HELENA

 BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD

 AUTHOR OF LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER, MISSING, ELIZABETH'S CAMPAIGN, ETC. 

 1919

CHAPTER I

"I don't care a hang about the Middle Classes!" said Lord Buntingford, resting his head on his hand, and slowly drawing a pen over a printedsheet that lay before him. The sheet was headed "Middle Class DefenceLeague, " and was an appeal to whom it might concern to join the foundersof the League in an attempt to curb the growing rapacity of theworking-classes. "Why should we be snuffed out without a struggle?" saidthe circular. "We are fewer, no doubt, but we are better educated. Ourhome traditions are infinitely superior. It is on the Middle Classes thatthe greatness of England depends. "

"Does it?" thought Lord Buntingford irritably. "I wonder. "

He rose and began to pace his library, a shabby comfortable room which heloved. The room however had distinction like its master. The distinctioncame, perhaps, from its few pictures, of no great value, but witnessingto a certain taste and knowledge on the part of the persons, long sincedead, who hung them there; from one or two cases of old Nankin; from itsold books; and from a faded but enchanting piece of tapestry behind thecases of china, which seemed to represent a forest. The tapestry, whichcovered the whole of the end wall of the room, was faded and out ofrepair, but Lord Buntingford, who was a person of artistic sensibilities, was very fond of it, and had never been able to make up his mind to spareit long enough to have it sent to the School of Art Needlework formending. His cousin, Lady Cynthia Welwyn, scolded him periodically forhis negligence in the matter. But after all it was he, and not Cynthia, who had to live in the room. She had something to do with the School, andof course wanted jobs for her workers. 

"I hope that good woman's train will be punctual, " he thought to himself, presently, as he went to a window and drew up a blind. "Otherwise I shallhave no time to look at her before Helena arrives. "

He stood awhile absently surveying the prospect outside. There was firstof all a garden with some pleasant terraces, and flights of stone steps, planned originally in the grand style, but now rather dilapidated andill-kept, suggesting either a general shortage of pelf on the part of theowner--or perhaps mere neglect and indifference. 

Beyond the garden stretched a green rim of park, with a gleam of water inthe middle distance which seemed to mean either a river or a pond, manyfine scattered trees, and, girdling the whole, a line of wooded hill. Just such a view as any county--almost--in this beautiful England canproduce. It was one of the first warm days of a belated spring. Afortnight before, park and hills and garden had been deep in snow. NowNature, eager, and one might think ashamed, was rushing at her neglectedwork, determined to set the full spring going in a minimum of hours. Thegrass seemed to be growing, and the trees leafing under the spectator'seyes. There was already a din of cuckoos in the park, and the nestingbirds were busy. 

The scene was both familiar and unfamiliar to Lord Buntingford. He hadbeen brought up in it as a child. But he had only inherited the Beechmarkproperty from his uncle just before the war, and during almost the wholeof the war he had been so hard at work, as a volunteer in the Admiralty, that he had never been able to do more than run down once or twice a yearto see his agent, go over his home farm, and settle what timber was to becut before the Government commandeered it. He was not yet demobilized, ashis naval uniform showed. There was a good deal of work still to do inhis particular office, and he was more than willing to do it. But in afew months' time at any rate--he was just now taking a fortnight'sleave--he would be once more at a loose end. That condition of thingsmust be altered as soon as possible. When he looked back over the yearsof driving work through which he had just passed to the years ofsemi-occupation before them, he shrank from those old conditions indisgust. Something must be found to which he could enslave himself again. Liberty was the great delusion--at least for him. 

Politics?--Well, there was the House of Lords, and the possibility ofsome minor office, when his Admiralty work was done. And the wholepost-war situation was only too breathless. But for a man who, as soon ashe had said Yes, was immediately seized with an insensate desire to lookonce more at all the reasons which might have induced him to say No, there was no great temptation in politics. Work was what the nationwanted--not talk. 

Agriculture and the Simple Life?--Hardly! Five years of life in London, four of them under war conditions, had spoilt any taste for the countryhe had ever possessed. He meant to do his duty by his estate, and by themiscellaneous crowd of people, returned soldiers and others, who seemedto wish to settle upon it. But to take the plunge seriously, to go inheart and soul for intensive culture or scientific dairy-farming, tospend lonely winters in the country with his bailiffs and tenants forcompany--it was no good talking about it--he knew it could not be done. 

And--finally--what was the good of making plans at all?--with these newresponsibilities which friendship and pity and weakness of will hadlately led him to take upon himself?--For two years at least he would notbe able to plan his life in complete freedom. 

His thoughts went dismally off in the new direction. As he turned awayfrom the window, a long Venetian mirror close by reflected the image of atall man in naval uniform, with a head and face that were striking ratherthan handsome--black curly hair just dusted with grey, a slight chronicfrown, remarkable blue eyes and a short silky beard. His legs wereslender in proportion to the breadth of his shoulders, and inadequate inrelation to the dignity of the head. One of them also was slightly--veryslightly--lame. 

He wandered restlessly round the room again, stopping every now and thenwith his hands in his pockets, to look at the books on the shelves. Generally, he did not take in what he was looking at, but in a momentless absent-minded than others, he happened to notice the name of astately octavo volume just opposite his eyes--

"Davison, on Prophecy. "

"Damn Davison!"--he said to himself, with sudden temper. The outburstseemed to clear his mind. He went to the bell and rang it. A thin womanin a black dress appeared, a woman with a depressed and deprecatingexpression which was often annoying to Lord Buntingford. It representedsomehow an appeal to the sentiment of the spectator for which there wasreally no sufficient ground. Mrs. Mawson was not a widow, in spite of theMrs. She was a well-paid and perfectly healthy person; and there was noreason, in Lord Buntingford's view, why she should not enjoy life. Allthe same, she was very efficient and made him comfortable. He would haveraised her wages to preposterous heights to keep her. 

"Is everything ready for the two ladies, Mrs. Mawson?"

"Everything, my Lord. We are expecting the pony-cart directly. "

"And the car has been ordered for Miss Pitstone?"

"Oh, yes, my Lord, long ago. "

"Gracious! Isn't that the cart!"

There was certainly a sound of wheels outside. Lord Buntingford hurriedto a window which commanded the drive. 

"That's her! I must go and meet her. "

He went into the hall, reaching the front door just as the pony-cart drewup with a lady in black sitting beside the driver. Mrs. Mawson lookedafter him. She wondered why his lordship was in such a flurry. "It's thisliving alone. He isn't used to have women about. And it's a pity hedidn't stay on as he was. "

Meanwhile the lady in the pony-cart, as she alighted, saw a tall man, ofsomewhat remarkable appearance, standing on the steps of the porch. Herexpectations had been modest; and that she would be welcomed by heremployer in person on the doorstep of Beechmark had not been among them. Her face flushed, and a pair of timid eyes met those of Lord Buntingfordas they shook hands. 

"The train was very late, " she explained in a voice of apology. 

"They always are, " said Lord Buntingford. "Never mind. You are in quitegood time. Miss Pitstone hasn't arrived. Norris, take Mrs. Friend'sluggage upstairs. "

An ancient man-servant appeared. The small and delicately built lady onthe step looked at him appealingly. 

"I am afraid there is a box besides, " she said, like one confessing acrime. "Not a big one--" she added hurriedly. "We had to leave it at thestation. The groom left word for it to be brought later. "

"Of course. The car will bring it, " said Lord Buntingford. "Only onebox and those bags?" he asked, smiling. "Why, that's most moderate. Please come in. "

And he led the way to the drawing-room. Reassured by his kind voiceand manner, Mrs. Friend tripped after him. "What a charming man!"she thought. 

It was a common generalization about Lord Buntingford. Mrs. Friend hadstill--like others--to discover that it did not take one very far. 

In the drawing-room, which was hung with French engravings mostly afterWatteau, and boasted a faded Aubusson carpet, a tea-table was set out. Lord Buntingford, having pushed forward a seat for his guest, wenttowards the tea-table, and then thought better of it. 

"Perhaps you'll pour out tea--" he said pleasantly. "It'll be yourfunction, I think--and I always forget something. "

Mrs. Friend took her seat obediently in front of the tea-table and theGeorgian silver upon it, which had a look of age and frailty as thoughgenerations of butlers had rubbed it to the bone, and did her best notto show the nervousness she felt. She was very anxious to please hernew employer. 

"I suppose Miss Pitstone will be here before long?" she ventured, whenshe had supplied both the master of the house and herself. 

"Twenty minutes--" said Lord Buntingford, looking at his watch. "Time enough for me to tell you a little more about her than Iexpect you know. "

And again his smile put her at ease. 

She bent forward, clasping her small hands. 

"Please do! It would be a great help. "

He noticed the delicacy of the hands, and of her slender body. The faceattracted him--its small neat features, and brown eyes. Clearly alady--that was something. 

"Well, I shouldn't wonder--if you found her a handful, " he saiddeliberately. 

Mrs. Friend laughed--a little nervous laugh. 

"Is she--is she very advanced?"

"Uncommonly--I believe. I may as well tell you candidly she didn't wantto come here at all. She wanted to go to college. But her mother, who wasa favourite cousin of mine, wished it. She died last autumn; and Helenapromised her that she would allow me to house her and look after her fortwo years. But she regards it as a dreadful waste of time. "

"I think--in your letter--you said I was to help her--in modernlanguages--" murmured Mrs. Friend. 

Lord Buntingford shrugged his shoulders--

"I have no doubt you could help her in a great many things. Young people, who know her better than I do, say she's very clever. But her mother andshe were always wandering about--before the war--for her mother's health. I don't believe she's been properly educated in anything. Of course onecan't expect a girl of nineteen to behave like a schoolgirl. If you caninduce her to take up some serious reading--Oh, I don't mean anythingtremendous!--and to keep up her music---I expect that's all her poormother would have wanted. When we go up to town you must take her toconcerts--the opera--that kind of thing. I dare say it will go allright!" But the tone was one of resignation, rather than certainty. 

"I'll do my best--" began Mrs. Friend. 

"I'm sure you will. But--well, we'd better be frank with each other. Helena's very handsome--very self-willed--and a good bit of an heiress. The difficulty will be--quite candidly--_lovers_!"

They both laughed. Lord Buntingford took out his cigarette case. 

"You don't mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all. "

"Won't you have one yourself?" He held out the case. Mrs. Friend did notsmoke. But she inwardly compared the gesture and the man with theforbidding figure of the old woman in Lancaster Gate with whom she hadjust completed two years of solitary imprisonment, and some much-baffledvitality in her began to revive. 

Lord Buntingford threw himself back in his arm-chair, and watched thecurls of smoke for a short space--apparently in meditation. 

"Of course it's no good trying the old kind of thing--strict chaperonageand that sort of business, " he said at last. "The modern girl won'tstand it. "

"No, indeed she won't!" said Mrs. Friend fervently. "I should like totell you--I've just come from ----" She named a university. "I went tosee a cousin of mine, who's in one of the colleges there. She's going toteach. She went up just before the war. Then she left to do some warwork, and now she's back again. She says nobody knows what to do with thegirls. All the old rules have just--_gone_!" The gesture of the smallhand was expressive. "Authority--means nothing. The girls are enteringfor the sports--just like the men. They want to run the colleges--as theyplease--and make all the rules themselves. "

"Oh, I know--" broke in her companion. "They'll just allow the wretchedteachers and professors to teach--what their majesties choose to learn. Otherwise--they run the show. "

"Of course, they're awfully _nice_ girls--most of them, " said Mrs. Friend, with a little, puzzled wrinkling of the brow. 

"Ripping! Done splendid war work and all that. But the older generation, now that things have begun again, are jolly well up a tree--how to fitthe new to the old. I have some elderly relations at Oxbridge--a nice oldprofessor and his wife. Not stick-in-the-muds at all. But they tell methe world there--where the young women are concerned--seems to bestanding on its head. Well!--as far as I can gather--I really know hervery slightly--my little cousin Helena's in just the same sort of stage. All we people over forty might as well make our wills and have done withit. They'll soon discover some kind device for putting us out of the way. They've no use for us. And yet at the same time"--he flung his cigaretteinto the wood-fire beside him--"the fathers and mothers who brought theminto the world will insist on clucking after them, or if they can't cluckthemselves, making other people cluck. I shall have to try and cluckafter Helena. It's absurd, and I shan't succeed, of course--how could I?But as I told you, her mother was a dear woman--and--"

His sentence stopped abruptly. Mrs. Friend thought--"he was in love withher. " However, she got no further light on the matter. Lord Buntingfordrose, and lit another cigarette. 

