Eustace and Hilda (12 page)

Here the record, which had been wobbling and scratching for some time past, stopped with a scream of disgust. Nervously Eustace tried another.

‘And when Eustace got home they were all very angry, especially Hilda. And they said he must go to bed at once, and Hilda said he oughtn't to be allowed to play on the sands ever again, as a punishment. And Eustace said he didn't care. And when Minney wouldn't come to hear him say his prayers he began to say them to himself. But God said, “I don't want to hear you, Eustace. You've been very wicked. I'm very angry with you. I think I shall strike you dead....”'

Hilda turned round to see Eustace leaning on his spade.

“Why, Eustace, you're looking so white. Do you feel sick?”

At the sound of her voice he began to feel better.

“You've been standing in the sun too much,” said Hilda.

“No, it was some thoughts I had.”

“You shouldn't think,” said Hilda, with one of her laughs. “It's bad for you.”

Eustace tried to smile.

“Minney heard the doctor say my heart wasn't very strong.”

“She shouldn't have told you. But it'll be all right if you don't overtire yourself.”

Eustace relapsed into thought.

‘Then the doctor said, “I wouldn't have believed it, Miss Cherrington, the way that boy's heart has improved since he took to going on those runs. He's quite a sturdy little fellow now.” “Yes, isn't it wonderful, Doctor Speedwell? We were afraid he might have injured it ... injured it ... injured it....” (The monologue began to lose its sanguine tone.) “I'm afraid, Miss Cherrington, Eustace
has
injured his heart. It's broken in two places. I'm sorry to have to say it to his aunt, but I'm afraid he may fall down dead at any moment.”'

With an effort he shut his thoughts off, for again he was aware of oncoming faintness. But Hilda, occupied at a danger spot in the wall, didn't notice the pallor returning to his face. In a moment he began to feel better; his ebbing consciousness returned to his control. Looking up, he could just see the rounded summit of the water-tower soaring above the roofs of Anchorstone.

Banishing fantasy from his mind he summoned all his willpower.

“I don't care what happens,” he thought, “I
will
go, and they shan't stop me.”

It was past four o'clock when Hilda got back to Cambo. Miss Cherrington was standing on the door-step.

“Well?” she said anxiously.

“Oh, Aunt Sarah, I went all the way along the beach to Old Anchorstone, and I did what you said, I went as near the cliffs as was safe and I looked everywhere in case—you know—Eustace had fallen over, but there was nothing and I asked everyone I met if they'd seen a little boy in a blue jersey which was what Eustace was wearing at dinner-time. But they hadn't seen him, though some of them knew him quite well.”

“Come in,” said Miss Cherrington, “it's no use standing out here. I've sent Minney to Miss Fothergill in case Eustace did go there after all. She ought to be back in a few minutes.”

“She won't find him there, Aunt Sarah,” said Hilda, dropping into a plush-covered arm-chair, a luxury she seldom allowed herself. “He didn't want to go at all.”

“I know, but he's like that, he often says he won't do a thing and then does it.”

There was a baffled, anxious pause.

“Ah, there's Minney,” said Miss Cherrington, getting up.

Minney bustled in, her habitual cheerfulness of movement belied by the anxiety on her face.

“I see you haven't found him,” she said, “and I didn't find him either. But that Miss Fothergill she was so kind. She'd got a lovely tea all ready, and water boiling in a silver kettle—you never saw so many silver things in your life as there were in that room. And servants, I don't know how many. I saw three different ones while I was there.”

Hilda remained unmoved by this, but Miss Cherrington raised her head.

“I shouldn't have stayed as long as I did, but she made me have a cup of tea—china tea like hay with no comfort in it—and all the while she kept asking me questions, where we thought Eustace could have gone and so on. She seemed every bit as concerned as we are. And she said, ‘Do you think he was shy and afraid to come by himself, because he seemed rather a nervous little boy?' and of course when I looked at her I knew what she meant, with those black gloves and that mouth going up at the corner. Eustace takes a lot of notice what people look like, I often tell him we're all the same underneath.”

