Eustace and Hilda (26 page)

Eustace considered this. “And Hilda——” he began. There was a pause, and no one spoke. Eustace looked at Hilda. Her cheeks were still damp with the tears she had shed a little while ago. Surely they ought to be dry now. Once or twice she looked round with an uneasy movement of her head, but her eyes, he could see, did not meet the eight pairs of eyes that looked down at her. She began to scrape the sand off her shoes with the edge of her spade.

“Miss Cherrington's face is her fortune,” said Dick Staveley, and Eustace thought he had never heard such a beautiful compliment. “She'll find something to do while Eustace is away. We'll find something for her to do, won't we, Anne?” he said, turning to the lady on his right. “I want you to meet Miss Cherrington. I've told you about her.” Very gently he took hold of Anne's bridle-rein and they moved a step or two nearer to Hilda. “This is my sister Anne, and this is Miss Cherrington, whom everyone else calls Hilda. Two such charming girls. I'm sure you'll like each other.” He smiled with his eyes, and his sister bent her head and smiled too.

“Good old Hilda!” cried Nancy tolerantly.

“Well, not too good, I hope,” said Dick. “But, you see, she's always had to look after Eustace. He's such a handful!” Dick Staveley smiled at Eustace, the smile of one man to another; his horse, with the white star on its forehead, tossed its head and had to be admonished by its rider. Infected by its restiveness the others, too, began to squirm and fidget and eye each other inquiringly, and it was some moments before order was restored.

Leaning on her spade, Hilda looked up unwillingly at Dick, and their eyes met for the first time.

“I shall have to look after Eustace when he comes back for the holidays,” she said. “I dare say he'll need me more than ever.” She glanced at Eustace doubtfully. “School may not be altogether good for him,” she added, almost hopefully.

“I don't suppose it will be,” said Dick lightly. “You couldn't expect that, could you, Anne?”

“I don't think it's doing you very much good,” said his sister.

“Well, perhaps I was hopeless from the start. But it's never too late to mend, is it, Hilda?” he said. “Now that you've made such a good job of Eustace, you must come and try your hand on me. Don't you think so, Anne?”

Anne gave Hilda a considering look.

“We should love to see you, of course,” she said. “But you needn't pay any attention to him, he likes to tease.”

“But I want her to pay attention to me,” cried Dick, appealing to the company in general. “
You
never did, Anne, you neglected me shamefully. You weren't a true sister to me. You're eighteen now, and what have you ever done for me? And Hilda's only—only how old?”

“She's nearly fourteen,” said Eustace, as Hilda did not speak.

“Nearly fourteen, that's only thirteen, and yet, thanks to the way she trained Eustace, he's now a rich man with thousands of pounds in the bank.”

“Fifty-eight thousand,” said Gerald Steptoe solemnly. “Daddy told me.”

“But I didn't do it,” said Hilda. “It wasn't my fault. I just told Eustace he must speak to Miss Fothergill, and not mind her being old and ugly. That was all I did.”

“But it was quite enough,” Dick Staveley said. “Anne and I often used to pass Miss Fothergill when we were riding on the cliffs. And Anne could see that she was old and ugly just as well as Hilda could. But she never said, ‘Now, Dick, just get off a minute and be polite to poor Miss Fothergill.'”

“You wouldn't, if I had,” said his sister.

“How do you know? I might, and then perhaps she would have left her money to me. It all came from having Hilda as a sister. Did Nancy ever tell you to speak to Miss Fothergill, Gerald?”

“Good Lord, no. We used to run a mile when we saw her.”

“There you are, you see. You sisters simply don't know your job. There was sixty-eight thousand pounds for the asking and neither of you would take the trouble to say, ‘Dick—or Gerald—I can spare you for a moment from my side, in fact I'm longing to see the back of you—just run over and talk to that ugly old lady. I know she's half paralysed, and whistles when she speaks, and her hands aren't very nice to look at, being rather like a lion's, but you'll find it well worth while.'”

They all laughed, and the gay, happy sound was caught by the wind that played in their bright hair.