"I must go and write a letter before post. Well, you see, you and I havegot to do our best. Of course, you mustn't try and run her on a tightrein--you'd be thrown before you were out of the first field--" His blueeyes smiled down upon the little stranger lady. "And you mustn't spy uponher. But if you're really in difficulties, come to me. We'll make out, somehow. And now, she'll be here in a few minutes. Would you like to stayhere--or shall I ring for the housemaid to show you your room?"

"Thank you--I--think I'll stay here. Can I find a book?"

She looked round shyly. 

"Scores. There are some new books"--he pointed to a side-table wherethe obvious contents of a Mudie box, with some magazines, were laidout--"and if you want old ones, that door"--he waved towards one atthe far end of the room--"will take you into the library. Mygreat-grandfather's collection--not mine! And then one has ridiculousscruples about burning them! However, you'll find a few nice ones. Pleasemake yourself at home!" And with a slight bow to her, the first sign inhim of those manners of the _grand seigneur_ she had vaguely expected, hewas moving away, when she said hurriedly, pursuing her own thought:

"You said Miss Pitstone was very good-looking?"

"Oh, very!" He laughed. "She's exactly like Romney's Lady Hamilton. Youknow the type?"

"Ye-es, " said Mrs. Friend. "I think I remember--before the war--atAgnew's? My husband took me there once. " The tone was hesitating. Thelittle lady was clearly not learned in English art. But Lord Buntingfordliked her the better for not pretending. 

"Of course. There's always an Emma, when Old Masters are on show. Romneypainted her forty or fifty times. We've got one ourselves--a sketch mygrandfather bought. If you'll come into the hall I'll show it you. "

She followed obediently and, in a rather dark corner of the hall, LordBuntingford pointed out an unfinished sketch of Lady Hamilton--one of themany Bacchante variants--the brown head bent a little under the ivyleaves in the hair, the glorious laughing eyes challenging the spectator. 

"Is she like that?" asked Mrs. Friend, wondering. 

"Who?--my ward?" laughed Lord Buntingford. "Well, you'll see. "

He walked away, and Mrs. Friend stayed a few minutes more in front of thepicture--thinking--and with half an ear listening for the sound of amotor. She was full of tremors and depression. "I was a fool to come--afool to accept!" she thought. The astonishing force of the sketch--of thecreature sketched--intimidated her. If Helena Pitstone were really likethat--"How can she ever put up with me? She'll just despise me. It willbe only natural. And then if things go wrong, Lord Buntingford will findout I'm no good--and I shall have to go!"

She gave a long sigh, lifting her eyes a little--against her will--to thereflection of herself in an old mirror hanging beside the Romney. What apoor little insignificant figure--beside the other! No, she had noconfidence in herself--none at all--she never had had. The people she hadlived with had indeed generally been fond of her. It was because she madeherself useful to them. Old Mrs. Browne had professed affection forher, --till she gave notice. She turned with a shiver from therecollection of an odious scene. 

She went bade to the drawing-room and thence to the library, lookingwistfully, as she passed through it, at the pleasant hall, with its oldfurniture, and its mellowed comfort. She would like to find a home here, if only they would put up with her. For she was very homeless. 

As compared with the drawing-room, the library had been evidently livedin. Its books and shabby chairs seemed to welcome her, and the oldtapestry delighted her. She stood some minutes before it in a quietpleasure, dreaming herself into the forest, and discovering an old castlein its depths. Then she noticed a portrait of an old man, labelled as by"Frank Holl, R. A. , " hanging over the mantelpiece. She supposed it wasthe grandfather who had collected the books. The face and hair of the oldman had blanched indeed to a singular whiteness; but the eyes, blue understrong eyebrows, with their concentrated look, were the eyes of the LordBuntingford with whom she had just been talking. 

The hoot of a motor startled her, and she ran to a window which commandedthe drive. An open car was rapidly approaching. A girl was driving it, with a man in chauffeur's uniform sitting behind her. She brought the carsmartly up to the door, then instantly jumped out, lifted the bonnet, andstood with the chauffeur at her side, eagerly talking to him and pointingto something in the chassis. Mrs. Friend saw Lord Buntingford run downthe steps to greet his ward. She gave him a smile and a left hand, andwent on talking. Lord Buntingford stood by, twisting his moustache, tillshe had finished. Then the chauffeur, looking flushed and sulky, got intothe car, and the girl with Lord Buntingford ascended the steps. Mrs. Friend left the window, and hurriedly went back to the drawing-room, where tea was still spread. Through the drawing-room door she heard avoice from the hall full of indignant energy. 

"You ought to sack that man, Cousin Philip. He's spoiling that beautifulcar of yours. "

"Is he? He suits me. Have you been scolding him all the way?"

"Well, I told him a few things--in your interest. " Lord Buntingfordlaughed. A few words followed in lowered tones. 

"He is telling her about me, " thought Mrs. Friend, and presently caught achuckle, very merry and musical, which brought an involuntary smile toher own eyes. Then the door was thrown back, and Lord Buntingford usheredin his ward. 

"This is Mrs. Friend, Helena. She arrived just before you did. "

The girl advanced with sudden gravity and offered her hand. Mrs. Friendwas conscious that the eyes behind the hand were looking her all over. 

Certainly a dazzling creature!--with the ripe red and white, theastonishing eyes, and brown hair, touched with auburn, of the Romneysketch. The beautiful head was set off by a khaki close cap, carrying abadge, and the khaki uniform, tunic, short skirt, and leggings, mighthave been specially designed to show the health and symmetry of thegirl's young form. She seemed to walk on air, and her presencetransformed the quiet old room. 

"I want some tea badly, " said Miss Pitstone, throwing herself into achair, "and so would you, Cousin Philip, if you had been battling withfour grubby children and an idiot mother all the way from London. Theymade me play 'beasts' with them. I didn't mind that, because my roaringfrightened them. But then they turned me into a fish, and fished for mewith the family umbrellas. I had distinctly the worst of it. " And shetook off her cap, turning it round on her hand, and looking at the dintsin it with amusement. 

"Oh, no, you never get the worst of it!" said Lord Buntingford, laughing, as he handed her the cake. "You couldn't if you tried. "

She looked up sharply. Then she turned to Mrs. Friend. 

"That's the way my guardian treats me, Mrs. Friend. How can I take himseriously?"

"I think Lord Buntingford meant it as a compliment--didn't he?" said Mrs. Friend shyly. She knew, alack, that she had no gift for repartee. 

"Oh, no, he never pays compliments--least of all to me. He has a mostcritical, fault-finding mind. Haven't you, Cousin Philip?"

"What a charge!" said Lord Buntingford, lighting another cigarette. "Itwon't take Mrs. Friend long to find out its absurdity. "

"It will take her just twenty-four hours, " said the girl stoutly. "Heused to terrify me, Mrs. Friend, when I was a little thing ... May I havesome tea, please? When he came to see us, I always knew before he hadbeen ten minutes in the room that my hair was coming down, or my shoeswere untied, or something dreadful was the matter with me. I can'timagine how we shall get on, now that he is my guardian. I shall put himin a temper twenty times a day. "

"Ah, but the satisfactory thing now is that you will have to put up withmy remarks. I have a legal right now to say what I like. "

"H'm, " said Helena, demurring, "if there are legal rights nowadays. "

"There, Mrs. Friend--you hear?" said Lord Buntingford, toying with hiscigarette, in the depths of a big chair, and watching his ward with eyesof evident enjoyment. "You've got a Bolshevist to look after--a realanarchist. I'm sorry for you. "

"That's another of his peculiarities!" said the girl coolly, "queeringthe pitch before one begins. You know you _might_ like me!--some peopledo--but he'll never let you. " And, bending forward, with her cup in bothhands, and her radiant eyes peering over the edge of it, she threw a mostseductive look at her new chaperon. The look seemed to say, "I've beentaking stock of you, and--well!--I think I shan't mind you. "

Anyway, Mrs. Friend took it as a feeler and a friendly one. She stammeredsomething in reply, and then sat silent while guardian and ward plungedinto a war of chaff in which first the ward, but ultimately the guardian, got the better. Lord Buntingford had more resource and could hold outlonger, so that at last Helena rose impatiently:

"I don't feel that I have been at all prettily welcomed--have I, Mrs. Friend? Lord Buntingford never allows one a single good mark. He says Ihave been idle all the winter since the Armistice. I haven't. I've workedlike a nigger!"

"How many dances a week, Helena?--and how many boys?" Helena first made aface, and then laughed out. 

"As many dances--of course--as one could stuff in--without taxis. Icould walk down most of the boys. But Hampstead, Chelsea, and CurzonStreet, all in one night, and only one bus between them--that didsometimes do for me. "

"When did you set up this craze?"

"Just about Christmas--I hadn't been to a dance for a year. I had beenslaving at canteen work all day"--she turned to Mrs. Friend--"and doingchauffeur by night--you know--fetching wounded soldiers from railwaystations. And then somebody asked me to a dance, and I went. And nextmorning I just made up my mind that everything else in the world wasrot, and I would go to a dance every night. So I chucked the canteen andI chucked a good deal of the driving--except by day--and I justdance--and dance!"

Suddenly she began to whistle a popular waltz--and the next minute thetwo elder people found themselves watching open-mouthed the whirlingfigure of Miss Helena Pitstone, as, singing to herself, and absorbedapparently in some new and complicated steps, she danced down the wholelength of the drawing-room and back again. Then out of breath, with acurtsey and a laugh, she laid a sudden hand on Mrs. Friend's arm. 

"Will you come and talk to me--before dinner? I can't talk--before _him_. Guardians are impossible people!" And with another mock curtsey to LordBuntingford, she hurried Mrs. Friend to the door, and then disappeared. 

Her guardian, with a shrug of the shoulders, walked to his writing-table, and wrote a hurried note. 

"My dear Geoffrey--I will send to meet you at Dansworth to-morrow by thetrain you name. Helena is here--very mad and very beautiful. I hope youwill stay over Sunday. Yours ever, Buntingford. "

"He shall have his chance anyway, " he thought, "with the others. A fairfield, and no pulling. "

CHAPTER II

"There is only one bathroom in this house, and it is a day's journey tofind it, " said Helena, re-entering her own bedroom, where she had leftMrs. Friend in a dimity-covered arm-chair by the window, while shereconnoitred. "Also, the water is only a point or two above freezing--andas I like boiling--"

She threw herself down on the floor by Mrs. Friend's side. All hermovements had a curious certainty and grace like those of a beautifulanimal, but the whole impression of her was still formidable to thegentle creature who was about to undertake what already seemed to her theabsurd task of chaperoning anything so independent and self-confident. But the girl clearly wished to make friends with her new companion, andbegan eagerly to ask questions. 

"How did you hear of me? Do you mind telling me?"

"Just through an agency, " said Mrs. Friend, flushing a little. "I wantedto leave the situation I was in, and the agency told me Lord Buntingfordwas looking for a companion for his ward, and I was to go and see LadyMary Chance--"

The girl's merry laugh broke out:

"Oh, I know Mary Chance--twenty pokers up her backbone! I should havethought--"

Then she stopped, looking intently at Mrs. Friend, her brows drawntogether over her brilliant eyes. 

"What would you have thought?" Mrs. Friend enquired, as the silencecontinued. 

"Well--that if she was going to recommend somebody to Cousin Philip--tolook after me, she would never have been content with anything short of aPrussian grenadier in petticoats. She thinks me a demon. She won't lether daughters go about with me. I can't imagine how she ever fixed uponanyone so--"

"So what?" said Mrs. Friend, after a moment, nervously. Lost in the bigwhite arm-chair, her small hand propping her small face and head, shelooked even frailer than she had looked in the library. 

"Well, nobody would ever take you for my jailer, would they?" saidHelena, surveying her. 

Mrs. Friend laughed--a ghost of a laugh, which yet seemed to have somefun in it, far away. 

"Does this seem to you like prison?"

"This house? Oh, no. Of course I shall do just as I like in it. I haveonly come because--well, my poor Mummy made a great point of it when shewas ill, and I couldn't be a brute to her, so I promised. But I wonderwhether I ought to have promised. It is a great tyranny, you know--thetyranny of sick people. I wonder whether one ought to give in to her?"

The girl looked up coolly. Mrs. Friend felt as though she had beenstruck. 

"But your _mother_!" she said involuntarily. 

