Eustace and Hilda (48 page)

Eustace was deeply affected by the conviction in her voice.

‘I'll give her a cheque when I leave,' he thought. He felt in his pocket, but there was no cheque-book, only Dick's letter.

Stephen, however, stood his ground.

“I didn't mean to belittle your achievement, Miss Cherrington,” he said, his wonted urbanity, banished by the incident of the chicken-house, gradually returning to him. “Only, as your lawyer-to-be, or should I say, your would-be lawyer, I feel you should not put all your eggs in one basket. I mean, you shouldn't identify your fortune with the fortunes of the clinic, however rosy they may appear. As I've had to tell Eustace more than once (he is very patient with me), money is not just an extension of one's emotions: it has a reality of its own which one ought to respect. If you pour money into the clinic and anything goes wrong, where would you be?”

At Stephen's rhetorical question Eustace looked terrified, but Hilda's unmoved countenance suggested she wouldn't mind where she was.

“And there's another thing,” Stephen went on. “Tiresome as it is to wait, the natural pace at which things happen is the best pace. That way, there's less risk of dislocation; easy does it, as they say. Besides, the slower an undertaking goes, the more people can contribute and feel their interests are involved. If now, for instance, you rush this business of the chicken-run through, offering to pay the whole or even half, the directors, Naboth, and several people we've never heard of, will all feel slightly put out—‘not consulted'—you know how people hate that—and will withhold their blessing; and so, though no doubt the thing will go through, it will leave a lot of animosities and sore places. Whereas if everyone takes a hand there'll be far less friction. Much better keep to what are called the usual channels, if you can.”

How sensible, thought Eustace, completely won over by Stephen's reasoning and glad now that he had not brought his cheque-book. And what a relief for Hilda to feel that she could sit back, and shelve responsibility, and watch things take their course. But to his dismay he saw from her stiffening face that Stephen's arguments had not impressed her.

“Mr. Hilliard, it's all very well for you to talk,” she said, “but I
know
what happens when you leave things to other people. They simply get pigeon-holed. You wouldn't believe the state the place was in when I came here. The Matron drank; the children got bed-sores, they were so neglected; and I found out that when they were restless and troublesome the nurses sometimes put them to sleep with a whiff of gas. The directors either didn't know, or else they shut their eyes; they did nothing about it, and when I told them they pretended to be surprised. Unless I present them with an ultimatum about this piece of land—which means offering to pay—they'll argue about it till doomsday. Believe me, it's fatal to trust to other people.”

Hilda's eyes were bright, and her breath came quickly; she made an impatient gesture as though knocking something away. Her beauty gained in power from the nervous excitement which animated it; Eustace was fascinated, and wished he had brought his cheque-book after all. But he could not gauge the effect of Hilda's outburst on Stephen, whose narrowed eyes seemed to be making a synthesis between what she had said and factors in the situation which she had left out.

“Is the clinic run as a charity?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” said Hilda. “The patients pay according to a standard rate unless they are too poor to; then they pay what they can. A few we treat for nothing. Then there is the Subscription List to which you contributed so generously, Mr. Hilliard. We are trying to increase that, but the clinic will never be self-supporting. The deficit, which is still pretty heavy, is met by the directors—”

“Who are well-to-do philanthropists, I suppose,” said Stephen. “Have you a contract with them, or any kind of agreement?”

Hilda smiled. “No, but they wouldn't be such fools as to quarrel with me.”

“But you say they don't take much interest in the clinic?” said Stephen.

Hilda frowned, and looked thoughtfully down at the hands now folded in her lap.

“It wouldn't be fair to say that. No, they do take an interest—especially, as you know, in the financial side. They are not rich men for nothing, of course. But they're too cautious for my liking. I tell them so sometimes, I'm afraid. And they think it's enough to pass a lot of resolutions. As if a place like this could be run by resolutions.”

A gleam appeared in Hilda's eye as she said this, but it faded, and for the first time since Eustace's arrival she looked almost tranquil.

