Eustace was growing older and he did not really believe that Hilda would do this, but the sight of her unhappiness and the tears (which sometimes started to her eyes unbidden the moment he came into the room where she was) distressed him very much. Already, he thought, she was growing thinner, there were hollows in her cheeks, she was silent, or spoke in snatches, very fast and with far more vehemence and emphasis than the occasion called for; she came in late for meals and never apologized, she had never been interested in clothes, but now she was positively untidy. The grown-ups, to his surprise, did not seem to notice.
He felt he must consult someone and thought at once of Minney, because she was the easiest to talk to. But he knew she would counsel patience; that was her idea, that people would come to themselves if they were left alone. Action was needed and she wouldn’t take any action. Besides, Hilda had outgrown Minney’s influence; Minney wasn’t drastic enough to cut any ice with her. Aunt Sarah would be far more helpful because she understood Hilda. But she didn’t understand Eustace and would make him feel that he was making a fuss about nothing, or if he did manage to persuade her that Hilda was unhappy she would somehow lay the blame on him. There remained his father. Eustace was nervous of consulting his father, because he never knew what mood he would find him in. Mr. Cherrington could be very jolly and treat Eustace almost as an equal; then something Eustace said would upset him and he would get angry and make Eustace wish he had never spoken. But since Miss Fothergill’s death his attitude to Eustace had changed. His outbursts of irritation were much less frequent and he often asked Eustace his opinion and drew him out and made him feel more self-confident. It all depended on finding him in a good mood.
Of late Mr. Cherrington had taken to drinking a whisky and soda and smoking a cigar when he came back from his office in Ousemouth; this was at about six o’clock, and he was always alone then, in the drawing-room, because Miss Cherrington did not approve of this new habit. When he had finished she would go in and throw open the windows, but she never went in while he was there.
Eustace found him with his feet up enveloped in the fumes of whisky and cigar smoke, which seemed to Eustace the very being and breath of manliness. Mr. Cherrington stirred. The fragrant cloud rolled away and his face grew more distinct.
‘Hullo,’ he said, ‘here’s the Wild Man.’ The Wild Man from Borneo was in those days an object of affection with the general public. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Now, what can I do for you?’
The armchair was too big for Eustace: his feet hardly touched the floor.
‘It’s about Hilda,’ he said.
‘Well, Hilda’s a nice girl, what about her?’ said Mr. Cherrington, his voice still jovial. Eustace hesitated and then said with a rush:
‘You see, she doesn’t want me to go to school.’
Mr. Cherrington frowned, and sipped at his glass.
‘I know, we’ve heard her more than once on that subject. She thinks you’ll get into all sorts of bad ways.’ His voice sharpened; it was too bad that his quiet hour should be interrupted by these nursery politics. ‘Have you been putting your heads together? Have you come to tell me you don’t want to go either?’
Eustace’s face showed the alarm he felt at his father’s change of tone.
‘Oh, no, Daddy. At least—well—I . . .’
‘You don’t want to go. That’s clear,’ his father snapped.
‘Yes, I do. But you see . . .’ Eustace searched for a form of words which wouldn’t lay the blame too much on Hilda and at the same time excuse him for seeming to shelter behind her. ‘You see, though she’s older than me she’s only a girl and she doesn’t understand that men have to do certain things’—Mr. Cherrington smiled, and Eustace took heart—‘well, like going to school.’
‘Girls go to school, too,’ Mr. Cherrington said. Eustace tried to meet this argument. ‘Yes, but it’s not the same for them. You see, girls are always nice to each other; why, they always call each other by their Christian names even when they’re at school. Fancy that! And they never bet or’ (Eustace looked nervously at the whisky decanter) or drink, or use bad language, or kick each other, or roast each other in front of a slow fire.’ Thinking of the things that girls did not do to each other, Eustace began to grow quite pale.
‘All the better for them, then,’ said Mr. Cherrington robustly. ‘School seems to be the place for girls. But what’s all this leading you to?’
