‘I’m afraid, Miss Cherrington, we cannot vote you another thousand pounds. It’s quite out of the question.’ ‘But I cannot possibly carry on at the clinic without it.’ ‘I’m sorry. We can only repeat what we said.’ ‘In that case I must tender my resignation.’ ‘Miss Cherrington, we learn your decision with the profoundest regret. We are fully conscious of what the clinic owes to your efficiency, initiative, and enterprise. But we cannot ask you to reconsider your resignation. Reports have reached us of unexplained absences that in someone with a different record from yours would have been regarded as gross derelictions of duty. We do not ask you to explain; we do not wish to probe into your private affairs. But we are satisfied that for some months now the place has been going downhill. Yes, even as I speak, Miss Cherrington, I can feel it moving under me. You have taken a great interest in the superstructure, but you have neglected the foundations. To repair those foundations would cost at least a thousand pounds which, in the circumstances, as I said, we are not inclined to grant.’
At this point there seemed to be a commotion; something happened, someone came in, there was a shifting of positions, a vague effect of general post. Then Eustace heard Hilda’s voice ringing, triumphant: ‘It’s all right, gentlemen, I have the thousand pounds. No thanks to you, though. It is the gift of a well-wisher, who prefers to remain anonymous.’ ‘Then may we take it that you will withdraw your resignation?’ ‘Yes, this once.’ ‘And that the absences complained of will not recur? That you will not, in fact, disappear again?’ ‘Gentlemen, I——’ A mist boiled up from the abyss, and Eustace could see no more.
He walked into the post office (in Venice few doors had doorsteps), wondering why the faces coming out looked so dull and sad. He found a foreign telegraph form and wrote ‘Stephen Hilliard.’ The message came easily enough.
He left the post office lighter in step, lighter in heart, lighter by a thousand pounds.
“You look as if someone had given you a present,” said Lady Nelly when, sweating and panting, Eustace breasted the rather steep staircase that led, abruptly and without preamble, into Fortuny’s Aladdin’s cave. “I never saw you look so cheerful. Who have you been talking to all the time I’ve been waiting here? Who was the counter-attraction?” Her questions seldom demanded an answer: they brushed the hard surface of interrogation as lightly as a butterfly’s wing.
Eustace waited to recover his breath.
“Tell me,” went on Lady Nelly, “for I must take a leaf out of her book.” Her smile held immobile the two women who were standing near, patience on their faces, but a hint of restlessness in their hands.
“I just did an errand at the post office,” said Eustace; “and I couldn’t find my way at first. I’m so sorry.”
“I never saw anyone look less so,” said Lady Nelly. “Sorrow must be meat and drink to you. Every hour I must think of something to make you rue.”
Eustace searched in his mind. “If I look cheerful it’s because of the present you are going to give me.”
“I won’t refuse you a present,” said Lady Nelly, “since you ask me; but this is for your sister, you know.”
Eustace’s face turned redder. “That was a slip of the tongue,” he muttered miserably. “When I said ‘me’ I meant Hilda. You see, it’s the same thing.”
“Is it?” said Lady Nelly dubiously. “Well, that simplifies things very much. If I give you a dressing-gown, will your sister regard it as a present to her?”
Eustace’s face fell. “Well, you see, I have one,” he said.
“We’ll think about the dressing-gown afterwards,” said Lady Nelly. “You’ve convinced me that your theory doesn’t work. Your sister wouldn’t get any pleasure from your dressing-gown. Now put away these ideas of combined identities, and come and help me to choose something for her.”
The sofa in front of them and the table between them were soon deep in piles of silk and brocade. The room hypnotised Eustace. Colours were everywhere, on the walls, on the floor, on the painted ceiling; and the sunlight, filtering through the looped and pleated curtains, filled the air with radiant dust. It was like breathing a rainbow. Noiselessly, smilingly, the two women brought down bale after bale, piece after piece: here was a pattern of yellow and cream, wooing each other, almost indistinguishable; here wreaths and tendrils of green on a ground that was nearly white; here a soft blue with a mother-of-pearl sheen on it; here a cardinal red bordered with gold braid.
“I like that one,” said Eustace tentatively.
“Do you?” said Lady Nelly. “I thought you’d gone to sleep.” She narrowed her eyes a little. “No, it’s too—too uncompromising. It wouldn’t mix. One has to be seen with other people. She could wear it once or twice, perhaps, but that seems a pity with a Fortuny dress. Do you know what colour she likes?”
