Eustace and Hilda (45 page)

She had not wanted him to lose his initiative: she had said so the last time they were together; she had fought with her approaching death, perhaps hastened it, in order to tell him. She was a wise as well as a kind woman; and if only he could have profited by her counsel as he had by her money!

Had it been for Hilda's good that he had always (except in the disastrous matter of the paper-chase) given way to her? In his mood of melancholy and self-reproach, Eustace didn't think it had. Centred in him, she had neglected other human beings. She had exercised her will, she had over-exercised it, and in doing so had impoverished herself. She had renounced, almost without knowing she had renounced them, all the prerogatives, the master-keys to the treasuries of life, which her beauty had put into her hand. Her beauty bloomed, not like a flower on a dunghill, but more sadly, it seemed to Eustace, like a tulip in a hospital ward, seen only by the tired indifferent eyes of the sick and the dying, which the night-nurse takes out in the evening, and which, after a little service, the day-nurse throws on the ashpan.

Still, she had found compensation in the clinic; she had made a place and a name for herself in the world. Her energies were unbounded, she could not slake them merely by acting as Eustace's director, she had to go farther afield. The clinic was an extension of Eustace. Owing to his long absences from home she had perforce relaxed her hold on him; she had not lost it, or he would not still be enjoying the income from his scholarship. His improved position with the College authorities, his new-found interest in his work, the prospect he was said to enjoy of doing well in schools —he owed them all to her. How potent she was, both in the practical and the moral sphere. But to Eustace in his present mood these signs of progress were like advances in scientific inventions: they only affected the machinery of life, they did not go to the heart of the matter. They ministered to the emotions of pride and self-esteem and self-respect. They won the approval of conscience, which was so liable to be pleased if one achieved something, and not always particular what it was. Self-satisfaction kept one going, and could keep one going even when the springs of life were drying up. How cocky most men were after they had mended a motor-car. But it was, thought Eustace, a sterile, self-regarding happiness, demanding admiration, incapable of being shared. Whereas in Barbara's noisy frolicsome approach to the married state were discernible, not perhaps in their most elegant form, some of the impulses, transcending self, and uncontaminated by the conscious will, which together moved the earth and the other stars.

At her wedding how the dusty human scene had freshened up and blossomed, like a suburban garden after rain! Even Hilda had felt the genial excitement; perhaps she had felt it more than anyone. When she was bombarding the happy pair with confetti, did she remember the clinic and its cares? Did she even remember Eustace and his career?

With his hand on the dining-room door, he paused to compose his features for the rebuke, explicit or implied, with which Aunt Sarah would receive his unpunctuality at the breakfast-table.

It was after nine, and breakfast was supposed to be at half-past eight. Resolutely smiling, he entered, but there was no one there; a few crumbs testified to the fact that Aunt Sarah had come and gone. The rebuke was postponed. How absurd that he should mind it just as if he were a little boy! He must adopt a more adult attitude towards Aunt Sarah; it wasn't really fair to her that he should continue to be frightened of her. He must be more forthcoming, take her into his confidence, draw her out. He had got it into his head that she was not really interested in his doings, and for that reason he seldom spoke of them; but how could she be, if he always kept them to himself?

Meanwhile there were two letters by his plate, one from Stephen, one in a handwriting he did not know. He scrutinised them. Of late, with time hanging heavy on his hands, he had resorted to various devices to make the day pass more quickly. One was to put off reading his letters as long as he could. Dangled carrot-wise before him they filled the future with promise. Every hour that passed with them unread gave him a sense of virtue and increasing will-power. Sometimes he managed to go through the morning without indulging his curiosity. Usually he kept till last the letters he most looked forward to; bills he opened at once.

This other letter was not a bill, though the envelope was addressed in a handwriting so lacking in reserve or affectations of prettiness that it might almost be called commercial. Hilda's handwriting was a little like that, straightforward and unselfconscious, but this letter was certainly not from her. He slipped it into his pocket, and after a momentary struggle with his dæmon, opened Stephen's.

Eustace smiled. The outbreak had really been a very small one. Nothing in the J.C.R.—time-honoured victim of the Lauderdale's after-dinner frenzy—had been seriously damaged: even the umbrella-stand, against which their rage was traditionally severe, suffered no worse affront than that of being carried into the lavatory. Eustace had acquired merit, as well as demonstrated his sobriety, by helping the Junior Dean to put it back in its proper place.

He read on:

Eustace let his tea grow cold while he pondered over this letter. Hilda's overture to Stephen was news to him. That she had not told him of it was nothing to wonder at. Hilda rarely wrote letters, she was too busy. But the fact of her having removed her business affairs from the nerveless hands of Ruston and Liebig, their joint solicitors, was rather curious. Now he would have to follow suit and it would involve some unpleasantness. Miss Cherrington's entrance cut short his meditation.

“Good morning, Aunt Sarah,” he said brightly.

