Eustace and Hilda (6 page)

“It's not for me to say whether I like her or whether I don't.”

“But you must know which you do,” exclaimed Eustace.

The driver grunted.

“But she's so pretty.”

“Not so pretty as Miss Hilda by a long sight.”

Eustace was amazed. He had heard Hilda called pretty, but that she should be prettier than Nancy—the gay and the daring, the care-free, the well-dressed, the belle of Anchorstone—he could not believe it. Hilda was wonderful; everything she did was right; Eustace could not exist without her, could not long be happy without her good opinion, but he had never imagined that her supremacy held good outside the moral sphere and the realm of the affections.

“She doesn't think she's pretty herself,” he said at last.

“She will some day,” said the driver.

“But, Mr. Craddock,” exclaimed Eustace (he always called Craddock Mr. having received a hint from Minney: the others never did), “she's too good to be pretty.”

Mr. Craddock laughed.

“You say some old-fashioned things, Master Eustace,” he said.

Eustace pondered. He still wanted to know why the driver preferred taking them, the humble Cherringtons, to the glorious, exciting Steptoes.

“Do you think Nancy is proud?” he asked at last.

“She's got no call to be,” Mr. Craddock said.

Eustace thought she had, but did not say so. He determined to make a frontal attack.

“Do you often take the Steptoes in your carriage, Mr. Craddock?”

“Yes, often.”

Naturally he would. To the Steptoes, a picnic was nothing unusual: they probably had one every day. Eustace was still surprised at being asked to join them. He thought Gerald must want to swap something, and had put in his pocket all his available treasures, though ashamed of their commonplace quality.

“When you drive them,” he proceeded, “what do they do different from us?”

Mr. Craddock laughed shortly. “They don't pay for my tea.”

“But aren't they very rich?”

“They're near, if you ask me.”

Eustace had scarcely time to digest this disagreeable information when he heard his father's voice: “Eustace, look! There are the Steptoes—they've got here first.”

By now the Downs were upon them, green slopes, low but steep, enclosing a miniature valley. The valley swung away to the left, giving an effect of mystery and distance. The four Steptoes were sitting by the stream—hardly perceptible but for its fringe of reeds and tall grasses—that divided the valley. Nancy had taken her hat off and was shaking back her golden hair. Eustace knew the gesture well; he felt it to be the perfection of sophistication and
savoir-faire
. He raised his hat and waved. Nancy responded with elegant negligence. Major and Mrs. Steptoe rose to their feet. Something made Eustace look back into the landau at Hilda. She could see the Steptoes quite well, but she didn't appear to notice them. A small bush to the left was engaging her attention: she peered at it from under her drawn brows as though it was something quite extraordinary and an eagle might fly out of it. Turning away, Eustace sighed.

“I hope you will have a nice time, Mr. Craddock,” he said.

“Don't you worry about that, Master Eustace.”

“Will you have some more cake, Nancy?”

“No, thank you, Eustace.”

“Will you have some of the sandwiches we brought, though I'm afraid they're not as nice as your cake?”

“They're delicious, but I don't think I'll have any more.”

“I could easily make you some fresh tea, couldn't I, Aunt Sarah?”

“Yes, but you must take care not to scald yourself.”

“Well, if it's absolutely no trouble, Eustace. You made it so beautifully before.”

Eustace glowed.

“Look here, Gerald,” said Major Steptoe, turning on his massive tweed-clad elbow, “you're neglecting Hilda.”

“She said she didn't want any more,” remarked Gerald a trifle curtly.

“If you pressed her she might change her mind.”

“Thanks, I never change it.”

Hilda was sitting on the Steptoes' beautiful blue carriage rug, her heels drawn up, her arms clasping her knees, her head averted, her eyes fixed on some distant object down the valley.

“What a determined daughter you've got, Cherrington.”

“Well, she is a bit obstinate at times.”

“Aunt Sarah said if you keep on changing your mind no one will respect you,” said Hilda in lofty accents and without looking round.

“She's hardly eaten anything,” said Gerald, who was Eustace's senior by a year. “Just one or two of their sandwiches and none of our cakes.”

