Eustace and Hilda (104 page)

“You naughty boy. I've been looking all over for you. We thought you were lost.”

“Oh, Minney, my book's been taken.”

“How do you mean—taken? I haven't taken it, and no one else has been in the room since you went out.”

“I mean, a publisher's taken it.”

“Oh, a publisher, that's different; you'll be able to get it back from him. Now, don't get talking about your old books, because you're an hour late already. And you asked for tea to be early.”

“I'm sorry, Minney.”

“You gave me such a fright, it was almost like that time you ran away on the paper-chase. I went all the way to the water-tower looking for you. I've only just got in.”

“Oh, I am sorry, Minney.”

“And Miss Hilda's working herself up into such a state.”

“Oh dear, what a trouble I've been.”

“It wouldn't have mattered so much if I'd had anyone to leave with her. And she's got a surprise for you.”

“I know, she's coming out in the chair after tea.”

“Yes, but she's got another surprise too. You must be sure and show her you're pleased.”

“Of course I will.”

“Well, you must look at her carefully, because you don't always notice things.”

That was true.

“Shall I see it at once?” Talking to Minney gave Eustace the feeling that he was at a children's party, nervously embarking on a new game.

“If you look in the right place you will.”

“Where shall I look?”

“At her. Now come along, I shan't tell you any more. What
do
you want with those nasty great stones?”

Eustace hoped Minney hadn't seen him stuffing the granite chips into his pockets.

“They're in case the bath-chair runs away.”

“Runs away? I should think you'd be glad if it did. That would save you a lot of trouble.”

Eustace saw at once what the surprise was, and did not have to feign his delight.

“Oh, Hilda you're wearing the Fortuny dress.”

She could not respond to his words or the warmth in them or answer his smile. Her lips trembled, her head gave a tiny jerk, her eyes changed their tone; otherwise the beautiful dress might have clothed a beautiful dummy. Minney beckoned him to the door.

“Tell her again you like it,” she whispered. “I'm going for your tea now.”

“Oh, Hilda, the dress does suit you,” Eustace said, putting into his voice all the conviction he could muster.

Silence.

But it didn't suit the room; it made everything look worn or common.

“You're wearing it at just the right time, you know,” he went on encouragingly. “Lady Nelly said it was a tea-gown.” He paused, handicapped by not knowing how Hilda felt towards Lady Nelly. “She said you were to wear it on any light-hearted occasion,” he told Hilda, remembering Lady Nelly's words. “And this is one, isn't it? Your first day out.”

A distressingly trite phrase, but the great thing was to keep on talking.

What else had Lady Nelly said; what other instructions had she given? The dress meant that ‘you wanted to be looked at for yourself, not stared at, just looked at, with kindly attention and affectionate interest.' He could hardly tell Hilda that. It was for ‘those little in-between times when nothing's been planned.' But something had been planned, very much so, though not the kind of plan he had made for her on that hot, mote-laden morning in Fortuny's shop. He searched his memory again for the pearls of Lady Nelly's wisdom.

“She said it was an off-duty dress, and we are off-duty, aren't we? You have to be, to get better: there's nothing to be ashamed of in that, is there? I'm really working rather hard—except when I go for bicycle rides, and they're work too, in a way—I mean, exercise is necessary, to keep one well—and I can't tell you how I look forward to these outings with you—they are such a change from my routine.”

All about myself, he thought, defending myself as usual, and talking so loudly and slowly, just as if she was a foreigner, or deaf, or mentally deficient. But the task of supplying Hilda's imaginary answers didn't grow easier with practice. He would use Lady Nelly once more as his guide.

“She said you would know when to put the dress on, and she was right, wasn't she? Because to-day is like no other day; it's a celebration, well, almost a jubilee, so many things have been happening. It's exciting about Barbara, isn't it? She was so plucky—going off like that, without making any fuss. Women are much braver than men. And I've had some adventures too. I'll tell you about them later, when we go out.”

But should he tell her? How would she take the news of his having been to Anchorstone Hall? He was debating this point when Minney brought in the tea.

