Eustace and Hilda (13 page)

Full of high hopes they reached the further side. Alas, there was no opening, and the undergrowth was thickly fortified with brambles. “It must be this way,” said Nancy, plunging forward. A thorn caught her arm, leaving a scarlet trail.

“Oh, Nancy!”

“That's nothing. Come on!” They fought their way through the dripping hostile stalks while overhead and all round lightning flashed and thunder rent the sky. “It's no good,” said Nancy, “we must go back and try another place.” But that was easier said than done; they had lost their bearings and it took them twice as long to get out as it had to get in. As they stumbled into open space a flash of lightning lit up the whole extent of the clearing. “I saw a way in there,” cried Nancy, pointing, “I'm sure I did.” But her words were almost lost in the tearing crash that followed: it was as though the lightning had struck a powder magazine. Surreptitiously, and even in his extremity of alarm hoping that Nancy would not notice, Eustace pulled out a handful of almost liquid paper. Someone might see it. He noticed that the racehorse was gone, torn off no doubt by the brambles. A small thing, but it increased his sense of defeat. Ahead of him in the gloom he could see Nancy's white blouse. He wanted to call to her, but the words didn't come. ‘Of course I can't run and shout at the same time,' he thought, for his mind had not understood the message that his failing strength kept whispering to it. He stood still, and his tired heart recovered somewhat. “Nancy,” he called, “I can't go on.” He could not tell whether she had heard, or see whether she was coming back, for the darkness suddenly turned black, only this time it was not outside him, he felt it rushing up from within.

“It's nine o'clock,” said Miss Cherrington. “Hilda, you'd better go to bed. You can't do any good by staying up.”

Hilda did not move. Her face, as much of it as was visible, was blotchy with tears, shed and unshed, her long thin hands were pressing her features out of place, piling the flesh up above the cheek bones. Her elbows resting on her knees she looked like a study for the Tragic Muse.

“Daddy said I needn't go till the police come,” she said, almost rudely. “If I did go to bed I shouldn't sleep. I don't suppose I shall ever sleep again,” she added.

Silence followed this statement. “All right, Hilda,” said her father at length. “You mustn't take it to heart so. He'll turn up all right.” He tried to put conviction into his voice.

“He won't, he won't!” cried Hilda, raising her head and staring at the gas mantle, which was mirrored in the pools of her eyes. “It was all my fault. I could have saved him. I ought not to have let him out of my sight. It was I who saw him last. He was washing his hands in the bath-room. He never does that unless he's told to. I might have known he was up to something.” Her tears started afresh.

“She never leaves the boy alone, does she, Miss Cherrington?” Minney broke out, unable to contain her resentment at Hilda's determination to claim the lion's share both of responsibility and grief. “I don't say it, mind, but it wouldn't surprise me if that was partly why he slipped out—to be by himself for once, where she couldn't be always bossing him.”

Hilda said nothing, but she turned on Minney a look of hatred that was almost frightening in so young a face. Miss Cherrington took up the cudgels on her behalf.

“You shouldn't say that, Minney, it's cruel. Eustace will never know how much he owes to Hilda.” She paused, not liking the sound of the words. “I mean he won't till he's older.”

“Oh, stop wrangling,” cried Mr. Cherrington. “Why do you keep on discussing the boy? You've been at it all the evening.” Perhaps ashamed of his outburst, he walked to the window and looked out. “It's stopped raining, that's one blessing,” he said. “Hullo, there's someone getting off a bicycle. It's the policeman. I'll go.”

They awaited his return in silence. He came back with a set face.

“There's no news up to now. The bobby said”—his voice faltered—“there are so many little boys in blue jerseys in Anchorstone. But they're going on with the search.... You'd better go to bed now, Hilda.”

