Eustace and Hilda (88 page)

‘Very well, but are you coming out with me this evening? I've ordered a table at the Ritz.' ‘Oh, Dick, I've told you I can't. I went out with you three times last week. They don't like it. They complained about it at the last Board Meeting.' ‘Well, I can only say the time's getting near when you'll have to choose between me and the clinic.' ‘Oh, don't say that, Dick. You know I can't decide, yet.' ‘Look here, Hilda, I'm tired of being kept on tenterhooks. You don't care how miserable you make me. Do you want me to go down on my knees? You'll have to say yes or no.' ‘I can't, Dick, not without asking Eustace. He's the head of the family, you know.' ‘Eustace!—I know what his answer would be. Now for the last time—are you coming out with me to-night, or aren't you?' ‘Oh, Dick, how can you be so cruel?'

Hilda's bad time did not end there. Eustace delighted in making the bad worse. It went on at the Ritz in scenes that grew stormier with each reconstruction. Bottles of champagne trickled into the glass through Hilda's unwilling fingers; oceans of tears were shed; recriminations, loaded with love, flew across the table beside the mirror. The happiness of two lifetimes hung in the balance. Then, when all hope seemed dead, came the final plea: the appeal to their dear love for Eustace, the yielding, and the reconciliation. When that was reached, Eustace fell asleep.

The attainment of happiness now seemed to Eustace not only possible but certain; and the happiness he imagined for Dick and Hilda he now possessed himself. Indeed, by no other means could he have possessed it, for it only existed for him mirrored in another. But the tinder would light at someone else's taper, and he had only to look at Hilda's letter, which he now carried with him to the exclusion of all others, to feel the glow of bliss stealing over him. Though this high-pressure system from England had no counterpart in the Venetian weather, it changed the climate of his mind, and all at once the happy ending to his story, which had been halted for weeks outside the reach of his sorrowful imaginings, like a train with the signals against it, now steamed slowly towards him, pride in its port and triumph on its brow.

Before, every paragraph that set out confidently in the major ended crestfallen in the minor key. All the projects started by the lord and lady of the manor for the greater glory of Little Athens had come to naught; envious tongues traduced their authors; inertia, stupidity, and ridicule met them everywhere. Their failure made them suspicious of each other, and the flame of love which had enveloped them dwindled to a flicker that must be watched and guarded from extinction. Now the sunshine of happy endeavour had returned, and the manorial family, growing ever larger but never oppressed by the burdensome domesticity that haunted Tolstoy's mind, played under the grey-green foliage of the park, or danced along the village street, while children ran out from every door to swell their numbers; and sometimes, in a tubby old boat with the paint flaking off and squashy sun-blisters on its sides, they would float down the little river, over the bright pebbles, past the trim gardens whose lawns bordered the stream; and the same children with their mothers in afternoon dresses and their fathers in shirt-sleeves smoking pipes, would hurry down to greet them, holding on to the boat, and perhaps throwing a rose or two into it, and so on till the gardens ended, and the cleft between the sand-dunes appeared, which led to the sea, and it was time to come back.

The moon was rising, the children had gone to bed, and there was to be an entertainment in the garden of the Hall: a play, perhaps a Greek play. By now the villagers were quite up to that. One by one they filed through the gap in the hedge that screened the flower-garden, pacing slowly across the Chinese Chippendale bridge; the footlights glowing softly on their downcast faces, on their draperies that clung to them in woe, to enact the tragedy of Antigone, most pitiable of heroines, while the audience, rich and poor alike in evening dress, looked on, some sitting on chairs and benches, some perched on the brown-pink stones of the ruined chapel.... But no, it must be something gay to match his mood, not Antigone,
A Midsummer Night's Dream
, perhaps, with the Lady of the Manor as Titania. ‘I'm much too old for the part,' she had protested gaily. ‘But as you all say I must, and it needs no acting, I will. And Harry has promised to be Bottom, so you'll all have a good laugh.'

So the evening proceeds towards the inevitable refreshments, which even now those of the servants who are not watching the play are laying out on the long table in the Great Hall.