“He would never have spoken to her if I hadn't made him,” observed Hilda. “He was in one of his most obstinate moods.”

“I suppose she hadn't any other suggestions to offer?” asked Miss Cherrington.

“No, I told her we were afraid he might have been run over by one of those motor-car things. I saw another yesterday, that makes four in a fortnight. I said he was always walking about like Johnny Head-in-air. She seemed quite upset, as if she was really fond of him.”

“She'd only seen him once,” objected Hilda.

“He's a taking child to those that like him.” Minney took out her handkerchief; the excitement of the recital over, her anxiety was beginning to re-assert itself. “Oh yes, and she said we were to let her know if she could do anything, like telling the police or the town-crier.”

At these words, with their ominous ring, suggesting that the disappearance of Eustace had passed outside the family circle and become an object of official concern, a silence fell on them all.

“We'd better wait till his father comes in,” said Miss Cherrington at length, “before we do anything like that.” She looked at the black marble clock. “He'll be here in half an hour.” She went to the window and drew aside one of the lace curtains. “But I don't like the look of that cloud. I'll go and see after Baby, Minney. You sit down and have a rest. There's daylight for some hours yet, thank goodness!” The door closed after her.

“Minney,” said Hilda, “if Eustace has stayed away on purpose, what punishment shall we give him?”

“Don't talk of punishments,” said Minney in a snuffly voice. “If he was to come in at this moment, I should fall down on my knees in thankfulness.”

Meanwhile Nancy and Eustace were trotting down a green lane, fully four miles away from Cambo. Slung from her shoulder, Nancy carried a bag made of blue linen with a swallow, cut out of paper, appliqué on it. Eustace carried a more manly, and slightly larger, bag, made of canvas, and his emblem of speed was a racehorse. Both bags were three-quarters full of paper. Eustace was just going to pull out a handful when Nancy said, “Wait a bit. We mustn't make it too easy for them.”

Eustace withdrew his hand at once. “I thought they mightn't have noticed yours behind that tree.”

“That's their look-out,” said Nancy. “Don't forget there are ten of them.”

Eustace looked worried. After a minute or two he said: “Shall I drop some now?”

“Yes, but don't let it show too much.”

Making a slight detour to a gorse bush Eustace scattered a generous contribution to the trail. Nancy watched him. When he rejoined her she said:

“Be careful. We've got to make this last out till we get to Old Anchorstone Church.”

“How far is that now?”

“About two miles if we don't miss the way.”

“But you said you knew it.”

“I'm not sure after we get into the park.”

“Hadn't we better join the road, as you said at first?”

“Well, the road's so dull. It's a short cut through the park, and they wouldn't think of our going that way because it's closed to the public except on Thursdays.”

Eustace remembered it was a Thursday when they drove through on their way from the Downs.

“Shouldn't we be trespassers?” he said.

“I expect so.”

“But mightn't we be prosecuted?”

“Oh, come on, Eustace, you said you were going to be different now.”

“Of course. I'm glad you said that. I was brave about coming, wasn't I? I stole out right under their noses.”

“You told us that before.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Do you think they've missed me by now?”

“I shouldn't wonder.”

“Do you think they'll be worried?”

“It doesn't matter if they are.”

This was a new idea to Eustace. He had always believed that for people to be worried on his account was, next to their being angry, the worst thing that could happen. Cautiously he introduced the new thought into his consciousness and found it took root.

“Perhaps they're looking for me everywhere,” he remarked in a devil-may-care voice which came strangely from his lips.

Nancy stooped down to pick a long grass, which she sucked.

“You bet they are.”

“Isn't it funny,” said Eustace bravely, “if we got lost they mightn't ever find us. We should be like the Babes in the Wood.”

“Should you mind?”

“Not as long as you were with me.”

“I might run away and leave you.”

A shadow crossed Eustace's face. “Yes, I should get tired first. You see I ran all the way to the water-tower to begin with.”

“You told us about that.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. Do you think I'm boastful?”

