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Authors: L.P. Hartley

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Eustace's steps came slower—the reaction, he supposed, from having felt so much better directly after the deplorable incident in the Bacino. Basin, well named. He smiled wryly to think how nearly he had disgraced himself under the very noses of all the grandes-dames, the Lady Nellys of the architectural world. Still, the thing would have been worse had it happened under Lady Nelly's own nose, as it easily might have done, as it probably would do. But perhaps she wouldn't mind, for of all lapses, those of the body, Eustace thought, were the easiest to forgive.

Turning from the narrow calle into the main S. Polo artery, he found himself in a crowd of workmen hurrying to their daily jobs. Their faces showed signs of wear, but were not exhausted like those of his friends in the boat. One of them stooped down and picked up something which he showed to Eustace. It was a fragment of twisted metal, and seemed to amuse the man very much, for he thrust it into Eustace's hands and laughed and hastened on. Eustace did not know what the relic was, but true to his hoarding instinct did not like to throw it away, and was still dutifully carrying it when he reached the doorway of the Sfortunato.

On the threshold he nearly collided with Silvestro, who was torpedoing outwards with an oar over his shoulder.

“Ben tornato, signorino!” the gondolier exclaimed. He stopped and peered into Eustace's face, his own meanwhile taking on an expression of the utmost concern. “Ma come è pallido!” he continued. “E ammalato?”

This was obviously one of the days when Eustace could not understand a word of Italian. Silvestro repeated the question still more urgently, and when Eustace did not answer Erminio put his head over the parapet and said:

“He asks if you are heel.”

“Oh no, not ill,” said Eustace, “just a little tired, that's all. Stanco.”

But Silvestro would not accept this understatement.

“Stanco niente,” he said, subjecting Eustace's face to a still more searching scrutiny. “E grigio, verde.”

“He says you are grey-green,” said Erminio inexorably from the parapet.

Between the two fires Eustace began to feel exceedingly unwell.

“Ha fatto male di prendere quel bagno,” declared Silvestro. “E perisoloso. Ogni anno ci sono molte vittime—ma moltissime, ce ne sono.”

Eustace was now too worried about his health even to try to understand what Silvestro said. But Erminio was not going to let him off.

“He says you have done ill to take that bath, hit is dangerous. Every year there are many victims—but very many.”

“Yers,” said Silvestro, surprisingly, in English.

“But you see I am not drowned,” said Eustace as gaily as he could.

Erminio translated for Silvestro's benefit.

Silvestro admitted rather grudgingly that Eustace was not drowned. “Ma ci sono altri disastri,” he went on darkly. “Forse peggio che quello.”

“He says there are hother misfortunes worse than to be drowned,” Erminio gasped out.

What could they be? Eustace wondered. But he didn't feel strong enough to stand the shock of being told, so to change the subject he asked Silvestro what was this piece of metal he was carrying in his hand.

Never loath to give information, Silvestro embarked on a long discourse, while Erminio, watching vulture-like Eustace's bewilderment, waited to pounce. But for once his verbal memory failed him, and when his turn came all he could say was:

“He says hit is a pyrotechnic hiron that was shot last night at the Feast of the Redentore. He says that the hiron is twisted so great is the force. He says that it is a common thing, and this morning they are heverywhere in Venice. He says they are no use to anyone.”

“Taci, tu!” cried Silvestro, who felt that his assistant had occupied the stage long enough.

On Lady Nelly's advice, Eustace rested most of the day, only coming down to dinner, where he had to undergo a long cross-examination from Lord Morecambe on the nature and consequences of a ritual bath. How did he feel before, during, and after the ordeal? They could all see a change in him, but were not sure it was a change for the better. It was generally agreed that he must be spiritually very sensitive, or sadly in need of a wash, to have taken the experience so hard. He did not tell them about the incident in the Bacino. Lady Morecambe said it must have been wonderful, and she would never forgive herself for missing it. Lady Nelly said that next year she might go if she liked, but that Eustace wouldn't be allowed to. The implication in this sent Eustace very happy to bed.

7. THE SPEAKING LIKENESS

T
HREE
letters appeared with his morning coffee, one addressed in Barbara's exuberant handwriting. After some cogitation he decided to read hers first.

