Eustace and Hilda

  “I don’t know about that,” said Minney, gaining confidence. “Miss Hilda’s not dead yet, not by a long way, thank goodness, and we don’t want her to be, in spite of what she suffered from that wicked man. But what I’m thinking is, what will Master—Mister Eustace say—what will Mr. Eustace say when he sees her, she who’s always been the darling of his heart?”

  Barbara checked a reply that was on the tip of her tongue, and both she and Miss Cherrington said nothing, but fixed their eyes on Minney’s face which, under its soft, dyed, brown hair, had altered remarkably little with the years.

  “What will he think, the poor lamb? I was only asking Miss Hilda just now, ‘How do you want to be, dear,’ I said, ‘when he sees you?’ Of course I’d forgotten she couldn’t answer, except by what she does for yes and no, so I said, ‘Will you wear that pretty red dress he gave you? You look so nice in that.’ But no, she didn’t want to. She’s got ever so many pretty dresses if she’d only wear them, but she will stick to that stiff blue thing she wore at the hospital—more like a uniform, it is. Such a pity, for she’s as pretty as she ever was except for the slight cast and the one eyelid that droops. So I said, ‘You don’t want him to think you sad, do you, dear, because he’s come all that way from Venice on purpose to see you?’”

  Minney stopped, and Miss Cherrington turned away, but Barbara said, “How did she take that?”

  “Oh, she began to tremble and fidget like she does when she’s excited, and tried to speak, and I encouraged her, as the doctor said we were to, and for a moment she did almost say something, but she lost it again, and then she looked all downcast, as she does when she’s tried and failed. So then I tried another tack and asked her when she would like to see him. As soon as he arrives, I said, that’s the best time of all, and they won’t mind waiting lunch. But she shook her head, so I went through the half-hours, counting from when he came, two, half-past two, three, half-past three and so on, but she wouldn’t have any of them, so at last I said, ‘Don’t you want to see him? He’ll be so disappointed after coming all that way, and after all, he is your brother’—and then she began to cry, because she can still do that, and I wiped away the tears and said, ‘Well, let him come and have tea with you,’ because that’s the meal she manages best, no knives and forks, and some days she can almost hold the cup herself. ‘It’ll seem like old times,’ I said, meaning of course that it was the room they used to have together, though of course it doesn’t look a bit the same now there’s only the one bed and all the furniture’s different, though perhaps that’s a good thing really; I mean, one doesn’t always want to be reminded.”

  Minney paused as though aware of some inconsistency in her train of thought and added, “It’s different here, too, isn’t it, all that dark oak stuff?” She looked respectfully at the heavy chairs in the Jacobean style which were drawn up against the walls, and the almost black table, capable of supporting a ton, with its scalloped edge of leaves that looked as if they had been scoured out with a red-hot poker. “I’m sure it’s good, but it is a bit heavy.”

  “I think so too,” said Barbara. “But the che-ild won’t be able to hurt it, that’s one good thing. What will you do, Minney, when you’ve got two charges to fetch and carry for?”

  “Oh, I shall be all right,” said Minney stoutly. “That’s what I’m for. Besides, Miss Hilda’s not going to be like that for ever. I told her, I said, ‘We shall soon have you well again now Mr. Eustace is back, you mark my words.’ And she didn’t try to say no.”

  “So you think she will see him at tea-time,” said Miss Cherrington. “Though I should feel more comfortable if they had seen each other before I went away.”

  Minney’s face brightened.

  “She’ll want to see him, depend upon it, the moment she hears his voice in the hall. It’s just a little shyness, because perhaps she remembers he always was nervous of people who looked a bit out of the ordinary or queer, you know. You remember how he wouldn’t go near that Miss Fothergill, though we all tried to make him, and in the end he did, and was glad. Well, it’ll be the same with Miss Hilda.”

  Miss Cherrington, who seldom showed herself completely pleased, looked grave and unhappy. “I don’t think you ought to say that, Minney. It would distress Miss Hilda very much if she knew, and in any case, there’s no real likeness.”

