“All square!” he announced. “All square and one to play. Do you know what I am going to call this one?” He pointed to a forbiddingly bare, black rock, round which the water surged, and when Hilda quite graciously said she didn’t, he added:
“But first you must pretend to be a girl who’s going to school.”
“Anything to pacify you,” Hilda said.
“Now I’ll tell you. It’s St. Willibald’s. Do you want to know why?”
“Not specially,” said Hilda. “It sounds such a silly name. Why should Willie be bald?” When they had laughed their fill at this joke, Eustace said:
“It’s got something to do with you. It’s ... well, you’ll know all about it later on.”
“I hope I shan’t,” said Hilda loftily. “It isn’t worth the trouble of a pretence. Was this all you were going to tell me?”
“Yes, you see it’s the name of your school.”
Hilda stared at him. “My school? What do you mean, my school? Me a schoolmistress? You must be mad.”
Eustace had not foreseen this complication.
“Not a schoolmistress, Hilda,” he gasped. “You wouldn’t be old enough yet. No, a schoolgirl, like I’m going to be a schoolboy.”
“A schoolgirl?” repeated Hilda. “A schoolgirl?” she echoed in a still more tragic voice. “Who said so?” she challenged him.
“Well, Daddy did. They all did, while you were upstairs. Daddy told me to tell you. It’s quite settled.”
Thoughts chased each other across Hilda’s face, thoughts that were incomprehensible to Eustace. They only told him that she was not as angry as he thought she would be. He couldn’t know that for her, just then, school without Eustace was a far less dreadful thought than Anchorstone Hall with Dick.
“We shall go away almost on the same day,” he said. “Won’t that be fun? I mean it would be much worse if one of us didn’t. And we shall be quite near to each other, in Kent. It’s called the Garden of England. That’s a nice name. You’re glad, aren’t you?”
Her eyes, swimming with happy tears, told him she was; but he could hardly believe it, and her trembling lips vouchsafed no word. He felt he must distract her.
“You were going to tell me something, Hilda. What was it?”
She looked at him enigmatically, and the smile playing on her lips restored them to speech.
“Oh, that? That was nothing.”
“But it must have been something,” Eustace persisted. “You said it was something I should like. Please tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said, “now that I am going to school.” Her voice deepened and took on its far-away tone. “You will never know what I meant to do for you—how I nearly sacrificed all my happiness.”
“Will anyone know?” asked Eustace.
He saw he had made a false step. Hilda turned pale and a look of terror came into her eyes, all the more frightening because Hilda was never frightened. So absorbed had she been by the horrors that the letter would lead to, so thankful that the horrors were now removed, that she had forgotten the letter itself. Yes. Someone would know....
Timidly Eustace repeated his question.
The pole bent beneath Hilda’s weight and her knuckles went as white as her face.
“Oh, don’t nag me, Eustace! Can’t you see?... What’s the time?” she asked sharply. “I’ve forgotten my watch.”
“But you never forget it, Hilda.”
“Fool, I tell you I have forgotten it! What’s the time?”
Eustace’s head bent towards the pocket in his waistline where his watch was lodged, and he answered with maddening slowness, anxious to get the time exactly right:
“One minute to four.”
“And when does the post go?”
“A quarter past. But you know that better than I do, Hilda.”
“Idiot, they might have changed it.” She stiffened. The skies might fall but Eustace must be given his instructions.
“Listen, I’ve got something to do. You go straight home, slowly, mind, and tell them to get the bath-water hot and ask Minney for the mustard.”
“How topping, Hilda! What fun we shall have.”
“Yes, it must be boiling. I shall hurry on in front of you, and you mustn’t look to see which way I go.”
“Oh, no, Hilda.”
“Here’s my pole. You can jump with it if you’re careful. I shan’t be long.”
“But, Hilda——”
There was no answer. She was gone, and he dared not turn round to call her.