“She generally wears blue.”
“I remember how well that blue dress suited her. But she might like something different now.”
“Something older?” suggested Eustace.
“Well, not exactly older. She’s not much older, is she? She’s still very young. But flowers change as the season passes.”
“The dahlias must be out now,” said Eustace.
“Your sister is rather like a dahlia, isn’t she?” said Lady Nelly. “At least she was. I understand your thinking of her as a strong single colour. But blue, not red—a blue dahlia, a prize bloom.”
“Dahlias don’t grow old gracefully,” Eustace said.
“I don’t think of her as a dahlia now. That’s over, her dahlia phase. I think of her as a night-scented stock—no, that’s too bunchy. An iris, perhaps. I’m no good at analogies. But something fragrant.”
“That would be a great change,” exclaimed Eustace, to whom Hilda had always seemed as scentless as dew.
“No, no, not a great change, but I dare say a welcome one.”
“But scent is for someone else’s benefit,” objected Eustace.
“Well, there’s no harm in that.”
“I should hardly know her as you describe her,” said Eustace uneasily. “Do you think she’ll know me?”
“Oh yes.”
“I haven’t changed, then?”
“No, my mignonette, you haven’t. But I expect you will, if she has.”
An instinctive conservative, Eustace thought all change was for the worse.
“I don’t think Hilda would change easily,” he said at last.
“No change is very easy.”
“I hope it didn’t hurt her.”
“Perhaps it did, but we long for it.”
“Hilda was so happy as she was,” said Eustace.
“Are you sure?”
“Well, yes. She never wanted to leave the clinic, even for a week-end.”
“So it was you who persuaded her to go to Anchorstone?”
“Yes.”
“Ah,” said Lady Nelly, smiling. “You have a lot to answer for.”
Muffled to an echo of itself, the boom of the midday gun ruffled the air and set all the motes dancing. The two women exchanged glances. “Come along,” said Lady Nelly briskly. “We must concentrate. Perhaps they can help us. An evening dress for a young lady,” she said in Italian. “Tall, darkish, with blue eyes.”
“Is the lady married?” asked one of the women.
“Not yet,” said Lady Nelly. “But we see no reason why she shouldn’t be. Now we want two colours, one for her and one for someone—everyone else.”
“What are your colours?” Eustace asked.
“My colours? Do you mean the pastel shades in which I drape my middle-age? They wouldn’t do.”
“No, I meant your family’s colours,” said Eustace blushing.
“Oh, I see,” said Lady Nelly. “The flowers of the genealogical tree. But do you mean the colours of the upstart Lanchesters or the ancient Staveleys? Those I inherited or those I acquired?”
“Well, the Staveleys, perhaps.”
“Let me think. Silver and blue. Argent and azu
re.”
“Argent and azure,” repeated Eustace, savouring the words. “Wouldn’t they do?”
“What a happy thought,” said Lady Nelly. “I see I must always take you shopping with me. Here’s the very piece.” She pulled at a corner of stuff that stuck out from a heap of fabrics of a lighter hue. The gorgeous pile tottered. One of the women steadied it while the other dexterously dislodged Lady Nelly’s choice. In a moment the whole length lay before them, a stretch of evening-coloured sky with silver tulips climbing over it.
“But we shall want much more than this,” said Lady Nelly. “It has to be accordion-pleated.”
Eustace remembered Nancy’s dresses that had so enraptured his youthful imagination. His mind shied away from the thought, but returned to it again, for this was more beautiful than anything Nancy would ever wear. If there was no balance of benefit in a comparison, the balance Eustace always hoped to find, at any rate it was better to be at the top end of the see-saw.
Lady Nelly turned from giving instructions to the two women.
“But it may need altering,” she said. “I’ll give you my dressmaker’s direction.”
“When should she wear it?” Eustace asked. “I mean, for what sort of occasion?”
“Oh, any light-hearted occasion,” said Lady Nelly. “Any occasion that doesn’t point definitely to something else. Not at a wedding, perhaps, not for a dinner-party, not at a race-meeting. It’s what used to be called a tea-gown. She could wear it at a garden-party, I think; but it’s meant for those little in-between times when nothing’s been planned, when we feel happy, but don’t quite know what to expect, when the door opens and someone comes in.” She smiled at Eustace. “If I’d been younger you’d often have seen me in a Fortuny dress.”