"Oh, I know, that's what most people would say. But the question is, what's reasonable. Well, I wasn't reasonable, and here I am. But I makemy conditions. We are not to be more than four months in the year in thisold hole"--she looked round her in not unkindly amusement at the bareold-fashioned room; "we are to have four or five months in London, _atleast_; and when travelling abroad gets decent again, we are to goabroad--Rome, perhaps, next winter. And I am jolly well to ask my friendshere, or in town--male and female--and Cousin Philip promised to be niceto them. He said, of course, 'Within limits. ' But that we shall see. I'mnot a pauper, you know. My trustees pay Lord Buntingford whatever I costhim, and I shall have a good deal to spend. I shall have a horse--andperhaps a little motor. The chauffeur here is a fractious idiot. He hasdone that Rolls-Royce car of Cousin Philip's balmy, and cut up quiterough when I spoke to him about it. "

"Done it what?" said Mrs. Friend faintly. 

"Balmy. Don't you know that expression?" Helena, on the floor with herhands under her knees, watched her companion's looks with a grin. "It's_our_ language now, you know--English--the language of us young people. The old ones have got to learn it, as _we_ speak it! Well, what do youthink of Cousin Philip?"

Mrs. Friend roused herself. 

"I've only seen him for half an hour. But he was very kind. "

"And isn't he good-looking?" said the girl before her, with enthusiasm. "I just adore that combination of black hair and blue eyes--don't you?But he isn't by any means as innocent as he looks. "

"I never said--"

"No. I know you didn't, " said Helena serenely; "but you might have--andhe isn't innocent a bit. He's as complex as you make 'em. Most women arein love with him, except me!" The brown eyes stared meditatively out ofwindow. "I suppose I could be if I tried. But he doesn't attract me. He's too old. "

"Old?" repeated Mrs. Friend, with astonishment. 

"Well, I don't mean he's decrepit! But he's forty-four if he's aday--more than double my age. Did you notice that he's a little lame?"

"No!"

"He is. It's very slight--an accident, I believe--somewhere abroad. Butthey wouldn't have him for the Army, and he was awfully cut up. He usedto come and sit with Mummy every day and pour out his woes. I suppose shewas the only person to whom he ever talked about his private affairs--heknew she was safe. Of course you know he is a widower?"

Mrs. Friend knew nothing. But she was vaguely surprised. 

"Oh, well, a good many people know that--though Mummy always said shenever came across anybody who had ever seen his wife. He married her whenhe was quite a boy---abroad somewhere--when there seemed no chance of hisever being Lord Buntingford--he had two elder brothers who died--and shewas an art student on her own. An old uncle of Mummy's once told me thatwhen Cousin Philip came back from abroad--she died abroad--after herdeath, he seemed altogether changed somehow. But he never, _never_ speaksof her"--the girl swayed her slim body backwards and forwards foremphasis--"and I wouldn't advise you or anybody else to try. Most peoplethink he's just a bachelor. I never talk about it to people--Mummy said Iwasn't to--and as he was very nice to Mummy--well, I don't. But I thoughtyou'd better know. And now I think we'd better dress. "

But instead of moving, she looked down affectionately at her uniform andher neat brown leggings. 

"What a bore! I suppose I've no right to them any more. "

"What is your uniform?"

"Women Ambulance Drivers. Don't you know the hostel in Ruby Square? Ibargained with Cousin Philip after Mummy's death I should stay out mytime, till I was demobbed. Awfully jolly time I had--on the whole--thoughthe girls were a mixed lot. Well--let's get a move on. " She sprang up. "Your room's next door. "

Mrs. Friend was departing when Helena enquired:

"By the way--have you ever heard of Cynthia Welwyn?"

Mrs. Friend turned at the door, and shook her head. 

"Oh, well, I can tot her up very quickly--just to give you an idea--asshe's coming to dinner. She's fair and forty--just about Buntingford'sage--quite good-looking--quite clever--lives by herself, reads a greatdeal--runs the parish--you know the kind of thing. They swarm! I thinkshe would like to marry Cousin Philip, if he would let her. "

Mrs. Friend hurriedly shut the door at her back, which had been slightlyajar. Helena laughed--the merry but very soft laugh Mrs. Friend had firstheard in the hall--a laugh which seemed somehow out of keeping with therest of its owner's personality. 

"Don't be alarmed. I doubt whether that would be news to anybody in thishouse! But Buntingford's quite her match. Well, ta-ta. Shall I come andhelp you dress?"

"The idea!" cried Mrs. Friend. "Shall I help you?" She looked roundthe room and at Helena vigorously tackling the boxes. "I thought youhad a maid?"

"Not at all. I couldn't be bored with one. "

"Do let me help you!"

"Then you'd be my maid, and I should bully you and detest you. You mustgo and dress. "

And Mrs. Friend found herself gently pushed out of the room. She went toher own in some bewilderment. After having been immured for some threeyears in close attendance on an invalided woman shut up in two rooms, shewas like a person walking along a dark road and suddenly caught in theglare of motor lamps. Brought into contact with such a personality asHelena Pitstone promised to be, she felt helpless and half blind. Asurvival, too; for this world into which she had now stepped was onequite new to her. Yet when she had first shut herself up in LancasterGate she had never been conscious of any great difference between herselfand other women or girls. She had lived a very quiet life in a quiet homebefore the war. Her father, a hard-working Civil Servant on a smallincome, and her mother, the daughter of a Wesleyan Minister, had broughther up strictly, yet with affection. The ways of the house wereold-fashioned, dictated by an instinctive dislike of persons who wentoften to theatres and dances, of women who smoked, or played bridge, orindulged in loud, slangy talk. Dictated, too, by a pervading "worship ofancestors, " of a preceding generation of plain evangelical men and women, whose books survived in the little house, and whose portraits hung uponits walls. 

Then, in the first year of the war, she had married a young soldier, theson of family friends, like-minded with her own people, a modest, inarticulate fellow, who had been killed at Festubert. She had lovedhim--oh, yes, she had loved him. But sometimes, looking back, she wastroubled to feel how shadowy he had become to her. Not in the region ofemotion. She had pined for his fondness all these years; she pined for itstill. But intellectually. If he had lived, how would he have felttowards all these strange things that the war had brought about--therevolutionary spirit everywhere, the changes come and coming? She did notknow; she could not imagine. And it troubled her that she could not findany guidance for herself in her memories of him. 

And as to the changes in her own sex, they seemed to have all come aboutwhile she was sitting in a twilight room reading aloud to an old woman. Only a few months after her husband's death her parents had both died, and she found herself alone in the world, and almost penniless. She wasnot strong enough for war work, the doctor said, and so she had let thedoors of Lancaster Gate close upon her, only looking for something quietand settled--even if it were a settled slavery. 

After which, suddenly, just about the time of the Armistice, she hadbecome aware that nothing was the same; that the women and the girls--somany of them in uniform!--that she met in the streets when she took herdaily walk--were new creatures; not attractive to her as a whole, butsurprising and formidable, because of the sheer life there was in them. And she herself began to get restive; to realize that she was notherself so very old, and to want to know--a hundred things! It had takenher five months, however, to make up her mind; and then at last she hadgone to an agency--the only way she knew--and had braved the cold andpurely selfish wrath of the household she was leaving. And now here shewas in Lord Buntingford's house--Miss Helena Pitstone's chaperon. As shestood before her looking-glass, fastening her little black dress withshaking fingers, the first impression of Helena's personality was uponher, running through her, like wine to the unaccustomed. She supposedthat now girls were all like this--all such free, wild, uncurbedcreatures, a law to themselves. One moment she repeated that she was afool to have come; and the next, she would not have found herself backin Lancaster Gate for the world. 

 * * * * *

Meanwhile, in the adjoining room, Helena was putting on a tea-gown, awhite and silver "confection, " with a little tail like a fish, and ashort skirt tapering down to a pair of slim legs and shapely feet. Afterall her protestations, she had allowed the housemaid to help her unpack, and when the dress was on she had sent Mary flying down to thedrawing-room to bring up some carnations she had noticed there. Whenthese had been tucked into her belt, and the waves of her brown hair hadbeen somehow pinned and coiled into a kind of order, and she haddiscovered and put on her mother's pearls, she was pleased with herself, or rather with as much of herself as she could see in the inadequatelooking-glass on the toilet-table. A pier-glass from somewhere was ofcourse the prime necessity, and must be got immediately. Meanwhile shehad to be content with seeing herself in the eyes of the housemaid, whowas clearly dazzled by her appearance. 

Then there were a few minutes before dinner, and she ran along thepassage to Mrs. Friend's room. 

"May I come in? Oh, let me tie that for you?" And before Mrs. Friendcould interpose, the girl's nimble fingers had tied the narrow velvetcarrying a round locket which was her chaperon's only ornament. Drawingback a little, she looked critically at the general effect. Mrs. Friendflushed, and presently started in alarm, when Helena took up the comblying on the dressing-table. 

"What are you going to do?"

"Only just to alter your hair a little. Do you mind? Do let me. You lookso nice in black. But your hair is too tight. "

Mrs. Friend stood paralysed, while with a few soft touches Helenaapplied the comb. 

"Now, isn't that nice! I declare it's charming! Now look at yourself. Whyshould you make yourself look dowdy? It's all very well--but you can't bemuch older than I am!"

And dancing round her victim, Helena effected first one slightimprovement and then another in Mrs. Friend's toilette, till the littlewoman, standing in uneasy astonishment before the glass to which Helenahad dragged her, plucked up courage at last to put an end to theproceedings. 

"No, please don't!" she said, with decision, warding off the girl'smeddling hand, and putting back some of the quiet bands of hair. "Youmustn't make me look so unlike myself. And besides--I couldn't live up toit!" Her shy smile broke out. 

"Oh, yes, you could. You're quite nice-looking. I wonder if you'd mindtelling me how old you are? And must I always call you 'Mrs. Friend'? Itis so odd--when everybody calls each other by their Christian names. "

"I don't mind--I don't mind at all. But don't you think--for both oursakes--you'd better leave me all the dignity you can?" Laughter wasplaying round the speaker's small pale lips, and Helena answered itwith interest. 

"Does that mean that you'll have to manage me? Did Cousin Philiptell you you must? But that--I may as well tell you at once--is a vaindelusion. Nobody ever managed me! Oh, yes, my superior officer in theWomen's Corps--she was master. But that was because I chose to make herso. Now I'm on my own--and all I can offer--I'm afraid!--is analliance--offensive and defensive. "

Mrs. Friend looked at the radiant vision opposite to her with its handson its sides, and slowly shook her head. 

"Offensive--against whom?"

"Cousin Philip--if necessary. "

Mrs. Friend again shook her head. 

"Oh, you're in his pocket already!" cried Helena with a grimace. "Butnever mind. I'm sure I shall like you. You'll come over to my side soon. "

"Why should I take any side?" asked Mrs. Friend, drawing on a pair ofblack gloves. 

"Well, because"--said Helena slowly--"Cousin Philip doesn't like some ofmy pals--some of the men, I mean--I go about with--and we _may_ quarrelabout it. The question is which of them I'm going to marry--if I marryany of them. And some of them are married. Don't look shocked! Oh, heavens, there's the gong! But we'll sit up to-night, if you're notsleepy, and I'll give you a complete catalogue of some of theirqualifications--physical, intellectual, financial. Then you'll have the_carte du pays_. Two of them are coming to-morrow for the Sunday. There'snobody coming to-night of the least interest. Cynthia Welwyn, CaptainVivian Lodge, Buntingford's cousin--rather a prig--but good-looking. Agirl or two, no doubt--probably the parson--probably the agent. Now youknow. Shall we go down?"

 * * * * *

The library was already full when the two ladies entered. Mrs. Friend wasaware of a tall fair woman, beautifully dressed in black, standing byLord Buntingford; of an officer in uniform, resplendent in red tabs anddecorations, talking to a spare grey-haired man, who might be supposed tobe the agent; of a man in a round collar and clerical coat, standingawkward and silent by the tall lady in black; and of various other girlsand young men. 

All eyes were turned to Helena as she entered, and she was soonsurrounded, while Lord Buntingford took special care of Helena'scompanion. Mrs. Friend found herself introduced to Lady Cynthia Welwyn, the tall lady in black; to Mr. Parish, the grey-haired man, and to theclergyman. Lady Cynthia bestowed on her a glance from a pair of prominenteyes, and a few civil remarks, Mr. Parish made her an old-fashioned bow, and hoped she had not found the journey too dusty, while the clergyman, whose name she caught as Mr. Alcott, showed a sudden animation as theyshook hands, and had soon put her at her ease by a manner in which she atonce divined a special sympathy for the stranger within the gates. 

"You have just come, I gather?"

"I only arrived this afternoon. "

"And you are to look after Miss Helena?" he smiled. 

Mrs. Friend smiled too. 

"I hope so. If she will let me!"

"She is a radiant creature!" And for a moment he stood watching the girl, as she stood, goddess-like, amid her group of admirers. His eyes weredeep-set and tired; his scanty grizzled hair fell untidily over afurrowed brow; and his clothes were neither fresh nor well-brushed. Butthere was something about him which attracted the lonely; and Mrs. Friendwas glad when she found herself assigned to him. 

