Eustace and Hilda (87 page)

“Oh,” said Eustace, “I thought——”

“That you had been overlooked in all the multiplicity of his self-interest? Well, you hadn't. But I own he is a little overwhelming sometimes, which is another reason for not leaving me in the lurch.”

Awed into silence by this notion in connection with Lady Nelly, Eustace gazed at the impressive bulk and blank, handsome face of the Palazzo Papadopoli which was rapidly sliding behind them. Gratitude to her surged up in him, and not least was he grateful for one small omission. By forgetting to give him the dressing-gown she had left unfastened one tiny link in the chain of his indebtedness which, had it been perfect, might have irked him, hardened though he was to receiving favours.

He spent the afternoon on holiday at the Lido, sedulously attentive to the Grundtvigs, whose good opinion, so unequivocally vouched for by Lady Nelly, he was determined to foster. Mrs. Grundtvig did not enter the water; she remained under one of the umbrellas, wearing the largest and densest pair of sun spectacles that Eustace had ever seen. Both her husband and her daughter bathed, he in a bathing-suit whose lateral stripes of blue and white seemed to challenge the rotundity of the world. Minerva's piano legs were much in evidence. Caryatides, they supported a torso developed beyond her years. She swam out boldly, beyond the barrier for ‘gli inesperti,' beyond the pink-bloused boatmen idling in their rescue boats. They stood up, pointing and shouting warnings. Eustace toiled after her, fearing she might be seized by cramp; but she easily outdistanced him, using a number of different strokes learned, as she told him afterwards, on half the fashionable plages of the world; at one moment she was almost out of sight, the next she was passing him in a smother of foam from which she emerged, Venus-like, to signal to this and that sleek-headed young man of her acquaintance. At tea on the terrace of the Excelsior they were joined by the Count, who paid her much attention: he had lost none of his assurance, though Eustace did not think that Lady Nelly was contributing to it; the soft dilation of her being, the imperceptible inclination of her movements sunwards, to-day were not for him.

“We were deeply impressed by your swimming, Eustace,” said Lady Nelly; “weren't we, Trudi? What a lot of accomplishments you have. We took you for a seal. If I had any voice I'd have gone down to the water's edge to sing to you.”

“Miss Grundtvig swims much better than I do,” said Eustace, and was annoyed with himself, for the remark sounded self-consciously self-deprecating.

“But not so like a seal,” said Mrs. Grundtvig. “I remember one once——” Her voice died away.

“Ah, you mean a performing seal,” said her husband. She shook her faded head, but he took no notice and went on, “Performing seals are most docile and affectionate. You can teach them many tricks, provided you treat them with kindness and feed them well. They expect a piece of fish for everything they do. I myself have appeared on the same platform with a seal.”

“Eustace is not that sort of seal,” said Lady Nelly. “He performs for love.”

“For love?” the Count broke in, dwelling on the word. “But what else should one perform for? I, too, often perform for love.”

He spoke to Minerva, but his eye travelled round towards Lady Nelly. But she only said, “That's why you're so much in demand, Andy.”

“Am I?” he asked, pouting.

“Everyone tells me so,” said Lady Nelly smoothly. “You must be on your guard with him, Minerva.”

“Oh, I know all about him,” Minerva said. “I've known heaps like him.” But there was a touch of coquetry in her voice.

“Well, I'll only trust him with you on that understanding.”

“You must be there to see how well I behave,” said the Count.

“Oh no,” said Lady Nelly. “I shall be on my knees polishing the floor for Thursday night. It is Thursday, isn't it, Eustace?”

“The ball, Lady Nelly? You've never been quite sure.”

“Well, I am now. I've sent out the invitations. Mind you come, Andy. I count on you.”

“But of course I'm coming, Lady Nelly.” He sounded puzzled and hurt.

“Well, don't forget, or Minerva will never forgive you.”

“Would
you
forgive me?”

“I might, I have a forgiving nature.”

The Count sighed heavily, but it was a diplomatic sigh, covering a retreat.