“Are they very smart?” asked Eustace, thinking how ill smartness and Hilda went together.
“Oh no, they’re High Bohemia, almost Chelsea. They’re for off-duty—any kind of duty. They don’t invite comparisons—they mean you’ve stepped away from the throng for a moment and want to be looked at for yourself—not stared at, just looked at with kindly attention and affectionate interest. A moment of not conforming, not a gesture of rebellion. So often we have to look just like everyone else.”
Eustace wondered how he should explain all this to Hilda.
“I expect there are plenty such moments in your sister’s life,” said Lady Nelly, as if answering his thoughts. “She’ll know when to put the dress on.”
They were standing up now, and little flights of smiles and thanks and compliments circled and hummed round them like bright-plumaged birds, mingling with the spilt colours of the room to produce in Eustace a heady feeling of lightness and happiness.
Outside in the campo the strong sun smote them with all the vigour of its undisciplined attack, so that for a moment Eustace did not see Silvestro propped against the Gothic doorway. He sprang to attention and strode ahead through the narrow, shaded calle, looking back like a dog to make sure they were following him.
As they sat down in the empty gondola, Eustace recaptured the sensations of his first ride with Lady Nelly. He was afraid to break the spell, but a worm of doubt had wriggled into his happiness, and to banish it he said: “Will they have the dress ready before I go?”
“What’s this scare you’ve been getting up about going away?” said Lady Nelly. “The regatta’s to be next week, and after that Grotrian’s going to play. I can’t possibly let you go. People will think we’ve quarrelled. Besides, I should be most unpopular if I let you slip through my fingers. Venice would be up in arms. Only this morning Grotrian was asking me about you and congratulating me on having such a charming, clever, diffident, unspoilt guest.”
“Oh,” said Eustace, “I thought——”
“That you had been overlooked in all the multiplicity of his self-interest? Well, you hadn’t. But I own he is a little overwhelming sometimes, which is another reason for not leaving me in the lurch.”
Awed into silence by this notion in connection with Lady Nelly, Eustace gazed at the impressive bulk and blank, handsome face of the Palazzo Papadopoli which was rapidly sliding behind them. Gratitude to her surged up in him, and not least was he grateful for one small omission. By forgetting to give him the dressing-gown she had left unfastened one tiny link in the chain of his indebtedness which, had it been perfect, might have irked him, hardened though he was to receiving favours.
He spent the afternoon on holiday at the Lido, sedulously attentive to the Grundtvigs, whose good opinion, so unequivocally vouched for by Lady Nelly, he was determined to foster. Mrs. Grundtvig did not enter the water; she remained under one of the umbrellas, wearing the largest and densest pair of sun spectacles that Eustace had ever seen. Both her husband and her daughter bathed, he in a bathing-suit whose lateral stripes of blue and white seemed to challenge the rotundity of the world. Minerva’s piano legs were much in evidence. Caryatides, they supported a torso developed beyond her years. She swam out boldly, beyond the barrier for ‘gli inesperti,’ beyond the pink-bloused boatmen idling in their rescue boats. They stood up, pointing and shouting warnings. Eustace toiled after her, fearing she might be seized by cramp; but she easily outdistanced him, using a number of different strokes learned, as she told him afterwards, on half the fashionable plages of the world; at one moment she was almost out of sight, the next she was passing him in a smother of foam from which she emerged, Venus-like, to signal to this and that sleek-headed young man of her acquaintance. At tea on the terrace of the Excelsior they were joined by the Count, who paid her much attention: he had lost none of his assurance, though Eustace did not think that Lady Nelly was contributing to it; the soft dilation of her being, the imperceptible inclination of her movements sunwards, to-day were not for him.
“We were deeply impressed by your swimming, Eustace,” said Lady Nelly; “weren’t we, Trudi? What a lot of accomplishments you have. We took you for a seal. If I had any voice I’d have gone down to the water’s edge to sing to you.”
“Miss Grundtvig swims much better than I do,” said Eustace, and was annoyed with himself, for the remark sounded self-consciously self-deprecating.
“But not so like a seal,” said Mrs. Grundtvig. “I remember one once——” Her voice died away.