But though her neighbour was not difficult to talk to, her surroundingswere so absorbing to her that she talked very little at dinner. It wasenough to listen and look--at Lady Cynthia on Lord Buntingford's righthand, and Helena Pitstone on his left; or at the handsome officer withwhom Helena seemed to be happily flirting through a great part of dinner. Lady Cynthia was extremely good-looking, and evidently agreeable, thoughit seemed to Mrs. Friend that Lord Buntingford only gave her dividedattention. Meanwhile it was very evident that he himself was the centreof his own table, the person of whom everyone at it was fundamentallyaware, however apparently busy with other people. She herself observedhim much more closely than before, the mingling in his face of a kind ofconcealed impatience, an eagerness held in chains and expressed by hisslight perpetual frown, with a courtesy and urbanity generally gay orbantering, but at times, and by flashes--or so it seemed to her--dippedin a sudden, profound melancholy, like a quenched light. He held himselfsharply erect, and in his plain naval uniform, with the three Commander'sstripes on the sleeve, made, in her eyes, an even more distinguishedfigure than the gallant and decorated hero on his left, with whom Helenaseemed to be so particularly engaged, "prig" though she had dubbed him. 

As to Lady Cynthia's effect upon her host, Mrs. Friend could not make upher mind. He seemed attentive or amused while she chatted to him; buttowards the end their conversation languished a good deal, and LadyCynthia must needs fall back on the stubby-haired boy to her right, whowas learning agency business with Mr. Parish. She smiled at him also, forit was her business, Mrs. Friend thought, to smile at everybody, but itwas an absent-minded smile. 

"You don't know Lord Buntingford?" said Mr. Alcott's rather muffled voicebeside her. 

Mrs. Friend turned hastily. 

"No--I never saw him till this afternoon. "

"He isn't easy to know. I know him very little, though he gave me thisliving, and I have business with him, of course, occasionally. But this Ido know, the world is uncommonly full of people--don't you find itso?--who say 'I go, Sir'--and don't go. Well, if Lord Buntingford says 'Igo, Sir'--he does go!"

"Does he often say it?" asked Mrs. Friend. And the man beside her noticedthe sudden gleam in her quiet little face, that rare or evanescent spriteof laughter or satire that even the dwellers in Lancaster Gate hadoccasionally noticed. 

Mr. Alcott considered. 

"Well, no, " he said at last. "I admit he's difficult to catch. He likeshis own ways a great deal better than other people's. But if you docatch him--if you do persuade him--well, then you can stake your bottomdollar on him. At least, that's my experience. He's been awfullygenerous about land here--put a lot in my hands to distribute longbefore the war ended. Some of the neighbours about--otherlandlords--were very sick--thought he'd given them away because of theterms. They sent him a round robin. I doubt if he read it. In a thinglike that he's adamant. And he's adamant, too, when he's once taken areal dislike to anybody. There's no moving him. "

"You make me afraid!" said Mrs. Friend. 

"Oh, no, you needn't be--" Mr. Alcott turned almost eagerly to look ather. "I hope you won't be. He's the kindest of men. It's extraordinarilykind of him--don't you think?"--the speaker smilingly lowered hisvoice--"taking on Miss Pitstone like this? It's a great responsibility. "

Mrs. Friend made the slightest timid gesture of assent. 

"Ah, well, it's just like him. He was devoted to her mother--and for hisfriends he'll do anything. But I don't want to make a saint of him. Hecan be a dour man when he likes--and he and I fight about a good manythings. I don't think he has much faith in the new England we're alltalking about--though he tries to go with it. Have you?" He turned uponher suddenly. 

Mrs. Friend felt a pang. 

"I don't know anything, " she said, and he was conscious of the agitationin her tone. "Since my husband died, I've been so out of everything. "

And encouraged by the kind eyes in the plain face, she told her story, very simply and briefly. In the general clatter and hubbub of the tableno one overheard or noticed. 

"H'm--you're stepping out into the world again as one might step out ofa nunnery--after five years. I rather envy you. You'll see things fresh. Whereas we--who have been through the ferment and the horror--" He brokeoff--"I was at the front, you see, for nearly two years--then I gotinvalided. So you've hardly realized the war--hardly known there was awar--not since--since Festubert?"

"It's dreadful!" she said humbly--"I'm afraid I know just nothingabout it. "

He looked at her with a friendly wonder, and she, flushing deeper, wasglad to see him claimed by a lively girl on his left, while she fellback on Mr. Parish, the agent, who, however, seemed to be absorbed inthe amazing--and agreeable--fact that Lord Buntingford, though he drankno wine himself, had yet some Moet-et-Charidon of 1904 left to give tohis guests. Mr. Parish, as he sipped it, realized that the war wasindeed over. 

But, all the time, he gave a certain amount of scrutiny to the littlelady beside him. So she was to be "companion" to Miss HelenaPitstone--to prevent her getting into scrapes--if she could. LordBuntingford had told him that his cousin, Lady Mary Chance, had chosenher. Lady Mary had reported that "companions" were almost as difficultto find as kitchenmaids, and that she had done her best for him infinding a person of gentle manners and quiet antecedents. "Such peoplewill soon be as rare as snakes in Ireland"--had been the concludingsentence in Lady Mary's letter, according to Lord Buntingford's laughingaccount of it. Ah, well, Lady Mary was old-fashioned. He hoped the youngwidow might be useful; but he had his doubts. She looked a weak vesselto be matching herself with anything so handsome and so pronounced asthe young lady opposite. 

Why, the young lady was already quarrelling with her guardian! For thewhole table had suddenly become aware of a gust in the neighbourhood ofLord Buntingford--a gust of heated talk--although the only heated personseemed to be Miss Pitstone. Lord Buntingford was saying very little; butwhatever he did say was having a remarkable effect on his neighbour. Then, before the table knew what it was all about, it was over. LordBuntingford had turned resolutely away, and was devoting himself toconversation with Lady Cynthia, while his ward was waging a fresh war ofrepartee with the distinguished soldier beside her, in which hersharpened tones and quick breathing suggested the swell after a storm. 

Mrs. Friend too had noticed. She had been struck with the suddentightening of the guardian's lip, the sudden stiffening of his hand lyingon the table. She wondered anxiously what was the matter. 

In the library afterwards, Lady Cynthia, Mrs. Friend, and the twogirls--his daughter and his guest--who had come with Mr. Parish, settledinto a little circle near the wood-fire which the chilliness of the Mayevening made pleasant. 

Helena Pitstone meanwhile walked away by herself to a distant part of theroom and turned over photographs, with what seemed to Mrs. Friend astormy hand. And as she did so, everyone in the room was aware of her, ofthe brilliance and power of the girl's beauty, and of the energy thatlike an aura seemed to envelop her personality. Lady Cynthia made severalattempts to capture her, but in vain. Helena would only answer inmonosyllables, and if approached, retreated further into the dim room, ostensibly in search of a book on a distant shelf, really in flight. LadyCynthia, with a shrug, gave it up. 

Mrs. Friend felt too strange to the whole situation to make any move. Shecould only watch for the entry of the gentlemen. Lord Buntingford, whocame in last, evidently looked round for his ward. But Helena had alreadyflitted back to the rest of the company, and admirably set off by a deepred chair into which she had thrown herself, was soon flirtingunashamedly with the two young men, with Mr. Parish and the Rector, taking them all on in turn, and suiting the bait to the fish with theinstinctive art of her kind. Lord Buntingford got not a word with her, and when the guests departed she had vanished upstairs before anyone knewthat she had gone. 

"Have a cigar in the garden, Vivian, before you turn in? There is a moon, and it is warmer outside than in, " said Lord Buntingford to his cousin, when they were left alone. 

"By all means. "

So presently they found themselves pacing a flagged path outside a longconservatory which covered one side of the house. The moon was cloudy, and the temperature low. But the scents of summer were already in theair--of grass and young leaf, and the first lilac. The old grey housewith its haphazard outline and ugly detail acquired a certain dignityfrom the night, and round it stretched dim slopes of pasture, with oaksrising here and there from bands of white mist. 

"Is that tale true you told me before dinner about Jim Donald?" said LordBuntingford abruptly. "You're sure it's true--honour bright?"

The other laughed. 

"Why, I had it from Jim himself!" He laughed. "He just made a joke of it. But he is a mean skunk! I've found out since that he wanted to buyPreston out for the part Preston had taken in another affair. There's apretty case coming on directly, with Jim for hero. You have heard of it. "

"No, " said Buntingford curtly; "but in any case nothing would haveinduced me to have him here. Preston's a friend of mine. So when Helenatold me at dinner she had asked him for Saturday, I had to tell her Ishould telegraph to him to-morrow morning not to come. She was angry, of course. "

Captain Lodge gave a low whistle. "Of course she doesn't know. But Ithink you would be wise to stop it. And I remember now she danced allnight with him at the Arts Ball!"

CHAPTER III

There was a light tap on Mrs. Friend's door. She said "Come in" ratherunwillingly. Some time had elapsed since she had seen Helena's flutteringwhite disappear into the corridor beyond her room; and she had nourisheda secret hope that the appointment had been forgotten. But the dooropened slightly. Mrs. Friend saw first a smiling face, finger on lip. Then the girl slipped in, and closed the door with caution. 

"I don't want that 'very magnificent three-tailed Bashaw' to know we arediscussing him. He's somewhere still. "

"What did you say?" asked Mrs. Friend, puzzled. 

"Oh, it's only a line of an old poem--I don't know by whom--my fatherused to quote it. Well, now--did you see what happened at dinner?"

Helena had established herself comfortably in a capacious arm-chairopposite Mrs. Friend, tucking her feet under her. She was in a whitedressing-gown, and she had hastily tied a white scarf round her loosenedhair. In the dim light of a couple of candles her beauty made an evenmore exciting impression on the woman watching her than it had done inthe lamp-lit drawing-room. 

"It's war!" she said firmly, "war between Buntingford and me. I'm sorryit's come so soon--the very first evening!--and I know it'll be beastlyfor you--but I can't help it. I _won't_ be dictated to. If I'm nottwenty-one, I'm old enough to choose my own friends; and if Buntingfordchooses to boycott them, he must take the consequences. " And throwing herwhite arms above her head, her eyes looked out from the frame ofthem--eyes sparkling with pride and will. 

Mrs. Friend begged for an explanation. 

"Well, I happened to tell him that I had invited Lord Donald for Sunday. I'll tell you about Lord Donald presently--and he simply--behaved like abrute! He said he was sorry I hadn't told him, that he couldn't haveDonald here, and would telegraph to him to-morrow--not to come. Justthink of that! So then I said--why? And he said he didn't approve ofDonald--or some nonsense of that sort. I was quite calm. I reminded himhe had promised to let me invite my friends--that was part of thebargain. Yes--he said--but within limits--and Donald was the limit. Thatmade me savage--so I upped and said, very well, if I couldn't see Donaldhere, I should see him somewhere else--and he wouldn't prevent me. Iwasn't going to desert my friends for a lot of silly tales. So then hesaid I didn't know what I was talking about, and turned his back on me. He kept his temper provokingly--and I lost mine--which was idiotic of me. But I mean to be even with him--somehow. And as for Donald, I shall go upto town and lunch with him at the Ritz next week!"

"Oh, no, no, you can't!" cried Mrs. Friend in distress. "You can'ttreat your guardian like that! Do tell me what it's all about!" Andbending forward, she laid her two small hands entreatingly on thegirl's knee. She looked so frail and pitiful as she did so, in herplain black, that Helena was momentarily touched. For the first timeher new chaperon appeared to her as something else than a mere receiverinto which, or at which, it suited her to talk. She laid her own handsoothingly on Mrs. Friend's. 

"Of course I'll tell you. I really don't mean to be nasty to you. But allthe same I warn you that it's no good trying to stop me, when I've madeup my mind. Well, now, for Donald. I know, of course, what Cousin Philipmeans. Donald ran away with the wife of a friend of his--ofBuntingford's, I mean--three or four weeks ago. "

Mrs. Friend gasped. The modern young woman was becoming altogether toomuch for her. She could only repeat foolishly--"ran away?"

"Yes, ran away. There was no harm done. Sir Luke Preston--that's thehusband--followed them and caught them--and made her go back with him. But Donald didn't mean any mischief. She'd quarrelled with SirLuke--she's an empty-headed little fluffy thing. I know her a little--andshe dared Donald to run away with her--for a lark. So he took her on. Hedidn't mean anything horrid. I don't believe he's that sort. They weregoing down to his yacht at Southampton--there were several other friendsof his on the yacht--and they meant to give Sir Luke a fright--just showhim that he couldn't bully her as he had been doing--being sticky andstupid about her friends, just as Cousin Philip wants to be aboutmine--and quarrelling about her dress-bills--and a lot of things. Well, that's all! What's there in that?"