Hilda undressed slowly. The sight of Eustace's empty bed affected her so painfully it might have been his coffin. She saw that his nightgown had not been folded properly; it made an unsightly lump in his Eustace-embroidered nightdress case. Taking it out rather gingerly she folded it again; her tears fell on it; she carefully dabbed them up with a handkerchief. Then she changed her mind, took the nightgown once more from its case, and put it in her bed. ‘I'll keep it warm for him,' she thought. Her mind, as she lay in bed, kept returning torturingly to the events of the day. She reproached herself for a score of lapses in supervision. She ought, she told herself, to have been more strict with Eustace; she ought to have brought him up in such a way that he simply could not have gone off on his own like that.... Unless, as Minney had suggested, some gipsy.... But that was absurd. Fate would have had no power to tamper with a trust that had been properly discharged. ‘Perhaps I was careless,' thought Hilda, ‘after I had made him promise to go to Miss Fothergill.'

A noise disturbed her meditation. It was like no sound she had ever heard at Cambo at this time of night—but it could be nothing else—a horse and cart stopping outside the house. Now there were voices, muffled at first, then quite loud for an instant, then muffled again. They had passed, whoever they were, through the hall into the drawing-room.

There was no light on the landing. Hilda leaned over the banisters. They had forgotten to shut the drawing-room door, so she could hear quite well. She recognised Major Steptoe's booming tones. “He's quite dry now, poor little chap. They lent him some clothes at the Hall. Bit big for him, what? Yes, he looks rather blue about the gills, but he hasn't had a return of that other thing. Nancy said she was properly frightened ... alone with him over an hour, until young Dick Staveley came along. Wasn't that a bit of luck—or he'd be there now. Oh, we were at the church all the time, getting pretty anxious I can tell you. They sent a message from the Hall, fellow on a bicycle.”

The conversation became general again and Hilda could not follow it. Then she heard Mrs. Steptoe say, as though excusing herself, “You know we did wonder ... but he said he could run all right. Of course if we'd known ...” “Plucky little chap,” from Major Steptoe....

Mrs. Steptoe went on: “Yes, he's shivering again. Bed, I quite agree, as soon as possible.... To-night? ... Do you think it necessary? Then may we leave a message with Dr. Speedwell on our way home? And, Miss Cherrington” (here she lowered her voice, but Hilda could hear every word), “he rambled a bit, you know—children often do—and kept on saying you would all be very angry with him, especially his sister. I tried to tell him you wouldn't be—but he's evidently got it on his mind. Nancy?”—in a voice like the lifting of an eyebrow—“Oh, we left her at home, thank you. She went through a pretty bad time, but she'll be all right. Good-night ... good-night. Don't mention it—we're only too sorry ... only too glad ...”

The front door closed on them. ‘All very angry with him, especially his sister.'

Hilda crept back to bed. A minute later Minney came in.

“He's found, the lamb,” she said. Hilda was silent, remembering her grievance against Minney. “Only he's not very well—I've got to sleep with him to-night. You're to sleep in my room.”

Hilda sat up.

“I want to see him,” she said.

“Miss Cherrington says not to-night,” said Minney. “It might excite him. To-morrow you shall.”

As she left the room Hilda called over her shoulder: “You'll find his nightgown in my bed.”

A
FTER
a timeless interval Eustace woke up one morning feeling that something pleasant was going to happen. For a moment he savoured the sensation, too happy to inquire into its cause. Then he turned over in bed and saw through the gloom Nurse Hapgood's face asleep on the pillow. To-day she was leaving. That was it.

Eustace could not remember her coming. He gradually became aware of her face hanging over him in a mist, unnaturally large. It was still the largest woman's face he had ever seen, but he had got used to it now as he had got used to his illness. He liked her. She was kind, she increased, she even fostered, his sense of self-importance, and above all she would not let him worry.

“I don't want to hear any more of that conscience-scraping,” she would say when Eustace, after debating with himself for several hours, propounded one of his besetting problems.