Under these cloudy symbols, Eustace's mind, like a mobile lightning conductor, hurried to and fro trying to tap the energy overhead.

There was a knock at the door, and he looked up from his task. “Avanti!” After some fumbling at the handle the door opened, and Simmonds, Lady Nelly's English maid, came in, carrying a long cardboard box. She was like the negation of a personality, her presence was so self-effacing. “Her ladyship asked me to give you this,” she said, handing him the box with an air so lugubrious she might have been offering him a coffin; “and she told me to say to be sure to be at the Piazza at half-past four.”

“She told me five o'clock,” exclaimed Eustace. “Perhaps she's changed her mind.”

“That's what her ladyship said,” replied the maid, with absolute finality in her tone.

“Please tell her I'll be there,” said Eustace, and the woman melted from the room, hardly seeming to displace the air.

The box had Fortuny's name on it. Eustace untied the string and lifted the lid. What he saw beneath the uncrumpled tissue-paper startled him. Twisted into a tight coil, as if wrung out to dry, lay the blue and silver of Hilda's dress. The heavy pleats, close-ribbed like a ploughed field, looked darker than he remembered. He knew he could never fold the dress again, so he contented himself with letting his fingers run along those grooves and ridges, so tightly drawn that he could feel their pressure. Yet what power for expansion did those pleats imply, what undreamed-of potentialities of movement for Hilda, the new Hilda! What an escape from the prison of her clinical clothes, the blue-black uniform that constricted all her movements! She could dance, she could fly, in this.

So encouraged, so fortified, it did not take Eustace long to ring down the curtain on the last act of
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. Eating was troublesome to describe; its pleasures, when dilated on, were always slightly repellent. Eustace left the actors and their audience streaming across the lawn towards the gilded gateway into the courtyard. The door of the Great Hall stood open; artificial light poured through, contending with the moonlight; within was the gleam of silver dishes, the dull, rich glow of gold foil on the champagne bottles. Let the feasting, which all were to enjoy, be left to our imaginations.

Sweating from heat, exertion, excitement, triumph, Eustace laid down his pen. How unlikely it had seemed, a few days ago, that the story would ever be finished! Of course it was terribly unsophisticated; he would have to go through it with a disenchanted eye and pepper it with ironical comments. But meanwhile he could relax and try to recapture the sensations of Gibbon, freed from his eighteen years' task. Yet could he? It was already four o'clock by the most optimistic of his watches. Lady Nelly would never be there: he might find a moment to rush into the jeweller's which was just under the clock, and get his own watch and Minney's made more time-serving. In this mood he could face the most sour-faced shopkeeper.

With a last admiring look at the completed manuscript, he crammed the watches into his pocket, hastily snatched up two handkerchiefs, made a blind semicircle round the room in desperate search for objects indispensable to the Piazza that he might have forgotten, and ran downstairs. Crossing the salone he saw several men in baize aprons walking about, eyeing the heavy furniture and giving one of the larger pieces a trial lift. Only then did he remember that the regatta, and the ball, were to take place to-morrow.

He was mistaken in thinking Lady Nelly would not be at the trysting-place. Hastening diagonally into the Piazza, reckless of the proverbial ill-luck attending such a manœuvre, he saw her sitting, pale and ample, in her accustomed place at Florian's. Whether she saw him he could not tell, for she never recognised any-one at a distance. Half a dozen tables had been added to hers; she sat alone in the middle of a large clearing, of which she seemed quite unconscious, bordered at a respectful distance by the thick jungle of tea-drinkers whom this brilliant interval in the bad weather had tempted into the open. The sun was slanting now; it threw a long shadow in front of Eustace—but how hot it shone. He stopped for a moment to dry his face and make those little improvements in the set of his clothes without which neither he nor any other man cared to venture into the presence of Lady Nelly. Her waiter saw him, bowed, smiled, and led him up to her. She looked at him thoughtfully before she smiled. The waiter held a chair for him.

“So you got my message,” she said. She spoke slowly and as if unwilling to part with the words. “I wanted to see you before the crowd comes. I haven't seen much of you these last few days.”

“It was the book, you know,” said Eustace guiltily. “But I finished it this afternoon.”

