual as a rule,” he told them earnestly. “She has to be, you know, at the clinic.” He paused, to let the empressement with which he always mentioned the word ‘clinic’ have its effect. But this time they did not respond, and he went on quickly, “But sometimes she forgets about time altogether, much more than I should.”
“Let’s hope this isn’t one of those times,” said Victor lazily. “Shall we go out and scan the sky-line?”
Everyone agreed that this would be a good idea, and they drifted away from the tea-tables. Isolated among the sofas, Eustace involuntarily waited for Antony; but he had attached himself to Lady Nelly, and Eustace, almost with a pang, saw them turn to each other gladly, like the old friends that they were.
The party followed each other through the iron gateway and past the ruined chapel up an incline overlooking the lawn, to a point where only roofs and chimneys stood between them and the horizon.
“That’s where they’d be coming from,” said Monica. “At least, if Dick’s gone the way he usually goes.”
Their eyes followed the line of her arm into the cloudless sky, but not a speck rewarded their scrutiny, and disappointment dulled the faces which had been alight with eagerness and hope.
“What are we all standing here for?” said Sir John, testily. “Looking for them won’t bring them. There’s nothing to worry about; they’ve probably come down somewhere and are having tea.” He spoke as though to convince himself, and for a moment Eustace wondered if he were not more worried than any of them. “Why don’t you four go and play lawn-tennis?” he went on almost irritably, turning to Anne, who was standing with Monica and Victor and Eustace in an uneasy bunch. “The court’s there, and nobody ever uses it.”
Anne looked interrogatively at her companions, who hastily nodded. Even Eustace nodded. His host’s displeasure was more to be dreaded than his doctor’s.
“That’s settled, then,” Sir John said, mollified and seeming to repent of his ill humour. “Hope you’ll have a good game. I’ll make Crosby ring up the golf-links to send along two boys to throw the balls up. Can’t play lawn-tennis if you have to fag the balls. You might have thought of that, Anne.”
“No one proposed that we should play tennis till a moment ago, Papa.”
“Just so. You leave me to think of everything. What will you do, Nelly? Will you watch? Or will you make a four at bridge with Edith and Antony and me?”
“Antony doesn’t play,” said Lady Nelly. “He hasn’t been properly brought up. He’ll have to take me for a stroll as a punishment.”
“Well, you mustn’t let him talk too much,” said Sir John, giving Antony a glance of mock severity, “or you’ll never get anywhere.”
“I don’t want to,” said Lady Nelly. “I ask nothing more than to hang upon his lips.”
Sir John shook his head as if to signify that the case was hopeless. Lady Staveley took a last look at the sky and then said she must go and write some letters.
“Letters, letters,” said Sir John. “I don’t know how you find so many letters to write. No one ever writes to me.”
“That’s because you don’t write to them, my dear,” said Lady Staveley crisply. “I shall be in my sitting-room,” she added to the others generally, “in case you have any news.”
She took her husband’s arm, and they walked down the slope towards the house, she very upright, he leaning towards her.
“I expect we ought to go too,” Lady Nelly said. Her look signalled a regretful farewell to the others, a delighted welcome to Antony. They moved away to take the same walk in reverse, it seemed to Eustace, that he had had with her earlier in the afternoon.
“Well, now we’ve got our orders,” said Anne, “I suppose we must go and change. But are you sure you want to play? Papa won’t really mind if we don’t.”
“He will, Anne,” said Victor. “He’ll question us closely about every ball and tell us how we should have played it. I shouldn’t be surprised if he comes out to coach us. He doesn’t like the way you produce your back-hand, Anne.”
“I know,” said Anne, “but I’m too old to change.”
“I expect Cherrington is a star performer,” Victor proceeded. “Let’s make him and Monica play an exhibition match while we look on.”
“You always want to look on,” said Anne.
“Well, don’t you?”
Anne said nothing, and Eustace, fearful lest they should get a false idea of his prowess, exclaimed, “Oh, I’m no good at all. I can hardly hit the ball.”
“Is he speaking the truth, I wonder?” asked Victor.
“Oh, I expect so,” said Anne absently, as though taking it for granted that Eustace couldn’t play tennis, and as though it didn’t matter very much whether he could or not. “I beg your pardon,” she took herself up. “That sounded rather rude. I meant, it doesn’t matter a bit if you don’t play well—none of us is any good except Monica. She even plays singles with Dick. Think of the energy.” Involuntarily they all looked up at the sky. “I do think it’s rather inconsiderate of him,” said Anne suddenly. “I’m not worried, because I know he’ll turn up all right, but Mama and Papa will be. He really is a little selfish.”
“Oh, you mustn’t be hard on him,” said Monica. “It’s only because he has a different way of looking at things. He told me once that he would feel all wrong with himself if he didn’t take risks.”