Eustace was filled with a sweet elation; and his thoughts took on the blue and gold of the scene before him. Many pictures passed through his mind. Hilda was confounding the directors with his cheque for £1,000; she was trying on the Fortuny frock at Lady Nelly's dressmaker's; she was sitting by herself, wearing it in a room he did not know, waiting for the door to open. Now it opened, and Dick Staveley came in: he was in evening dress, with a dark-red rose in his button-hole. She got up, and there was a swish of silk and the firmament opening in a whirl of pale blue and silver. ‘My darling, what a lovely dress! Where did you get it?' ‘Lady Nelly gave it me. It came from Fortuny's, in Venice. Eustace helped her to choose it.' ‘Eustace did? Good for him! Why, they're our colours, silver and blue.' ‘Yes, Eustace thought of that.' ‘Did he, by Jove? He thinks of a lot, doesn't he?' ‘Yes, we owe everything to him.' ‘He's an artful little schemer, your brother. He ought to be in the Diplomatic Service. We must give him a present.' ‘Oh no, he wouldn't like that. You see, he only performs for love.' ‘For love of you or love of me?' ‘Oh, I'm sure he loves us both.' ‘Would he like me to kiss you?' ‘Yes, I'm sure he would.' ‘Even if I should happen to crush this nice new dress?' ‘Oh, it'll wash—he told me so.'

They both took a step forward....

“A penny for your thoughts,” said Lady Nelly. “You looked as though you were having a beatific dream.”

Confused and guilty, Eustace hastily rearranged his features.

“I was thinking of your dress,” he said, adding, as she began to look down at her own, “I mean, the one you gave to Hilda.”

They went back to Venice in the motor-boat. The glow of a red sunset hung over the city; above, the sky was violet; still higher, it was blue. A triple crown. The rush of air brushed the heat of the day from their faces. “Più presto!” cried the Count, who, like all Italians, loved speed, and for a moment the water stood up on each side in a shining arc of foam. Shouts of protest came from the little boats plodding near them, and the chauffeur slowed down, leaving the small craft tossing in their wake. Eustace felt a twinge of sympathy for the rowers, thrown off their course and struggling to keep their balance. But it was all in the day's work; they did not mind, really. Lights began to come out along the riva and on the Piazzetta, faint and feeble, as yet mere guests of the twilight. Curving inwards, they marked the entrance to the Grand Canal. Hung on an iron frame, the swinging lanterns of the Piccola Serenata were beginning to fill with light. On the water-borne terraces of hotels, waiters with napkins on their arms stood sentinel beside red-shaded lamps. It was a moment of divided allegiance: the night was taking over from the day.

Eustace saw the envelope at once. It lay where his letters were always laid, beside the fragment from Anchorstone on his writing-table. (Notwithstanding Lady Nelly's threat, he still inhabited his old room.) He stared at the untidy, masculine handwriting. Hilda had written, as she sometimes did, in indelible pencil, a habit he deplored, it was so impersonal, suggesting a communication from a shop or from the Income Tax. And, as often happened, the envelope seemed to have got wet, for the writing had run and left ugly violet smears. It was not a plain envelope, but one of the kind sold by the post office, already stamped; and she had forgotten to add the extra penny for foreign postage, so there was, alongside the postmark, a dirty, hostile-looking imprint announcing a fine of two lire. The whole thing bespoke haste, misplaced economy, and a total disregard of appearances.

Eustace picked up the envelope and turned it over. It had collected some dirt on the other side too. His heart began to thump violently. If he read the letter now, he might not be able to eat his dinner. But neither would he if he did not read it; the mere thought of food told him his appetite was quite gone. He swayed a little and sat down, the envelope still in his hand. He wondered if the purport of the letter would seep by psychic channels through his fingers; but to his mind, usually so fertile in images, no image came. Yet why should he feel nervous? True, Hilda never wrote, but she would write to acknowledge his gift to the clinic. But a thought struck him and he withdrew his thumb from the half-torn flap. The letter could not be an answer, for he had only sent the telegram this morning. Besides, the gift was to be anonymous. He could think of no explanation of this letter from Hilda, who never wrote letters, and his heart thudded its dismay.