“Well,” said Stephen, rising with his air of conscious elegance, “I've got to get back now. The family hearth-side calls me. But thank you for a delightful afternoon, Miss Cherrington. I shall always remember the hen-coop. I shall say to my grandchildren, ‘Little dears, I spent several minutes in a hen-coop with the great Miss Cherrington.'”

Hilda, who had also risen, coloured slightly.

“You must come again,” she muttered. “One never knows when something may go wrong.”

“Oh, I hope not, I hope not,” said Stephen. “I don't want to be associated with a crisis—at least, not of that kind. I shall write to you, Miss Cherrington, and Messrs. Hilliard, Lampeter and Hilliard will also write. In due course, of course. Will you be able to wait?”

“I want to have this business of the chicken-run settled up,” said Hilda stubbornly.

“Yes, naturally. Only don't forget the trouble that Ahab—wasn't it?—got into by being so—so impatient with Naboth. If only he had stuck to the usual channels, instead of calling in Jezebel!”

“I hold no brief for Jezebel,” retorted Hilda, “but I seem to remember that Ahab tried the usual channels first.”

“You have the last word,” said Stephen gallantly. “I shall address myself to Eustace, who always listens to my advice. Good-bye, Eustace. Don't go breaking up St. Joseph's—you didn't know how destructive he could be, did you, Miss Cherrington? And don't let me hear that you have assisted your sister to buy the vineyard over my head. He's not to be trusted with money—he thinks it's just a natural adjunct of benevolence, whereas it's really like the Peau de Chagrin, and dwindles with every wish. Good-bye, Miss Cherrington.”

“He's gone,” said Hilda as the door closed on Stephen.

“Was he at all helpful?” asked Eustace cautiously.

“Well, you heard. He thinks that by haggling and bargaining we might save a few pounds.”

“In that case the directors would pay for the field?”

“They might,” said Hilda. “But when? I want it now, for an orchard and kitchen-garden. There's hardly a fruit-tree on the place. They were all sold off when the estate was broken up.”

“Could you plant fruit-trees in April?” asked Eustace dubiously.

“I'm sure you could. Why not? Oh, dear, how I wish people would mind their own business. What would Mr. Hilliard say if I went into his office and started telling him how to run it?”

“He hasn't got one yet,” said Eustace. “He won't have, till July. But you asked him to come down, didn't you?”

“I said something quite vaguely, and the next thing I knew he was on the doorstep.”

A tingle of pleasure ran through Eustace at this announcement. He looked anxiously at Hilda to see if she shared it, but her face, though less severe than usual, had none of the elation that used to light up Barbara's in similar circumstances.

“Stephen always seemed interested in the clinic,” he said, feeling his way.

“Oh yes, and he asked quite a lot of intelligent questions, in that funny, precise voice of his. A good many silly ones too, of course, like how many days off the maids had, and what they wore when they went out.”

“The two I saw were new to me,” observed Eustace.

Hilda gave an impatient sigh.

“Yes, I have to keep changing them. They don't seem to get the spirit of the place, somehow. These workmen unsettle them, I believe. I often catch them gossiping together.”

“Well, I suppose that's only natural,” said Eustace.

“It's not what they're here for.”

“No—what did Stephen say about the new part?”

“He didn't like my having helped to pay for it. That's what I'm up against—oh, not in him especially, but in everyone. People are so cautious—one step at a time, don't bite off a bigger bit than you can chew. They've no vision, they can't take anything in their stride.”

“I suppose Stephen has to be legal-minded,” said Eustace, trying to turn the subject from the general to the particular.

“Oh, I don't mind it in him; but I should like to come across someone with more go for a change.”

Eustace remembered the letter in his pocket.

“Do you know who I saw the other day in Oxford?” he said. “Dick Staveley.”

“Dick Staveley?” repeated Hilda. “Dick Staveley? Do you mean——?” She broke off.

“Yes,” said Eustace. “The Dick Staveley we used to know at Anchorstone. The one who wanted you to go out riding with him, and you wouldn't.”