  “Oh, I know it’s only on the surface,” said Minney. “And I expect he’s got used to that sort of thing now, living abroad with foreigners.”

  Barbara could hardly suppress a smile. “Now you’re telling us he won’t want to see her. That will be a complication.”

  “Of course they’ll want to see each other,” cried Minney indignantly. “Who said they wouldn’t? It would be most unnatural if they didn’t, and Eustace was always a most natural little boy, only rather timid. It’s just the shyness, that’s all. It’ll wear off. Now what was I doing?” she said. “I came in here for something, and there’s Mr. Crankshaw in the hall. He won’t want me in here, and if I go away, I shall remember what I came for.”

  Minney went out as the master of the house came in.

  “Darling, she thinks you’re an ogre,” cried Barbara delightedly. “She’s always saying, ‘Mr. Crankshaw won’t like this,’ or ‘Mr. Crankshaw prefers it another way,’ she simply won’t admit that you’re a member of the family.”

  Jimmy bent down and kissed her. “She likes me well enough,” he said good-humouredly. “It’s only that I take a bit of getting used to.”

  “But she’s had weeks to get used to you! And only yesterday she said, ‘Mr. Cherrington always wore a dark suit when he went to his office in Ousemouth. I think it’s so becoming to a man.’”

  “Well, I don’t go to an office, I go to a garage, hence these tweeds.”

  “Darling, you talk as if you were a mechanic instead of the manager of the largest garage in North-west Norfolk. You mustn’t talk like that in front of Eustace, who’s been used to living with lords and ladies.”

  “Eustace won’t mind,” said Jimmy shortly. “Men don’t pay any attention to these distinctions. It’s only women who do. He isn’t coming to-day, is he?”

  “Yes, any time now. Darling, you must go and tidy yourself. He’ll think you come from nowhere.”

  “I’m not going to alter my ways for him, and you don’t look over-tidy yourself, my sweet. Besides, it’s Hilda he’ll want to see.”

  “Oh no, he won’t want to see her, Minney’s just said so, and she doesn’t want to see him—so what are we to do?”

  Miss Cherrington rose, saying her packing needed attention. As a matter of fact she seldom appeared at a meal without first withdrawing to make some sartorial preparation for it, but Barbara found another explanation for her departure.

  “Isn’t she too sweet? She still thinks we ought to be left alone together sometimes.”

  “It doesn’t look as if we should be much alone together in the near future,” said Jimmy, crossing and recrossing his legs discontentedly.

  “You mustn’t say that: you know that a man marries his wife’s relations. Besides, you were the first to say we must take in Hilda, poor old girl.”

  “I didn’t bargain for Eustace, too. Of course, I’d only be too delighted in the ordinary way, but at this time, when you’ve got so many things to think of——”

  “I’ve only got one thing to think of, and that’s James Edward, the Old Pretender, as you used to call him. Only he’s not a pretender any more—he’s quite real.”

  “That’s what I mean, my pet,” said Jimmy. “You ought to be thinking about your future, not about your relations’ murky pasts.”

  “Oh, how can you say Hilda has a murky past? I suppose she has in a way though, poor dear.”

  “I wish I could get hold of that rotter,” said Jimmy. “I’d give him socks, Staveley or no Staveley.”

  “You can’t, darling; he’s gone to the Far East or wherever people go when they’ve made a mess of things.”

  “He’
s certainly made a mess of your sister all right, and left us the job of clearing it up. Why, she may be on our hands for months or even years.”

  “Oh no, she’ll get better as soon as Eustace comes. Hilda has the constitution of an ox.”

  “Don’t you be too sure, Babs. The doctor said there was a possibility that her mind might be affected, and what chance would you and James Edward have with a raging lunatic in the house?”

  “Well, we can’t send her away, darling. Where would she go? She doesn’t want to go to Willesden.”

  “Couldn’t she go into a home?”

  “No, she dreads that—and there isn’t enough money: she spent half she had on that beastly clinic, and I believe Eustace did too. They’re practically paupers now, both of them.”

  “Good God!”

  “Besides, you know you like Eustace, in spite of his being rather a toady.”