A very slight modification in Miss Cherrington's expression acknowledged his greeting.

“Oh, you are here,” she said. “It was a better morning an hour ago.” She went over the table to pick up the plate on which Eustace had had his eggs and bacon, and looked round for something else to clear away. Flustered by her waiting eye, Eustace began to bolt his toast and marmalade.

“I've just had a letter from Stephen,” he announced, as chattily as hurried mastication would allow.

“I don't think I quite remember who Stephen is,” said Miss Cherrington, pouncing on the toast-rack. “Ought I to know?”

“Stephen Hilliard, I mean. He lunched with us the day Hilda came up to Oxford.”

“I can't keep pace with all the meals you have, you seem to have so many,” said Miss Cherrington. She opened a drawer in the sideboard and took out a crumb-brush and a tray. “And you have a good many friends too. But I think I do remember his name. Didn't Hilda say he was well dressed and a little affected?”

Eustace could not help flinching at this unflattering description of his friend, but he kept to his resolution to be more communicative with his aunt.

“Well, you could describe him like that. But there's more in him really. He's—he's going to be a solicitor quite soon.” Hoping Miss Cherrington would be impressed, he paused.

“Doesn't that take rather a long time?” asked Miss Cherrington, her eye wandering from the clock to the calendar.

“Oh, not in his case,” said Eustace eagerly. “You see, special arrangements are being made for ex-servicemen, and men with university degrees. Besides,” Eustace added vaguely, “he's going into his father's firm.”

“He's very fortunate, then,” said Miss Cherrington, “in having a position ready for him. Have you finished with your teaspoon, Eustace?”

Eustace gave his cup a hasty stir and handed the teaspoon to her. “Here it is, Aunt Sarah,” he said, trying to sound as though he was giving her a present. “Yes, he is lucky. But what I was going to tell you was, Hilda has taken her business affairs away from Ruston and Liebig, and given them to Stephen—or rather to his firm.”

“Really,” said Miss Cherrington. “Thank you, Eustace, I'll take the tea-cosy. That
is
very unexpected. I wonder if it's wise?”

“Oh, I think it must be,” cried Eustace enthusiastically. “Ruston and Liebig are such stick-in-the-muds. I'm not sure if they even exist. Besides, he's a German.”

“They must exist, Eustace,” said Miss Cherrington, reasonably. “What makes you think they don't? Your father always found them quite satisfactory.” She coloured slightly and broke off. “Hilda must have great confidence in this Mr. Hilliard. She is rather impulsive sometimes—I wonder how much she knows about him?”

“Only what I've told her, I suppose,” said Eustace, “and what she gathered from meeting him at lunch.”

“I suppose so,” said Miss Cherrington, her tone somehow implying that any information Eustace might give would not weigh much with her. “Quite sure you don't want any more tea, Eustace?”

“Quite sure, Aunt Sarah,” said Eustace virtuously.

“I think I'll just wash these things up myself. Annie will be doing your bedroom now. I want to save her all I can. She isn't very strong. If you could just open the door for me, Eustace.”

Eustace sprang to his feet and knocked over his chair in doing so. One of the slender ribs in its false Chippendale back was seen to be fractured by the fall.

“Oh, dear,” cried Eustace. “I
am
sorry.”

Miss Cherrington paused, tray in hand, and looked over the edge of it.

“Never mind,” she said. “It might easily have been worse. When I go out I'll get some Seccotine. I think our tube is nearly finished. With a little scheming I shall find time to mend the break. We'll let the chair rest for a day or two, and you must be careful how you lean back in it.”

Shutting the door after her, Eustace sighed. He raised the fallen chair and sat down gingerly on another, conscientiously refraining from leaning back. Then, annoyed with himself for this illogical and poor-spirited behaviour, he suddenly threw all his weight against the chair-back. It creaked warningly, and he started and sat bolt upright. Nothing seemed safe. He sighed again. What uphill work it was. He looked round the room to see if any of his cherished knick-knacks would launch a ray of sympathy. The bronze Kelim dog on the chimney-piece gnashed its teeth at him. In certain lights it seemed to be laughing but not in this one. ‘Why does it always look as if it wanted dusting?' he thought irritably and stroked it with his finger, but there was no dust, only that sullen, lustreless surface, deliberately tarnished, it seemed, as though to testify to the Chinese hatred of the shiny. He sat down again and wondered whether he should do his work here, where Annie would presently want to lay the table, or in the drawing-room which would take some time to warm up, and anyhow, Aunt Sarah, studying economy, did not like the gas-fire lit until tea-time. He was trying to decide whether interruption was preferable to cold, when Miss Cherrington reappeared. She opened and shut one or two drawers, and then said:

“How old did you tell me this Mr. Hilliard was?”

Eustace was surprised. He couldn't remember having told his aunt how old Stephen was, but he welcomed her interest in the subject.

“Nearly a year older than I am.”