Eustace and Hilda (42 page)

Six years younger than he when they entered the church, he felt she was now as old as he was, and would be older by the time they reached the altar steps. This advance in experience seemed a reproach to him; yet paradoxically, as they stood together on the left of the lectern, he had the fancy that the bridegroom's friends must see him as a bent, hoary bachelor, whom the sweets of marriage had passed by. But that was nonsense; even if four years had slipped out of his life, he was only twenty-four, and his coat was cut by one of the best tailors in Oxford. On Jimmy's coat, he could see, the braid was much too wide, while the best man was wearing a lounge suit. Jimmy looked pale and ill-at-ease, and at the sight Eustace's confidence began to mount. If his appearance was not out of tune with the proceedings, neither perhaps was he. He began to feel an aptitude for weddings descend on him, strengthening him. He even looked back to where Jimmy's adherents, though more stationary now, were still giving off their pre-matrimonial fume. As it billowed towards him, his glance caught a bright eye under a bold hat. ‘It's your turn next,' the eye seemed to say, and for a moment he believed it.

But afterwards, in the Tivoli Café, at the wedding breakfast, the necessity for adjustment became more pressing and precise than anything implied by a distant interchange of glances with a sparkling eye. For there were so many sparkling eyes, such areas of black satin, bulging unfashionably, and of gayer colours, on figures tubular or flat; such an agitation of arms, plump or slender, such a harvest of cheeks, pink and red under the electric light, such a confusion of loud, confident voices, which were not easily stilled when Eustace rose to propose the health of the bride and bridegroom.

“I should stand on a chair, if I were you,” said a stout, glossy, highly coloured lady who had noticed his ineffectual efforts to make himself the centre of attention. “They'll all see you then.”

Eustace longed to be unseen and even more to be unheard, but in the latter design he was foiled, for someone on the edge of the throng, with a glass of champagne ready in his hand, called out good-naturedly, “Speak up, we can't hear you.”

“It's the Oxford accent,” a voice nearer to Eustace muttered, and there was a smothered laugh. But when he got under way they gave him a good hearing, and took his one joke very well. Indeed, he was quite sorry to leave his perch and return to the arena, where the stout lady like a lioness roared her congratulations.

“You did that very well,” she said. “You ought to be President of the Union.”

Eustace got her another glass of champagne, and was surprised to find himself lingering not unwillingly in her padded conversational embrace, instead of moving on to his own party, who were standing about in ones and twos, without seeming to make much fun for themselves or mixing with the others.

“And who pays for all this?” she said. “I suppose you do. A bit stiff, isn't it?”

Eustace said it would be if it became a habit; but after all, one's sister only got married once, at least he hoped so.

“But you have another,” the strange lady exclaimed. “Such a beautiful girl. Barbara's nice-looking, of course; but the other's a real beauty. Hasn't anyone wanted to marry her?”

Eustace felt he ought to resent this question on Hilda's behalf, but it surprised him; somehow he had never thought seriously of Hilda in connection with marriage.

“Oh, Hilda,” he said vaguely. “I don't know what her plans are.”

“Well, I know what some men's plans will be,” retorted the lady, “unless she lives in a convent.”

“In a way she does,” said Eustace; “in a clinic for crippled children, a place called Highcross Hill.”

“Of course, I've read about it,” said the lady, “and what a wonderful work she's doing there. But, you know, Cupid will creep in anywhere. If she's fond of children she'll be wanting one for herself.”

Eustace would have liked to explain that Hilda wasn't exactly fond of children, in that way; she was sorry for them, and wanted to help them. But he didn't feel he could analyse her character to this stranger, whose mind was fluttering to the beat of Cupid's wings. So making the excuse that he must speak to the bridegroom's mother, he drifted away.

The elder Mrs. Crankshaw was tall and dark, and had something of Jimmy's gauntness of feature; she was vaguely Spanish-looking, which pleased Eustace, who liked foreigners.

“How kind you have been,” she said. “Jimmy's dressing-case, Barbara's bracelet, and that marvellous cheque! Really you shouldn't have done it. Unless you are made of money,” she added, narrowing her eyes as if to see him better.

