Eustace and Hilda (78 page)

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.

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.

Eustace turned the page and read:

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.

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.

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.