“Oh, I know what Eustace feels,” broke in Hilda, “but he really will have to get used to seeing the house, won’t he? It’ll make us so late for tea, going all this way back through the town.”
“I think we ought to respect Eustace’s wishes,” said Miss Cherrington decisively. “He is the best judge of what he owes to the memory of Miss Fothergill.”
“Yes, we don’t want to spoil his outing for a little thing like that, do we?” said his father, with a sidelong glance at Eustace, who sat silent, puzzled by his aunt’s words and vaguely troubled by their impersonal tone. “Eustace has to plough his own furrow like the rest of us, haven’t you, Eustace?”
Eustace wriggled uncomfortably but didn’t answer, absorbed in a vision of himself alone in an enormous field, holding the handles of a plough to which were attached two straining, sweating horses who kept looking round at him as much as to say, ‘When do you want to start?’
“Don’t you think Eustace might order us another pot of tea, Sarah? I think we might have another. And another plate of cakes too. A growing lad like him can’t have too many cakes. They’ll put some roses in his cheeks.”
Miss Cherrington raised her eyebrows slightly.
“I don’t want any more tea,” said Hilda.
Barbara was understood to say she would like another cake.
“Well, perhaps Eustace would be kind enough to ring the bell,” said Miss Cherrington in an even voice, looking past him as she spoke. “It’s just by your elbow, Eustace.”
They were sitting in the garden of the Swan Hotel at Frontisham and they were all, except Barbara, a little conscious of their surroundings, for on previous expeditions they had had tea at the baker’s, in a stuffy back room smelling of pastry and new bread.
Here they were under the shadow of the church. Vast and spectacular, shutting out the sky, it rose sheer on its mound above them. From where Eustace sat the spire was almost invisible, hidden behind some trees. He regretted this, but the west window was in full view, touched here and there with fire by the declining sun; and it was the west window that really mattered.
“Tucked away in this little-known corner of Norfolk,” the guide-book said, “is a treasure of the mediæval mason’s art that lovers of architecture come miles to see: the west window of Frontisham Parish Church. Inferior in mere size to the west window of York Minster and to the east window of Carlisle Cathedral, the window at Frontisham easily surpasses them in beauty, vigour, and originality. It is unquestionably the finest example of flamboyant tracery in the kingdom; confronted with this masterpiece, criticism is silent.”
Eustace knew the passage by heart; he found it extremely moving and often said it over to himself. He did not share the guide-book’s poor opinion of mere size: magnitude in any form appealed to him, and he wished that this kind of superiority, too, could have been claimed for Frontisham. But the book, which could not err, called the window the finest in the kingdom. That meant it was the best, the greatest, the grandest, the ne plus ultra of windows: the supreme window of the world. Eustace gazed at it in awe. It had entered for the architectural prize, and won; now it looked out upon the centuries, victorious, unchallenged, incomparable, a standard of absolute perfection to which all the homage due to merit naturally belonged.
It was not the window itself which fascinated him so much as the idea of its pre-eminence, just as it was not the guide-book’s actual words (many of which he did not properly understand) that intoxicated him, so much as the tremendous, unqualified sense of eulogy they conveyed. He tried again, again not quite successfully, to see how the window differed from other church windows. But he could not see it through his own eyes, because he had so often visualised it through the eyes of the guide-book, nor could he describe it in his own words, because the author’s eloquence came between him and his impressions. Feeling meant more to him than seeing, and the phrases of the panegyric, running like a tune in his mind, quickly started a train of feeling that impeded independent judgement.
Within the massive framework of the grey wall seven slender tapers of stone soared upwards. After that, it was as though the tapers had been lit and two people, standing one on either side, had blown the flames together. Curving, straining, interlocked, they flung themselves against the retaining arch in an ecstasy—or should we say an agony?—of petrifaction. But the builder had not been content with that. Higher still, in the gable above, was another window much smaller and with tracery much less involved, but similar in general effect. “An echo,” the guide-book called it, “an earthly echo of a symphony which was made in heaven.”