  “I wish he wouldn’t talk about his grand friends in that low, respectful voice.”

  “You wouldn’t like it any better if he bawled them at you through a megaphone, and the doctor said the best thing for Hilda” (here she mimicked him) “was ‘to be with cheerful, ordinary people leading busy normal lives with lots of outside interests.’”

  “Does that mean us?”

  “Of course it does, darling, and you were so nice about it before, I can’t think what’s come over you. James Edward doesn’t like what you’ve been saying at all—he’s kicked me several times.”

  “Oh, very well, then, if you must turn the house into a lunatic asylum or a home for fallen——”

  “Jimmy, I will not let you say that. We don’t know that Hilda’s fallen, and she can’t tell us—we only know that she has been jilted by a cruel, cruel man.”

  “Don’t forget that Speedwell said she might be shamming.”

  “I know, but you mustn’t tell Eustace.”

  “Why not?”

  “It wouldn’t be fair to Hilda. It might put him against her.”

  “But is it fair to Eustace? Besides, Speedwell may give him the hint.”

  “He won’t, because I asked him not to. Now run away and wash that oil off your hands.”

  “They’re not oily; I haven’t been within stroking-distance of a machine for weeks, worse luck.”

  “Well, smile then, or Eustace will think you’re not glad to see him.”

  “I don’t know that I am so very glad to see him.”

  “Well, you must pretend to be. Quick, here he is.”

  There was the sound of a car stopping at the door, followed by an altercation, and a voice was heard to say, in resolute but unwilling accents, “Sixpence over the fare is quite enough.”

  “Good heavens,” whispered Barbara, “what has happened to Eustace?”

  After luncheon Barbara decreed that Aunt Sarah and Eustace should have a talk, unless, she said, Eustace’s continental habits demanded a siesta. “And you do look rather tired,” she added, “all round that new moustache.”

  Eustace, however, scouted such a need, and nephew and aunt sat down, a little self-consciously, at right angles to each other, in the two straight-backed arm-chairs which belonged to the Jacobean set. Miss Cherrington kept her grey suède gloves on her lap, and by her side an expensively plain bag which, Eustace guessed, had cost her more than she felt she ought to pay. But before either of them had found words to break the silence, Minney bustled in and said that Miss Hilda had heard Mr. Eustace’s voice and wanted to see him and would ring when she was ready. Mr. Crankshaw had fixed an electric bell to her chair in such a way that she could press it by simply lowering her hand. But sometimes the bell rang a long time because she couldn’t take her hand off.

  “How was she able to tell you all this?” Eustace asked.

  “Oh, I have to keep asking her questions, and then she nods or shakes her head. A stranger might not know which she was doing, but I know. And she wants me to be there when you come. I hope you don’t mind, Master Eustace.”

  Eustace said no, he would be glad.

  His talks with Aunt Sarah had always been for information rather than communication, an exchange of facts rather than an interplay of feelings, and this one was no exception. But Eustace did find a change, in himself, for whereas once he had chafed against the unprogressive nature of his intercourse with Aunt Sarah, and hoped, as he once hoped of every conversation, that something would come of it—that some feeling fostered by their two presences would suddenly burst into flower—he now found himself without any such expectation. Still there were things he wanted to know, and Aunt Sarah would be able to supply the answers. He didn’t think she would want to be told about his life in Venice, and rather hoped she wouldn’t. He was glad to be talking to her rather than to the others because, though they were all more sympathetic to him than she was, she had a much clearer idea of what the situation meant to him. She would not try to cheer him up with light-hearted and even facetious references to Hilda’s state, as they had. All areas were tender areas, but some were farther from the actual seat of the wound than others. He would ask her about the clinic. She had told him something in her letter which had reached him the morning he left Venice, but he wanted to know more.