“There, I'll put the table beside you,” she said, depositing the tray on the bed and fetching from the window a small, strong table made of fumed oak and topped with olive-green tiles. “Of course, gentlemen ought not to pour out, but Mr. Eustace isn't exactly a gentleman—I mean, he's your brother. Now, has he told you he likes your dress? I'm sure he hasn't, because men never notice such things. See what lovely material it's made of—I never saw anything like it.”

She leaned across the table and took the skirt of the dress between her fingers, stretching the furled pleats, until they gave up the last of their blue and silver secrets. Hilda hates to be touched, thought Eustace. She'll be wishing she'd never had the dress put on. Between us we're doing the subject to death.

“I shouldn't be surprised if everyone wants to look at it,” Minney said, letting go the folds, which sank back slowly into their former lines as though endowed with conscious life. “But you must hurry up, or it'll be dark before you get out. Shall I give you your first cup, dear, or will Mr. Eustace?”

“I will, Minney.”

“Well, don't let her spill it on her dress, or it'll never come out. Shall I fetch a serviette?”

“Oh no, no,” said Eustace.

“Very well, then. Ring when you're ready for me to help you with the chair.”

Eustace's hand trembled as he held the cup to Hilda's lips.

All the preparations were over, the startings and stoppings, the raisings and lowerings, the smothered grunts, the ‘Careful nows' from Minney, and the ‘That's all rights' from Eustace; they had passed the corner on the stairs where you had to hold your breath; they had done the most difficult part of all—the transition from the carrying-chair to the bath-chair, and now they were outside the white gate, with Hilda's hands, that did not steer, resting quite naturally on the steering handle and her eyes turned to the sea.

“You're sure you don't want a wrap?” asked Eustace anxiously. “Don't you think she ought to have one, Minney?”

“What an old fuss-pot you are,” said Minney. “Twice over she's as good as told you she doesn't want one. She doesn't want to cover anything up, even if you do. But don't be too long, because it never does to be too long the first time, and if you are I shall worry about you. There's plenty of light now, but you can't tell how quickly these evenings draw in. I feel quite proud. You do look nice, both of you, except Mr. Eustace's pockets. Now let me see you start.”

And she watched Eustace's bent back and slow responsible steps until the bath-chair rounded the school wall and was lost to view.

Going this way, going towards the lighthouse, Eustace had his mind still fairly free. Not as free as if he had nothing to settle, no decision to take, no shock to administer, but free enough to feel the significance of the occasion—the return of Hilda to the outside world. For the moment he would be content with that: he would look no farther; he would not think about the return of Hilda's body to herself.

Meanwhile he began to tell her of his afternoon, beginning at the end with his ascent of Frontisham Hill and going backwards. “You remember the hill, don't you? We used to drive down it in the landau with Mr. Craddock and the brakes used to get hot and smell, do you remember? And we always walked back, because it was so steep for the horses. I never thought I should be able to ride up on a bicycle.” There were times when one could not but take Hilda's silence for disapproval, and this was one. Eustace sighed, longing for articulate appreciation of his feat. “And to get to Frontisham I went through the Downs, where we used to have such fun tobogganing. Do you remember how good you were at it, and how together we beat Nancy and Gerald Steptoe? You never liked her; you were quite right, she wasn't a very nice girl. And then I saw the place where the manœuvres were held; that's in the park, of course; well, actually I came that way. Look, your dress is slipping out.” Tucking in the dress gave him an excuse to come round to the front to see Hilda's face; but her eyes told him nothing. “And coming that way, of course, I had to pass Anchorstone Hall.” The words were out, but neither Hilda's plain blue felt hat, so different from Miss Fothergill's with its crop of cherries, nor the shoes he had given her for Dick's birthday told him whether he ought to go on. He would drop the subject and return to it later on if he felt he could.

“And do you know, Hilda, the story I wrote in Venice has been accepted by a publisher? He doesn't think it'll sell well, because it's the wrong length, but perhaps I shall make some money, the first I've ever made except from scholarships, and you can't count them. I think he must like the story, because he doesn't want me to alter it, except in a few places. I hope you'll like it; I shall dedicate it to you, of course.” Eustace stopped, remembering he had promised to dedicate the story to Lady Nelly. “To you, of course, and perhaps to some other person as well, if you didn't mind sharing. I believe proofs are a bit of a bother, but authors seem to get over it somehow, so I suppose I shall.”