A pole trailing from either hand, Eustace fixed his eyes on the waves and conscientiously walked backwards, so that he should not see her. Presently he stumbled against a stone and nearly fell. Righting himself he resumed his crab-like progress, but more slowly than before. Why had Hilda gone off like that? He could not guess, and it was a secret into which he must not pry. His sense of the inviolability of Hilda’s feelings was a sine qua non of their relationship.
The tracks traced by the two poles, his and Hilda’s, made a pattern that began to fascinate him. Parallel straight lines, he knew, were such that even if they were produced to infinity they could not meet. The idea of infinity pleased Eustace, and he dwelt on it for some time. But these lines were not straight; they followed a serpentine course, bulging at times and then narrowing, like a boa-constrictor that has swallowed a donkey. Perhaps with a little manipulation they could be made to meet.
He drew the lines closer. Yes, it looked as though they might converge. But would it be safe to try to make them when a law of Euclid said they couldn’t?
A backward glance satisfied Hilda that Eustace was following her instructions. Her heart warmed to him. How obedient he was, in spite of everything. The tumult in her feelings came back, disappointment, relief, and dread struggling with each other. Disappointment that her plan had miscarried; relief that it had miscarried; dread that she would be too late to spare herself an unbearable humiliation.
She ran, taking a short cut across the sands, going by the promenade where the cliffs were lower. She flashed past the Bank with its polished granite pillars, so much admired by Eustace. Soon she was in the heart of the town.
The big hand of the Post Office clock was leaning on the quarter. Breathless, she went in. Behind the counter stood a girl she did not know.
“Please can you give me back the letter I posted this afternoon?”
“I’m afraid not, Miss. We’re not allowed to.”
“Please do it this once. It’s very important that the letter shouldn’t go.”
The girl—she was not more than twenty herself—stared at the beautiful, agitated face, imperious, unused to pleading, the tall figure, the bosom that rose and fell, and it scarcely seemed to her that Hilda was a child.
“I could ask the postmaster.”
“No, please don’t do that, I’d rather you didn’t. It’s a letter that I ... regret having written.” A wild look came into Hilda’s eye; she fumbled in her pocket.
“If I pay a fine may I have it back?”
How pretty she is, the girl thought. She seems thoroughly upset. Something stirred in her, and she moved towards the door of the letter-box.
“I oughtn’t to, you know. Who would the letter be to?”
“It’s a gentleman.” Hilda spoke with an effort.
I thought so, the girl said to herself; and she unlocked the door of the letter-box.
“What would the name be?”
The name was on Hilda’s lips, but she checked it and stood speechless.
“Couldn’t you let me look myself?” she said.
“Oh, I’m afraid that would be against regulations. They might give me the sack.”
“Oh, please, just this once. I ... I shall never write to him again.”
The assistant’s heart was touched. “You made a mistake, then,” she said.
“Yes,” breathed Hilda. “I don’t know...” she left the sentence unfinished.
“You said someth
ing you didn’t mean?”
“Yes,” said Hilda.
“And you think he might take it wrong?”
“Yes.”
The assistant dived into the box and brought about twenty letters. She laid them on the counter in front of Hilda.
“Quick! quick!” she said. “I’m not looking.”
Hilda knew the shape of the envelope. In a moment the letter was in her pocket. Looking at the assistant she panted; and the assistant panted slightly, too. They didn’t speak for a moment; then the assistant said:
“You’re very young, dear, aren’t you?”
Hilda drew herself up. “Oh, no, I’ve turned fourteen.”
“You’re sure you’re doing the right thing? You’re not acting impulsive-like? If you’re really fond of him...”
“Oh, no,” said Hilda. “I’m not ... I’m not.” A tremor ran through her. “I must go now.”
The assistant bundled the letters back into the box. There was a sound behind them: the postman had come in.
“Good evening, Miss,” he said.
“Good evening,” said the assistant languidly. “I’ve been waiting about for you. You don’t half keep people waiting, do you?”
“There’s them that works, and them that waits,” said the postman.
The assistant tossed her head.
“There’s some do neither,” she said tartly, and then, turning in a business-like way to Hilda:
“Is there anything else, Miss?”
