Eustace and Hilda (38 page)

Thoughtfully Miss Cherrington returned to the dining-room, laid another place, and then, after a moment's hesitation and with the air of sacrificing her own to someone else's sense of fitness, walked across to the tantalus on the sideboard. It had been one of Eustace's presents to his father, and it always reminded her of him. She took out the square, sparkling, heavy bottle and held it to the light. Yes, there was just enough. She put it back.

Eustace had collected a number of small objects—bowls, boxes, cups, saucers, plates, glasses, vases, ladles, tea-caddies, all meant originally to hold something; empty and disused now, they still had to be cleaned and dusted. Miss Cherrington frowned. Some, like the tantalus, were presents from Eustace to his family. None of them cared much for bric-à-brac, and no one was quite sure which ornament belonged to whom; but the question of ownership arose, and was mildly discussed, when Eustace wanted to borrow a few for his room in Oxford. He said that some day they might appreciate startlingly in value; but Miss Cherrington was not convinced. Eustace had no sense of money: it had come to him too easily. There were the scholarships, of course, but then you won scholarships, you did not earn them. They were favours conferred by life on its favourites, of whom Eustace seemed to be one, and hardly more creditable than a prize won in a sweepstake. They kept him from coming to grips with life. And his taste for bric-à-brac, was not that another side of the same weakness: the wish to surround himself with objects which had outlived their usefulness, which were not co-operating, which led a privileged existence away from the hurly-burly, seeming indeed to condemn it—parasites tolerated for their looks?

It was only during the war that Eustace had begun to develop this tendency. His life in London had fostered it; but Miss Cherrington knew where he got it from: he got it years ago in Anchorstone, in the drawing-room of Laburnum Lodge—where, in fact, he got everything. She had disapproved of the shillings he won from Miss Fothergill at piquet; but little did she realise that they were to be the precursors of the legacy that had changed their lives. That was a prize indeed. Alfred had laughed at her when she begged him not to accept it; he even laughed, later on, when she begged him to remember that the money was not his. She had never understood why, at the time, everyone was so pleased, in a knowing, furtive fashion, as though at the birth of a baby—everyone, that is, except Miss Fothergill's relations and her companion, whom Miss Cherrington was thankful she had never had to meet. After all, it was nothing to be proud of, this scoop from an old lady, who had had more than one stroke and perhaps hardly knew what she was doing. She had taken Eustace away from them, and put him on the wrong road, that was what she had done; she had given him ideas that would bear no fruit, Miss Cherrington was sure of it.

At this point her mind, as nearly always, refused to consider further the train of associations that the name of Eustace conjured up. She knew that they hid him from her, making her unfair to him. With an effort she turned her eyes from the little things that reminded her of him to the more substantial pieces of furniture that were of pre-Eustacian date. The chairs and the table and the curious sideboard might not be everybody's taste, but they belonged to the period at which her own was formed, and at which her view of life took shape. There was nothing spurious in them, no suggestion of a bargain based on charm on the one side and ignorance on the other, which might turn out to be a bad one. Nor was there in Barbara, oddly as she behaved according to the standards of Miss Cherrington's generation, nor in Hilda, oddly as she behaved according to any standards.

The world was a work-place to them, not a gaming-house.

She finished the laying of the table and went out to help Annie in the kitchen.

“I enjoyed that soup,” said Barbara as they were finishing the first course. “Did it come out of a tin?”

“Of course not,” said Aunt Sarah, “and I wish you wouldn't talk about food. It's a bad habit, and you know how I dislike it.” But there was no reproof in her voice, and the look she gave Barbara across the table was full of fondness. “Why did you put on that dress?” she continued. “Isn't it rather—rather fly-away when we're alone together?”

Barbara glanced from one plump shoulder to the other and then down to her waist-line which, following the strange fashion of that day, lay somewhere in her lap. When she looked up, her face, which had Eustace's snubness of feature but cast in a more cheerful mould, showed a deeper shade of pink under her soft brown hair.

“Well, I'd had a bath, and then, you see, we're not going to be alone. Hilda will be here any minute now, and Jimmy may be coming in after.”

