‘How happy you must have been all these years, Eustace, never thinking of yourself except in terms of someone else’s happiness—you never felt you must make a stand, or deny, or turn down, or appoint yourself the censor of other people’s wishes, approving or disapproving according to your own little moral yard-stick. You have a beautiful character, Eustace, a sweet, sweet nature, and whenever my thoughts came down from the heaven where I was, they rested on you, as on a pillow—and that’s how it was when I took up the paper which I don’t ordinarily read and saw a place marked with a pencil.
‘I suppose one of the servants did it to spite me. I used to speak sharply to them sometimes, I felt I had to—and anyhow, it made no difference, only an hour or two, perhaps; I should have seen it anyway. Then I began to feel numb, and I dropped my coffee cup when it was half-way to my lips, and I tried to pick it up, but I couldn’t. And then I began to feel frightened and wanted to ring the bell, but I couldn’t get up out of my chair. So at last I called out, and somebody came running, but I couldn’t tell them what had happened because my mouth was all sewn up and the words wouldn’t come. They won’t come now, Eustace, I can’t speak any more, but I still have a voice, I can still call out, I can still make a noise, something like your name—I can still scream, EUSTACE!’
There was a noise in his head like the scratching of a gramophone needle when the tune is played out.
Speak, Hilda, speak!
She cannot speak, her mouth is sewn up. She is dumb. She can never tell you what has happened, Eustace.
The scratching went on, but now another sound was joined to it—voices, girls’ voices alight with laughter. They were standing, three of them in the doorway, as Eustace could see in the mirror; they were looking sideways down the little flight of steps at someone who was coming up behind them. They were pretty and very smart; their clothes made a soft bright blur round their slender bodies, bending to an unseen wind, and their bare arms a pleading pattern like those of suppliants on a frieze. A man’s voice answered, and they all began to move into the room, exploring it with glances, half proud, half shy. “Over there, don’t you think, by the window?” the first one said, and they followed each other, expectation in their eyes, across the mirror. After them came a heavier tread, a taller, stronger shape, a man’s. For a moment it filled the mirror, a reflection so portentous that Eustace felt the glass must crack.
Lowering his head, he slipped out of his chair, and was already in the doorway when Tonino called after him in Italian, “Shall I put these down to the Contessa?” Eustace nodded and ran down the steps. He could still hear the voices in the bar above him. Where next? The soles of his feet tingled. A page in a green uniform passed him, walking purposefully to the folding doors that led to the terrace and the canal. Mechanically Eustace followed him, and felt the landing-stage heaving under his feet. The rain had almost stopped, but the wind was as strong as ever. “Silvestro! Erminio!” shouted the boy, in tones more imperious than Eustace could have used. “Pronti!” came the answer, in a voice like the crack of a whip. Eustace heard the grating and clanking of chains coming from the darkness on his left, and soon the small square lantern of the gondola was nodding its way towards him. The boat drew up at the stage.
“Comandi?” said Silvestro. His face looked dark and sulky; self-sacrifice had turned sour on him.
Eustace hesitated; he did not know where to go.
“Al palazzo, allora,” said Silvestro impatiently, making Eustace’s mind up for him. Just as he spoke a nearby window opened, someone leaned out, and he heard a girl’s voice say, “It’s going to be a fine night, Dick, after all.”
Eustace scrambled into the gondola, the doors of the felze closed on him, and they were off.
‘At Anchorstone Hall the helmets lay along the window-ledges just as if the knights of old time had thrown them there after a joust. The Staveley family had always been renowned for its knights; they practised daily, hourly, in the tilting-ground, they were patterns of chivalry. And one of them, Sir Richard Staveley, attained a pitch of proficiency in the knightly arts that none of his ancestors had reached before. He roamed the seashore and the forests undefeated, unchallenged even; for whosoever met him, horse and rider went down at the first onset. He was dreaded and admired by all. One day, when he was out hunting in the forest, he came across a boy called Eustace, who had fainted after taking part in a kind of Marathon race of those days, and rescued him, and carried him into his father’s castle, where a great log fire was burning, and they gave him brandy and brought him round, and put him into a suit of Richard’s which was much too big for him, and after that they were friends, although this Eustace was a clerk and delicate, and could take no part in knightly exercises. And it happened that Eustace had a sister called Hilda, a very beautiful girl who all his life long had taken care of Eustace and told him what he must and must not do. Now Hilda did not care for knights or for any man. But Eustace wanted to introduce her to his friend, Sir Richard, because he hoped she would like him; so he persuaded her to stay at the Castle.
‘But this Sir Richard, though he was so brave and strong and had distinguished himself in the wars against the Moslems, was a false knight, and he used his friend’s sister extremely ill. He slung her across his saddle-bow and carried her off and betrayed her and ravished her. And all this time he promised her marriage and she believed him, but when the day of the marriage drew near, he broke his plighted word and said he would marry another girl, a girl much richer than Hilda and used to the life of Courts. And when Hilda heard, the cup dropped from her hand, and all her limbs stiffened and her mouth was tied down so that she could not speak.