‘I don’t mind about those things,’ said Eustace eagerly. ‘I . . . I should quite enjoy them. And I shouldn’t even mind, well, you know, not being so good for a change, if it was only for a time. But Hilda thinks it might make me ill as well. Of course, she’s quite mistaken, but she says she’ll miss me so much and worry about me, that she’ll never have a peaceful moment, and she’ll lose her appetite and perhaps pine away and . . .’ He paused, unable to complete the picture. ‘She doesn’t know I’m telling you all this, and she wouldn’t like me to, and at school they would say it was telling tales, but I’m not at school yet, am I? Only I felt I must tell you because then perhaps you’d say I’d better not go to school, though I hope you won’t.’
Exhausted by the effort of saying so many things that should (he felt) have remained locked in his bosom, and dreading an angry reply, Eustace closed his eyes. When he opened them his father was standing up with his back to the fireplace. He took the cigar from his mouth and puffed out an expanding cone of rich blue smoke.
‘Thanks, old chap,’ he said. I’m very glad you told me, and I’m not going to say you shan’t go to school. Miss Fothergill left you the money for that purpose, so we chose the best school we could find; and why Hilda should want to put her oar in I can’t imagine—at least, I can, but I call it confounded cheek. The very idea!’ his father went on, working himself up and looking at Eustace as fiercely as if it was his fault, while Eustace trembled to hear Hilda criticized. ‘What she needs is to go to school herself. Yes, that’s what she needs.’ He took a good swig at the whisky, his eyes brightened and his voice dropped. ‘Now I’m going to tell you something, Eustace, only you must keep it under your hat.’
‘Under my hat?’ repeated Eustace, mystified. ‘My hat’s in the hall. Shall I go and get it?’
His father laughed. ‘No, I mean you must keep it to yourself. You mustn’t tell anyone, because nothing’s decided yet.’
‘Shall I cross my heart and swear?’ asked Eustace anxiously. ‘Of course, I’d rather not.’
‘You can do anything you like with yourself as long as you don’t tell Hilda,’ his father remarked, ‘but just see the door’s shut.’
Eustace tiptoed to the door and cautiously turned the handle several times, after each turn giving the handle a strong but surreptitious tug. Coming back still more stealthily, he whispered, ‘It’s quite shut.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Mr. Cherrington. ‘Now give me your best ear.’
‘My best ear, Daddy?’ said Eustace, turning his head from side to side. ‘Oh, I see!’ and he gave a loud laugh which he immediately stifled. ‘You just want me to listen carefully.’
‘You’ve hit it,’ and between blue, fragrant puffs Mr. Cherrington began to outline his plan for Hilda.
While his father was speaking Eustace’s face grew grave, and every now and then he nodded judicially. Though his feet still swung clear of the floor, to be taken into his father’s confidence seemed to add inches to his stature.
‘Well, old man, that’s what I wanted to tell you,’ said his father at length. ‘Only you mustn’t let on, see? Mum’s the word.’
‘Wild horses won’t drag it out of me, Daddy,’ said Eustace earnestly.
‘Well, don’t you let them try. By the way, I hear your friend Dick Staveley’s back.’
Eustace started. The expression of an elder statesman faded from his face and he suddenly looked younger than his years.
‘Oh, is he? I expect he’s just home for the holidays.’
‘No, he’s home for some
time, he’s cramming for Oxford or something.’
‘Cramming?’ repeated Eustace. His mind suddenly received a most disagreeable impression of Dick, his hero, transformed into a turkey strutting and gobbling round a farmyard.
‘Being coached for the ’Varsity. It may happen to you one day. Somebody told me they’d seen him, and I thought you might be interested. You liked him, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Eustace. Intoxicating visions began to rise, only to be expelled by the turn events had taken. ‘But it doesn’t make much difference now, does it? I mean, I shouldn’t be able to go there, even if he asked me.’
