“Oh, the poor lamb,” said Minney. “Why should he?”
“He must tell them he’s going back to Oxford.”
“Yes, and telephone some telegrams,” said Eustace.
“Telegrams?” said Hilda. “Why?”
“To say you’re better.”
“I should have thought postcards would meet the case.”
“Can’t you do all that in the morning, Master Eustace?”
“Minney, you spoil him.” Hilda rose with a superb swish and put her arm affectionately round Minney’s neck. “I shall have to begin all over again.”
Eustace got up and joined them, and she put an arm round him too.
“Isn’t it nice to think you’re all within my reach?” she said. A spasm seized her; she dropped her arms and yawned again, luxuriously and without concealment. “You can’t imagine what fun it is to yawn,” she said.
“Some of us would like to yawn too,” said Minney. “Look, you’ve started Mr. Eustace off.”
Eustace quickly covered his mouth with his hand.
“That’s better,” said Hilda.
“I’m sorry. I never had any manners.”
“I mean, I like you better without that moustache. Surely you don’t intend to keep it? You’ve no idea how funny it makes you look.”
“Funny?” said Eustace.
“Yes, it doesn’t suit you at all. It makes you look as if you were trying to be someone else.”
Eustace was nettled. “Well, I am in a way.”
“Don’t, then. We don’t want him any different, do we, Minney?”
“Well, that’s as Master Eustace likes,” said Minney. “I say it makes him look more of a man, and Miss Cherrington says so too.”
Eustace began to feel uncomfortable under the intensity of their feminine regard.
“More of a man?” said Hilda. “More of a man?” She repeated the phrase with growing distaste. “I should have thought he could have left that sort of thing to other people. There are quite enough men already.... Promise me you’ll take it off, Eustace.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Eustace evasively. He rubbed his finger across the offending moustache, and its bristly stiffness put him in mind of Captain Bruce-Popham. “You see, one or two people have told me—”
“Oh, never mind what they say. You pay too much attention to what people say. Now promise me.”
“Hilda, I—”
“Oh, Eustace, you wouldn’t disappoint me, and on my first evening too. Say you’ll take it off. I don’t feel it’s you when you look like that.”
Eustace capitulated. “All right, I will.”
“Good boy,” said Hilda. “I knew you would.”
Suddenly she looked rather tired, and feeling the onset of another yawn she suppressed it, as though averse from the effort.
“Well, good-night, Minney; good-night, Eustace. See you in the morning.”
Eustace kissed her on the cheek.
“That’s not the way to do it,” said Hilda. “He’s a lot to learn, hasn’t he, Minney? This is the way.” And she gave him a long embrace on the lips.
Eustace, though a little breathless, was grateful to her. The gesture crowned the evening with a panache he couldn’t have given it—nor could Hilda, a few months ago.
He followed her out into the hall. “Hullo,” said Hilda, “I thought you were going to write a letter.”
“I just wanted to see you walk upstairs.”
She laughed, and he watched her billowy dress mounting the mean and narrow stairway. She never faltered, but at the top she turned and waved to him. He listened to her footsteps, firm and regular, until they stopped at the door of her room.
“Well,” said Minney, “I suppose we must say, ‘All’s well that ends well,’ Master Eustace.”
“Oh, it’s only the beginning, Minney,” Eustace said.
“You’ll have to hurry up, Master Eustace,” Minney said darkly, “or she’ll be getting married before you do.”
“You think so?” Eustace was surprised.
“I do,” said Minney firmly. “Now, good-night, Master Eustace. Don’t stay up; you’ve got great rings under your eyes.”
“Good-night, Minney dear.”
Eustace went through the hall, past the carrying-chair, already discarded, into the porch, and through the narrow strait between the bath-chair, which had also done its job, and the perambulator, whose turn was still to come.
The night was starry and the moon was up; in the square all was quiet. With a little imagination the corner pinnacles of Palmerston Parade might be thought to resemble the West Front of Peterborough Cathedral. The idea pleased Eustace, but it was not en règle, and he dismissed it and walked back into the house.