As he opened the envelope a newspaper cutting fell out. It appeared to be an advertisement, very intimately worded, of a patent medicine for indigestion. He did not know whether Barbara's sense of humour had prompted the enclosure, or her concern for his gastronomic welfare; but decided it could wait.

Dear Old Boy [she began],

The address I'm writing from will give you something of a shock! so prepare yourself. I'm going to put it on the next page, to save you from having a heart attack. But the doctor says I haven't been very well lately [I hadn't noticed it] and a breath of sea-air would do me good. So Jimmy and I put our heads together, and we thought, and we wrote, and the net result is, we are HERE!!

Eustace turned the page and read:

  CAMBO,

    NORWICH SQUARE,

      NEW ANCHORSTONE,

        NORFOLK.

Don't
say you're not surprised!

Eustace
was
surprised—so surprised he could hardly take in the meaning of what he saw. Barbara back at Cambo! His mind wouldn't focus it, would hardly tell him whether he felt pleased or sorry.

It was such a stroke of luck. We just wrote on the chance, and the house simply fell into our hands. Of course I don't remember it. I was only about four when we left, and I expect the place has bucked up a good deal since then! I know it has a cinema, for I've just seen
The Orphans of the Storm
. Gee, what a thrill! How I dote on Lilian Gish! That
rosebud
mouth! I suppose Hilda is just as pretty really, and of course we're all orphans, but I don't see us being carried down cataracts and rescued by the skin of our teeth. What else can I tell you about Anchorstone? There's actually a ‘Palais de Danse'—it's
too
sweet—but unfortunately I'm not encouraged to dance. And Jimmy is in Ousemouth most of the day, and I don't know what he'd say if I picked up a boy-friend!

He thought I should be lonely, so guess who's come to stay with us—Minney! You were always her favourite, but I think she feels a
little
sentimental about me, especially now. You'll wonder why Aunt Sarah isn't here to hold my hand. Well, thereby hangs a tale.

They didn't mean to tell you, thinking you might worry, and of course there's nothing to worry about, but Hilda's been a bit off colour. What a pair we are. She actually had a bilious attack, that's how it started—fancy our Hilda, a bilious attack!—and the doctor at the clinic advised her to REST! Of course she refused, saying the clinic would go to pieces if she did, but finally Aunt Sarah persuaded her to go to Willesden. She's much better, but she's still there, or was when I left. I saw her before I came away, looking like a caged lion! And what surprised me much more, wearing such beautiful clothes! I asked her where she got them from, and she said at Worth's, and that you had helped her to choose them, to wear at that smart party you took her to at Anchorstone Hall. I
was
amused. The things you can make people do when you try!

She told us a little about the party one evening not so long ago when Mr. Hilliard came to dinner. In my opinion he's her
beau
, or would like to be if she gave him a chance.

I haven't met many men of his type, but they're all alike really, and you can tell by the way he looks at her. She gave him the most terrific snubs, but perhaps that's a kind of playfulness and he didn't seem to mind. Aunt Sarah was quite excited underneath all that whalebone. What an old match-maker she is! Perhaps we all are. You didn't exactly show your teeth at Jimmy, and do you know, he's quite touchingly grateful to you, poor sweet, and longs to have you down here, but he's afraid to ask you. He said, Is it likely he'd want to stay with us when he can stay with the Staveleys at Anchorstone Hall, but I told him you were not a snob!!!

Of course we're on their doorstep, but I shan't expect Lady Staveley to leave cards on us! As you know, they're little tin gods in this vicinity—everyone speaks of them with bated breath, though I gather Mr. Dick is quite a lad, or has been. It
is
so funny to think of him abducting Hilda in an aeroplane! Minney remembers him quite well: I tell her she fell in love with him!

I cut this snapshot out of
Gossip
, and couldn't resist sending it to you, although Jimmy and Minney both begged me not to. Minney was worried because you looked so thin, and Jimmy said he was sure you never wore that lapdog look (actually he's very fond of dogs).

With a shrinking of the heart, but overcome by curiosity, Eustace turned the cutting over. His misgivings were more than justified. “Lady Nelly Staveley and a friend take tea in the Piazza,” ran the caption; and there they were sitting at a table at Florian's—Lady Nelly looking gracious and pleasant and regally inured to being photographed, while he, his shoulders hunched, gazed up at her with a look of dumb devotion. Hastily reversing the snapshot, he returned to Barbara's letter.