Eustace took the flask from his pocket and stood it upright; the golden brandy winked at him through its peep-hole in the snakeskin leather. He loosened the stopper, fetched a glass from his bedside, and put his thumb back in the envelope. The letter was a mere slip in the middle, written on thin, common paper, carelessly folded; the ink showed through. He smoothed out the creases. There was no date or address.

Eustace's first reaction was one of pure and uncontrollable relief. He jumped up from his chair and paced the room, feeling lighter with every step; all his nervous processes began to minister once more to the comfort of his mind and body. Then he re-read the letter, whose grimy state seemed to make it doubly precious. He felt as if the end and epitome of his life's effort lay in that single sheet. Gradually his mind detached itself from its ecstasy and made some objective comments. Yes, Hilda had changed. The endearments, the blessings, the adjuration to enjoy himself, the contraction of her name to its initial, they were all new, in letter and in spirit. Somewhere she had learned the meaning of them, and the use. E to H, he had written on the sand; it was H to E now.

T
HE DAYS
that followed were languid with sirocco. The weather broke, as it often did in September; masses of cloud piled themselves up and hung, huge fists and fingers of vapour, motionless over the city, bringing out all that was grey and sullen in the roofs and walls of Venice. Looking down from his window, Eustace could see puddles and the shiny black of umbrellas, oilskins, sou'westers, and goloshes. The wind blew in sudden gusts, and the creepers, the virginia and wistaria which swarmed up the sides of the houses, writhed and shivered convulsively. Even in the Grand Canal untamed billows slapped against the gondola and sometimes splashed into it; visits on foot to the Piazza were diversified with sudden dashes to take cover.

Eustace had the almost unique experience of seeing Lady Nelly hurry and even get sprinkled with a few drops of rain. Then without warning the sun would come out, and Venice would once again put on its summer look, enhanced by a million sparkles from every dripping surface. And all the time the heat reigned unabated; indeed, increased towards evening when the sirocco, just when it was needed most, would die away, leaving behind all the lassitude of its presence without the stimulus of its movement. Indoors, the walls sweated and ran with salty damp, and the mosquitoes redoubled their attack; take what precautions he might, Eustace passed every night in close confinement with at least one watchful and agile foe.

He lay awake, but in an exultation of wakefulness, his thoughts radiant with the rainbow promise of glorious things to come. His imagination did not have to specify them: their shapes nestled against him, all curves and comfort. If he thought of Hilda's bad time, he thought of it as a conflict between her loyalty to the clinic and someone from outside—well, Dick. Dick was not used to being said no to. He might easily cut up rough.

‘I'm sorry, Dick, but I'm afraid I can't dine with you this evening. I've got to stay in and work. They don't like me to go out so often as it is. You see, the clinic can't get on without me.' ‘Oh, damn the clinic. It's always the clinic. I tell you, I'm getting jealous. I believe you've got someone down there who interests you.' ‘Oh, nonsense, Dick, of course I haven't. Who could there possibly be?' ‘What about the fellow I met with you last week—can't remember his name—a lawyer chap?'

In spite of her agitation Hilda smiled. ‘Oh, Stephen Hilliard, he's our family solicitor. Hilliard, Lampeter and Hilliard. Aren't they your solicitors too?' ‘Well, come to think of it, they are. But what's he doing down there?' ‘He comes to see me on business. ‘Business, what sort of business?' ‘Oh, business to do with the clinic.' ‘It didn't look like that sort of business to me.' ‘Oh, Dick, please don't be jealous. He's a most serious young man; he thinks of nothing but stocks and shares and cutting down expenses. He's a friend of Eustace's. I'm just his client.' ‘A friend of Eustace's, is he? What a lot of friends your brother seems to have. He doesn't leave much to chance, does he? I suppose he'd like you to marry this Stephen Hilliard?' ‘Oh, Dick, how can you say such a thing? Of course Eustace is very popular, he has crowds of friends, more than I like, really. He's a friend of yours, too. I should never have met you but for him.' ‘Yes, I owe him that. But he's a cunning little devil, though you wouldn't think so to look at him.' ‘Well, aren't you glad he is?' ‘Perhaps I am, but so no doubt is this fellow Hilliard.' ‘Oh, please, Dick, don't say any more about him. He simply takes an interest in me for Eustace's sake. Now do believe me.'