And the girl sat up straight, dropping her slim, white feet, while hergreat eyes challenged her companion to say a word in defence of herguardian. Mrs. Friend's head was turning. 

"But it was surely wrong and foolish--" she began. Helenainterrupted her. 

"I daresay it was, " she said impatiently, "but that's not my affair. It'sLord Donald's. I'm not responsible for him. But he's done nothing that Iknow of to make _me_ cut him--and I won't! He told me all about it quitefrankly. I said I'd stick by him--and I will. "

"And Sir Luke Preston is a friend of Lord Buntingford's?"

"Yes--" said Helena unwillingly--"I suppose he is. I didn't know. PerhapsI wouldn't have asked Donald if I'd known. But I did ask him, and heaccepted. And now Buntingford's going to insult him publicly. And that Iwon't stand--I vow I won't! It's insulting me too!"

And springing up, she began a stormy pacing of the room, her white gownfalling back from her neck and throat, and her hair floating behind her. Mrs. Friend had begun to collect herself. In the few hours she had passedunder Lord Buntingford's roof she seemed to herself to have been passingthrough a forcing house. Qualities she had never dreamed of possessing orclaiming she must somehow show, or give up the game. Unless she couldunderstand and get hold of this wholly unexpected situation, as Helenapresented it, she might as well re-pack her box, and order the villagefly for departure. 

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?" she said presently, as thewhite skirts swept past her. 

"Mind! Not a bit. What do you want to know?"

"Are you in love with Lord Donald?"

Helena laughed. 

"If I were, do you think I'd let him run away with Lady Preston oranybody else? Not at all! Lord Donald's just one of the men I liketalking to. He amuses me. He's very smart. He knows everybody. He's noworse than anybody else. He did all sorts of plucky things in the war. Idon't ask Buntingford to like him, of course. He isn't his sort. But hereally might let me alone!"

"But you asked him to stay in Lord Buntingford's house--and withoutconsulting--"

"Well--and it's going to be _my_ house, too, for two years--if I canpossibly bear it. When Mummy begged me, I told Buntingford my conditions. And he's broken them!"

And standing still, the tempestuous creature drew herself to her fullheight, her arms rigid by her side--a tragic-comic figure in the dimillumination of the two guttering candles. 

Mrs. Friend attempted a diversion. 

"Who else is coming for the week-end?"

Instantly Helena's mood dissolved in laughter. She came to perch herselfon the arm of Mrs. Friend's chair. 

"There--now let's forget my tiresome guardian. I promised to tell youabout my 'boys. ' Well, there are two of them coming--and Geoffrey French, besides a nephew of Buntingford's, who'll have this property and most ofthe money some day, always supposing this tyrant of mine doesn't marry, which of course any reasonable man would. Well--there's Peter Dale--thedearest, prettiest little fellow you ever saw. He was aide-de-camp toLord Brent in the war--_very_ smart--up to everything. He's demobbed, andhas gone into the City. Horribly rich already, and will now, of course, make another pile. He dreadfully wants to marry me--but--" she shook herhead with emphasis--"No!--it wouldn't do. He tries to kiss me sometimes. I didn't mind it at first. But I've told him not to do it again. Thenthere's Julian--Julian Horne--Balliol--awfully clever"--she checked offthe various items on her fingers--"as poor as a rat--a Socialist, ofcourse--they all are, that kind--but a real one--not like GeoffreyFrench, who's a sham, though he is in the House, and has joined theLabour party. You see"--her tone grew suddenly serious--"I don't reckonGeoffrey French among my boys. "

"He's too old?"

"Oh, he's not so very old. But--I don't think he likes me very much--andI'm not sure whether I like him. He's good fun, however--and he ragsJulian Horne splendidly. That's one of his chief functions--and anotheris, to take a hand in my education--when I allow him--and when Julianisn't about. They both tell me what to read. Julian tells me to readhistory, and gives me lists of books. Geoffrey talks economics--andphilosophy--and I adore it--he talks so well. He gave me Bergson theother day. Have you ever read any of him?"

"Never, " said Mrs. Friend, bewildered. "Who is he?"

Helena's laugh woke the echoes of the room. But she checked it at once. 

"I don't want _him_ to think we're plotting, " she said in astage-whisper, looking round her. "If I do anything I want to springit on him!"

"Dear Miss Pitstone--please understand!--I can't help you to plot againstLord Buntingford. You must see I can't. He's my employer and yourguardian. If I helped you to do what he disapproves I should simply bedoing a dishonourable thing. "

"Yes, " said Helena reflectively. "Of course I see that. It's awkward. Isuppose you promised and vowed a great many things--like one's godmothersand godfathers?"

"No, I didn't promise anything--except that I would go out with you, makemyself useful to you, if I could--and help you with foreign languages. "

"Goody, " said Helena. "Do you _really_ know French--and German?" The tonewas incredulous. "I wish I did. "

"Well, I was two years in France, and a year and a half in Germany when Iwas a girl. My parents wanted me to be a governess. "

"And then you married?"

"Yes--just the year before the war. "

"And your husband was killed?" The tone was low and soft. Mrs. Friendgave a mute assent. Suddenly Helena laid an arm round the littlewoman's neck. 

"I want you to be friends with me--will you? I hated the thought of achaperon--I may as well tell you frankly. I thought I should probablyquarrel with you in a week. That was before I arrived. Then when I sawyou, I suddenly felt--'I shall like her! I'm glad she's here--I shan'tmind telling her my affairs. ' I suppose it was because you lookedso--well, so meek and mild--so different from me--as though a puff wouldblow you away. One can't account for those things, can one? Do tell meyour Christian name! I won't call you by it--if you don't like it. "

"My name is Lucy, " said Mrs. Friend faintly. There was something soseductive in the neighbourhood of the girl's warm youth and in the newsweetness of her voice that she could not make any further defence of her"dignity. "

"I might have guessed Lucy. It's just like you, " said the girltriumphantly. "Wordsworth's Lucy--do you remember her?--'A violet by amossy stone'--That's you exactly. I _adore_ Wordsworth. Do you careabout poetry?"

The eager eyes looked peremptorily into hers. 

"Yes, " said Mrs. Friend shyly--"I'm very fond of some things. But you'dthink them old-fashioned!"

"What--Byron?--Shelley? They're never old-fashioned!"

"I never read much of them. But--I love Tennyson--and Mrs. Browning. "

Helena made a face--

"Oh, I don't care a hang for her. She's so dreadfully pious andsentimental. I laughed till I cried over 'Aurora Leigh. ' But now--Frenchthings! If you lived all that time in France, you must have read Frenchpoetry. Alfred de Musset?--Madame de Noailles?"

Mrs. Friend shook her head. 

"We went to lectures. I learnt a great deal of Racine--a little VictorHugo--and Rostand--because the people I boarded with took me to'Cyrano'!"

"Ah, Rostand--" cried Helena, springing up. "Well, of course he's _vieuxjeu_ now. The best people make mock of him. Julian does. I don't care--hegives me thrills down my back, and I love him. But then _panache_ means agood deal to me. And Julian doesn't care a bit. He despises people whotalk about glory and honour--and that kind of thing. Well--Lucy--"

She stopped mischievously, her head on one side. 

"Sorry!--but it slipped out. Lucy--good-night. "

Mrs. Friend hurriedly caught hold of her. 

"And you won't do anything hasty--about Lord Donald?"

"Oh, I can't promise anything. One must stand by one's friends. Onesimply must. But I'll take care Cousin Philip doesn't blame you. "

"If I'm no use, you know--I can't stay. "

"No use to Cousin Philip, you mean, in policing me?" said Helena, with agood-humoured laugh. "Well, we'll talk about it again to-morrow. Good-night--Lucy!"

The sly gaiety of the voice was most disarming. 

"Good-night, Miss Pitstone. "

"No, that won't do. It's absurd! I never ask people to call me Helena, unless I like them. I certainly never expected--there, I'll befrank!--that I should want to ask you--the very first night too. But I dowant you to. Please, Lucy, call me Helena. _Please_!"

Mrs. Friend did as she was told. 

"Sleep well, " said Helena from the door. "I hope the housemaid's putenough on your bed, and given you a hot water-bottle? If anything scaresyou in the night, wake me--that is, if you can!" She disappeared. 

Outside Mrs. Friend's door the old house was in darkness, save for asingle light in the hall, which burnt all night. The hall was the featureof the house. A gallery ran round it supported by columns from below, andspaced by answering columns which carried the roof. The bedrooms ranround the hall, and opened into the gallery. The columns were of yellowmarble brought from Italy, and faded blue curtains hung between them. Helena went cautiously to the balustrade, drew one of the blue curtainsround her, and looked down into the hall. Was everybody gone to bed? No. There were movements in a distant room. Somebody coughed, and seemed tobe walking about. But she couldn't hear any talking. If Cousin Philipwere still up, he was alone. 

Her anger came back upon her, and then curiosity. What was he thinkingabout, as he paced his room like a caged squirrel? About the trouble shewas likely to give him--and what a fool he had been to take the job? Shewould like to go and reason with him. The excess of vitality that was inher, sighing for fresh worlds to conquer, urged her to vehement andself-confident action, --action for its own sake, for the mere joy of theheat and movement that go with it. Part of the impulse depended on thenew light in which the gentleman walking about downstairs had begun toappear to her. She had known him hitherto as "Mummy's friend, " always tobe counted upon when any practical difficulty arose, and ready onoccasion to put in a sharp word in defence of an invalid's peace, when agirl's unruliness threatened it. Remembering one or two such collisions, Helena felt her cheeks burn, as she hung over the hall, in the darkness. But those had been such passing matters. Now, as she recalled theexpression of his eyes, during their clash at the dinner-table, sherealized, with an excitement which was not disagreeable, that somethingmuch more prolonged and serious might lie before her. Accomplishedmodern, as she knew him to be in most things, he was going to be "stuffy"and "stupid" in some. Lord Donald's proceedings in the matter of LadyPreston evidently seemed to him--she had been made to feel it--franklyabominable. And he was not going to ask the man capable of them withinhis own doors. Well and good. "But as I don't agree with him--Donald wasonly larking!--I shall take my own way. A telegram goes anyway to Donaldto-morrow morning--and we shall see. So good-night, Cousin Philip!" Andblowing a kiss towards the empty hall, she gathered her white skirtsround her, and fled laughing towards her own room. 

But just as she neared it, a door in front of her, leading to astaircase, opened, and a man in khaki appeared, carrying a candle. It wasCaptain Lodge, her neighbour at the dinner-table. The young man staredwith amazement at the apparition rushing along the gallery towardshim, --the girl's floating hair, and flushed loveliness as his candlerevealed it. Helena evidently enjoyed his astonishment, and his suddenlook of admiration. But before he could speak, she had vanished withinher own door, just holding it open long enough to give him a laughing nodbefore it shut, and darkness closed with it on the gallery. 

"A man would need to keep his head with that girl!" thought CaptainLodge, with tantalized amusement. "But, my hat, what a beauty!"

Meanwhile in the library downstairs a good deal of thinking was going on. Lord Buntingford was taking more serious stock of his new duties than hehad done yet. As he walked, smoking, up and down, his thoughts were fullof his poor little cousin Rachel Pitstone. She had always been afavourite of his; and she had always known him better than any otherperson among his kinsfolk. He had found it easy to tell her secrets, whennobody else could have dragged a word from him; and as a matter of factshe had known before she died practically all that there was to knowabout him. And she had been so kind, and simple and wise. Had she perhapsonce had a _tendresse_ for him--before she met Ned Pitstone?--and ifthings had gone--differently--might he not, perhaps, have married her?Quite possibly. In any case the bond between them had always been one ofpeculiar intimacy; and in looking back on it he had nothing to reproachhimself with. He had done what he could to ease her suffering life. Struck down in her prime by a mortal disease, a widow at thirty, with herone beautiful child, her chief misfortune had been the melancholy andsensitive temperament, which filled the rooms in which she lived as fullof phantoms as the palace of Odysseus in the vision of Theoclymenus. 

She was afraid for her child; afraid for her friend; afraid for theworld. The only hope of happiness for a woman, she believed, lay in anhonest lover, if such a lover could be found. Herself an intellectual, and a freed spirit, she had no trust in any of the new professional andtechnical careers into which she saw women crowding. Sex seemed to hernow as always the dominating fact of life. Votes did not matter, ordegrees, or the astonishing but quite irrelevant fact, as the papersannounced it, that women should now be able not only to fit but to plan abattleship. Love, and a child's clinging mouth, and the sweetness of aDarby and Joan old age, for these all but the perverted women had alwayslived, and would always live. 