Meanwhile, Hilda on her side had not been idle. She turned over in her mind every stratagem and device she could think of that might keep Eustace at home. Since the evening when she so successfully launched her bombshell about the unsatisfactory state of education and morals at St. Ninian’s, she felt she had been losing ground. Eustace did not respond, as he once used to, to the threat of terrors to come; he professed to be quite pleased at the thought of being torn limb from limb by older stronger boys. She didn’t believe he was really unmoved by such a prospect, but he successfully pretended to be. When she said that it would make her ill he seemed to care a great deal more; for several days he looked as sad as she did, and he constantly, and rather tiresomely, begged her to eat more—requests which Hilda received with a droop of her long, heavy eyelids and a sad shake of her beautiful head. But lately Eustace hadn’t seemed to care so much. When Christmas came he suddenly discovered the fun of pulling crackers. Before this year he wouldn’t even stay in the room if crackers were going off; but now he revelled in them and made almost as much noise as they did, and his father even persuaded him to grasp the naked strip of cardboard with the explosive in the middle, which stung your fingers and made even grown-ups pull faces. Crackers bored Hilda; the loudest report did not make her change her expression, and she would have liked to tell Eustace how silly he looked as, with an air of triumph, he clasped the smoking fragment; but she hadn’t the heart to. He might be at school already, his behaviour was so unbridled. And he had a new way of looking at her, not unkind or cross or disobedient, but as if he was a gardener tending a flower and watching to see how it was going to turn out. This was a reversal of their roles; she felt as though a geranium had risen from its bed and was bending over her with a watering-can.
As usual, they were always together and if Hilda did not get the old satisfaction from the company of this polite but aloof little stranger (for so he seemed to her) the change in his attitude made her all the more determined to win him back, and the thought of losing him all the more desolating. She hated the places where they used to play together and wished that Eustace, who was sentimental about his old haunts, would not take her to them. ‘I just want to see it once again,’ he would plead, and she did not like to refuse him, though his new mantle of authority sat so precariously on him. Beneath her moods, which she expressed in so many ways, was a steadily increasing misery; the future stretched away featureless without landmarks; nothing beckoned, nothing drew her on.
Obscurely she realized that the change had been brought about by Miss Fothergill’s money. It had made Eustace independent, not completely independent, not as independent as she was, but it had given a force to his wishes that they never possessed before. It was no good trying to make him not want to go to school; she must make him want to stay at home. In this new state of affairs she believed that if Eustace refused to go to school his father would not try to compel him. But how to go about it? How to make Anchorstone suddenly so attractive, so irresistibly magnetic, that Eustace would not be able to bring himself to leave?
When Eustace told her that Dick Staveley was coming to live at Anchorstone Hall he mentioned this (for him) momentous event as casually as possible. Hilda did not like Dick Staveley, she professed abhorrence of him; she would not go to Anchorstone Hall when Dick had invited her, promising he would teach her to ride. The whole idea of the place was distasteful to her; it chilled and shrivelled her thoughts, just as it warmed and expanded Eustace’s. Even to hear it mentioned cast a shadow over her mind, and as to going there, she would rather die; and she had often told Eustace so.
It was a sign of emancipation that he let Dick’s name cross his lips. He awaited the explosion, and it came.
‘That man!’—she never spoke of him as a boy, though he was only a few years older than she was. ‘Well, you won’t see him, will you?’ she added almost vindictively. ‘You’ll be at school.’
‘Oh,’ said Eustace, ‘that won’t make any difference. I shouldn’t see him anyhow. You see, he never wanted to be friends with me. It was you he liked. If you had gone, I dare say he would have asked me to go too, just as your—well, you know, to hold the horse, and so on.’