“It isn’t his taking risks that I mind,” said Anne. “At least, I do rather mind; but as you say, it’s his nature. No, what I mind is his not coming back when he says he will, and leaving us to wonder what’s happened.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be inconsiderate,” said Monica warmly. “He just forgets about everything. Nowadays I can generally make him come back, but there was a time when I couldn’t.”
After a moment’s pause, Anne said to Eustace:
“Is this the first time your sister’s been up?”
“With Dick, do you mean?” asked Eustace.
“No, not specially with him, with anyone.” Anne spoke a little impatiently.
“Yes, she did go once,” said Eustace. “But that was at some seaside town where there was a professional pilot taking people up at so much a time. She’s never been in a private aeroplane before. I didn’t want her to go,” he added helplessly, feeling more than ever that they blamed him for Dick’s lapse.
“I don’t think any of us pressed her to go,” said Anne.
“Well, Dick did, a little,” said Eustace.
“Isn’t it funny,” said Monica, “how Dick will press people to do something, not much caring whether they want to or not, and the moment they say ‘yes’ he loses interest? I’ve often noticed it. If Miss Cherrington hadn’t hesitated, I believe he would have been back long ago.”
“Was your sister air-sick when she took that trip at the seaside?” Anne asked. She seemed unwilling now to call Hilda by her name, though she had done so, Eustace remembered, when they were playing billiard-fives the night before.
“She wasn’t up very long then,” he said. “But I don’t think she ever would be. She’s very strong, you know.”
“She looks as if she was,” said Anne. “But being strong hasn’t much to do with it.”
“Dick hates one to feel air-sick,” said Monica. “He told me once that if I ever was, he’d never take me up again.”
“And were you?” asked Victor Trumpington, with languid interest.
Monica flushed.
“No.”
“Anne, what a dawdler you are,” cried Victor with unwonted decision. “We really must get started, or what will your father say? I’m sure he’s on the court now, chafing with impatience and swearing at the ball-boys. Do your ‘Sister Anne’ act, and then let’s go.”
They stood in a row automatically shading their eyes from the
glare. But the light had lost its fierceness. Dropping their hands, they felt the soft air bathe their eyes like water. The coolness and fulfilment of the day flowed round them but could find no entry. Not seeing what they sought had blocked with anxiety the portals of their minds. They walked in silence down the grassy slope towards the house.
Parting from the others at the door of the Victorian wing, Eustace was aware of feeling worried, but not so much on Hilda’s account, he was surprised to find, as because of the spirit of unfriendliness that seemed to underlie their recent conversation. Hilda, Eustace now felt, was immortal; she could be hurt or injured, but the idea of her being killed never occurred to him as a possibility. True, he had caught the infection of anxiety from the others; but at the back of his mind, possessing it, was still the strange exaltation he had felt when he saw Hilda whirled into the blue. The episode had been like a consummation of his thought of her: it was an apotheosis, comparable to the glorious exit of Bacchus and Ariadne, launched into the skies. He could not believe that the empyrean, her native element, would in any sense, least of all the literal sense, let Hilda down.
He would have liked to say to the others, calming their fears, ‘No harm will come to Dick, while Hilda’s there!’ But, thought Eustace, searching frantically for his white trousers, they hadn’t seemed to worry about Hilda; their anxiety was all for Dick. They didn’t seem to care, or even to realise, that they both ran the same risk. At tea they had scarcely referred to her, and when at last they did, and Anne asked him whether she had ever flown before, there was no warmth of interest in the question; they hadn’t pursued it except to inquire, rather tastelessly, Eustace thought, whether she had been air-sick. And they had even tried to make out that Dick hadn’t very much wanted to go, and Hilda had—which was simply untrue. Really, from the meagreness and reticence of their references to her, Hilda might have been some kind of unmentionable disease —and he a lesser symptom of the same disease, equally to be hushed up. It was all so different from last night, when everyone had seemed interested and pleased and welcoming. Of course, there had been moments of coolness and reserve, especially on Lady Staveley’s part, as was natural between strangers; but at the billiard-fives match Hilda and he had seemed to belong to the party, to be old habitués of Anchorstone, sharing in family jokes and stories and catchwords. Now they were like strangers, and unwanted strangers too. The greatest change was in Monica. Last night she had been gay and jolly and forthcoming; at dinner they had talked like old friends. But to-day she kept him at a distance and the welcome was gone out of her glance. Eustace did not want to think ill of people, but surely there was something almost ill-bred in the way she spoke of Dick as if she owned him, and constituted herself his interpreter. Even Anne hadn’t quite liked it, Eustace thought; he had caught her looking at Monica as if she wished she would shut up.
Eustace and Hilda Page 46