“Not for a boy.”

For some reason the answer pleased Eustace. He mended his pace and caught up with Nancy who had got a little ahead of him. At this point the lane widened out into a glade. Nancy and Eustace continued to follow the cart-tracks. On their left was a belt of trees the shadows of which touched them as they ran and sometimes mingled with their own. On the right the ground fell away and rose again in a rough tangly tract of discoloured grass, planted with tiny fir trees. The contrast between the brilliant green foreground already aglow with evening gold and the incipient fir plantation, shaggy, grey and a little mysterious, delighted Eustace. He had forgotten Cambo and Miss Fothergill; the pleasure of the hour absorbed him. He watched the pattern made by the shadows of the trees, rounded shapes like clouds, that pressed on his path like an advancing army. He found himself thinking it would be unlucky if one of these shadows overtopped his. Twice, when a threatening dome of darkness soared into the green, he ran out towards the sunlight to avoid being engulfed. Nancy watched his manœuvres and laughed. But the third time he tried to outwit Fate he failed. The shadow not only overtook him, it galloped across the glade, swallowing light and colour as it went. The very air seemed darker.

They both stopped and looked at the sky.

Half-way across it stretched an immense cloud, rounded and white at the edges, purple in the middle. The edges were billowing and serene, but in the middle something seemed to be happening; grey smoke-like wisps hurried this way and that, giving the cloud a fearful effect of depth and nearness.

Eustace stared at Nancy without speaking.

“Come on,” she said, “it may not mean anything. We're close to the entrance to the park. We mustn't wait or they'll catch us.”

“But——” began Eustace.

“Now, don't argue, because we only had twenty minutes' start. Let's give them a bit of trail here, so they can't say we've cheated.”

The ‘entrance' to the park was a mere gap in the hedge that bounded the belt of trees. They squeezed through it into the undergrowth, which here was almost as thick as the hedge. Forcing their way through, they came out into a clearing.

“Now we're safe,” said Nancy.

A moment later, as though in denial of her words, there came a rumble of thunder, distant but purposeful. Eustace's heart began to beat uncomfortably.

“Shouldn't we be safer on the road than under all these trees?”

“We can't go back now,” said Nancy, “or we'd run right into them. Listen! Perhaps you can hear them going by.”

They strained their ears, but there was no sound save the thunder, still far away but almost continuous now.

“I suppose it isn't any use me laying the trail,” said Eustace mournfully, “since they've lost us.”

“You talk as though you wished they'd caught us,” replied Nancy tartly, divining what was in Eustace's mind. “Of course we mustn't come in with any paper left: they'd say we hadn't played fair. Look here, this is what I'm going to do.” She began to shake the bits of paper from her bag, while Eustace stared at her in amazement.

“Now,” she said, with her gay, mocking smile, “you see it's all been used.”

Eustace transferred his gaze to the little heap.

“But how will they find us now?”

“They won't be able to, you goose.”

A drop of rain fell on Eustace's neck. Unwillingly he began to empty his bag on to Nancy's heap. Reversed, the racehorse waved its limbs wildly. The rain pattered down on the untidy pile of paper, speckling the white with sodden splotches of greenish grey. It was a forlorn spectacle.

“There's almost enough to cover us,” said Eustace tragically. Then stooping down he picked up a handful of the now soppy paper and replaced it in his bag.

“What's that for?” asked Nancy.

“Well, just in case we
wanted
them to find us.”

Nancy snorted.

“Eustace, you are a cake. When we have tea I'll eat you.”

“What sort of cake should I be?”

“A Bath bun, I think. Now cheer up. It's only a mile or so to the church, where Mummy and Daddy are waiting for us.”

Eustace's spirits rose.

“It'll be this way,” Nancy added confidently.

There was no path. They set off in a diagonal direction across the clearing, the far side of which was just visible in the now teeming rain. Eustace was soon wet through: where his little toes stretched his sand-shoes the water bubbled and oozed. He felt exhilarated; nothing like this had ever happened to him before.