She saw in her Helena the strong beginnings of sex. But she also realizedthe promise of intelligence, of remarkable brain development, and itseemed to her of supreme importance that sex should have the firstinnings in her child's life. 

"If she goes to college at once, as soon as I am gone, and her brain andher ambition are appealed to, before she has time to fall in love, shewill develop on that side, prematurely--marvellously--and the rest willatrophy. And then when the moment for falling in love is over--and withher it mayn't be a long one--she will be a lecturer, a member ofParliament perhaps--a Socialist agitator--a woman preacher, --whoknows?--there are all kinds of possibilities in Helena. But she will havemissed her chance of being a woman, and a happy one; and thirty yearshence she will realize it, when it is too late, and think bitterly of usboth. Believe me, dear Philip, the moment for love won't last long inHelena's life. I have seen it come and go so rapidly, in the case of someof the most charming women. For after all, the world is now so muchricher for women; and many women don't know their own minds in time, orget lost among the new landmarks. And of course all women can't marry;and thank God, there are a thousand new chances of happiness for thosewho don't. But there are some--and Helena, I am certain, will be one--whowill be miserable, and probably wicked, unless they fall in love, and arehappy. And it is a strait gate they will have to pass through. For theirown natures and the new voices in the world will tempt them to this sideand that. And before they know where they are--the moment will havegone--the wish--and the power. 

"So, dear Philip, lend yourself to my plan; though you may seem toyourself the wrong person, and though it imposes--as I know it will--arather heavy responsibility on you. But once or twice you have told methat I have helped you--through difficult places. That makes me dare toask you this thing. There is no one else I can ask. And it won't be badfor you, Philip, --it is good for us all, to have to thinkintimately--seriously--for some other human being or beings; and owingto circumstances, not your own fault, you have missed just this inlife--except for your thoughts and care for me--bless you always, mydear friend. 

"Am I preaching? Well, in my case the time for make-believe is over. Iam too near the end. The simple and austere soul of things seems toshine out--

"And yet what I ask you is neither simple, nor austere! Take care ofHelena for two years. Give her fun, and society, --a good time, and everychance to marry. Then, after two years, if she hasn't married--if shehasn't fallen in love---she must choose her course. 

"You may well feel you are too young--indeed I wish, for this business, you were older!--but you will find some nice woman to be hostess andchaperon; the experiment will interest and amuse you, and the time willsoon go. You know I _could_ not ask you--unless some things were--as theyare. But that being so, I feel as if I were putting into your hands thechance of a good deed, a kind deed, --blessing, possibly, him that gives, and her that takes. And I am just now in the mood to feel that kindnessis all that matters, in this mysterious life of ours. Oh, I wish I hadbeen kinder--to so many people!--I wish--I wish! The hands stretched outto me in the dark that I have passed by--the voices that have piped tome, and I have not danced--

"I mustn't cry. It is hard that in one of the few cases when I had thechance to be kind, and did not wholly miss it, I should be making in theend a selfish bargain of it--claiming so much more than I ever gave!

"Forgive me, my best of friends--

"You shall come and see me once about this letter, and then we won'tdiscuss it again--ever. I have talked over the business side of it withmy lawyer, and asked him to tell you anything you don't yet know about myaffairs and Helena's. We needn't go into them. "

"One of the few cases where I had the chance to be kind. " Why, RachelPitstone's life had been one continuous selfless offering to God and man, from her childhood to her last hour! He knew very well what he had owedher--what others had owed--to her genius for sympathy, for understanding, for a compassion which was also a stimulus. He missed her sorely. At thatvery moment, he was in great practical need of her help, her guidance. 

Whereas it was _he_--worse luck!--who must be the stumbling andunwelcomed guide of Rachel's child! How, in the name of mystery, had thechild grown up so different from the mother? Well, impatience wouldn'thelp him--he must set his mind to it. That scoundrel, Jim Donald!

CHAPTER IV

Mrs. Friend passed a somewhat wakeful night after the scene in whichHelena Pitstone had bestowed her first confidences on her new companion. For Lucy Friend the experience had been unprecedented and agitating. Shehad lived in a world where men and women do not talk much aboutthemselves, and as a rule instinctively avoid thinking much aboutthemselves, as a habit tending to something they call "morbid. " This atleast had been the tone in her parents' house. The old woman in LancasterGate had not been capable either of talking or thinking about herself, except as a fretful animal with certain simple bodily wants. In Helena, Lucy Friend had for the first time come cross the type of which the worldis now full--men and women, but especially women, who have no use anylonger for the reticence of the past, who desire to know all theypossibly can about themselves, their own thoughts and sensations, theirown peculiarities and powers, all of which are endlessly interesting tothem; and especially to the intellectual _élite_ among them. Already, before the war, the younger generation, which was to meet the brunt ofit, was an introspective, a psychological generation. And the great warhas made it doubly introspective, and doubly absorbed in itself. The mereperpetual strain on the individual consciousness, under the rush ofstrange events, has developed men and women abnormally. 

Only now it is not an introspection, or a psychology, which writesjournals or autobiography. It is an introspection which _talks_; apsychology which chatters, of all things small and great; asking itsSocratic way through all the questions of the moment, the most trivial, and the most tremendous. 

Coolness, an absence of the old tremors and misgivings that usedespecially to haunt the female breast in the days of Miss Austen, is aleading mark of the new type. So that Mrs. Friend need not have beenastonished to find Helena meeting her guardian next morning at breakfastas though nothing had happened. He, like a man of the world, took his cueimmediately from her, and the conversation--whether it ran on the returnof Karsavina to the Russian Ballet, or the success of "Abraham Lincoln";or the prospects of the Peace, or merely the weddings and buryings ofcertain common acquaintances which appeared in the morning's _Times_--wasso free and merry, that Mrs. Friend began soon to feel her anxieties ofthe night dropping away, to enjoy the little luxuries of the breakfasttable, and the pleasant outlook on the park, of the high, faded, and yetstately room. 

"What a charming view!" she said to Lord Buntingford, when they rose frombreakfast, and she made her way to the open window, while Helena wasstill deep in the papers. 

"You think so?" he said indifferently, standing beside her. "I'm afraid Iprefer London. But now on another matter--Do you mind taking up yourduties instanter?"

"Please--please let me!" she said, turning eagerly to him. 

"Well--there is a cook-housekeeper somewhere--who, I believe, expectsorders. Do you mind giving them? Please do not look so alarmed! It is thesimplest matter in the world. You will appear to give orders. In realityMrs. Mawson will have everything cut and dried, and you will not dare toalter a thing. But she expects you or me to pretend. And I should begreatly relieved if you would do the pretending?"

"Certainly, " murmured Mrs. Friend. 

Lord Buntingford, looking at the terrace outside, made a suddengesture--half despair, half impatience. 

"Oh, and there's old Fenn, --my head gardener. He's been here fortyyears, and he sits on me like an old man of the sea. I know what hewants. He's coming up to ask me about something he calls a herbaceousborder. You see that border there?"--he pointed--"Well, I barely know apeony from a cabbage. Perhaps you do?" He turned towards her hopefully;and Mrs. Friend felt the charm, as many other women had felt it beforeher, of the meditative blue eyes, under the black and heavy brow. Sheshook her head smiling. 

He smiled in return. 

"But, if you don't--would you mind--again--pretending? Would you see theold fellow, some time this morning--and tell him to do exactly what hedamn pleases--I beg your pardon!--it slipped out. If not, he'll come intomy study, and talk a jargon of which I don't understand a word, for halfan hour. And as he's stone deaf, he doesn't understand a word I say. Moreover when he's once there I can't get him out. And I've got a bit ofrather tough county business this morning. Would you mind? It's a greatdeal to ask. But if you only let him talk--and look intelligent--"

"Of course I will, " said Mrs. Friend, bewildered, adding ratherdesperately, "But I don't know anything at all about it. "

"Oh, that doesn't matter. Perhaps Helena does! By the way, she hasn'tseen her sitting-room. "

He turned towards his ward, who was still reading at the table. 

"I have arranged a special sitting-room for you, Helena. Would you liketo come and look at it?"

"What fun!" said Helena, jumping up. "And may I do what I like in it?"

Buntingford's mouth twisted a little. 

"Naturally! The house is at your disposal. Turn anything out youlike--and bring anything else in. There is some nice old stuff about, if you look for it. If you send for the odd man he'll move anything. Well, I'd better show you what I arranged. But you can have any otherroom you prefer. "

He led the way to the first floor, and opened a door in a corner of thepillared gallery. 

"Oh, jolly!" cried Helena. 

For they entered a lofty room, with white Georgian panelling, a fewpretty old cabinets and chairs, a chintz-covered sofa, a stand of stuffedhumming-birds, a picture or two, a blue Persian carpet, and a largebook-case full of books. 

"My books!" cried Helena in amazement. "I was just going to ask ifthe cases had come. How ever did you get them unpacked, and put hereso quickly?"

"Nothing easier. They arrived three days ago. I telephoned to a man Iknow in Leicester Square. He sent some one down, and they were allfinished before you came down. Perhaps you won't like the arrangement?Well, it will amuse you to undo it!"

If there was the slightest touch of sarcasm in the eyes that travelledfrom her to the books, Helena took it meekly. She went to thebookshelves. Poets, novelists, plays, philosophers, economists, someFrench and Italian books, they were all in their proper places. The bookswere partly her own, partly her mother's. Helena eyed them thoughtfully. 

"You must have taken a lot of trouble. "

"Not at all. The man took all the trouble. There wasn't much. "

As he spoke, her eye caught a piano standing between the windows. 

"Mummy's piano! Why, I thought we agreed it should be stored?"

"It seemed to me you might as well have it down here. We can easily hireone for London. "

"Awfully nice of you, " murmured Helena. She opened it and stood with herhand on the keys, looking out into the park, as though she pursued somethought or memory of her own. It was a brilliant May morning, and thewindows were open. Helena's slim figure in a white dress, the reddishtouch in her brown hair, the lovely rounding of her cheek and neck, werethrown sharply against a background of new leaf made by a giant beechtree just outside. Mrs. Friend looked at Lord Buntingford. The thoughtleaped into her mind--"How can he help making love to her himself?"--onlyto be immediately chidden. Buntingford was not looking at Helena but athis watch. 

"Well, I must go and do some drivelling work before lunch. I have givenMrs. Friend _carte blanche_, Helena. Order what you like, and if Mrs. Mawson bothers you, send her to me. Geoffrey comes to-night, and we shallbe seven to-morrow. "

He made for the door. Helena had turned suddenly at his last words, eyeand cheek kindling. 

"Hm--" she said, under her breath--"So he has sent the telegram. "

She left the window, and began to walk restlessly about the room, lookingnow at the books, now at the piano. Her face hardened, and she paid noattention to Mrs. Friend's little comments of pleasure on the room andits contents. Presently indeed she cut brusquely across. 

"I am just going down to the stables to see whether my horse has arrived. A friend of mine bought her for me in town--and she was to be here earlythis morning. I want, too, to see where they're going to put her. "

"Mayn't I come too?" said Mrs. Friend, puzzled by the sudden clouding ofthe girl's beautiful looks. 

"Oh, no--please don't. You've got to see the housekeeper! I'll get my hatand run down. I found out last night where the stables are. I shan't bemore than ten minutes or so. "

She hurried away, leaving Mrs. Friend once more a prey to anxieties. Sherecalled the threat of the night before. But no, _impossible_! After allthe kindness and the forethought! She dismissed it from her mind. 

The interview with the housekeeper was an ordeal to the gentleinexperienced woman. But her entire lack of any sort of pretension was initself ingratiating; and her manner had the timid charm of her character. Mrs. Mawson, who might have bristled or sulked in stronger hands, inorder to mark her distaste for the advent of a mistress in the house shehad been long accustomed to rule, was soon melted by the docility of thelittle lady, and graciously consented to see her own plans approved _enbloc_, by one so frankly ignorant of how a country house party should beconducted. Then it was the turn of old Fenn; a more difficult matter, since he did genuinely want instructions, and Mrs. Friend had none togive him. But kind looks, and sympathetic murmurs, mingled with honestdelight in the show of azaleas in the conservatory carried her through. Old Fenn too, instead of resenting her, adopted her. She went back to thehouse flushed with a little modest triumph. 

Housewifely instincts revived in her. Her hands wanted to be doing. Shehad ventured to ask Fenn for some flowers, and would dare to arrange themherself if Mrs. Mawson would let her. 