“But Hilda knows what's good for a chap, and that's why Eustace is going to spend the rest of his life in comfort, not sweating in banks, or offices, or chambers, but just lying about on deck-chairs and ringing the bell when he wants anything.”

“Just like Miss Fothergill,” said Nancy. “We often saw Eustace going to Laburnum Lodge and Daddy laid a bet with Mother that she would leave him something. ‘Depend upon it, he doesn't go there for nothing,' Daddy used to say. ‘That boy's got his head screwed on.'”

“She always did give me tea,” said Eustace, “but I never asked for it. I just happened to be there at the time.”

Nancy laughed.

“We aren't blaming you, Eustace. Now, tell me one thing: is it true she was really a witch?”

“A witch?”

“Well, everybody said so. They said she had a broomstick and flew out on it at night. I expect she kept it in the umbrella-stand in the hall.”

“I never saw it, Nancy,” said Eustace seriously.

“But she had a stick, hadn't she?”

“Yes, but for walking with.”

“Would you know a broomstick if you saw one?”

“I'm not sure that I should.”

“Well, I bet you she had one. And everyone said that she cast spells.”

“I don't think she did.”

“Well, didn't she cast one on you? Wasn't that partly why you were always going there?”

Eustace tried to see his friendship with Miss Fothergill in terms of a spell. It would explain a great deal, of course. But surely witches were wicked? Miss Fothergill represented the good; and in all his dealings with her he had had one aim, to increase the volume of good surrounding Eustace Cherrington and radiating from him over the whole world. It had been quite pleasant, of course, but then good things could be pleasant, once you had got over your initial distaste for them. They made you feel good, and a witch could never do that.

“Witches have familiars, you know,” Nancy went on. “Do you know what a familiar is?”

Eustace shook his head.

“They're little boys generally, quite nice little boys to begin with. That's why the witch likes them. She has to look about very carefully to find the right kind: she might find one on the cliffs, of course. You see, most boys are so selfish, like Gerald: they wouldn't be any good to a witch, because she couldn't make them do what she wanted them to do.”

“What would she want them to do?”

“Oh, fetch and carry, you know, and run about after her, and pick up her purse, and read aloud to her, and play cards with her, and forfeits, and give her kisses.”

“How did you know that?” cried Eustace, scarlet.

“A little bird told me. And all the time he thinks he is being very kind, but it's really the witch who is putting a spell on him. And then in the end, you see, she gets possession of his soul, and it becomes as thin as paper and she slips it under her pillow every night when she goes to bed. But of course he doesn't know anything about that. He imagines he still has his soul and it's the same size as usual. And then she dies and leaves him a fortune to show that she has paid for his soul and it really is hers. He never gets it back, poor little boy!”

Eustace stared at her fascinated. The wind had put a delicate flush upon her milky skin; a mischievous gleam was in her eyes; to the onset of the wind and the restless movements of the horse her slight figure yielded itself in a hundred attitudes of grace. Into Eustace's heart stole a sensation of exquisite sweetness; he remembered when he had last felt it—at the dancing class, on the afternoon when she rejected all his rivals and danced with him and for him. She had spoken of a spell—well, wasn't this one?

“I believe
you're
a witch,” he said with a boldness that surprised him.

“I may be,” said Nancy, appearing to welcome this vile charge, “but if I am it doesn't mean that I want to have anything to do with a familiar who has belonged to another witch. He would be secondhand, you see.”

She turned away pensively and looked across the head of her brother's horse at Dick.

“Don't listen to her, Eustace,” Dick said. “She's been reading something in a book, you know, and she doesn't quite understand it—all that about familiars and souls, I mean. I'm sure your soul is as good as hers any day—I don't think she has one. Now Hilda”—his voice changed—“
she
has a soul, of course.”

Eustace, still with his eyes on Nancy's face, saw it harden slightly. “What a pity there isn't a Mr. Fothergill, eh, Eustace?” Dick went on, speaking to Eustace but looking at Hilda. “Do you think if I got into a bath-chair, and made Gerald here push it along the cliffs, you could order Hilda to come and talk to me and have tea with me and—and all the rest of it? Do you think you could?”

“Well,” said Eustace, “perhaps if you were really ill.... But I don't think you ever would be.”