There was an awkward pause. Eustace came to the rescue. “She hardly ever eats cakes, do you, Hilda?”

“What an unusual little girl!” said Mrs. Steptoe with her high laugh.

“You needn't be afraid of getting fat, you know,” said Major Steptoe, gently pinching Hilda's thin calf with his large strong hand. Hilda rounded on him with the movement of a horse shaking off a fly.

“It doesn't do to be greedy at my time of life.”

“Why ever not?”

Eustace whispered nervously to Nancy, “She doesn't like being touched. Isn't it funny? She doesn't mind so much if you hit her.”

“Why, have you tried?”

Eustace looked shocked. “Only when we play together.”

Major Steptoe rose and stretched himself. “Well, Cherrington, what about these toboggans? We've given our tea time to settle.”

Miss Cherrington stopped folding up some paper bags and said:

“Alfred and I both think it would be too much for Eustace.”

“Oh come, Miss Cherrington, the boy'll only be young once.”

“Oh, do let me, Aunt Sarah,” Eustace pleaded.

“It's for your father to decide, not me,” said Miss Cherrington. “We remember what happened last time Eustace tobogganed, don't we?”

“What did happen, Eustace?” asked Nancy with her flattering intimacy.

“Oh, I couldn't tell you here.”

“Why not?”

“I was much younger then, of course.”

“Well,” said Major Steptoe, looming large over the little party, “we can't let the boy grow up into a mollycoddle.”

“I was thinking of his health, Major Steptoe.”

“What do you say, Bet?”

“I think it would do him all the good in the world,” said Mrs. Steptoe.

“Well, Cherrington,” said Major Steptoe, “the decision rests with you and your sister.”

Mr. Cherrington also rose to his feet, a slight figure beside Major Steptoe's bulk.

“All things considered, I think——”

“Remember, you agreed with me before we started, Alfred.”

Mr. Cherrington, unhappily placed between his sister and Major Steptoe, looked indecisively from one to the other and said:

“The boy's not so delicate as you think, Sarah. You fuss over him too much in my opinion. One or two turns on the toboggan will do him no harm. Only remember” (he turned irritably to Eustace) “you must let it stop at that.”

Eustace jumped up, jubilant. Miss Cherrington pursed her lips and Hilda whispered, “Isn't that like Daddy? We can't depend on him, can we? Now Eustace will be sick.”

The males of the party started off towards the farm and presently reappeared each laden with a toboggan. Eustace could not manage his; his arm was too short to go round it; when he tried pulling it over the rough roadway it kept getting stuck behind stones. Major Steptoe, who was carrying the big toboggan with places for three on it, relieved Eustace of his.

“How strong you must be, Major Steptoe!”

“So will you be at my age, won't he, Cherrington?”

And Eustace's father, feeling as if Major Steptoe had somehow acquired his parental prerogative, agreed.

Then arose the question of who was to make the first descent.

“The thing is,” said Gerald, “to see who can go furthest on the flat. Now if Mother and Miss Cherrington sit here, on that stone, they'll mark the furthest point anyone's ever got to.”

“I don't want to sit on a stone, thank you,” said Mrs. Steptoe, “and I don't suppose Miss Cherrington does either.”

“Well then, sit in this cart-rut, it's the same thing. Now you must keep a very careful watch, and mark each place with a stick —I'll give you some.”

“Thank you.”

“And you mustn't take your eyes off us for a second, and only where the last part of the body touches the ground counts: it might be the head, you know.”

“I suppose it might.”

“Now we'll begin. Should I go first, just to show you what it's like?”

“I think you might ask Hilda to go with you.”

Gerald's face fell. “Will you come, Hilda?”

“No, thank you. I shall have plenty to do looking after Eustace.”

“Then I'll start.” Gerald took one of the single toboggans and climbed the slope with great alacrity and an unnecessary amount of knee movement. “Coming,” he cried. The toboggan travelled swiftly down the grassy slope. The gradient was the same all the way until twenty feet or so before the bottom when, after a tiny rise, it suddenly steepened. It was this that gave the run its thrill. Gerald's toboggan took the bump only a shade out of the straight: only a shade but enough to turn it sideways. He clung on for a moment. Then over he went, and sliding and rolling arrived at the bottom of the slope. The toboggan, deprived of his weight, slithered uncertainly after him and then stopped. It was an ignominious exhibition, and it was received in silence. Suddenly the silence was broken by a loud burst of laughter.

