Leslie Hartley - The Complete Short Stories of L.P. Hartley

But the letter did not come easily, partly because Hilda never wrote letters, but chiefly because her inclination battled with her will, and her sense of her destiny warned her against what she was doing. More than once she was on the point of abandoning the letter, but in the pauses of her thoughts she heard the excited murmur of voices in the room below. This letter, if she posted it, would still those voices and send those silly clothes back to Messrs. Faith Brothers. It could do anything, this letter, stop the clock, put it back even, restore to her the Eustace of pre-Miss Fothergill days. Then why did she hesitate? Was it an obscure presentiment that she would regain Eustace but lose herself?

Dear Mr. Staveley (she had written),

Some time ago you asked me and Eustace to visit you, and we were not able to because . . . (Because why?)

Because I didn’t want to go, that was the real reason, and I don’t want to now except that it’s the only way of keeping Eustace at home.

Then he would see where he stood; she had sacrificed her pride by writing to him at all, she wouldn’t throw away the rest by pretending she wanted to see him. Instinctively she knew that however rude and ungracious the letter, he would want to see her just the same.

So we can come any time you like, and would you be quick and ask us because Eustace will go to school, so there’s no time to lose.

Yours sincerely,

Hilda was staring at the letter when there came a loud knock on the door, repeated twice with growing imperiousness before she had time to answer.

‘Yes?’ she shouted.

‘Oh, Hilda, can I come in?’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m busy, that’s why.’

Eustace’s tone gathered urgency and became almost menacing as he said:

‘Well, you’ve got to come down because Daddy said so. He wants you to take my snapshot.’

‘I can’t. I couldn’t anyhow because the film’s used up.’

‘Shall I go out and buy some? You see, it’s very important, it’s like a change of life. They want a record of me.’

‘They can go on wanting, for all I care.’

‘Oh, Hilda, I shan’t be here for you to photograph this time next Thursday week.’

‘Yes, you will, you see if you’re not.’

‘Don’t you want to remember what I look like?’

‘No, I don’t. Go away, go away, you’re driving me mad.’

She heard his footsteps retreating from the door. Wretchedly she turned to the letter. It looked blurred and misty, and a tear fell on it. Hilda had no blotting paper, and soon the tear-drop, absorbing the ink, began to turn blue at the edges.

‘He mustn’t see that,’ she thought, and taking another sheet began to copy the letter out. ‘Dear Mr. Staveley . . .’ But she did not like what she had written; it was out of key with her present mood. She took another sheet and began again:

‘Dear Mr. Staveley, My brother Eustace and I are now free . . .’ That wouldn’t do. Recklessly she snatched another sheet, and then another. ‘Dear Mr. Staveley, Dear Mr. Staveley.’ Strangely enough, with the repetition of the words he seemed to become almost dear; the warmth of dearness crept into her lonely, miserable heart and softly spread there—‘Dear Richard,’ she wrote, and then, ‘Dear Dick.’ ‘Dear’ meant something to her now; it meant that Dick was someone of whom she could ask a favour without reserve.

Dear Dick,

I do not know if you will remember me. I am the sister of Eustace Cherrington who was a little boy then and he was ill at your house and when you came to our house to ask after him you kindly invited us to go and see you. But we couldn’t because Eustace was too delicate. And you saw us again last summer on the sands and told Eustace about the money Miss Fothergill had left him but it hasn’t done him any good, I’m afraid, he still wants to go to school because other boys do but I would much rather he stayed at home and didn’t get like them. If you haven’t forgotten, you will remember you said I had been a good sister to him, much better than Nancy Steptoe is to Gerald. You said you would like to have me for a sister even when your own sister was there. You may not have heard but he is motherless and I have been a mother to him and it would be a great pity I’m sure you would agree if at this critical state of his development my influence was taken away. You may not remember but if you do you will recollect that you said you would pretend to be a cripple so that I could come and talk to you and play games with you like Eustace did with Miss Fothergill. There is no need for that because we can both walk over quite easily any day and the sooner the better otherwise Eustace will go to school. He is having his Sunday suit tried on at this moment so there is no time to lose. I shall be very pleased to come any time you want me and so will Eustace and we will do anything you want. I am quite brave Eustace says and do not mind strange experiences as long as they are for someone else’s good. That is why I am writing to you now.

With my kind regards,

Yours sincerely,

She sat for a moment looking at the letter, then with an angry and despairing sigh she crossed out ‘sincerely’ and wrote ‘affectionately’. But the word ‘sincerely’ was still legible, even to a casual glance; so she again tried to delete it, this time with so much vehemence that her pen almost went through the paper.

Sitting back, she fell into a mood of bitter musing. She saw the letter piling up behind her like a huge cliff, unscalable, taking away the sunlight, cutting off retreat. She dared not read it through but thrust it into an envelope, addressed and stamped it in a daze, and ran downstairs.

Eustace and his father were sitting together; the others had gone. Eustace kept looking at his new suit and fingering it as though to make sure it was real. They both jumped as they heard the door bang, and exchanged man-to-man glances.

‘She seems in a great hurry,’ said Mr. Cherrington.

‘Oh yes, Hilda’s always like that. She never gives things time to settle.’

‘You’ll miss her, won’t you?’

‘Oh, of course ,’ said Eustace. ‘I shall be quite unconscionable.’ It was the new suit that said the word; Eustace knew the word was wrong and hurried on.

‘Of course, it wouldn’t do for her to be with me there, even if she could be, in a boys’ school, I mean, because she would see me being, well, you know, tortured, and that would upset her terribly. Besides, the other fellows would think she was bossing me, though I don’t.’

‘You don’t?’

‘Oh no, it’s quite right at her time of life, but, of course, it couldn’t go on always. They would laugh at me, for one thing.’

‘If they did,’ said Mr. Cherrington, ‘it’s because they don’t know Hilda. Perhaps it’s a good thing she’s going to school herself.’

‘Oh, she is ?’ Eustace had been so wrapped up in his own concerns that he had forgotten the threat which hung over Hilda. But was it a threat or a promise? Ought he to feel glad for her sake or sorry? He couldn’t decide, and as it was natural for his mind to feel things as either nice or nasty, which meant right or wrong, of course, but one didn’t always know that at the time, he couldn’t easily entertain a mixed emotion, and the question of Hilda’s future wasn’t very real to him.

‘Yes,’ his father was saying, ‘we only got the letter this morning, telling us we could get her in. The school is very full but they are making an exception for her, as a favour to Dr. Waghorn, your head-master.’

‘Then it must be a good school,’ exclaimed Eustace, ‘if it’s at all like mine.’

‘Yes, St. Willibald’s is a pretty good school,’ said his father carelessly. ‘It isn’t so far from yours, either; just round the North Foreland. I shouldn’t be surprised if you couldn’t see each other with a telescope.’