‘Now all this time her brother, Eustace, was in Venice, where he had been lured by a princess who was Sir Richard’s aunt and in the plot with him. And she bought a costly dress for Eustace’s sister so that she might find new favour with Sir Richard. But Eustace discovered the plot and what had happened to Hilda, and said he must at once return to England because he was the man of the family and they relied on him. Now as he was sitting in a place of refreshment thinking of these things and preparing to depart, the mists cleared, and Sir Richard entered attended by three ladies of rank and fashion and they all laughed together.
‘Of course if Eustace had been a knight as Sir Richard was, and accustomed to the wars, he would have stayed and said “Traitor, defend thyself!” and flung his glove in Sir Richard’s face. But as he was only a clerk, and suffered from a weak heart, he rose before they saw him and stole away. And everyone said, “Well done, Eustace! You have shown the discretion which is the better part of valour. You could not make a scene before ladies, that is taboo; and had you attacked Sir Richard, you would now be lying senseless on the greensward, quite unable to undertake the journey that lies before you to-morrow. Besides, duelling is a brutal and degrading custom condemned by all civilised people.”’
The gondola heeled over, flinging Eustace forward almost on to his knees, and a scatter of spray broke against the window. Peering through the running drops, he saw the great bulk of Ca’ Foscari; they had passed the iron bridge and were nearly home.
‘And when the people saw him coming back, they pointed their fingers at him and cried, “Coward, Eustace, coward! For what you did in ignorance we can excuse you; but not for this. You have sacrificed your sister’s honour, and you will not raise a finger to avenge her. You’re thinking of your precious skin, that’s what it is. You remember Dick’s big hairy wrists sticking out of his shirtcuffs, and his knuckles showing white over the bone! You’re afraid of all that, as Hilda was. Your heart may bleed for her, but your flesh never will! You’re yellow, and no decent person will ever speak to you. We won’t let you land here. Go back! Go back!” And Eustace went back and slew the false knight who had dishonoured his sister, and his blood stained the pavement where they fought.’
Eustace leaned forward, and with a great effort pushed open the doors of the felze. Straight in front of him, framed in the aperture
, soared up the tremendous angle from which the converging walls of the Palazzo Sfortunato swung right and left into the darkness. But the walls were not all dark; light shone from the Gothic windows of the piano nobile and from the room beyond it, the dining-room. Inside by the column under the arch, on a tall crimson chair with finials carved like a crown, sat Lady Nelly, her soft white hands folded in her lap, her figure all curves and comfort, her amethyst eyes shining mistily, her voice warm with welcome.
‘Why, Eustace, here you are at last! We were wondering what had become of you! Ring the bell, Eustace, and we’ll have some champagne to toast you on your last night.’
Silvestro was putting on the spurt he always mustered to bring the boat home in style; the water flew back from the blade in a diaphanous arc, splendid to see. But when he heard the doors open he checked his stroke in a smother of spray and turned round.
“Signore?”
“Torniamo, torniamo,” cried Eustace.
The gondolier’s face fell. Seldom had Eustace felt the current of a will flowing so strongly against his own.
“Where do you want to go now?” he asked almost rudely. “It is late, signore, and the Countess is expecting you.”
Eustace answered angrily, “Take me back to the hotel.”
Cowed by his tone, Silvestro turned the boat round without a word.
14. IN THE LISTS
AT THE hotel landing-stage Eustace dismissed the gondola. He would walk home, he said. Please tell the Countess not to wait: his business was taking him longer than he expected. Unescorted he passed through the double doors. No sound came from the bar. Everyone was at dinner. Breathing rather quickly, he went in.
Dick was sitting alone by the far window, looking out on to the water. A whisky and soda stood in front of him. As Eustace came towards him he turned, and a puzzled frown appeared on his face. Then he recognised Eustace, his jaw dropped slightly, his face cleared, and he rose to his feet and held out his hand.
“Eustace!” he said. “Imagine meeting you here.”
Eustace ignored his hand and came a step nearer.
“I’ve come to tell you you’re a blackguard,” he said.
The words were out, and he still lived. Dick’s hand dropped to his side. He was wearing a grey suit, a linen shirt so fine it might have been silk, and a blue tie with white spots. His eyes were tired and wary; he looked fit but not well.
“Sit down,” he said, “and let’s talk about this. Waiter, my friend here would like a drink.”
“I’m not your friend,” said Eustace. It cost him something special to say that. “And I won’t drink with you. I came to say you’re a scoundrel, and that’s all I have to say.”
At this moment he should have gone, but he lingered to see the effect of his words.
“All right, waiter,” said Dick to Tonino, invisible to scowling Eustace. “The gentleman doesn’t want a drink.”
With the slow gesture that Eustace remembered, Dick pulled out his cigarette-case.
“If you won’t drink, perhaps you’ll smoke.”
Eustace shook his head.
“Then if you won’t I will.”
Eyeing Eustace across the flame, he lit his cigarette with a hand that trembled slightly.
“Too many late nights,” he said, and when Eustace did not answer but still stood in an attitude as truculent as he could make it, he added, “Let’s be more comfortable. There’s a chair here.”