Silence. Women cry when they bear children: Barbara perhaps would cry; but the future, now so big with events at Cambo, was giving birth without a sound.
Eustace had already rung up the nursing-home in Ousemouth, but Barbara could not come to the telephone and Jimmy was not there. The nurse spoke as though she was more accustomed to giving messages than to receiving them, and as though the Home, having the prerogative of joyful news, could not take in any from outside. “Mrs. Crankshaw is doing very very nicely, thank you,” was all she would say in answer to his message about Hilda.
He sat down and began to write out the telegrams.
To Aunt Sarah:
Hilda entirely recovered. We send all love. EUSTACE.
To Lady Nelly:
Such wonderful news. My sister Hilda quite cured. Shall be free to come to Whaplode if still perfectly convenient and college permits. Am in Seventh Heaven at last. Hope you are well. Writing. Love. EUSTACE.
To Antony:
Dear Antony, I shall be coming back to Oxford after all. Hilda has made miraculous recovery. Please keep engagement book absolutely free. Marvellously happy and longing to see you. EUSTACE.
To Jasper Bentwich:
Grateful thanks for kind offices with publisher, name indecipherable. [One must not be too demonstrative with Jasper.] Would like to stay with you in Rome. My sister better. EUSTACE.
Eustace did not make more of Hilda’s recovery, for he was not sure that Jasper believed she had been ill.
What should he say to Stephen? Stephen, who knew how his finances stood, would shrug his shoulders at a long, flowery telegram. He did not like overstatements, anyhow, and Eustace, in his present mood, could only express himself by overstatement. But perhaps Stephen was right, perhaps it was a mistake to send the telegrams, when all over the world sisters were quietly recovering without the fact being expensively advertised by their brothers. The feeling was the thing. Did Eustace have the feeling, or was he protesting too much? Stephen might think he was. He found a sheet of note-paper and wrote:
Dear Stephen,
Hilda is better. You can come now.
Suddenly the silence of the little room was broken by the tread of footsteps overhead, and then shattered by the tumultuous rush of water escaping down a drain-pipe.
Hilda had been having a bath.
A ritual bath, a lustral bath, a purification from the past, a preparation for the future. Eustace’s tired limbs rejoiced with Hilda’s, that were celebrating the recovery of their freedom.
‘Dear Stephen, Hilda is better. You can come now.’
Hilda had rounded two corners that evening, the second perhaps more dangerous than the first. Deep down in himself Eustace had realised this; more than her physical health hung in the balance, that was why he had stormed and shouted at her. The Hilda he knew would never have suspected him of trying to do away with her. No. No. That had been a terrible moment: the worst of many bad moments. He had convinced her of his innocence, he was sure; he could tell by her look and her way of speaking. Her mind was now as free of alien compulsions as her body. And therefore, in her joy at her deliverance from this new danger, he had not protested, even inwardly, when she resumed her habit of lordship over him. He had given way on every front, only
too glad that things should be as they had always been. But this must not go on. To-morrow, when she was fit to bear it, the bloodless revolution would begin.
‘I see you’ve still got your moustache, Eustace.’ ‘Oh yes, Hilda.’ ‘But you promised to shave it off.’ ‘I did, but I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to have it waxed at the ends.’ ‘I shall dislike that even more.’ ‘Oh, you’ll get used to it.’
First round to him. And later:
‘Have you done a good morning’s work, Eustace?’ ‘Well, actually, Hilda, I didn’t do very much work this morning. As a matter of fact I went down on to the sands and had a look at those places where we used to play together.’ ‘Wasn’t that rather a waste of time?’ ‘I don’t think so, Hilda; you see, I felt like it.’ ‘But shall you go out in the afternoon as well?’ ‘If I feel like it.’ ‘But aren’t you already behindhand with your work for Schools?’ ‘I may be, but staleness is more serious.’ ‘Well, perhaps you know best.’ ‘I’m sure I do, Hilda.’
How easy it was; and why had he never done it before?
‘Dear Stephen, Hilda is better. You can come now.’
