Eustace and Hilda (60 page)

“That's settled, then,” Sir John said, mollified and seeming to repent of his ill humour. “Hope you'll have a good game. I'll make Crosby ring up the golf-links to send along two boys to throw the balls up. Can't play lawn-tennis if you have to fag the balls. You might have thought of that, Anne.”

“No one proposed that we should play tennis till a moment ago, Papa.”

“Just so. You leave me to think of everything. What will you do, Nelly? Will you watch? Or will you make a four at bridge with Edith and Antony and me?”

“Antony doesn't play,” said Lady Nelly. “He hasn't been properly brought up. He'll have to take me for a stroll as a punishment.”

“Well, you mustn't let him talk too much,” said Sir John, giving Antony a glance of mock severity, “or you'll never get anywhere.”

“I don't want to,” said Lady Nelly. “I ask nothing more than to hang upon his lips.”

Sir John shook his head as if to signify that the case was hopeless. Lady Staveley took a last look at the sky and then said she must go and write some letters.

“Letters, letters,” said Sir John. “I don't know how you find so many letters to write. No one ever writes to me.”

“That's because you don't write to them, my dear,” said Lady Staveley crisply. “I shall be in my sitting-room,” she added to the others generally, “in case you have any news.”

She took her husband's arm, and they walked down the slope towards the house, she very upright, he leaning towards her.

“I expect we ought to go too,” Lady Nelly said. Her look signalled a regretful farewell to the others, a delighted welcome to Antony. They moved away to take the same walk in reverse, it seemed to Eustace, that he had had with her earlier in the afternoon.

“Well, now we've got our orders,” said Anne, “I suppose we must go and change. But are you sure you want to play? Papa won't really mind if we don't.”

“He will, Anne,” said Victor. “He'll question us closely about every ball and tell us how we should have played it. I shouldn't be surprised if he comes out to coach us. He doesn't like the way you produce your back-hand, Anne.”

“I know,” said Anne, “but I'm too old to change.”

“I expect Cherrington is a star performer,” Victor proceeded. “Let's make him and Monica play an exhibition match while we look on.”

“You always want to look on,” said Anne.

“Well, don't you?”

Anne said nothing, and Eustace, fearful lest they should get a false idea of his prowess, exclaimed, “Oh, I'm no good at all. I can hardly hit the ball.”

“Is he speaking the truth, I wonder?” asked Victor.

“Oh, I expect so,” said Anne absently, as though taking it for granted that Eustace couldn't play tennis, and as though it didn't matter very much whether he could or not. “I beg your pardon,” she took herself up. “That sounded rather rude. I meant, it doesn't matter a bit if you don't play well—none of us is any good except Monica. She even plays singles with Dick. Think of the energy.” Involuntarily they all looked up at the sky. “I do think it's rather inconsiderate of him,” said Anne suddenly. “I'm not worried, because I know he'll turn up all right, but Mama and Papa will be. He really is a little selfish.”

“Oh, you mustn't be hard on him,” said Monica. “It's only because he has a different way of looking at things. He told me once that he would feel all wrong with himself if he didn't take risks.”

“It isn't his taking risks that I mind,” said Anne. “At least, I do rather mind; but as you say, it's his nature. No, what I mind is his not coming back when he says he will, and leaving us to wonder what's happened.”

“I'm sure he doesn't mean to be inconsiderate,” said Monica warmly. “He just forgets about everything. Nowadays I can generally make him come back, but there was a time when I couldn't.”

After a moment's pause, Anne said to Eustace:

“Is this the first time your sister's been up?”

“With Dick, do you mean?” asked Eustace.

“No, not specially with him, with anyone.” Anne spoke a little impatiently.

“Yes, she did go once,” said Eustace. “But that was at some seaside town where there was a professional pilot taking people up at so much a time. She's never been in a private aeroplane before. I didn't want her to go,” he added helplessly, feeling more than ever that they blamed him for Dick's lapse.

“I don't think any of us pressed her to go,” said Anne.

“Well, Dick did, a little,” said Eustace.