Then, as she re-entered the house, she came back at a bound to reality. "If I can't keep Miss Pitstone out of mischief, I shan't be here amonth!" she thought pitifully; and how was it to be done?

She found Helena sitting demurely in the sitting-room, pretending to reada magazine, but really, or so it seemed to Mrs. Friend, keeping both eyesand ears open for events. 

"I'm trying to get ready for Julian--" she said impatiently, throwingaway her book. "He sent me his article in the _Market Place_, but it's sostiff that I can't make head or tail of it. I like to hear him talk--buthe doesn't write English. "

Mrs. Friend took up the magazine, and perceived a marked item in thetable of contents--"A New Theory of Value. "

"What does it mean?" she asked. 

"Oh, I wish I knew!" said Helena, with a little yawn. "And then hechanges so. Last year he made me read Meredith--the novels, I mean. _Oneof Our Conquerors_, he vowed, was the finest thing ever written. Hescoffed at me for liking _Diana_ and _Richard Feverel_ better, becausethey were easier. And _now_, nothing's bad enough for Meredith's 'stiltednonsense'--'characters without a spark of life in them'--'horriblemannerisms'--you should hear him. Except the poems--ah, except the poems!He daren't touch them. I say--do you know the 'Hymn to Colour'?" Thegirl's eager eyes questioned her companion. Her face in a moment was allsoftness and passion. 

Mrs. Friend shook her head. The nature and deficiencies of her owneducation were becoming terribly plain to her with every hour inHelena's company. 

Helena sprang up, fetched the book, put Mrs. Friend forcibly into anarm-chair, and read aloud. Mrs. Friend listened with all her ears, andwas at the end, like Faust, no wiser than before. What did it all mean?She groped, dazzled, among the Meredithian mists and splendours. ButHelena read with a growing excitement, as though the flashingmysterious verse were part of her very being. When the last stanza wasdone, she flung herself fiercely down on a stool at Mrs. Friend's feet, breathing fast:

"Glorious!--oh, glorious!--

"Look now where Colour, the soul's bridegroom, makesThe House of Heaven splendid for the Bride. "

She turned to look up at the little figure in the chair, half laughing, half passionate: "You do understand, don't you?" Mrs. Friend again shookher head despairingly. 

"It sounds wonderful--but I haven't a notion what it means!" Helenalaughed again, but without a touch of mockery. 

"One has to be taught--coached--regularly coached. Julian coached me. "

"What is meant by Colour?" asked Mrs. Friend faintly. 

"Colour is Passion, Beauty, Freedom!" said Helena, her cheek glowing. "Itis just the opposite of dulness--and routine--and make-believe. It's whatmakes life worth while. And it is the young who feel it--the young whohear it calling--the young who obey it! And then when they are old, theyhave it to remember. Now, do you understand?"

Lucy Friend did not answer. But involuntarily, two shining tears stood inher eyes. There was something extraordinarily moving in the girl'sardour. She could hardly bear it. There came back to her momentaryvisions from her own quiet past--a country lane at evening where a manhad put his arm round her and kissed her--her wedding-evening by the sea, when the sun went down, and all the ways were darkened, and the starscame out--and that telegram which put an end to everything, which she hadscarcely had time to feel, because her mother was so ill, and wanted herevery moment. Had she--even she--in her poor, drab, little life--had hermoments of living Poetry, of transforming Colour, like others--withoutknowing it?

Helena watched her, as though in a quick, unspoken sympathy, her ownstorm of feeling subsiding. 

"Do you know, Lucy, you look very nice indeed in that little blackdress!" she said, in her soft, low voice, like the voice of anincantation, that she had used the night before. "You are the neatest, daintiest person!--not prim--but you make everything you wear refined. When I compare you with Cynthia Welwyn!"

She raised her shoulders scornfully. Lucy Friend, aghast at theoutrageousness of the comparison, tried to silence her--but quite invain. Helena ran on. 

"Did you watch Cynthia last night? She was playing for Cousin Philip withall her might. Why doesn't he marry her? She would suit his autocraticideas very well. He is forty-four. She must be thirty-eight if she is aday. They have both got money--which Cynthia can't do without, for she ishorribly extravagant. But I wouldn't give much for her chances. CousinPhilip is a tough proposition, as the American says. There is no gettingat his real mind. All one knows is that it is a tyrannical mind!"

All softness had died from the girl's face and sparkling eyes. She sat onthe floor, her hands round her knees, defiance in every tense feature. Mrs. Friend was conscious of renewed alarm and astonishment, and at lastfound the nerve to express them. 

"How can you call it tyrannical when he spends all this time and thoughtupon you!"

"The gilding of the cage, " said Helena stubbornly. "That is the way womenhave always been taken in. Men fling them scraps to keep them quiet. Butas to the _real_ feast--liberty to discover the world for themselves, make their own experiments--choose and test their own friends--no, thankyou! And what is life worth if it is only to be lived at somebody'selse's dictation?"

"But you have only been here twenty-four hours--not so much! And youdon't know Lord Buntingford's reasons--"

"Oh, yes, I do know!" said Helena, undisturbed--"more or less. I told youlast night. They don't matter to me. It's the principle involved thatmatters. Am I free, or am I not free? Anyway, I've just sent thattelegram. "

"To whom?" cried Mrs. Friend. 

"To Lord Donald, of course, asking him to meet me at the Ritz nextWednesday. If you will be so good"--the brown head made her a ceremonialbow--"as to go up with me to town--we can go to my dressmaker'stogether--I have got heaps to do there--then I can leave you somewherefor lunch--and pick you up again afterwards!"

"Of course, Miss Pitstone--Helena!--I can't do anything of the sort, unless your guardian agrees. "

"Well, we shall see, " said Helena coolly, jumping up. "I mean to tell himafter lunch. Don't please worry. And good-bye till lunch. This time I amreally going to look after my horse!"

A laugh, and a wave of the hand--she had disappeared. Mrs. Friend wasleft to reflect on the New Woman. Was it in truth the war that hadproduced her?--and if so, how and why? All that seemed probable was thatin two or three weeks' time, perhaps, she would be again appealing to thesame agency that had sent her to Beechmark. She believed she was entitledto a month's notice. 

Poor Lord Buntingford! Her sympathies were hotly on his side, so far asshe had any understanding of the situation into which she had beenplunged with so little warning. Yet when Helena was actually there at herfeet, she was hypnotized. The most inscrutable thing of all was, how shecould ever have supposed herself capable of undertaking such a charge!

The two ladies were already lunching when Lord Buntingford appeared, bringing with him another neighbouring squire, come to consult him oncertain local affairs. Sir Henry Bostock, one of those solid, grey-hairedpillars of Church and State in which rural England abounds, was firstdazzled by Miss Pitstone's beauty, and then clearly scandalized by someof her conversation, and perhaps--or so Mrs. Friend imagined--by therather astonishing "make-up" which disfigured lips and cheeks Nature hadalready done her best with. 

He departed immediately after lunch. Lord Buntingford accompanied him tothe front door, saw him mount his horse, and was returning to thelibrary, when a white figure crossed his path. 

"Cousin Philip, I want to speak to you. "

He looked up at once. 

"All right, Helena. Will you come into the library?"

He ushered her in, shut the door behind her, and pushed forward anarm-chair. 

"You'll find that comfortable, I think?"

"Thank you, I'd rather stand. Cousin Philip, did you send that telegramthis morning?"

"Certainly. I told you I should. "

"Then you won't be surprised that I too sent mine. "

"I don't understand what you mean?"

"When this morning you said there would be seven for dinner to-night, Iof course realized that you meant to stick to what you had said aboutLord Donald yesterday; and as I particularly want to see Lord Donald, Isent the new groom to the village this morning with a wire to him to saythat I should be glad if he would arrange to give me luncheon at the Ritznext Wednesday. I have to go up to try a dress on. "

Lord Buntingford paused a moment, looking apparently at the cigarettewith which his fingers were playing. 

"You proposed, I imagine, that Mrs. Friend should go with you?"

"Oh, yes, to my dressmaker's. Then I would arrange for her to gosomewhere to lunch--Debenham's, perhaps. "

"And it was your idea then to go alone--to meet Lord Donald?" Helooked up. 

"He would wait for me in the lounge at the Ritz. It's quite simple!"

Philip Buntingford laughed--good-humouredly. 

"Well, it is very kind of you to have told me so frankly, Helena--becausenow I shall prevent it. It is the last thing in the world that yourmother would have wished, that you should be seen at the Ritz alone withLord Donald. I therefore have her authority with me in asking you eitherto write or telegraph to him again to-night, giving up the plan. Betterstill if you would depute me to do it. It is really a very foolishplan--if I may say so. "

"Why?"

"Because--well, there are certain things a girl of nineteen can't dowithout spoiling her chances in life--and one of them is to be seen aboutalone with a man like Lord Donald. "

"And again I ask--why?"

"I really can't discuss his misdoings with you, Helena. Won't you trustme in the matter? I thought I had made it plain that having been devotedto your mother, I was prepared to be equally devoted to you, and wishedyou to be as happy and free as possible. "

"That's an appeal to sentiment, " said Helena, resolutely. "Of course Iknow it all sounds horrid. You've been as nice as possible; and anybodywho didn't sympathize with my views would think me a nasty, ungratefultoad. But I'm not going to be coaxed into giving them up, any more thanI'm going to be bullied. "

Lord Buntingford surveyed her. The habitual slight pucker--as though ofanxiety or doubt--in his brow was much in evidence. It might have meantthe chronic effort of a short-sighted man to see. But the fine candideyes were not short-sighted. The pucker meant something deeper. 

"Of course I should like to understand what your views are, " he said atlast, throwing away one cigarette, and lighting another. 

Helena's look kindled. She looked handsomer and more maenad-like thanever, as she stood leaning against Buntingford's writing-table, her armsfolded, one slim foot crossed over the other. 

"The gist of them is, " she said eagerly, "that _we_--the women of thepresent day--are not going to accept our principles--moral--orpolitical--or economic--on anybody's authority. You seem, Cousin Philip, in my case at any rate, to divide the world into two sets of people, moral and immoral, good and bad--desirable and undesirable--that kind ofthing! And you expect me to know the one set, and ignore the other set. Well, we don't see it that way at all. We think that everybody is apretty mixed lot. I know I am myself. At any rate I'm not going to beginmy life by laying down a heap of rules about things I don'tunderstand--or by accepting them from you, or anybody. If Lord Donald's abad man, I want to know why he is a bad man--and then I'll decide. If herevolts my moral sense, of course I'll cut him. But I won't take anybodyelse's moral sense for judge. We've got to overhaul that sort of thingfrom top to bottom. "

Buntingford looked thoughtfully at the passionate speaker. Shouldhe--could he argue with her? Could he show her, for instance, a letter, or parts of it, which he had received that very morning from poor LukePreston, his old Eton and Oxford friend? No!--it would be useless. In herpresent mood she might treat it so as to rouse his own temper--let alonethe unseemliness of the discussion it must raise between them. Or shouldhe give her a fairly full biography of Jim Donald, as he happened to knowit? He revolted against the notion, astonished to find how strong certainold-fashioned instincts still were in his composition. And, after all, hehad said a good deal the night before, at dinner, when Helena'sinvitation to a man he despised as a coward and a libertine had beenfirst sprung upon him. There really was only one way out. He took it. 

"Well, Helena, I'm very sorry, " he said slowly. "Your views are veryinteresting. I should like some day to discuss them with you. But theimmediate business is to stop this Ritz plan. You really won't stop ityourself?"

"Certainly not!" said Helena, her breath fluttering. 

"Well, then, I must write to Donald myself. I happen to possess the meansof making it impossible for him to meet you at the Ritz next Wednesday, Helena; and I shall use them. You must make some other arrangement. "

"What means?" she demanded. She had turned very pale. 

"Ah, no!--that you must leave to me. Look here, Helena"--his tonesoftened--"can't we shake hands on it, and make up? I do hate quarrellingwith your mother's daughter. "

Involuntarily, through all her rage, Helena was struck by the extremesensitiveness of the face opposite her--a sensitiveness often disguisedby the powerful general effect of the man's head and eyes. In a calmermood she might have said to herself that only some past suffering couldhave produced it. At the moment, however, she was incapable of anythingbut passionate resentment. 

All the same there was present in her own mind an ideal of what theaction and bearing of a girl in her position should be, which, with thehelp of pride, would not allow her to drift into mere temper. She put herhands firmly behind her; so that Buntingford was forced to withdraw his;but she kept her self-possession. 

"I don't see what there is but quarrelling before us, Cousin Philip, ifyou are to proceed on these lines. Are you really going to keep me tomy promise?"