‘Well, Stephen, how far did you go?’ ‘Eustace, we went a very long way. We passed that curious phallic structure, the water-tower; we passed a house which Hilda told me had once been the residence of Miss Fothergill—blessed be her name. We went through the Downs, where, she confided to me, you had been rather intransigent when a little boy, and on through a rather seedy and ill-kept park.’ ‘Oh yes, that’s the Staveleys’.’ ‘I didn’t ask, I thought it might be—and past a rather monstrous-looking house, such a jumble of styles, as they say——’ ‘Oh yes, that’s Anchorstone Hall.’ ‘Again, I thought it might be. I must say it gave us a good laugh. Architectural jokes are the funniest, don’t you agree?’ ‘I do indeed. But is it Thursday? Weren’t you trespassing?’ ‘I’m afraid we didn’t think of that, we were so much amused by the whole thing.’
‘And where did you go then?’ ‘I won’t bore you with the details, but as we were passing the church—so much too big for the place, isn’t it? like a top-hat on a baby—Hilda said something that made me very happy.’ ‘Oh, Stephen, I am glad.’ ‘Yes, so are we, but moderate your transports, because I’ve got something rather disagreeable to say to you.’ ‘To me?’ ‘Yes, to you, I’m afraid. Has no one ever said anything disagreeable to you?’ ‘Oh, well, occasionally.’ ‘It’s (as you would say) this. An ugly rumour has been going about, and as your solicitor I think you ought to take some steps.’ ‘A rumour; what rumour, Stephen?’ ‘I hardly like to tell you.’ ‘Oh, please, I always want to hear the truth.’ ‘Then cast your mind back to a certain evening on the cliffs.’ ‘Just remind me, Stephen; there were so many evenings.’ ‘You were pushing Hilda, who was then helpless, in the bath-chair.’ ‘I often did.’ ‘Yes, but did you often try to push her over?’ ‘Oh, Stephen!’ ‘Well, I’m sorry to tell you that a good many of your friends are saying you did, and one man actually says he saw you. He is ready to swear the act was quite deliberate.’ ‘Oh, what can I do?’ ‘Nothing, except wait until someone has heard him uttering the defamatory phrases, and then sue him for slander.’ ‘But we may have to wait a long time.’ ‘I’m afraid we may.’ ‘And meanwhile people will go on saying this about me? I thought that two or three of the Gang were a bit odd in their manner when they were talking to me yesterday.’ ‘Well, you can’t wonder, can you?’
‘But you don’t believe I did it on purpose, do you, Stephen? I mean, I did do it on purpose, but to cure her, not to kill her.’ ‘I’m quite ready to give you what we call the benefit of the doubt, Eustace, and I’m sure others will. People aren’t really unkind, only thoughtless.’ ‘Do you think they’ll have heard the rumour at Anchorstone Hall?’ ‘That funny old place? I shouldn’t be surprised, but they’ve got quite enough on their minds without that. Richard Staveley——’ ‘Please don’t tell me, Stephen, I don’t want to be told ... but when I get back to Oxford I shall be quite safe, shan’t I? No one will have heard anything there.’ ‘Don’t be too sure. Young Bert Craddock, your old cab-driver’s grandson, has got a scholarship to St. Joseph’s. He might gossip.’ ‘Do you think I could pay him to—er—keep his mouth shut?’ ‘You could try, but it would have to be a tidy sum, as they say.’
‘Dear Stephen, Hilda is better. You can come now.’
How ill this flickering taper burns. Not a taper, not a taper; try to remember, it’s the electric light. What it wants is a new bulb. Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. That was true enough; Eustace was bathed in chilly sweat. The fire, as was its habit, had burnt down without ever burning up. Restlessly he moved his head about, trying to expel these stupid thoughts. Of course they were all nonsense: no one would say or think he had wanted to hurt Hilda; on the contrary, he was her saviour, and when he told them how wonderful he was, they would unite to praise him—even if the man did get his story in first. This head-shaking made him giddy: better keep still for a moment.
‘Dear Stephen, Hilda is better. You can come now.’
But it was not Stephen, it was Minney, wearing the flowered silk dressing-gown he had once given her for Christmas. Her hair was down and her eyes looked unnaturally large and bright.