But I knew it would make you laugh, because you've got such a good sense of humour! And of course secretly we're all
thrilled
to think of you in such
exalted circles
—I believe even Aunt Sarah is, though of course she doesn't say so.

Oh, how I like to think of people enjoying themselves! Stay as long as you can, Eustace darling, don't come back till Lady Nelly kicks you out. Really, we're all quite well. Privately I think Hilda's been overworking—of course, it would never do to say so, and anyhow she's better, so don't worry. I suppose I shouldn't have told you—but I think it's so silly, don't you? to bottle things up—and makes it so much worse when they come out—if there
is
anything to come out!

You'll have guessed what's the matter with me—and I hope you'll be as pleased as we both are. I was afraid Jimmy might be annoyed, because I suppose it
is
rather soon!—but he isn't. He says it makes him proud of me. It doesn't make me proud of him, because it's something that anyone can do; it's not an
achievement
, like the clinic, or staying in Venice with Lady Nelly! You mustn't get too fond of her, though, or perhaps she won't let you fall in love with anyone else, and that
would
be a pity, believe
me
! There, I'm preaching to you, and I'd sworn never to do that—such a cheek from your little sister, anyhow. Not so little either, alas! Forgive this coarse joke—you see, I'm always having to face the facts of life now!

All love

From

BARBARA (AND SON).

My doctor here is called Speedwell—such a suitable name. He says he remembers you quite well; in fact, he remembers all of us except me! So flattering! He sends you his kind regards, and wants to know if you've gone in for any more long-distance running?

Putting down the letter, Eustace looked out into a changed world, at the centre of which, for a moment, was Uncle Eustace, a fairy godfather bestowing mugs, spoons, silver and coral rattles, and other seasonable gifts on a wrinkled, red-faced baby, who goggled and gurgled delightedly at its uncle. The picture faded into the Anchorstone he knew, where another little boy, perhaps rather like him, was playing on the sands with Minney, and trailing his spade over all the designs, still miraculously extant, that Eustace had left there, muddling the pattern and making nonsense of his past life: a being to be jealous of. The vision passed, but the mood of misgiving remained. He saw the spiritual form of Cambo blocking the gateway to Anchorstone Hall.

‘Where did you say you were staying, Mr. Cherrington?' ‘Oh, at a little house called Cambo, as a matter of fact, Lady Staveley. Don't bother—er—to do anything—er—about us. This is my other sister, Barbara, the goddess Cybele—Demeter, I should say. She's only eighteen, but she has done something that neither of us could do. Mother and child have always been a favourite subject with great painters. My elder sister? Oh, Hilda's a little off-colour; her illness is not so interesting as Barbara's: just a bilious attack from overwork. No, she's not at Anchorstone, she's at our other house, near London. Oh no, Stephen, there's nothing you can do; if anything needs doing, Dick Staveley will do it. I'm quite helpless here in Venice. Lady Nelly can't spare me, I'm so useful to her; besides, she needs a friend to be photographed with. You saw that, of course. Wasn't it a libel?

‘Hilda, Hilda, aren't you pleased about Barbara? Oh, I forgot you had a bilious attack—perhaps it was drinking that champagne at the Ritz. If you don't like it, it probably doesn't agree with you. Don't tell anyone, but I suffered in the same way on the lagoon a few days ago. We often used to have the same illnesses when we were children. When you're better, you must go down to Anchorstone and stay with Barbara. Oh, why not? It would do you good.'

Eustace looked at his watch. It was no longer really his, it belonged to Lady Nelly, who had taken such a fancy to it, who thought the blue line so chic. If he minded parting with it, so much the better: there was more virtue in a present that cost you something to give. Perhaps he would find time to go to the watchmaker's this morning, before he joined Jasper Bentwich for a cocktail. The watchmaker, he remembered, was in the Merceria San Salvador—resounding name—and he must give himself plenty of time, for he had to buy two watches, one for Minney, dear Minney, and another for himself—that could be quite a cheap one. Indeed, it must be, or again he would have to write to Hilda for money, unless he wired—a telegram saved explanations. He still had 4,000 lire (about thirty pounds, Stephen) from her last consignment.

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