“Isn't it funny,” said Monica, “how Dick will press people to do something, not much caring whether they want to or not, and the moment they say ‘yes' he loses interest? I've often noticed it. If Miss Cherrington hadn't hesitated, I believe he would have been back long ago.”

“Was your sister air-sick when she took that trip at the seaside?” Anne asked. She seemed unwilling now to call Hilda by her name, though she had done so, Eustace remembered, when they were playing billiard-fives the night before.

“She wasn't up very long then,” he said. “But I don't think she ever would be. She's very strong, you know.”

“She looks as if she was,” said Anne. “But being strong hasn't much to do with it.”

“Dick hates one to feel air-sick,” said Monica. “He told me once that if I ever was, he'd never take me up again.”

“And were you?” asked Victor Trumpington, with languid interest.

Monica flushed.

“No.”

“Anne, what a dawdler you are,” cried Victor with unwonted decision. “We really must get started, or what will your father say? I'm sure he's on the court now, chafing with impatience and swearing at the ball-boys. Do your ‘Sister Anne' act, and then let's go.”

They stood in a row automatically shading their eyes from the glare. But the light had lost its fierceness. Dropping their hands, they felt the soft air bathe their eyes like water. The coolness and fulfilment of the day flowed round them but could find no entry. Not seeing what they sought had blocked with anxiety the portals of their minds. They walked in silence down the grassy slope towards the house.

Parting from the others at the door of the Victorian wing, Eustace was aware of feeling worried, but not so much on Hilda's account, he was surprised to find, as because of the spirit of unfriendliness that seemed to underlie their recent conversation. Hilda, Eustace now felt, was immortal; she could be hurt or injured, but the idea of her being killed never occurred to him as a possibility. True, he had caught the infection of anxiety from the others; but at the back of his mind, possessing it, was still the strange exaltation he had felt when he saw Hilda whirled into the blue. The episode had been like a consummation of his thought of her: it was an apotheosis, comparable to the glorious exit of Bacchus and Ariadne, launched into the skies. He could not believe that the empyrean, her native element, would in any sense, least of all the literal sense, let Hilda down.

He would have liked to say to the others, calming their fears, ‘No harm will come to Dick, while Hilda's there!' But, thought Eustace, searching frantically for his white trousers, they hadn't seemed to worry about Hilda; their anxiety was all for Dick. They didn't seem to care, or even to realise, that they both ran the same risk. At tea they had scarcely referred to her, and when at last they did, and Anne asked him whether she had ever flown before, there was no warmth of interest in the question; they hadn't pursued it except to inquire, rather tastelessly, Eustace thought, whether she had been air-sick. And they had even tried to make out that Dick hadn't very much wanted to go, and Hilda had—which was simply untrue. Really, from the meagreness and reticence of their references to her, Hilda might have been some kind of unmentionable disease —and he a lesser symptom of the same disease, equally to be hushed up. It was all so different from last night, when everyone had seemed interested and pleased and welcoming. Of course, there had been moments of coolness and reserve, especially on Lady Staveley's part, as was natural between strangers; but at the billiard-fives match Hilda and he had seemed to belong to the party, to be old habitués of Anchorstone, sharing in family jokes and stories and catchwords. Now they were like strangers, and unwanted strangers too. The greatest change was in Monica. Last night she had been gay and jolly and forthcoming; at dinner they had talked like old friends. But to-day she kept him at a distance and the welcome was gone out of her glance. Eustace did not want to think ill of people, but surely there was something almost ill-bred in the way she spoke of Dick as if she owned him, and constituted herself his interpreter. Even Anne hadn't quite liked it, Eustace thought; he had caught her looking at Monica as if she wished she would shut up.

Only the trousers were missing. Eustace had collected everything else. It was too exasperating. None of this would have happened if he had left his tennis things at home; but he believed them to be indispensable to a country house visit. They were to wear, not to play in. Dick must not think him too much of a crock, nor must the servants. If he was asked to play, he had told himself, he could easily find some excuse. Sir John's command had taken him by surprise; now his bluff was called; now he was punished.

