Eustace and Hilda by L.P. Hartley Read Free Book Online

don’t think you ought to tell your father to hurry,” Aunt Sarah said.
    Eustace became anxious and crestfallen at once.
    â€œOh, I didn’t really mean he was to hurry.... Only just not ... not to waste time. You knew what I meant, didn’t you, Daddy?”
    He looked up at his father, and Aunt Sarah looked at him too. Mr. Cherrington was silent. At last he said:
    â€œWell, I suppose you ought to be careful how you talk to me.”
    â€œHas Eustace been rude to Daddy again?” inquired Hilda, who had joined the group.
    â€œOh, nothing much,” said Mr. Cherrington awkwardly. “Come along now, or we shall never get started.” He spoke with irritation but without authority. Eustace looked back into the hall.
    â€œIsn’t Minney coming?”
    â€œNo,” said Aunt Sarah. “I told you before, she has to look after Barbara.”
    They started up the hill towards the carriage.
    Hilda and Eustace took turns to sit on the box. Eustace’s turn came last. This meant missing a bird’s-eye view of the streets of Anchorstone, but certain interesting and venerated landmarks such as the soaring water-tower, a magnificent structure of red brick which he never passed under without a thrill, thinking it might burst with the weight of water imprisoned in it, could be seen almost as well from inside. He loved the moment when they turned off the main road on the brink of Frontisham Hill, that frightful declivity with its rusty warning to cyclists, and began to go inland. Every beat of the horses’ hoofs brought the Downs nearer. Hilda would talk to the driver with an almost professional knowledge of horses. He let her use the whip and even, when they got clear of the town, hold the reins herself. Eustace had once been offered this privilege. At first he enjoyed the sensation of power, and the touch of the driver’s large gloved hand over his gave him a feeling of security. But suddenly the horse stumbled, then broke into a gallop, and the driver, snatching the reins, swore with a vehemence that terrified Eustace. He had never seen anyone so angry before, and though the man, when he calmed down, assured him he was not to blame, he felt he was, and refused to repeat the experiment. A conviction of failure clung to him, reasserting itself when Hilda, erect and unruffled, displayed her proficiency and fearlessness; in fact whenever he saw a horse. And everyone assured him that he would never be a man until he learned how to drive. Indeed, the future was already dull and menacing with the ambitions other people entertained on his behalf. It seldom occurred to him to question their right to cherish these expectations. Not only must he learn to drive a horse, he must master so many difficult matters: ride a bicycle, play hockey, play the piano, talk French and, hardest of all, earn his living and provide for his sisters and his Aunt Sarah and his father when he got too old to work.... The future was to be a laborious business. And if he did not fulfil these obligations, everyone would be angry, or at least grieved and disappointed.
    In self-defence Eustace had formed the mental habit of postponing starting to make a man of himself to an unspecified date that never came nearer, remaining miraculously just far enough away not to arouse feelings of nervous dread, but not so far away as to give his conscience cause to reproach him with neglect of his duties. The charm did not always work, but it worked to-day: his enjoyment of the drive was undisturbed by any sense of private failure. Presently Hilda announced that it was time for him to take her place on the box. The carriage stopped while he climbed up.
    Searching for a subject of conversation that might interest his neighbour, he said, “Have you ever ridden a racehorse?”
    The driver smiled.
    â€œNo, you want to be a jockey to do that.”
    A jockey: no one had ever proposed that Eustace should be a jockey. It always gave