“Ah, you mean a performing seal,” said her husband. She shook her faded head, but he took no notice and went on, “Performing seals are most docile and affectionate. You can teach them many tricks, provided you treat them with kindness and feed them well. They expect a piece of fish for everything they do. I myself have appeared on the same platform with a seal.”
“Eustace is not that sort of seal,” said Lady Nelly. “He performs for love.”
“For love?” the Count broke in, dwelling on the word. “But what else should one perform for? I, too, often perform for love.”
He spoke to Minerva, but his eye travelled round towards Lady Nelly. But she only said, “That’s why you’re so much in demand, Andy.”
“Am I?” he asked, pouting.
“Everyone tells me so,” said Lady Nelly smoothly. “You must be on your guard with him, Minerva.”
“Oh, I know all about him,” Minerva said. “I’ve known heaps like him.” But there was a touch of coquetry in her voice.
“Well, I’ll only trust him with you on that understanding.”
“You must be there to see how well I behave,” said the Count.
“Oh no,” said Lady Nelly. “I shall be on my knees polishing the floor for Thursday night. It is Thursday, isn’t it, Eustace?”
“The ball, Lady Nelly? You’ve never been quite sure.”
“Well, I am now. I’ve sent out the invitations. Mind you come, Andy. I count on you.”
“But of course I’m coming, Lady Nelly.” He sounded puzzled and hurt.
“Well, don’t forget, or Minerva will never forgive you.”
“Would you forgive me?”
“I might, I have a forgiving nature.”
The Count sighed heavily, but it was a diplomatic sigh, covering a retreat.
Eustace was filled with a sweet elation; and his thoughts took on the blue and gold of the scene before him. Many pictures passed through his mind. Hilda was confounding the directors with his cheque for £1,000; she was trying on the Fortuny frock at Lady Nelly’s dressmaker’s; she was sitting by herself, wearing it in a room he did not know, waiting for the door to open. Now it opened, and Dick Staveley came in: he was in evening dress, with a dark-red rose in his button-hole. She got up, and there was a swish of silk and the firmament opening in a whirl of pale blue and silver. ‘My darling, what a lovely dress! Where did you get it?’ ‘Lady Nelly gave it me. It came from Fortuny’s, in Venice. Eustace helped her to choose it.’ ‘Eustace did? Good for him! Why, they’re our colours, silver and blue.’ ‘Yes, Eustace thought of that.’ ‘Did he, by Jove? He thinks of a lot, doesn’t he?’ ‘Yes, we owe everything to him.’ ‘He’s an artful little schemer, your brother. He ought to be in the Diplomatic Service. We must give him a present.’ ‘Oh no, he wouldn’t like that. You see, he only performs for love.’ ‘For love of you or love of me?’ ‘Oh, I’m sure he loves us both.’ ‘Would he like me to kiss you?’ ‘Yes, I’m sure he would.’ ‘Even if I should happen to crush this nice new dress?’ ‘Oh, it’ll wash—he told me so.’
They both took a step forward....
“A penny for your thoughts,” said Lady Nelly. “You looked as though you were having a beatific dream.”
Confused and guilty, Eustace hastily rearranged his features.
“I was thinking of your dress,” he said, adding, as she began to look down at her own, “I mean, the one you gave to Hilda.”
They went back to Venice in the motor-boat. The glow of a red sunset hung over the city; above, the sky was violet; still higher, it was blue. A triple crown. The rush of air brushed the heat of the day from their faces. “Più presto!” cried the Count, who, like all Italians, loved speed, and for a moment the water stood up on each side in a shining arc of foam. Shouts of protest came from the little boats plodding near them, and the chauffeur slowed down, leaving the small craft tossing in their wake. Eustace felt a twinge of sympathy for the rowers, thrown off their course and struggling to keep their balance. But it was all in the day’s work; they did not mind, really. Lights began to come out along the riva and on the Piazzetta, faint and feeble, as yet mere guests of the twilight. Curving inwards, they marked the entrance to the Grand Canal. Hung on an iron frame, the swinging lanterns of the Piccola Serenata were beginning to fill with light. On the water-borne terraces of hotels, waiters with napkins on their arms stood sentinel beside red-shaded lamps. It was a moment of divided allegiance: the night was taking over from the day.
Eustace and Hilda Page 67