There were two chests of drawers in the room and a built-in cupboard, with white doors. Both the doors were ajar, and at subtly different angles, which increased the impression of discomfort; most of the drawers were half-way out, and one had come right out, defying all Eustace's efforts to put it back. Mixed up with the clothes which he had taken off, and which were lying on the floor, were some he had pulled out in his hurry; the ends of two or three ties peeped coyly over the edge of one drawer, a loop of his relief braces drooped from another. The swing pier-glass that always hung its head, and the long mirror attached to the wall, trebled the scene of disorder; and wherever he moved he saw two reflections of his thighs, too thin or too fat whichever way you cared to look at them, covered, but hardly to the point of decency, by his flapping shirt-tails.

They must all be waiting for him, getting more and more impatient. Where's that Cherrington, or whatever he's called? Why doesn't he turn up? Not content with persuading his precious sister to get Dick killed, he keeps us hanging about.... And meanwhile Sir John Staveley, faced by an empty tennis-court, grows more and more irritable and vents his ill-humour on the innocent ball-boys. ‘Stop playing about! Stand still, can't you? Don't you know I can have you birched for this? Stop blubbering, you fool, for God's sake!'

What should he do? Useless to ring, for the bell didn't ring, and if it did, how terrible to face, after ten minutes' wait, the raised eyebrows, the outraged stare, of the entering footman.

‘Did you ring, sir?'

‘Yes, I did. I'm afraid I can't find my white flannel trousers.'

‘If you'll excuse my saying so, sir, it's not likely you'll find them under all that mess. That mess will take me at least fifty-five minutes to clear up, and this is my evening out.'

‘Oh, I am so sorry.'

‘It's no good your apologising, sir, I was only saying to them in the Hall, that, of all the guests who've ever stayed here in my experience, man and boy, you've given far the most trouble. We wondered where you had been brought up, sir, we did, straight. Not in a gentleman's house, I said, believe me.'

Eustace looked round in despair. He had been through all the drawers three times; now he must go through them again. The first drawer stuck at an obstinate angle, and would not budge either way. Perhaps it would be best just to tidy things up, put on his Sunday suit again, walk composedly down to the tennis-court (only he didn't know the way) and say in his most ordinary voice, ‘Isn't it maddening, but I find that I haven't got any flannel trousers (or I've left my trousers behind, or my trousers are lost, or the moths have eaten my trousers, or my trousers have vanished into thin air). I'm sorry to disappoint you, but these things will happen, won't they? and three makes quite a good game. Yes, Sir John, those ball-boys are rather troublesome. No home discipline, I fear. They're just the same at our place.'

What a drab prospect; but at any rate to face the facts and act realistically would win the approval of Stephen, who had often warned Eustace that he did not give facts their proper value. Dejectedly he scooped up some of the things from the floor and replaced them in the drawers; next the eavesdropping ties (he had brought ten, in all; how could he expect to wear them?) rejoined their companions; then the yellow felt braces, that seemed to be straining for liberty, were laid on the dress trousers to which they were attached. As he was doing this Eustace gave the braces a tweak; the black garment fell forward; and there, exactly beneath, like the sun in total eclipse, were the white trousers he had been looking for. All thought of restoring order among his possessions forgotten, Eustace struggled into his trousers, dashed downstairs and charged across the courtyard. By the iron gate stood Victor, a tall, solitary figure practising an imaginary fore-hand drive which even at this distance gave Eustace an uneasy feeling of being outclassed.

“Hullo,” said Victor, withdrawing his weight from his left foot and undulating upwards. “How quick you've been. Those girls are not down yet. Why do women always take such ages to get ready? Let's walk along to the tennis-court, shall we, and have a knock up. No sign of the prodigals returning, I suppose?” He gave the sky a perfunctory glance, and looked altogether as unlike Stout Cortez as it was possible to look. “Feeling anxious about your sister?” he asked, amiably but with the minimum of inquiry in his tone.

Eustace said he didn't feel really anxious.

“Dick usually brings 'em back,” remarked Victor with something like a sigh.