“He said he was going to show us what it was like,” Hilda brought out at last, between the convulsions of her mirth. “Didn't he look funny?”

“Perhaps he meant to show us it doesn't really hurt falling,” suggested Eustace charitably.

Gerald ignored them. “I'm glad I fell, in a way,” he explained, “because now you can all see the dangerous point. Of course, I should really have done it better if I'd come down head first. That's the way I usually do it, only of course it wouldn't have been any good showing you that way, because that way needs a great deal of practice.” He looked at his father for confirmation.

“Not one of your best efforts, my boy,” said Major Steptoe. “Let's see what Eustace can do.”

As Eustace climbed the slippery hillside tugging at the rope of the toboggan with determined jerks, he suddenly thought of the Crucifixion and identified himself with its principal figure. The image seemed blasphemous so he tried to put it out of his mind. No, he was a well-known mountaineer scaling the Andes. On the other side of the valley lay the Himalayas, and that large bird was a condor vulture, which would pick his bones if he were killed.... No, it wouldn't, for it would have to reckon with Hilda; she would be sure to defend his body with her life. There she was, quite small now, and not looking up at him, as the others were. Eustace sighed. He wished she was enjoying herself more. Mentally he projected himself into Hilda. Immediately she began to talk and smile; the others all gathered round her; even Mrs. Steptoe, aloof and mocking, hung on her lips. What a delightful girl! Not only a second mother to Eustace, but pretty and charming as well. Then he caught sight of Hilda's face, sullen and set, and the vision faded.... It was high time, for they must be wondering why he was so long coming down. Perhaps they thought he was frightened. Eustace's heart began to beat uncomfortably. They were all looking at him now, even Hilda, and he heard a voice—Gerald's—call out, “Hurry up!” It was ‘hurry up,' wasn't it, not ‘funk,' a horrible word Gerald had got hold of and applied to everyone he didn't like and many that he did. Eustace tentatively paid out a few inches of the rope. The toboggan gave a sickening plunge. Again the voice floated up: “Come on!” It was ‘come on,' wasn't it, not that other word? Gerald would hardly dare to use it in the presence of his parents. The difficulty with the toboggan, he remembered, was to sit on it properly before it started off. The other times his father had always held it for him, and he would have done so now, Eustace thought with rising panic, only Major Steptoe hadn't wanted him to. Should he just walk down and say he didn't feel very well? It was quite true: his heart was jumping about in the most extraordinary way and he could hardly breathe. He would be ill, just as they said he would be. He need never see the Steptoes again: Hilda would be delighted if he didn't. As for Nancy——

At that moment Eustace saw his father turn to Major Steptoe and say something, at the same time pointing at Eustace. Major Steptoe nodded, his father rose to his feet, the tension in the little group relaxed, they began to look about them and talk. It was clear what had happened: his father was coming up to help him.

This decided Eustace. Holding the dirty rope in one hand, while with the other he supported his weight, he lowered himself on to the toboggan. Before he had time fairly to fix his heels against the cross-bar it was off.

The first second of the run cleared Eustace's mind marvellously. He was able to arrange himself more firmly in his seat and even, so sharpened were his senses by the exhilaration of the movement, to guide the toboggan a little with his body. And when the pace slackened at the fatal bump he felt excited, not frightened. For a moment his feet seemed to hang over space; the toboggan pitched forward like a see-saw as the ground fell away under it. The pace was now so breath-taking that Eustace forgot where he was, forgot himself, forgot everything. Then, very tamely and undramatically, the toboggan stopped and he looked up to see the party scattering right and left, laughing and clapping their hands. He had finished up right in the middle of them.

“Bravo!”

“Well done, Eustace!”

“He didn't need any help, you see.”

“He looks rather white, I'm afraid, Alfred.”