“I do hope nothing's happened to Hilda,” said Miss Cherrington, ignoring Barbara's last remark.

“Oh no, why should it?” said Barbara. “She's old enough to look after herself. Do you think she's likely to be abducted?”

Miss Cherrington looked a little pained, and then, when the look was fading away, repeated it with interest as though to show it had been no accident.

“Do you think it was altogether wise to invite Mr. Crankshaw to come in
just
this evening?” she asked, fixing her eye rather sternly on the chicken which Annie had placed in front of her.

“I didn't actually ask him,” said Barbara. “I gave him a general invitation, and this turned out to be the night he thought he could get away. He won't mind Hilda being here, if that's what you mean, and I should like him to meet her, though I can't think what they'll find to say to each other.”

Miss Cherrington, having completed her survey of the chicken, carved off a wing with professional skill and handed it to Barbara. She reserved a leg for herself.

“I didn't mean that. I meant that Hilda might prefer to be alone with us, since she comes so seldom. She's sure to have a lot to tell us about the clinic, and—and about Eustace too. It was a great thing for her to go down to Oxford to see him, busy as she is. She won't find it so easy to talk freely in front of a stranger.”

Barbara took a large helping of bread sauce.

“She won't mind. Everyone likes Jimmy. She'll have plenty of time to talk before he comes, and then, if you still want to talk secrets, we can go into the drawing-room and light the gas-fire. Besides, he may not come. He's working very hard just now.”

“How old did you say he was?” asked Miss Cherrington.

“Just twenty-one.”

“I thought you told me he was twenty-three.”

“That was someone else. You're getting muddled.”

“It's not to be wondered at if I am,” said Miss Cherrington. “Still, as long as
you
can keep their ages apart.... Mr. Crankshaw is the engineer, isn't he?”

“Yes, but don't say it as if he was an engine-driver. When he's passed this exam. he'll be able to put some letters after his name, four at least, not just B.A., like Eustace.”

“I wonder how Eustace is getting on with his work,” said Miss Cherrington. “He doesn't have reports any longer, which is rather a pity. I'm not sure it was a sensible idea letting him go to Oxford. They seem to spend a good deal of their time playing about.”

“That's what Jimmy says,” said Barbara. “Mind you, he doesn't grudge it them; but he says he's sure to get a job of some kind when he's passed this exam., even if it's only in a garage; but you can be a B.A. and nobody's going to want you—it's just an ornament.”

“Yes, and of course Eustace is a good deal older than the average undergraduate,” said Miss Cherrington. “He starts with a handicap. Listen! Wasn't that the front-door bell?”

They listened, and a second buzz smote the stillness, so loud they both wondered how they could have been in doubt about the first.

“You go,” said Aunt Sarah. “I'll put the chicken down by the fire. I quite forgot to. Annie will be keeping the soup hot in the kitchen.”

Barbara jumped up. Miss Cherrington heard the front door open, and the excited timbre of voices raised in greeting—a sound unlike any other sound. Low-pitched, warm, and resonant, Hilda's tones mingled with Barbara's insouciant chirpings like a 'cello with a flute. Miss Cherrington was glad that the sisters had plenty to say to each other, and said it with such eagerness. It was important with Hilda to be there when she arrived, and was still steaming with communicativeness. Barbara would talk at any time, but Hilda only under the stimulus of an occasion, and when she was excited. Conversation was a form of activity with her, not an automatic function.

It was past eight o'clock. Miss Cherrington earnestly hoped that Barbara's engineer would be kept away by his work. According to Barbara, all her young men worked very hard; yet how often they found it possible to take an evening off.

The door opened and Hilda came in. Barbara came in too, but one did not notice that. Miss Cherrington rose and embraced her elder niece.

“How are you, Hilda?” Her voice left no doubt that she really wanted to know. “Have you had a tiring journey? Let me look at you.”

“I'm very well, Aunt Sarah, thank you,” said Hilda. “You know I'm never tired.”