‘Would his father be ruined by the expense of his illness?' ‘No,' said Nurse Hapgood, ‘Mr. Cherrington was still a long way from ruin. He had told her so.' ‘Were they all really very angry with him because of ... because of everything he had done? They didn't seem so, but he felt they must be.' ‘No, they were not angry at all. They were just as fond of him as ever.' ‘Was God very angry?' ‘Obviously not, or He wouldn't have made Eustace get well so quickly.' ‘Why had there been that long time when Hilda didn't come to see him? Wasn't it because she was angry?' ‘Of course not, it was because she didn't feel very well after sitting in his room with the bronchitis kettle. Some people were like that.' ‘Was his illness a punishment for being selfish and wicked and disobedient?' Nurse Hapgood admitted that he had been very silly, but said that many people were ill through no fault of their own. Many of her patients had been saintly characters. ‘Did she think he would die, and if he did, would he have only himself to blame?'

“You think altogether too much about blame,” said Nurse Hapgood. “But if you die, I shall blame you, I can tell you that.”

Eustace was not aware, of course, that the doctor had enjoined on his relations the necessity of fomenting his self-esteem. “If he goes on chattering in this strain,” he remarked bluntly in the early stages of Eustace's illness, “I won't answer for the consequences.”

That was another, perhaps the strongest, reason for keeping Hilda out of the sick-room. She had been very much upset, it is true, to see him lying there propped up on pillows breathing hard and speaking with difficulty: she was old enough to realise the meaning of the steaming kettle, the spittoon, the glass of barley water capped with a postcard for a lid, and the array of bottles, particularly that small one which, she knew, contained the drops Eustace might need at any moment.

“It's best to be on the safe side,” the doctor had told Miss Cherrington in Hilda's hearing. “There's nothing organically wrong with his heart, but it's weak and he's managed to shift it a little.”

The paper-chase did that, thought Hilda, and when she came to see Eustace she couldn't for the life of her help telling him so.

Nurse Hapgood noticed the effect on his spirits which were nearly as low as Hilda's after the interview, and she strongly advised that thereafter brother and sister should for their own sakes be kept apart. This was the less difficult to arrange because since Nurse's advent Hilda had had, for reasons of space, to be boarded out; a room had been found for her above the Post Office and she only came home for meals.

Nurse Hapgood's departure meant Hilda's return; that was why he felt so light-hearted this sunny morning. He knew it was sunny because the strip of light on the ceiling was brilliant, nearly orange-coloured, and it was almost over the door, which meant that he had had a good night, another cause for self-congratulation. The strip of sunlight acted as his clock during the early hours. It also provided him with an absorbing game, which consisted in checking his estimate of the time by the silver watch (a loan from his father, much treasured) under his pillow. It added to the excitement of the game if he could perform this manœuvre without coughing. On waking, the slightest movement started him off, and of course roused Nurse into the bargain. “A quarter-past seven,” he said to himself, then cautiously felt for the watch. Good guess, it was five minutes past; but all the same he had lost half his bet; there came the familiar tickle stirring at the root of his throat and with a convulsive movement he sat up in bed and abandoned himself to the paroxysm.

Nurse Hapgood opened her eyes. “Have we begun spring-cleaning already?” she asked in her cheerful voice.

Eustace could not answer till his throat had gone through all those reflex actions by which it rid itself of pain.

“Yes, but it's quite late, really, Nurse. It's past seven. I was only ten minutes out this morning.”

“What a clever boy! Soon you won't need that watch. I shall take it for another little boy I know.”

Eustace remembered, but with less satisfaction than before, that today she was going.

“I wish you hadn't to go,” he said. “You wouldn't have to if only Daddy would sleep with Aunt Sarah, like I said.”

Nurse Hapgood smiled.

“Brothers and sisters don't sleep together when they get to that age.”

“Oh, why?” said Eustace. “I shall always want to sleep with Hilda, if she'll let me.”

“Oh no, you won't, you'll see.”

“Do you mean I shan't love her so much?”

“I dare say you will, but things are different when you're grown up.”

“You said Hilda wasn't going to sleep with me when she came back.”

“No, you'll have Miss Minney for a night or two. But you're not going to get rid of me, you know; I shall come back now and then to see you're behaving yourself.”

“Oh, I shall always do that,” said Eustace fervently.

“I wonder.... Now I'm going to get up, so you must shut your eyes and think about something pleasant.”

Eustace shut his eyes. “But I've thought of everything I know that's pleasant,” he said, “several times over.”