Eustace blushed as though he had been caught boasting of his riches. Stephen Hilliard, whom he had consulted, had been dismayed at the sum he proposed to give Barbara, and advised him to cut it down by half.

“If you give so much you'll create a false impression,” he said.

“But who should I create a false impression on?” Eustace had demanded. “Only Barbara and Jimmy need know, and the people immediately concerned.”

“On yourself chiefly,” Stephen had answered. “Five hundred pounds would be out of proportion to—well, I mean it would be out of proportion. It wouldn't correspond. It would mean something different from what you mean.”

“What do I mean?” Eustace had asked uncomfortably.

“You mean to be generous,” said Stephen; “but generosity isn't measured that way. People are only capable of assimilating a certain amount of generosity—the rest is wasted, worse than wasted; it will make them think you live in a fool's paradise.”

“But that won't matter, if I don't,” said Eustace, hurt.

“There are several kinds of paradise,” said Stephen, oracularly, “none of them suitable to earth-dwellers. Do be advised, Eustace. If you don't think I'm right, ask Miss Hilda. She would say at once, ‘Two hundred and fifty is quite enough for Barbara. You mustn't make the Crankshafts think you're a millionaire, and you mustn't think so yourself.' I should never dare to say that to you, but she would, unhesitatingly.”

“I don't think I agree with you,” said Eustace. “I think I have quite as much sense of money as she has.”

“How can you say that,” asked Stephen, “after she rescued for you the hundred a year the College was trying to filch from you? In matters of finance, as in all matters, her opinion is absolutely sound.”

Fragments of this conversation flashed through Eustace's mind as he confronted Mrs. Crankshaw's inquiring eye, and he wondered what she would have thought had the cheque been as large as he originally intended. He felt embarrassed, and wondered if it was something in him that made people talk to him so openly about subjects which were usually treated with reserve, or whether it was a convention among the Crankshaws and their circle.

“Oh, I'm not at all rich,” he said; “don't imagine that. But we all want to make the wedding a success, don't we? I think it is a success, don't you?”

“A great success,” said Mrs. Crankshaw decidedly. “I've always said, there's nothing like marrying while you're young. Now you must look round and see if there's anyone you fancy.”

Involuntarily Eustace gazed about him at the munching, swilling throng. Barbara and Jimmy were the centre of an everchang-ing but never depleted nucleus; he could see the smiles and brightened eyes and heightened manner of those who came to offer congratulations, and the delighted responsiveness, somewhat sheepish on his part, altogether radiant on hers, of the bride and bridegroom.

Eustace's heart went out to them all: this was what life should be, a symposium of well-wishers, positively, consciously, contagiously happy.

“I see too many,” he said, answering Mrs. Crankshaw's implied question. “You would have to pick one out for me.”

“Nothing easier,” said Mrs. Crankshaw, with a promptness that took Eustace aback. “Here's my niece, Mabel Cardew, a charming girl, I don't think you've met her.”

Eustace didn't take to Miss Cardew, who was inclined to wince and wriggle, but they exchanged almost passionate civilities.

“You see how easy it is,” said Mrs. Crankshaw, when her niece had sidled and chasséd away. “Now you must pick someone for Hilda, but I don't believe there's anyone good-looking enough for her. Ah, there she is.”

Following Mrs. Crankshaw's quicker eye, Eustace espied Hilda. She was standing apart, talking to a rather dumpy, round-about lady with a square, strong face, whom Eustace presently recognised as Barbara's late headmistress. The pair seemed to be outside the circle of enchantment, and to judge from their faces, to be discussing something alien to the spirit of a wedding feast.

“Men might be a little afraid of her,” said Mrs. Crankshaw; “she makes these boys look like babies. Not that she's old.”

Eustace had a sudden vision of the sleek brown heads around him toddling on childish bodies and being lifted into prams.

“This marriage business is full of silliness and nonsense, isn't it?” Mrs. Crankshaw went on, irrelevantly. “But it gets somewhere, and there is no other way of getting there.”

Once again Eustace was aware of the press of wine-warmed bodies around him, seductive, comfortable, if only kill-joy censors were silenced. Outside on the periphery, the mind and the will preserved their powers intact, and beauty shone like a vase of alabaster, untouched, not needing for its perfection any intoxication in the beholder's eye or mind.