For a moment she stood, almost posed, with the smile of welcome on her face, as though to satisfy her aunt's demand for scrutiny. The scent of the damp night air came with her. Little drops of moisture on her fur collar caught the light and glistened like dew. There were drops on her hair too, and her face, shadowed by the soft wings of the collar, glowed with freshness. She was like a night-blooming cactus surprised in the act of flowering. Then, as though unaware of the poetry of her appearance, she pulled off her coat with a vigorous gesture and threw it on a chair, where in a moment her hat joined it.

“I ought to have done that outside,” she said, “but I couldn't wait.”

Now it could be seen that the foliage of the flower was extremely severe. Starting from an almost masculine white collar and a black tie descended a coat and skirt of navy-blue serge which had the intimidating effect of a uniform without actually being one. In obedience to the uniform idea, though in defiance of fashion, the waist-line of this garment was more or less in the right place; so that when Hilda put her hands up to pat her hair and again when she stretched her arm out to pull a chair from the table, the lovely lines of her figure were at once revealed; and the movements themselves were so graceful that Miss Cherrington and Barbara, who knew them by heart, watched without speaking.

“Well,” she said, sitting down. “I
have
had a busy day.”

“I expect you have,” said Barbara. “I expect you kept other people busy, too.”

Hilda stared at her. “Other people?” she said, in a puzzled way, and as though the words meant nothing to her.

“Yes, other people,” persisted Barbara. “Porters, bus-conductors, taxi-drivers, Eustace, and so on. Other people.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” said Hilda, and as light dawned on her she laughed one of her rare laughs. It was quite a performance, Hilda's laugh, a small seizure, not loud or raucous, but spectacular and transforming, a visitation of the god of mirth which demanded the attention of her whole being. Recovering, she said with tears in her eyes, “Yes, I suppose I did make some of them run about a bit.”

“Let's hear it all,” said Barbara, and Aunt Sarah nodded.

“Oh, there's not a great deal to tell, really.” As Hilda dived into her thoughts you could almost see them eluding her, hiding in the recesses of her mind and seeming far less interesting than they had a moment since. “I left Highcross about eight o'clock——”

“Did you leave it in good hands?” asked Barbara.

Hilda looked at her, but this time she did not laugh.

“The new Matron seems capable,” she said. “I hope she is. We went to enough trouble choosing her. Anyhow, if anything goes wrong, they have my address. Then I did some things in London—I got some gloves——”

“What sort of gloves?” asked Barbara.

“Cotton gloves. Not for me, for the children.” Without noticing Barbara's look of disappointment, Hilda went on, “And some scrubbing-brushes and a new vacuum-cleaner.”

“Can't you leave that sort of thing to the housekeeper or whoever it is?” asked Barbara.

“Barbara, dear, I wish you wouldn't always interrupt,” said Aunt Sarah.

“Oh, I don't mind,” said Hilda. “No, people make such a mess of the things you leave to them that in the end you save time by doing them yourself.... Well, I did that, and got to Oxford about half-past twelve. I was going to take a taxi, but when I asked the fare the man was so extortionate and then so surly that I decided to walk. However, it isn't far to Beaumont Street. Eustace isn't in College now, you know; they've turned him out.”

“How monstrous of them!” cried Barbara. “Is it like being sent down?”

“Of course not. But with all these men coming back from the Army, and the normal quota of Freshmen up as well, they're crowded out, and naturally they prefer to send the older undergraduates into lodgings and have the younger ones in College, where they can keep an eye on them.”

“I should have thought the older ones really wanted keeping an eye on more,” observed Barbara.

Hilda looked surprised. “Would you? I should have thought they would need less supervision as they grow older.”

“It depends on a good many things, I expect,” said Miss Cherrington. “Personally, I'm rather sorry that Eustace has been left so much to his own devices, but I dare say I'm wrong.”

“I'm not sure that you are,” said Hilda darkly.

“What are his rooms like?” asked Barbara.

“Well, the sitting-room is airy and sunny, and larger than necessary, I thought, but his bedroom is a poky little hole, and I doubt if any sanitary inspector would pass it. I said to Eustace, ‘Why didn't you find some lodgings where the bedroom and the sitting-room were the same size?'” Hilda's voice grew warm with recognition of the reasonableness of this arrangement.