The word ‘heaven,’ striking against his inner ear, released Eustace’s visual eye from dwelling on the material structure of the mediæval mason’s masterpiece. The design with all its intricacy faded from his sight, to be replaced, in his mind’s eye, by the window’s abstract qualities, its beauty, its vigour, its originality, its pre-eminence, its perfection. With these, and not for the first time, he now began to feel as one. Disengaging himself from the tea-table he floated upwards. Out shot his left arm, caught by some force and twisted this way and that; he could feel his fingers, treble-jointed and unnaturally long, scraping against the masonry of the arch as they groped for the positions that had been assigned to them. Almost simultaneously his other limbs followed suit; even his hair, now long like Hilda’s, rose from his head and, swaying like seaweed, strove up to reach the keystone. Splayed, spread-eagled, crucified (but for fear of blasphemy he must only think the shadow of that word) into a semblance of the writhing stonework, he seemed to be experiencing the ecstasy—or was it the agony?—of petrifaction.
Meanwhile the interstices, the spaces where he was not, began to fill with stained glass. Pictures of saints and angels, red, blue, and yellow, pressed against and into him, bruising him, cutting him, spilling their colours over him. The pain was exquisite, but there was rapture in it too. Another twitch, a final wriggle, and Eustace felt no more; he was immobilised, turned to stone. High and lifted up, he looked down from the church wall, perfect, pre-eminent, beyond criticism, not to be asked questions or to answer them, not to be added to or taken away from, but simply to be admired and worshipped by hundreds of visitors, many of them foreigners from Rome and elsewhere, coming miles to see him ... Eustace, Eustace of Frontisham, Saint Eustace...
Eustace ... the word seemed to be all round him.
“Eustace! Eustace!” His father’s voice was raised in pretended indignation. “Stop day-dreaming! We want some more tea! You’ve forgotten to ring the bell!”
Coming to himself with a start, and avoiding the eyes of his family, Eustace glanced nervously left and right. Round about stood a few empty tables, on one of which a bold bird hopped perkily, looking for crumbs. He noticed with concern that the bird had been guilty of a misdemeanour more tangible than theft. Hoping to scare it away, he rang the bell more loudly than he meant to.
A maid appeared, with a slight flounce in criticism of the lateness of the hour.
“Did you ring, madam?”
For a second nobody spoke; they were all looking at Eustace.
“No, I did,” he said nervously, and then, as no one seemed inclined to help him out, “Could we have another pot of tea and some more cakes?”
“Fancies?” said the waitress.
Another pause.
“Yes, fancies, please,” said Eustace.
“He fancies fancies,” said his father when the waitress had gone. “Quite right, Eustace.”
“I’m not so sure,” said Miss Cherrington. “I think their plain cake was better. What do you say, Minney?”
“I liked those sponge fingers we had,” said Minney, unwilling to be drawn.
“Shall I ask her to bring some of them instead?” put in Eustace, jumping up from the table.
“No, no, sit where you are,” said his father. “Make your miserable life happy.”
Eustace sat down again, aware of cross-currents of feeling and not knowing which to join.
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Conversation was desultory till the waitress returned, carrying a brown teapot in one hand and a plate of cakes, covered with pink and white icing, in the other. Eustace thanked her fervently.
“Now that we’ve asked for them we shall have to eat them,” said Hilda, looking across at Eustace. “At least you’ll have to. I don’t think I need, but perhaps I’d better,” she said, thoughtfully helping herself to one from the dish.
“Nobody need eat one who doesn’t want to,” said Mr. Cherrington. “What we don’t eat we don’t pay for. By the way, who’s paying for this?”
“I will! I will!” or sounds equivalent to it suddenly burst from Barbara and everyone laughed.
“I think Minney ought to,” said Mr. Cherrington, “with some of that money she’s collected for Dr. Barnardo’s Home.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t brought it with me,” said Minney. “I left the box at home because a little bird told me that someone was going to put something in it when they get back this evening.” She stopped, confused.
“I think that Eustace ought to pay,” said Hilda. “At least he ought to pay for these extra cakes, because we got them for him.”