“Nothing further to-day,” said Hilda, rather haughtily. “Thank you very much,” she added.
Outside the Post Office, in the twilight, her dignity deserted her. She broke into a run, but her mind outstripped her, surging, exultant.
“I shall never see him now,” she thought, “I shall never see him now,” and the ecstasy, the relief, the load off her mind, were such as she might have felt had she loved Dick Staveley and been going to meet him.
Softly she let herself into the house. The dining-room was no use: it had a gas fire. She listened at the drawing-room door, No sound. She tiptoed into the fire-stained darkness, crossed the hearthrug and dropped the letter into the reddest cleft among the coals. It did not catch at once so she took the poker to it, driving it into the heart of the heat. A flame sprang up, and at the same moment she heard a movement, and turning, saw the fire reflected in her father’s eyes.
“Hullo, Hilda—you startled me. I was having a nap. Burning something?”
“Yes,” said Hilda, poised for flight.
“A love letter, I expect.”
“Oh, no, Daddy; people don’t write love letters at my age.”
“At your age——” began Mr. Cherrington. But he couldn’t remember, and anyhow it wouldn’t do to tell his daughter that at her age he had already written a love letter.
“Must be time for tea,” he said, yawning. “Where’s Eustace?”
As though in answer they heard a thud on the floor above, and the sound of water pouring into the bath.
“That’s him,” cried Hilda. “I promised him I would put his feet into mustard and water. He won’t forgive me if I don’t.”
She ran upstairs into the steam and blurred visibility, the warmth, the exciting sounds and comforting smells of the little bath-room. At first she couldn’t see Eustace; the swirls of luminous vapour hid him; then they parted and disclosed him, sitting on the white curved edge of the bath with his back to the water and his legs bare to the knee, above which his combinations and his knickerbockers had been neatly folded back, no doubt by Minney’s practised hand.
“Oh, there you are, Hilda!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t it absolutely spiffing! The water’s quite boiling. I only turned it on when you came in. I wish it was as hot as boiling oil—boiling water isn’t, you know.”
“How much mustard did you put in?” asked Hilda.
“Half a tin. Minney said she couldn’t spare any more.”
“Well, turn round and put your feet in,” Hilda said.
“Yes. Do you think I ought to take off my knickers, too? You see I only got wet as far as my ankles. I should have to take off my combinations.”
Hilda considered. “I don’t think you need this time.”
Eustace swivelled round and tested the water with his toe.
“Ooo!”
“Come on, be brave.”
“Yes, but you must put your feet in too. It won’t be half the fun if you don’t. Besides, you said you would, Hilda.” In his anxiety to share the experience with her he turned round again. “Please! You got much wetter than I did.”
“I got warm running. Besides, it’s only salt-water. Salt-water doesn’t give you a cold.”
“Oh, but my water was salt, too.”
“You’re different,” said Hilda. Then, seeing the look of acute disappointment on his face, she added, “Well, just to please you.”
Eustace wriggled delightedly, and, as far as he dared, bounced up and down on the bath edge.
“Take off your shoes and stockings, then.” It was delicious to give Hilda orders. Standing stork-like, first on one foot, then on the other, Hilda obeyed.
“Now come and sit by me. It isn’t very safe, take care you don’t lose your balance.”
Soon they were sitting side by side, looking down into the water. The clouds of steam rising round them seemed to shut off the outside world. Eustace looked admiringly at Hilda’s long slim legs.
“I didn’t fill the bath any fuller,” he said, in a low voice, “because of the marks. It might be dangerous, you know.”
Hilda looked at the bluish chips in the enamel, which spattered the sides of the bath. Eustace’s superstitions about them, and his fears of submerging them, were well known to her.
“They won’t let you do that at school,” she said.
“Oh, there won’t be any marks at school. A new system of plumbing and sanitarisation was installed last year. The prospectus said so. That would mean new baths, of course. New baths don’t have marks. Your school may be the same, only the prospectus didn’t say so. I expect baths don’t matter so much for girls.”
