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

him pleasure to contemplate a profession with which his future was not involved.
    â€œDo jockeys get rich?” he presently inquired.
    â€œSome of ’em do,” the man replied.
    â€œRicher than you?” Eustace was afraid the question might be too personal so he made his voice sound as incredulous as possible.
    â€œI should think they did,” said the driver warmly.
    â€œI’m sorry,” said Eustace. Then, voicing an ancient fear, he asked, “It’s very hard to make money, isn’t it?”
    â€œYou’re right,” said the driver. “It jolly well is.”
    Eustace sighed, and for a moment the Future loomed up, black and threatening and charged with responsibility. But the appearance of a ruined roofless church made of flints, grey and jagged and very wild-looking, distracted him. Its loneliness challenged his imagination. Moreover, it was a sign that the Downs were at hand.
    â€œSoon we shall see the farm-house,” he remarked.
    The driver pointed with his whip. “There it is!”
    A cluster of buildings, shabby and uncared for, came into view.
    â€œAnd there’s the iron spring,” cried Eustace. “Look, it’s running.”
    A trickle of brownish water came out of a pipe under the farm-house wall. The ground around it was dyed bright orange; but disappointingly it failed to colour the pond which received it a yard or two below.
    â€œIf you was to drink that every day,” observed the driver, “you’d soon be a big chap.”
    â€œYou don’t think I’m very big now?”
    â€œYou’ll grow a lot bigger yet,” said the driver diplomatically.
    Eustace was relieved. He had been told that he was undersized. One of the tasks enjoined on him was to increase his stature. Some association of ideas led him to say:
    â€œDo you know a girl called Nancy Steptoe?”
    â€œI should think I did,” said the driver. “If I wasn’t driving you to-day I should be driving them.”
    â€œI’m glad we asked you first,” said Eustace politely. The man seemed pleased. “She’s a nice girl, isn’t she?”
    No answer came for a moment. Then the driver said:
    â€œI’d rather be taking you and Miss Hilda.”
    â€œOh!” cried Eustace, emotions of delight and disappointment struggling in him, “but don’t you like Nancy?”
    â€œIt’s not for me to say whether I like her or whether I don’t.”
    â€œBut you must know which you do,” exclaimed Eustace.
    The driver grunted.
    â€œBut she’s so pretty.”
    â€œNot so pretty as Miss Hilda by a long sight.”
    Eustace was amazed. He had heard Hilda called pretty, but that she should be prettier than Nancy—the gay and the daring, the care-free, the well-dressed, the belle of Anchorstone—he could not believe it. Hilda was wonderful; everything she did was right; Eustace could not exist without her, could not long be happy without her good opinion, but he had never imagined that her supremacy held good outside the moral sphere and the realm of the affections.
    â€œShe doesn’t think she’s pretty herself,” he said at last.
    â€œShe will some day,” said the driver.
    â€œBut, Mr. Craddock,” exclaimed Eustace (he always called Craddock Mr. having received a hint from Minney: the others never did), “she’s too good to be pretty.”
    Mr. Craddock laughed.
    â€œYou say some old-fashioned things, Master Eustace,” he said.
    Eustace pondered. He still wanted to know why the driver preferred taking them, the humble Cherringtons, to the glorious, exciting Steptoes.
    â€œDo you think Nancy is proud?” he asked at last.
    â€œShe’s got no call to be,” Mr. Craddock said.
    Eustace thought she had, but did not say so. He determined to make a frontal attack.
    â€œDo you often take the Steptoes in your carriage, Mr.