“What do you think?” said Mrs. Crankshaw. “Could we rope her in?”

Eustace held his lasso poised; the great noose slid through the air; in a moment his sister and the headmistress, clutching at each other, were dragged across the wooden floor into the heart of the rodeo.

“Shall I go across and try?” he said, and Mrs. Crankshaw smiled assent.

They each refused a glass of champagne.

“We were saying,” said Hilda, “how mistaken the Government's education policy is. It ought to spend more on providing university scholarships for promising girls. I don't mean girls like Barbara, of course, whose one idea, the moment they leave school, is to get married.” She looked round. “Where is she, by the way?”

Eustace could not see her either.

“I think they must have gone to change,” he said.

“To change?” echoed Hilda; “why should they do that?”

“Well, they can't travel in those clothes,” said Eustace, smiling at the headmistress, whose clothes were quite suitable for travelling in. “You couldn't even in yours, could you, Hilda?”

“You're right,” said Hilda; “these bridesmaid's dresses are most unserviceable. You won't catch me wearing one again in a hurry. I like the violets, though.”

She bent down and raised the big dewy bunch to her face, and they seemed to become part of it.

“Don't you like weddings?” said the headmistress.

“I loathe them,” said Hilda. “I don't see the necessity for them —for all the fuss, I mean.”

“Perhaps you'll feel differently about your own,” said the headmistress; “don't you think she may, Mr. Cherrington?”

Eustace couldn't think of a reply. Addressing the headmistress rather than Hilda, he said: “Won't you come across and help me with the Crankshavians? They're really very nice, but I feel shy of tackling them without support.”

“Nonsense,” said Hilda; “we saw him chattering away like anything, didn't we, Miss Farrell? He loves the social round.”

“I think it would be an excellent idea,” replied the headmistress, giving a pat to her dress and a wrench to her hat. “Otherwise they'll think us unsociable, standing here enjoying each other's society like Beauty and the Beast.” She smiled up at Hilda as she spoke.

With no very clear idea of what would happen, Eustace convoyed them into the thickest of the press. To his embarrassment the crowd fell apart before them as though he was in charge of two dangerous wild animals; awe and admiration were registered, but no obvious wish to make contact with the newcomers.

Eustace had the feeling that they were making a cavalry charge, and would come out the other side victorious, unchallenged and untouched, the last thing he wanted. But a tall blond youth with a self-confident expression seemed inclined to stand his ground. Luckily Eustace remembered his name; introductions were effected; and the young man, to Eustace's great surprise, seemed well supplied with information both as to Miss Farrell's school and Hilda's clinic. He was a little patronising and facetious about those institutions, and once or twice joined issue with the ladies on points which they could not help knowing more about than he, but he held his own, that was the main thing, and the encounter was by no means a failure. Having staged it, and trusting to Miss Farrell's tact and experience to carry it through, Eustace, like Julius Cæsar, withdrew to another part of the field.

Here, flanked by the sandwiches and the pastry and the three hired waiters deftly pouring out of jugs and bottles and teapots, he was engaged by a dark, round-faced girl who questioned him vivaciously about his life in Oxford. Her interest was flattering, the questions were easy to answer. With the disengaged half of his attention, Eustace watched how Hilda was faring. Another man had joined the group round her; they were all talking with animation, no one seemed to be left out. He noticed how one or two more stragglers paused as though wondering whether to risk it, and gravitated towards her. The sight gave him a sense of inner harmony and self-congratulation; he felt he had helped to complete something. But before he had time to analyse his feelings further, a rush of cold air caught his back and he turned to see Barbara and Jimmy coming through the door. They looked different people in their going-away clothes, and their changed appearance changed the atmosphere of the gathering. The initiation over, they were no longer glorified by the nimbus of the wedding spirit, they were ordinary human beings with a train to catch. Less than ordinary, indeed, for with their glory they had shed their dignity; and hardly had they made their farewells when the wedding guests, who till lately had been gaping at them with real or pretended admiration, suddenly rounded on them with shrieks of tribal laughter, and set about making their exit as summary and ignominious as possible.