  Stephen Hilliard, it appeared, was looking after Hilda’s interests at the clinic; his firm had made very strong representations to the directors. They could not possibly treat the secretary as if she were a mere employee, to be dismissed at a month’s notice; not only had she made the clinic the success it was, or had been, but she had sunk a great deal of her own capital in it—Aunt Sarah did not quite know how much. The stories that had been circulated about her were either baseless or grossly exaggerated; if necessary the persons responsible, could they be discovered, would be served with a writ for slander. Hilda’s imperious temper had made her enemies, even among the directors, but this could not be weighed in the scales against the immense services she had done them, the high percentage of cures, the innumerable letters from grateful parents. Whether the post would be kept open for her until she recovered was still undecided; the legal position was obscure, for it could be argued that Hilda’s extensive donations and Eustace’s gave them a peculiar status amounting almost to part-ownership. The whole question was being discussed, Mr. Hilliard had written to her, in an atmosphere as friendly as he could make it; and he had good hopes of an outcome more satisfactory than had seemed possible even a week ago. He had meant to come down to Anchorstone to give them all a full report. Miss Cherrington paused.

  “Isn’t he coming now?” asked Eustace.

  Again Miss Cherrington hesitated. “He seemed to think you might not wish to see him.”

  “He’s wrong,” said Eustace. “I should be most happy to see him.”

  Something in his voice and manner struck Miss Cherrington, and she looked at him curiously. “I’m glad you say so,” she said. “Mr. Hilliard has been an invaluable friend to us; indeed, I don’t know what we should have done without him. If he wrote to you anything that was hasty or unwise, it was the result of his deep attachment to Hilda’s interests.”

  “Yes,” said Eustace, “I realise that.”

  “I’ll be open with you,” Miss Cherrington said, “as I trust I always am: I had hoped, and I still haven’t given up hoping, that when she is herself again Hilda and he may find their happiness in each other.”

  “I hope so too,” said Eustace. “But do you think she will ever care for him?”

  “She might, now that this other man has gone out of her life.”

  She bent a look on Eustace when she said this, but to her surprise he seemed unmoved. “Tell me,” he said, “why did she want to come here?”

  Miss Cherrington looked uneasy and unwilling, but Eustace knew she would tell him the truth.

  “It was after her last interview with him,” she said, “when he broke off their—their—relationship. He told her then that he was going abroad, and that Miss Sheldon had become engaged to him.”

  “But I thought——” b
egan Eustace, almost rudely.

  “That she learned that she had been deserted from the morning newspaper? No, they thought so at the hospital, because she was taken ill while she was reading the announcement. She knew two days before, but she didn’t believe he meant it. We must give him the credit of having had the courage to tell her he had jilted her.”

  “Jilted?” said Eustace. “But had he asked her to marry him?”

  “I am surprised at your using that tone,” said Miss Cherrington, “after everything your sister has suffered. You sound as if you were defending him. Do you realise what those months cost her? Her reputation, her living, almost her life. Does it make much difference whether or not they were formally engaged? He certainly behaved as if—no, I can’t speak of it. You have picked up some very strange notions, Eustace, from the people you have been associating with.”

  Eustace looked at her expressionlessly. To some a love-affair would always seem amusing, exciting, delicious, the sweetest of stolen waters, an inevitable adjunct of civilisation, a renewal of life. To others it was simply a denial of morals, a lapse from right living to be unequivocally condemned. One thing was certain: it did not suit the temperament of the Cherringtons.

  “But you still haven’t told me,” he said, “why Hilda came to Anchorstone.”

  Miss Cherrington ignored the impatience in his voice and answered evenly: “If you had been here at the time, Eustace, you would realise how difficult it is for me to remember every little detail of those most distressing days. Indeed, I try to forget them. In my letter to you I made as light of everything as I could. Hilda was abnormally excited and the doctor—feared for her reason. Before the announcement came out she knew she was on the verge of a breakdown, and she had persuaded herself that if she came here, where—where he was, he—well—he might change his mind. Also I think the place had associations for her, with you as well as with him. I tried to dissuade her, pointing out that she would cheapen herself and alienate the sympathy which everyone felt for her, but she was immovable; and the doctor said that in her state she must not be crossed, and she might even benefit from the air here, which did you all so much good as children. But I’m afraid she hasn’t benefited from it much as yet, because we can’t induce her to go out of the house.”