“But you’ve eaten two,” objected Eustace.
“Only so as not to look wasteful.”
“Anyhow,” persisted Eustace sorrowfully, “I haven’t got any money and I shan’t have any till Saturday.”
“I’ll lend you some if you promise to pay me back,” said Hilda.
“You wouldn’t have enough,” said Eustace. “A tea like this must cost a great deal.” He sighed.
“Cheer up, cheer up!” said his father, brushing away some crumbs which had lodged in the protective colouring of his waistcoat, and adjusting, not without self-complacency, the belt of his Norfolk jacket. “We shan’t go bankrupt this time, shall we, Sarah?”
Miss Cherrington carefully expunged all trace of expression from her features before she answered.
“One cannot be too careful about money, one’s own or other people’s.”
Her brother frowned, and his face suddenly looked lined and tired above his creaseless suit. ‘Oh, why must I be a widower,’ he thought, ‘with three kids and a woman who nags at me?’ For a moment another figure joined them at the table, invisible to all but him, there was no chair for her, so she had to stand; he could see her clearly enough in her pale, full dress, the big hat whose brim curled upwards at the back, the gentle eyes shining through her thin veil. He blinked to keep away the tears and when he looked again she had gone. “Hilda!” he cried in sudden exasperation, “do sit up straight. Some of your hair’s in your tea, and some of it’s in your plate. I should have thought they could have taught you how to sit at table by this time!”
Eustace listened in alarm and astonishment. His father’s fits of ill-humour were almost always directed at him, and he could hardly believe that this one wasn’t. How would Hilda take it? She had withdrawn her lovely locks from the table and pushed them back over her thin shoulders; a look of scorn mixed with suffering was establishing itself on her features; her long eyelids drooped over her violet eyes, but tears were stealing from under them. No one spoke.
“Well,” said Mr. Cherrington uncomfortably, “I suppose it’s time we were going. Sorry, Hilda, unless it’s Eustace I ought to say ‘sorry’ to. He looks more upset than you do.”
“Eustace has no hair to speak of,” said Hilda in a far-away voice.
Mr. Cherrington seemed baffled.
“I wasn’t finding fault with your hair, only with where you put it. Now, what about paying? Shall we ask Eustace to foot the bill?”
“I haven’t any money, Daddy,” said Eustace, aware of having said so before.
“Perhaps they’ll let you have it on tick.”
“On tick?”
“It means you pay the next time you come.”
Eustace caught sight of his aunt’s face; her expression was inscrutable.
“Oh I don’t think they’d like that: you see, I might not come again.”
“Well, will you pay if I give you the money? You’ve got to learn some time.” Mr. Cherrington felt in his pockets. “Now be careful to get the right change.”
Eustace gazed in awe at the golden half-sovereign.
“Shall I pay for Mr. Craddock’s tea?”
“Yes.”
“And Brown Bess’s?”
“Not if she’s had a second helping.”
“And should I give anything to the waitress?”
“You might give her a kiss.”
“Alfred, Alfred,” said Miss Cherrington impatiently, “you’re filling the boy’s head with nonsense. Give her sixpence, Eustace, that’s as much as she’ll expect.”
To Eustace, Frontisham Hill was a major event. It was the steepest hill in the district; the white road seemed to come foaming down like a waterfall. Many a horse had broken its knees on that dusty cataract. On its crest a notice warned cyclists to ride with caution; at its foot another, facing the opposite way, requested drivers to slacken their bearing-reins. Brown Bess did not wear a bearing-rein and carried her head at any angle she chose; but it was the Cherringtons’ custom to walk up the hill to spare her all they could. Only Barbara rode, with Minney walking alongside to keep her from climbing out. The hill rose straight out of the town, so they had to scale it before making their dispositions for the homeward journey.
Eustace climbed on to the box, as was his due, and Mr. Craddock tucked the familiar dusty green plaid rug round him. Eustace noticed that he did this with unusual solicitude; it was yet another instance of the new attitude grown-up people were adopting towards him, as if he must be humoured, as if he might break, as if a barrier had arisen between him and them, setting him apart, not to be taken for granted like other children and fondly admonished, as if he were seriously ill, as if——
“Well, Master Eustace,” said Mr. Craddock, gently laying his whip on Brown Bess’s shabby collar, “how have you been getting on all this time?”