The floating population of the Third Shelter glanced up from their books and newspapers; and people on their way back from tea at the lighthouse, passing close by, stared curiously at Hilda's dress. It did look conspicuous out of doors and in the daylight; it seemed to be waiting for the night. But they did not seem to find anything strange about her, and Eustace went on with a good heart. Contrary to what he expected, he found himself welcoming their interest, both for himself and for Hilda. It was as though something that had long been kept dark, hidden behind bars, a skeleton in the cupboard almost, had been brought out for all to see. He would have liked to shout aloud: ‘Here we are! Come and take a good look at us! Hilda and her brother Eustace!'

“You see now how they've spoilt the lighthouse; it's awful, isn't it?” he said gloatingly. “But anyhow it shows the sandbanks must be less dangerous if they don't need a light here any more. Would you like to go on past the lighthouse? There's just room to scrape by if we keep close to the wall.”

Apparently she didn't want to, so Eustace contented himself with wheeling her up to the outbuildings, empty shells shorn of the magic of official occupation, or put to the basest uses. At this tame and inconclusive turning-point he lingered, loath to begin the homeward journey. For the homeward journey was to witness the experiment; yes, somewhere between here and the steps, at some point on the cliff's edge, visible to Fate but not to him, on a square yard of grass indistinguishable from the rest, he and Hilda must face their ordeal. At the thought his mind sickened and his limbs grew slack. Opposite him was the lane leading to the highroad—a lane of escape.

“Would you rather go back inland, or by the cliff? It isn't much farther by the road and you would see some new views.”

Hilda, however, preferred the cliff, and they started off in the wake of the stragglers from the tea-shop. Eustace could not come to terms with his thoughts. But Hilda had put on Lady Nelly's dress. She must have meant something by that; and what could she mean except that her nature was dry and thirsty, and in need of replenishment and change? A harder thing makes hard things easier. Dreading the second part of his programme, Eustace began to feel happier in his mind about the first.

“I told you I went past Anchorstone Hall,” he said, “but I didn't tell you I went in. I ran into Anne by chance, and she persuaded me: I wasn't very anxious to go. But do you know, Hilda, I'm glad I did, because she was so nice and understanding, not gushing or stiff, just natural, and she made me feel that Dick hadn't behaved as he did because he wasn't fond of you, but in a sort of way because he
was
; he went away as much for your sake as for his. And he'd written to her and said that the memory of you made things easy for him—I don't quite know what he meant by that, but it shows he didn't feel any bitterness, doesn't it? Of course he couldn't: it's you who are injured; but people's feelings don't always go by logic, and I was glad in a way to think that he still loved you (as a matter of fact, Anne told me he did). I mean, one can't be loved too much, can one? and he so far away in Arabia, among unfriendly people. Oh, and she said he had changed a great deal, and was much gentler and kinder, and when he went away he kissed them all, including his father, though that was only in fun; but it shows, doesn't it? Anne said he never kissed anybody, hardly—think of that. And they were all so nice, Sir John, and Lady Staveley too, and made quite a fuss of me all because I was your brother and they were sorry that Dick had been so unkind to you.”

Eustace paused. He did not like the rise and fall of his own rhetoric, and talking to someone who couldn't answer made him self-conscious and over-explicit; but he was determined to have his say out.

“And it was all true what they said because, though I haven't told you, I saw Dick in Venice, and I was very angry with him and quite rude to him; you mightn't think I could be, but I was, for he told Anne I had given him a shock. And he looked quite different: thinner and not so well as he used to, and he was very kind when I felt faint, as I sometimes do, you know, but it's nothing, I'm growing out of it; and he said he had been unworthy of you, but you had been much the greatest thing in his life. He said you had made him a better man, yes, he actually said that. I only tell you this so that you shouldn't feel it had been all wasted, what you have been through and suffered with Dick. I'm sure some good has come of it—it has to me, I know, I'm quite changed really, altogether another sort of person, more useful, you know. And Stephen has changed too: he's much more serious, only he's as fond of you as ever, he hasn't changed in that way. Nor have I.”