‘You and your horses!’ said Hilda, scornfully. ‘You don’t know one end of a horse from the other.’ He expected she would let the subject drop, but her eyes grew thoughtful and to his astonishment she said, ‘Suppose I had gone?’ ‘Oh, well,’ said Eustace, ‘that would have changed everything. I shouldn’t have had time to go to tea with Miss Fothergill—you see we should always have been having tea at Anchorstone Hall. Then she wouldn’t have died and left me her money—I mean, she would have died; but she wouldn’t have left me any money because she wouldn’t have known me well enough. You have to know someone well to do that. And then I shouldn’t be going to school now, because Daddy says it’s her money that pays for me—and now’ (he glanced up, the clock on the Town Hall, with its white face and black hands, said four o’clock) ‘you would be coming in from riding with Dick, and I should be sitting on one of those grand sofas in the drawing-room at Anchorstone Hall, perhaps talking to Lady Staveley.’
Involuntarily Hilda closed her eyes against this picture—let it be confounded! Let it be blotted out! But aloud she said:
‘Wouldn’t you have liked that?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Eustace fervently.
‘Better than going to school?’
Eustace considered. The trussed boy was being carried towards a very large, but slow, fire; other boys, black demons with pitchforks, were scurrying about, piling on coals. His mood of heroism deserted him.
‘Oh yes, much better.’
Hilda said nothing, and they continued to saunter down the hill, past the ruined cross, past the pierhead with its perpetual invitation, towards the glories of the Wolferton Hotel—winter-gardened, girt with iron fire-escapes—and the manifold exciting sounds, and heavy, sulphurous smells, of the railway station.
‘Are we going to Mrs. Wrench’s?’ Eustace asked.
‘No, why should we? We had fish for dinner; you never notice. Oh, I know, you want to see the crocodile.’
‘Well, just this once. You see, I may not see it again for a long time.’
Hilda sniffed. ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep on saying that,’ she said. ‘It seems the only thing you can say. Oh, very well, then, we’ll go in and look round and come out.’
‘Oh, but we must buy something. She would be disappointed if we didn’t. Let’s get some shrimps. Aunt Sarah won’t mind just for once, and I don’t suppose I shall have any at St. Ninian’s. I expect the Fourth Form gets them, though.’
‘Why should they?’
‘Oh, didn’t you know, they have all sorts of privileges.’
‘I expect they have shrimps every day at Anchorstone Hall,’ said Hilda, meaningly.
‘Oh, I expect they do. What a pity you didn’t want to go. We have missed such a lot.’
Cautiously they crossed the road, for the wheeled traffic was thick here and might include a motor car. Fat Mrs. Wrench was standing at the door of the fish shop. She saw them coming, went in, and smiled expectantly from behind the counter.
‘Well, Miss Hilda?’
‘Eustace wants a fillet of the best end of the crocodile.’
‘Oh Hilda, I don’t!’
They all laughed uproariously, Hilda loudest of all;
while the stuffed crocodile (a small one) sprawling on the wall with tufts of bright green foliage glued round it, glared down on them malignantly. Eustace felt the tremor of delighted terror that he had been waiting for.
‘I’ve got some lovely fresh shrimps,’ said Mrs. Wrench.
‘Turn round, Eustace,’ said Miss Cherrington.
‘Oh must I again, Aunt Sarah?’
‘Yes, you must. You don’t want the other boys to laugh at you, do you?’
Reluctantly, Eustace revolved. He hated having his clothes tried on. He felt it was he who was being criticized, not they. It gave him a feeling of being trapped, as though each of the three pairs of eyes fixed on him, impersonal, fault-finding, was attached to him by a silken cord that bound him to the spot. He tried to restrain his wriggles within himself but they broke out and rippled on the surface.
‘Do try to stand still, Eustace.’
Aunt Sarah was operating; she had some pins in her mouth with which, here and there, she pinched grooves and ridges in his black jacket. Alas, it was rather too wide at the shoulders and not wide enough round the waist.
‘Eustace is getting quite a corporation,’ said his father.
‘Corporation, Daddy?’ Eustace was always interested in words.