“Why not?”
“They’re cleaner, anyway. Besides, they wash.” Eustace thought of washing and having a bath as two quite different, almost unconnected things. “And I don’t suppose they’ll let us put our feet in mustard and water.”
“Why not?” repeated Hilda.
“Oh, to harden us, you know. Boys have to be hard. If they did, it would be for a punishment, not fun like this.... Just put your toe in, Hilda.”
Hilda flicked the water with her toe, hard enough to start a ripple, and then withdrew it.
“It’s still a bit hot. Let’s wait a minute.”
“Yes,” said Eustace. “It would spoil everything if we turned on the cold water.”
They sat for a moment in silence. Eustace examined Hilda’s toes. They were really as pretty as fingers. His own were stunted and shapeless, meant to be decently covered.
“Now, both together!” he cried.
In went their feet. The concerted splash was magnificent, but the agony was almost unbearable.
“Put your arm round me, Hilda!”
“Then you put yours round me, Eustace!”
As they clung together their feet turned scarlet, and the red dye ran up far above the water-level almost to their knees. But they did not move, and slowly the pain began to turn into another feeling, a smart still, but wholly blissful.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” cried Eustace. “I could never have felt it without you!”
Hilda said nothing, and soon they were swishing their feet to and fro in the cooling water. The supreme moment of trial and triumph had gone by; other thoughts, not connected with their ordeal, began to slide into Eustace’s mind.
“Were you in time to do it?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Well, what you were going to do when you left me on the sands.”
“Oh, that,” said Hilda indifferently
. “Yes, I was just in time.” She thought a moment, and added: “But don’t ask me what it was, because I shan’t ever tell you.”
THE SIXTH HEAVEN
How beautiful the Earth is still
To thee, how full of happiness.
—EMILY BRONTË
1. CONCERTO FOR TWO VIOLINS
“I DIDN’T know you had a sister, Eustace.”
“Oh, didn’t you? Well, as a matter of fact, I have two.”
“Tell me about them.”
Eustace Cherrington hesitated. Stephen Hilliard was a comparatively new friend. They had met in the Summer Term, at the end of Eustace’s first year at Oxford. Eustace had been reading a paper to one of the many inter-collegiate societies for the discussion of art and letters which had sprung up with the post-war renascence of the University; they had a Ninetyish air, unashamedly æsthetic. Mushroom growths for the most part, they had their moment of glory. Their members sported striped silk ties, impossible to mistake for an old school tie, so friendly were the colours to each other. A great deal of lobbying and intrigue went to the election, or rejection, of candidates. Feelings ran high, enmities and friendships were created. Stephen Hilliard, president of ‘The Philanderers,’ as the society was ambitiously and misleadingly named, had congratulated Eustace on his ‘Some Nineteenth-Century Mystics,’ and afterwards invited him to a stately meal; and when they met again after the Long Vacation, they found themselves, to Eustace’s surprise, on terms of friendship. Eustace’s friends were seldom of his own choosing, but they had one thing in common: they tended to be rather well off. To this tendency, which had grown on Eustace without his noticing it, Stephen was no exception.
Rumour said that he was rich, and his rooms in the High, where they were now sitting, gave colour—brilliant colour—to the rumour. Stephen had had them done up himself, and they had none of the shabbiness of college rooms or of rooms let to undergraduates. The bright, rather hard colours did not aim at harmony or achieve it. The black carpet was relieved by splashes of scarlet lacquer; the cushions were of lilac or scarlet, and edged with black lace; between the two windows stood an ivory-coloured lacquer cabinet, with figures in dull gold and most elaborate brass hinges. In the centre of the chimney-piece, raised on a cube of honey-coloured marble, was a crystal object which reminded one of a skull, but looked at closer, proved not to be. On the opposite wall was a long black mirror, in the mysterious depths of which Eustace could see half of himself, and all of his host, as they sat over their port. At least, Eustace was sitting over his. Stephen did not drink port.