“You finished it?” Wonder dawned in Lady Nelly's misty amethyst eyes and lifted her voice above its usual pitch. “But how marvellous. I've never known anyone finish a book before. Will you dedicate it to me?”

“Of course,” said Eustace fervently. “But it will never be published, you know.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, it's much too romantic, for one thing.”

“I shan't believe it exists unless you let me read it. Will you?”

“Yes—er—I——”

“You're blushing,” said Lady Nelly. “What have you been up to? I don't trust you authors. Have you put me into it?”

“Oh
no
,” said Eustace.

“But it is about real people? You may as well tell me, for I shall be sure to find out.”

“Well, in a way. It's about——” Eustace broke off in confusion.

“Does it end happily?”

“Yes.”

To his mingled disappointment and relief Lady Nelly let the subject drop. Her face became thoughtful again. “Talking of endings, have you seen the paper?”

“No,” said Eustace, surprised.

“I thought you hadn't,” said Lady Nelly, and stirred her tea-cup. “Why,” she said, “how neglectful I am. I haven't given you any tea. And now it's getting cold. Will you have a cup of this while they bring you some more?”

Eustace accepted thirstily. Watching her pour the tea out, he added, “You were going to tell me some news.”

“Oh yes,” said Lady Nelly. “I have the paper here. Some of it, the part that matters. I got Simmonds to cut it out for me.”

She fumbled with the clasp of her bag and pulled out a newspaper cutting She was on the point of handing it to him when she changed her mind.

“Is it good news?” Eustace asked. He knew now that it wasn't.

“Rather disappointing. My nephew Dick is engaged to Monica.”

“Monica?” repeated Eustace stupidly.

“Yes, you remember her, the Sheldon girl. A nice, homespun creature, but I never thought he'd marry her.”

“Nor did I,” muttered Eustace. He looked away from Lady Nelly to the passers-by, and marvelled that they walked to and fro so unconcernedly.

“Perhaps he won't,” said Lady Nelly. She laughed shortly. “I see that he's leaving England almost immediately.”

“Leaving England?” repeated Eustace.

“Yes, for the Middle East, and no letters will be forwarded. It doesn't sound as if he was very fond of her.”

“Perhaps he's not very fond of anyone,” said Eustace.

Lady Nelly was silent for a few moments, then she said, “I expect you are thinking of your sister. So am I.”

Eustace felt her link her thoughts to his.

“But”—gently she disengaged them—“apart from the suffering —and we don't know, do we?—such an experience has its value.”

“I suppose it has,” said Eustace doubtfully.

“Yes, it breaks the crust—you know what I mean—and lets the song pour out. I've never regretted any experience that I've had. But I've regretted a good many that I've missed.”

Lady Nelly had never spoken so intimately to Eustace before. He had imagined that her privileged position made her somehow superior to experience, untouchable. Remembering the years with her dipsomaniac husband, he suddenly felt ashamed and looked at her with a new attention and respect. Moreover, she didn't think of him simply as a kind of plaything, as he had always believed she must, but as someone to confide in.

“Your sister will still wear her dress, I hope,” Lady Nelly went on, “and enjoy it as much and more than if—than if, well, let's be frank—she had never met my nephew. She may not think so now, for truths, however undeniable, don't soothe sore hearts. But she will.”

“You think so?” said Eustace, won to hopefulness, despite himself.

“I'm sure. I admired your sister. I thought she had a very fine nature—but it was a dark room, wasn't it, when you weren't there, and will be brighter with the daylight let in, even if the windows are broken. Not that I'm defending Dick. He's been very naughty, and I'm not at all pleased with him.”

Eustace wondered how she knew that Dick had been naughty.

“But I'm not sure he was the right man for your sister. He appealed to her sense of danger, didn't he? But he's destructive really, an enemy of happiness, anyway where women are concerned. I shouldn't want to be in Monica's shoes. He was your friend originally, wasn't he? He's very unlike you. Did you like him?”

“I had a kind of hero-worship for him as a boy,” said Eustace.

“Freddie always said he was a natural gaol-bird and would end on the gallows. All right for a gallop, but no good as a stable companion.”