There was a slight pause, then Hilda said:

“As a matter of fact, I do remember. I thought I'd forgotten. Well, did he still want me to go riding with him?—because I shan't.”

Eustace laughed.

“No, he didn't say anything about that. But he seemed to remember us quite well, and finding me in the wood, and seeing us playing on the beach together.”

“I think we were quarrelling when he saw us on the beach,” said Hilda.

“Oh no, we weren't,” said Eustace. “No, no. I remember what it was. We weren't quarrelling, no, no. But I forget what I was going to say. Oh yes, he had read about the clinic and seemed most interested in it.”

“All your friends seem to be interested in the clinic,” said Hilda, with what almost amounted to a sneer.

Eustace was surprised at the change in her tone. She had been so sunny and serene. But, in spite of more than one experience to the contrary, he believed that with due care he could talk his way safely through his sister's moods.

“He seemed interested in you, too,” he said.

“Oh, Eustace, how could he be after all these years?” said Hilda, with a flash of real irritability. “I should have thought Oxford would cure you of saying such silly things, but it doesn't seem to.”

If the subject had been any other, Eustace would have taken this snub as final. But he felt impelled to go on, the more so because the businesslike-looking electric clock on Hilda's marble chimney-piece showed him his time was short.

As conversational approaches to Dick, both Hilda and the clinic had betrayed him; but the clinic was the safer, and he would try it again.

“He's a Member of Parliament now, that's why he's interested in the clinic,” he remarked elliptically.

“I'm afraid I don't quite follow,” said Hilda.

She looked very forbidding as she sat there, leaning forward with her chin almost touching her knees, and her eyes staring stormily into the electric-fire.

“He said he thought the Government might take up the idea of the clinic,” said Eustace, nervous but determined, “and give it a grant or something, and perhaps encourage the starting of others on the same lines. He said he'd like to talk to you about it.”

“Oh, did he?” said Hilda. She got up from the sofa and walked away from Eustace to a corner of the room where there was a big square table between two long windows. On it stood a typewriter awash with a foam of papers. It looked like a rock, or perhaps a small hungry animal, and the papers were its food.

Still with her back to him, Hilda began to pick them up and sort them, putting them into two rectangular baskets which flanked the typewriter.

“What a pig's mess this room is in,” she said. “Why can't Miss Pinfold keep it tidier? I shall have to speak to her.”

The tidying of the table transformed the whole room, which suddenly became soigné and elegant within its grey-green plaster walls, picked out with panels of white moulding, at once graceful and severe.

“Why did Mr. Hilliard say you were destructive?” she said, returning to the sofa. “You couldn't hurt a fly.”

She did not make it sound like a compliment, and Eustace at once imagined the room buzzing and crawling with blue-bottles, all needing to be swatted by his nerveless and ineffective hand. But to his relief not a fly was to be seen.

“Oh, that was just Stephen's joke,” he said. “There was a little disturbance in the College—there often is, after a Lauderdale dinner. This time it was a bit more—well—pronounced, because, you see, Dick was there.”

Directly the words were out of his mouth Eustace regretted them and awaited a broadside from Hilda; but to his surprise she only said:

“What was he doing?”

“Oh, well,” said Eustace, “he came down to address the Society, as an old member and a distinguished visitor. You don't read the papers much, so you wouldn't know about him. He did very well in the war, you know, and has won every kind of medal, including the Royal Humane Society's, and after the war he took a hand in our settlement with the Arabs—very dangerous work.” Eustace dropped his voice in awe. “Well, his idea is that now the war's over we are likely to become too soft, and he feels he has a mission to toughen us up. I don't really agree with all that.”

“I don't suppose you do,” said Hilda. “But has he any practical suggestions?”

“I gather he thinks Parliament ought to talk less and do more, and would like the Executive to have a much freer hand. You know the system of checks and balances that Victorian publicists were so proud of—well, he'd like to see that done away. He would like to set up a number of Regional Commissioners, with plenary powers in their districts, who could just say, ‘I want a dozen clinics like Highcross Hill in my department,' and the work would begin at once, without any waiting about.”