Eustace looked at the chair as if it had been a scorpion. Hitherto he had felt nothing but the wild elation of an actor who has succeeded against all belief in an impossible rôle; but embarrassment was rising in him, and another sensation that he knew and dreaded.
“What do you want to do?” said Dick. “Knock me down?”
All at once Eustace felt the floor coming up at him. Vaguely wondering whether Dick had hit him, he swayed and clutched at the chair. It would have overbalanced if Dick had not caught the other arm and steadied it. But Eustace had not the strength to hold himself up, his knees buckled, and his feet began to slide from under him. With a quick movement Dick got hold of him before he fell and supported him on to the chair.
“Put your head between your knees,” he said; “you’ll be all right in a moment.”
Eustace lowered his head into what is one of the least impressive postures that the body can assume.
“Waiter,” Dick called, “we want some brandy here.”
Tonino, who had discreetly withdrawn out of sight, returned with the bottle and poured out a wine-glassful. He looked down at Eustace with concern.
“Povero Signor Shairington,” he said.
“You know him, then?” said Dick.
“He is a guest of the Countess of Staveley, a very nice gentleman.” Tonino spoke as if Eustace was not there.
“See if we can make him swallow some of this,” said Dick, holding the glass to Eustace’s pale lips.
Eustace tried to push the glass away. “I have some,” he muttered, “here.” Gropingly he steered his other hand towards his pocket.
“Damn his pride,” said Dick in exasperation. “Here, swallow it down, there’s a good fellow. It’s not a drink, it’s medicine, and you can pay for it afterwards.”
Eustace drank some of the brandy and began to feel a little better.
“The gondola,” he said, turning to Tonino. “I sent it away.”
“Shall I telephone for one from the traghetto?” said Tonino solicitously. “It won’t be many minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Eustace. “I’ll go down to the hall and wait.”
He tried to get up, but the room began to swim, and he sat down again, resolutely looking away from Dick.
“Take it easy,” Dick said. “You were like this once before, you know.”
Eustace tried not to answer, but social instinct and the memory of an episode which had sweetened his whole life overcame the bitterness of the moment, and he said:
“Yes, it all began with that.”
Dick, who had been standing, sat down and lit another cigarette.
“Don’t think too badly of me,” he said.
Eustace swallowed hard. “I’d rather not think of you.” He forced himself to utter the words, but they sounded false in his ears and he felt himself weakening. He had said his say, he had called Dick a blackguard and a scoundrel, he had broken irreparably the thin shell of their friendship, he had done all that Hilda could expect, that anyone could expect. The elation, the intoxicating moment of self-pride, the clear flame of anger had faded with his fading senses, and he found himself coming back to a sick sorry self, that had no impulse left but to terminate the interview and get away.
“You’re looking better now,” said Dick. “Not quite so green.”
Green, yes, he had been very green. At the same time he was touched by the casual kindness in Dick’s voice, the kindness a soldier might show for a wounded enemy who had fallen in the attempt to kill him; and for the first time he allowed his eyes to rest unbalefully on Dick’s face. It was thinner than he remembered, and wore a look of strain.
“You know,” Dick said, “I think you may not have got this quite right.”
Using his will like a bellows, Eustace kindled a flame in the embers of his anger. “I know as much as I want to, thank you.”
Dick’s hands were resting on the table, and he studied the sleeve of his coat.
“Who told you?”
“Does that make any difference?”
“Yes,” said Dick. “I think it does.” He spoke with a touch of his old authority, which Eustace at once welcomed and resented.
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you why,” said Dick. “That’s just it. If I told you, you’d think me a worse cad than you do now.”
“I couldn’t,” said Eustace, but his heart was not in the words, and his nature, though not his will, regretted them.
“Yes, I gave you an easy score there,” said Dick. It was the first time he had acknowledged the ho
stility of Eustace’s attitude. “But tell me this. Has Hilda written to you?”
Eustace flushed at her name on Dick’s lips and said angrily:
“Not since. How can she, when she’s paralysed?” The lines of strain deepened in Dick’s face, but he made no other sign.
“Has Miss Cherrington written?”
“Yes, but I haven’t got the letter. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” said Dick, “I think you have only heard one side. If you’d been in England——”
“I wish to God I had been,” said Eustace.
“So do I.”
Eustace stared at him unbelievingly, but doubt wriggled into his mind and his case against Dick seemed to weaken.
“You wish I’d been in England?” he blustered. “Why, it suited your book to get me out. It was just what you wanted. You and Lady Nelly between you——”
“Aunt Nelly? How does she come into it?”
“Well, she knew what you were up to, so she got me to come here to make things easier for you.”
“Easier for me,” said Dick. “Easier? Good God! That shows how little you know.” His tone changed. “But don’t drag in Aunt Nelly. Believe me, she knew as little as you did—less, I dare say. She hadn’t the faintest idea. You can count her out.”
The sound of Lady Nelly’s footsteps climbing back to her pedestal was music to Eustace’s heart.
“You think she didn’t know?” he asked, in his eagerness forgetting to sound angry.
Dick smiled his old smile.
“Quite sure. She always meant to ask you, on the strength of what Antony told her about you. And I said something too. But I wish she hadn’t.”