“Whatever are you doing?” she whispered. “I knocked at your door, because I wanted to tell you Miss Hilda was asleep—she’s sleeping as sweetly as a child, with one arm under her head, and the other lying on the blanket—you know, the way she always used to. She’s as pretty as a picture. And so ought you to be, too.”
“I’m just going, Minney, as soon as I’ve finished this letter to Stephen and telephoned some telegrams. Oh yes, and written to St. Joseph’s.”
“You said that before. Let the silly old telegrams wait till the morning. I shouldn’t be surprised if it’s morning now. Do you know what the time is? My watch doesn’t go.”
“I’ll fetch mine. It’s upstairs.”
Miss Fothergill’s watch said three minutes to twelve. As he came downstairs a thought struck him.
“Is your watch broken, Minney?”
“Well, it doesn’t go. But I don’t mind. I’m not like you, I don’t have engagements to keep.”
“Oh, but you must have a watch. Take this one; I always meant you to have it.”
“I couldn’t. It would be wasted on me, a lovely watch like that.”
“Oh, but please take it.”
“I’d much rather see you in bed.”
“You shall, if you want to, but do have the watch as well.”
“But what will you do?”
“Oh, I’ve got some others. I bought them in Venice, you know. Quite nice watches. I shall manage very well with them.”
“I shouldn’t want to trust to an Italian watch. And you always so uneasy about the time.”
“Not now, Minney; I’ve grown out of all that.”
“I always said the moustache made a difference, but you’re still my Eustace, aren’t you?”
“If you want me to be.”
“Don’t you want to be?”
“Oh yes, Minney.”
“You didn’t sound very sure.”
“I’d rather be yours than anybody’s.”
“Well, just for to-night. What are you going to do with these nasty great stones? Do you still want them? They make such work with your clothes. Can I throw them away?”
“Oh yes, Minney. Let us throw aside every weight.”
“I’m glad you remember the Bible. I used to teach it to you when you were a little boy. You were so fond of the parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins, all because of Hilda, I shouldn’t wonder. Now finish what you’re doing, and if you’re not up in five minutes I shall be really angry.”
“Oh, don’t be angry with me, Minney, you never have been.”
“Well, you must be a good boy, then.”
Minney tiptoed out, and Eustace sat down at the oak table. The hard scalloped edge dug into his midriff, but he was glad the table was
so solid, for he was aware of a curious sensation in the region of his heart, not a pain, not a fluttering, nothing you could put a name to, but a feeling of powerlessness.
‘Dear Stephen, Hilda is better. You can come now.’
After all, what was there to add?—except his name, and that didn’t matter much. He doubted if Stephen would even notice it, when Hilda’s was on the page. In his time he had practised many signatures, he had enjoyed proclaiming his identity, and all around him on the telegrams were examples of it, bold, prideful, and flamboyant. But this was an occasion for self-effacement, for the faintest assertion of personality. Here it was, very small.
Eustace.
He sat for a moment contemplating the signature and listening to the silence round him, then he sealed up the envelope, let his penmanship have its fling on the address, and gathered up the telegrams.
Brrr—BRRR!
The telephone-bell seemed to shake the house to its foundations. Who could be ringing up at this hour? How inconsiderate! And just when he was going to telephone himself—only he would have disturbed nobody. Now Hilda would lose her beauty-sleep and perhaps not get off again for hours. It was too bad, and he must, he ought, it was his duty, to make a protest. Snatching up the receiver he said as angrily as he could:
“Who’s that?”
“Don’t you know?”
Eustace did recognise something in the voice, but it was so disguised by incredulity, pride, elation, and an exasperating certainty of being welcome, that he decided he did not know.
“No, and you’re waking up the whole house.”
“It’s Jimmy, Eustace.”
“Oh, Jimmy!” His wrath punctured, Eustace was abject. “I am so sorry. You’ve heard about Hilda?”
“Yes, good show, isn’t it? But I’ve something else to tell you.”
“Oh, what?”
“Babs has got a son.”
“How splendid. How splendid, Jimmy. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? How is she?”
Eustace and Hilda Page 83