“Fairly well, Mr. Craddock, thank you. How have you?”
“Just jogging along. Mustn’t grumble, but it gets a bit monotonous at times, you know.”
“I’m sure it must. But life is monotonous, isn’t it?”
Mr. Craddock smiled.
“Not for everyone it isn’t, not by any means. There’s some I’d like to change places with, I don’t mind telling you.”
Eustace considered Mr. Craddock’s life; it seemed to consist of taking people out for drives and in having his dinner and tea at their expense. How desirable, how enviable! Of course you must be fond of horses, but then Mr. Craddock was, or at any rate he was on good terms with them.
“Who would you like to change places with?”
Mr. Craddock appeared to ponder deeply. “There’s at least one person not a hundred miles from here as I wouldn’t mind being in the shoes of, Master Eustace.”
“I don’t know this part very well,” said Eustace, conscientiously scanning the horizon. “Would it be whoever that big house there belongs to?” indicating a square-faced mansion on a hill, fringed by wellingtonias. “He must be very rich.”
“Someone nearer than that.”
Eustace stared at Mr. Craddock’s impassive profile. How sly he was; he never gave anything away.
“Is it one of us?”
Mr. Craddock’s silence must be taken to mean assent. But Eustace was still puzzled. He turned round and stole a glance at his family. Which of them could Mr. Craddock possibly want to change places with? Eustace knew the effort that attended their lives; they maintained their places in existence with sorrow, toil and pain as the hymn said—all except Barbara, and Mr. Craddock could not possibly want to be her. But his father was looking unusually care-free and even prosperous in his new suit with those fascinating leather buttons; he was wearing his holiday air and Minney had said he looked such a gentleman. No doubt Mr. Craddock was thinking of him.
“But Daddy has to work, you know,” said Eustace.
“He catches the 8:32 train to business every morning except on Sundays, and he only has one half-holiday a week, on Thursday, like to-day. He’s allowed to be away for things like funerals, of course. Then he has to work for us as well as for himself. I don’t know if you have a family, Mr. Craddock?”
With some emphasis Mr. Craddock said he had.
“Then you know what an expense they are, always wanting new clothes and things, and being ill. I don’t think you’d want to be in Daddy’s shoes if you knew what his life was like.”
“It wasn’t him I was thinking of,” said the driver.
More baffled than ever, Eustace took another stealthy peep at the party in the landau. He could only see the top of Minney’s hat; the brown straw hat with a bunch of cherries in it that she always wore for these occasions. Of her three hats it was the one he liked best, and he felt a sudden longing to see her face underneath it. He loved her, and though he knew her too well to be consciously aware of her patience and sweetness, their well-tried perfume filled his mind as he thought of her. Mr. Craddock could be bad-tempered when crossed; perhaps he envied Minney her serenity. But no, it was monotony he complained of, and how could his lot compare in monotony with hers?
Aunt Sarah had pushed back her veil and was watching the passing hedgerows with an eye that did not see them but that did see, Eustace could tell, a great deal that she would rather not have seen. Perhaps she too was wishing she was somebody else—not Mr. Craddock, of course, for he belonged in her mind to the category of things that had not been properly washed, and Mr. Craddock, though he respected her, was always a little crestfallen in her presence. Eustace did not believe that he wanted to change places with her, for what a spring-cleaning he would have to give himself!
There remained Hilda, Hilda whose prettiness Mr. Craddock had once praised, declaring it superior to Nancy Steptoe’s. She did look pretty now, Eustace could see that; her face lit up as she leaned forward to help Minney restrain Barbara from throwing herself out of the carriage. Prettiness caused you to be admired. Hilda had no wish to be admired, nor, Eustace thought, had Mr. Craddock. But there might be advantages in prettiness that Eustace was too young to know about. Mr. Craddock might care to be pretty; it would certainly be a change for him.