“No, I'm afraid not; too healthy. All the same I shall try it. One day you'll be out walking and you'll notice something crawling along in the distance and when you come up to it this is what you'll see”—and leaning forward on the horse he clenched his hands and curved his shoulders, as though his body had contracted to meet a sudden pain, and dropping his right eye and twisting up the corner of his mouth, he managed to force his face into a hideous resemblance to Miss Fothergill's.

Even Eustace laughed.

“You'd be like the wolf in Little Red Riding Hood,” he exclaimed.

“Yes, and Eustace would have to come and kill me. But he wouldn't, he'd be too lazy by that time. He'd just ring for another sherry and bitters and say, ‘Poor Hilda, I always knew she'd get into trouble!'”

“I shouldn't,” said Eustace indignantly. “I should——” He stopped and looked helplessly at the towering horses, and at Dick who reminded him of the picture of a centaur.

“There, I knew it,” Dick Staveley cried triumphantly, “he wouldn't do anything. He would allow his sister to be eaten and not bother to avenge her. That's what comes of having money. All the same, it's very nice to have it.” He looked at his watch. “By Jove, it's half-past twelve. We must be getting along. Do we separate here, Nancy?”

“I think we've just time to go back by Old Anchorstone with you,” said Nancy.

Dick caught his sister's eye.

“Excellent, as long as it doesn't make you late. But before we go let's give them both three cheers.” His face turned serious, his voice resonant with command. “Three cheers for Hilda and Eustace, coupled with the name of Miss Janet Fothergill. Now all together. Hip-hip-hooray!”

“Hip-hip-hooray!”

“Hip-hip-hooray!”

Three times the sound rose and fell. Thin and light, it soon mingled with the greedy cries of the seagulls or was snatched out of earshot by the wind; but its quality was unique and unmistakable. Eustace had never heard cheering before but at once he recognised what it meant and his heart expanded and glowed. Four people all wishing him well, all cheering him to the skies!

It was a glorious moment. Noticing that Dick and Gerald had taken their caps off, he took off his hat too, and waved it with a proud and gallant air. Startled, the horses sidled and pranced, and seemed to bow to each other; they made a ripple of movement, upwards, downwards, sideways, and their riders moved sometimes in time with their rhythm, sometimes against it, as though they too had the freedom of the wind and sky. Laughing and self-conscious and a little sheepish, they turned to each other, and then, still with the same half-apologetic look, to Eustace and Hilda. “Good-bye, good-bye, good luck!” their voices sang.

There was a convulsive stir among the horses; a swinging of heads, a dipping of hindquarters; in a moment sand flew up from thudding hoofs, and they were off. Still waving his hat, Eustace watched them out of sight.

“H
E SAID
it was half-past twelve,” said Hilda. “We shan't have time to finish the pond now.”

“Yes, I mean no,” said Eustace.

“You don't know what you mean.”

Eustace gazed about him. In the foreground was a great untidy patch of sand, churned up by the horses' hoofs; it looked like a battlefield and gave him a curious thrill of pleasure. He drew a long breath and sighed and looked again. On his left was the sea, purposefully coming in; already its advance ripples were within a few yards of where they stood. Ahead lay long lines of breakers, sometimes four or five deep, riding in each other's tracks towards the shore. On his right was the cliff, rust-red below, with the white band of chalk above and, just visible, the crazy line of hedgerow clinging to its edge. Eustace turned round to look at the two promenades, stretching away with their burden of shops, swingboats, and shabby buildings dedicated vaguely to amusement; next came the pier striding out into the sea, and beyond it the smoke-stained sky above the railway station.

Yes, they were all there. But a fortnight ago, half an hour ago, they had not been. Eustace felt he was seeing them after a lifetime's separation. Experimentally, as it were, he drew another long breath. How gratefully, how comfortingly, his body responded! He knew it and it knew him; they were old, old friends and the partnership was not going to be broken.

“I feel so happy, Hilda,” he said. “I don't think I ever felt so happy in all my life.”

“Why?” said Hilda. She had gone back to her rock and was sitting with her face half turned away from him. “Is it because you've been given all that money?”