"To let me take care of you--for these two years? It was not a promise tome, Helena. "

The girl's calm a little broke down. 

"Mummy would never have made me give it, " she said fiercely, "if shehad known--"

"Well, you can't ask her now, " he said gently. "Hadn't we better make thebest of it?"

She scorned to reply. He opened the door for her, and she sweptthrough it. 

Left to himself, Buntingford gave a great stretch. 

"That was strenuous!"--he said to himself--"uncommonly strenuous. Howmany times a week shall I have to do it? Can't Cynthia Welwyn doanything? I'll go and see Cynthia this afternoon. "

With which very natural, but quite foolish resolution, he at lastsucceeded in quieting his own irritation, and turning his mind to apolitical speech he had to make next week in his own village. 

CHAPTER V

Cynthia Welwyn was giving an account of her evening at Beechmark to herelder sister, Lady Georgina. They had just met in the little drawing-roomof Beechmark Cottage, and tea was coming in. It would be difficult toimagine a greater contrast than the two sisters presented. They were thedaughters of a peer belonging to what a well-known frequenter of greathouses and great families before the war used to call "the inferioraristocracy"--with an inflection of voice caught no doubt from the greatfamilies themselves. Yet their father had been an Earl, the second of hisname, and was himself the son of a meteoric personage of mid-Victoriandays--parliamentary lawyer, peer, and Governor of an Indian Presidency, who had earned his final step in the peerage by the skilful management ofa little war, and had then incontinently died, leaving his family hisreputation, which was considerable, and his savings, which weredisappointingly small. Lady Cynthia and Lady Georgina were his onlysurviving children, and the earldom was extinct. 

The sisters possessed a tiny house in Brompton Square, and rentedBeechmark Cottage from Lord Buntingford, of whom their mother, long sincedead, had been a cousin. The cottage stood within the enclosure of thepark, and to their connection with the big house the sisters owed anumber of amenities, --game in winter, flowers and vegetables insummer--which were of importance to their small income. Cynthia Welwyn, however, could never have passed as anybody's dependent. She thanked hercousin occasionally for the kindnesses of which his head gardener and hisgame-keeper knew much more than he did; and when he saidimpatiently--"Please never thank for that sort of thing!" she dropped thesubject as lightly as she had raised it. Secretly she felt that suchthings, and much more, were her due. She had not got from life all sheshould have got; and it was only natural that people should make it up toher a little. 

For Cynthia, though she had wished to marry, was unmarried, and a secretand melancholy conviction now sometimes possessed her that she wouldremain Cynthia Welwyn to the end. She knew very well that in the opinionof her friends she had fallen between two stools. Her neighbour, SirRichard Watson, had proposed to her twice, --on the last occasion some twoyears before the war. She had not been able to make up her mind to accepthim, because on the whole she was more in love with her cousin, PhilipBuntingford, and still hoped that his old friendship for her might turnto something deeper. But the war had intervened, and during its fouryears she and Buntingford had very much lost sight of each other. She hadtaken her full share in the county war work; while he was absorbed bodyand soul by the Admiralty. 

And now that they were meeting again as of old, she was very conscious, in some undefined way, that she had lost ground with him. Uneasily shefelt that her talk sometimes bored him; yet she could not help talking. In the pre-war days, when they met in a drawing-room full of people, hehad generally ended his evening beside her. Now his manner, for all itscourtesy, seemed to tell her that those times were done; that she wasfour years older; that she had lost the first brilliance of her looks;and that he himself had grown out of her ken. Helena's young unfriendlyeyes had read her rightly. She did wish fervently to recapture PhilipBuntingford; and saw no means of doing so. Meanwhile Sir Richard, nowdemobilized, had come back from the war bringing great glory with him, asone of the business men whom the Army had roped in to help in its vastlabour and transport organization behind the lines. He too had reappearedat Beechmark Cottage. But he too was four years older--and dreadfullypreoccupied, it seemed to her, with a thousand interests which hadmattered nothing to him in the old easy days. 

Yet Cynthia Welwyn was still an extremely attractive and desirablewoman, and was quite aware of it, as was her elder sister, LadyGeorgina, who spent her silent life in alternately admiring anddespising the younger. Lady Georgina was short, thin, and nearlywhite-haired. She had a deep voice, which she used with a harshabruptness, startling to the newcomer. But she used it very little. Cynthia's friends, were used to see her sitting absolutely silent behindthe tea-urn at breakfast or tea, filling the cups while Cynthia handedthem and Cynthia talked; and they had learned that it was no use at allto show compassion and try to bring her into the conversation. A quietrather stony stare, a muttered "Ah" or "Oh, " were all that such effortsproduced. Some of the frequenters of the cottage drawing-room wereconvinced that Lady Georgina was "not quite all there. " Others had theimpression of something watchful and sinister; and were accustomed topity "dear Cynthia" for having to live with so strange a being. 

But in truth the sisters suited each other very fairly, and Lady Georginafound a good deal more tongue when she was alone with Cynthia than atother times. 

To the lively account that Cynthia had been giving her of the evening atBeechmark, and the behaviour of Helena Pitstone, Lady Georgina hadlistened in a sardonic silence; and at the end of it she said--

"What ever made the man such a fool?"

"Who?--Buntingford? My dear, what could he do? Rachel Pitstone was hisgreatest friend in the world, and when she asked him just the week beforeshe died, how could he say No?" Lady Georgina murmured that in that caseRachel Pitstone also had been a fool--

"Unless, of course, she wanted the girl to marry Buntingford. Why, Philip's only forty-four now. A nice age for a guardian! Of course it'snot proper. The neighbours will talk. "

"Oh, no, --not with a chaperon. Besides nobody minds anything oddnowadays. "

Cynthia meanwhile as she lay stretched in a deep arm-chair, playing withthe tea-spoon in her shapely fingers, was a pleasant vision. Since comingin from the village, she had changed her tweed coat and skirt for atea-frock of some soft silky stuff, hyacinth blue in colour; andGeorgina, for whom tea-frocks were a silly abomination, and who washerself sitting bolt upright in a shabby blue serge some five springsold, could not deny the delicate beauty of her sister's still freshcomplexion and pale gold hair, nor the effectiveness of the blue dress incombination with them. She did not really want Cynthia to look older, norto see her ill-dressed; but all the same there were many days whenCynthia's mature perfections roused a secret irritation in her sister--akind of secret triumph also in the thought that, in the end, Time wouldbe the master even of Cynthia. Perhaps after all she would marry. It didlook as though Sir Richard Watson, if properly encouraged, andindemnified for earlier rebuffs, might still mean business. As for PhilipBuntingford, it was only Cynthia's vanity that had ever made her imaginehim in love with her. Lady Georgina scoffed at the notion. 

These fragmentary reflections, and others like them were passing rapidlyand disconnectedly through the mind of the elder sister, when her earcaught the sound of footsteps in the drive. Drawing aside a corner of themuslin curtain beside her, which draped one of the French windows of thelow room, she perceived the tall figure and scarcely perceptible limp ofLord Buntingford. Cynthia too saw him, and ceased to lounge. She quietlyre-lit the tea-kettle, and took a roll of knitting from a table near her. Then as the front bell rang through the small house, she threw a scarcelyperceptible look at her sister. Would Georgie "show tact, " and leave herand Philip alone, or would she insist on her rights and spoil his visit?Georgina made no sign. 

Buntingford entered, flushed with his walk, and carrying a bunch ofblue-bells which he presented to Lady Georgina. 

"I gathered them in Cricket Wood. The whole wood is a sea of blue. Youand Cynthia must really go and see them. "

He settled himself in a chair, and plunged into tea and small talk asthough to the manner born. But all the time Cynthia, while approving hisnaval uniform, and his general picturesqueness, was secretly wonderingwhat he had come about. For although he was enjoying a well-earned leave, the first for two years, and had every right to idle, the ordinaryafternoon call of country life, rarely, as she knew, came into the schemeof his day. The weather was beautiful and she had made sure that he wouldbe golfing on a well-known links some three miles off. 

Presently the small talk flagged, and Buntingford began to fidget. SlowlyLady Georgina rose from her seat, and again extinguished the flame underthe silver kettle. Would she go, or would she not go? Cynthia droppedsome stitches in the tension of the moment. Then Buntingford got up toopen the door for Georgina, who, without deigning to make anyconventional excuse for her departure, nevertheless departed. 

Buntingford returned to his seat, picked up Cynthia's ball of wool, andsat holding it, his eyes on the down-dropped head of his cousin, and onthe beautiful hands holding the knitting-needles. Yes, she was still verygood-looking, and had been sensible enough not to spoil herself by paintand powder, unlike that silly child, Helena, who was yet so muchyounger--twenty-two years younger, almost. It seemed incredible. But hecould reckon Cynthia's age to a day; for they had known each other verywell as children, and he had often given her a birthday present, till themoment when, in her third season, Cynthia had peremptorily put an end tothe custom. Then he had gone abroad, and there had been a wide gap ofyears when they had never seen each other at all. And now, it was true, she did often bore him, intellectually. But at this moment, he was notbored--quite the contrary. The sunny cottage room, with its flowers andbooks and needlework, and a charming woman as its centre, evidently veryglad to see him, and ready to welcome any confidences he might give her, produced a sudden sharp effect upon him. That hunger for something deniedhim--the "It" which he was always holding at bay--sprang upon him, andshook his self-control. 

"We've known each other a long time, haven't we, Cynthia?" he said, smiling, and holding out her ball of wool. 

Cynthia hardly concealed her start of pleasure. She looked up, shakingher hair from her white brow and temples with a graceful gesture, halfresponsive, half melancholy. 

"So long!" she said--"it doesn't bear thinking of. "

"Not at all. You haven't aged a bit. I want you to help me in something, Cynthia. You remember how you helped me out of one or two scrapes in theold days?"

They both laughed. Cynthia remembered very well. That scrape, forinstance, with the seductive little granddaughter of the retired villageschool-master--a veritable Ancient of Days, who had been the witness ofan unlucky kiss behind a hedge, and had marched up instanter, in hiswrath, to complain to Lord Buntingford _grand-pčre. _ Or that much worsescrape, when a lad of nineteen, with not enough to do in his Oxfordvacation, had imagined himself in love with a married lady of theneighbourhood, twenty years older than himself, and had had to be packedoff in disgrace to Switzerland with a coach:--an angry grandfatherbreathing fire and slaughter. Certainly in those days Philip had beenunusually--remarkably susceptible. Cynthia remembered him as always in orout of a love-affair, while she to whom he never made love wasalternately champion and mentor. In those days, he had no expectation ofthe estates or the title. He was plain Philip Bliss, with an artistic andliterary turn, great personal charm, and a temperament that invitedcatastrophes. That was before he went to Paris and Rome for serious workat painting. Seven years he had been away from England, and she had neverseen him. He had announced his marriage to her in a short note containinghardly any particulars--except that his wife was a student like himself, and that he intended to live abroad and work. Some four years later, the_Times_ contained the bare news, in the obituary column, of his wife'sdeath, and about a year afterwards he returned to England, an enormouslychanged man, with that slight lameness, which seemed somehow to draw asharp, dividing line between the splendid, impulsive youth who had goneabroad, and the reserved, and self-contained man of thirty-two--pessimistand dilettante--who had returned. His lameness he ascribed to an accidentin the Alps, but would never say anything more about it; and his friendspresently learned to avoid the subject, and to forget the slight signs ofsomething unexplained which had made them curious at first. 

In the intervening years before the war, Cynthia felt tolerably sure thatshe had been his only intimate woman friend. His former susceptibilityseemed to have vanished. On the whole he avoided women's society. Someyears after his return he had inherited the title and the estates, andmight have been one of the most invited men in London had he wished tobe; while Cynthia could remember at least three women, all desirable, whowould have liked to marry him. The war had swept him more decidedly thanever out of the ordinary current of society. He had made it both anexcuse and a shield. His work was paramount; and even his old friends hadlost sight of him. He lived and breathed for an important Committee ofthe Admiralty, on which as time went on he took a more and more importantplace. In the four years Cynthia had scarcely seen him more than half adozen times. 

And now the war was over. It was May again, and glorious May with theworld all colour and song, the garden a wealth of blossom, and the nightsclear and fragrant under moon or stars. And here was Philip again--muchmore like the old Philip than he had been for years--looking at her withthose enchanting blue eyes of his, and asking her to do something forhim. No wonder Cynthia's pulses were stirred. The night before, she hadcome home depressed--very conscious that she had had no particularsuccess with him at dinner, or afterwards. This unexpected _tęte-ŕ-tęte_, with its sudden touch of intimacy, made up for it all. 

What could she do but assure him--trying hard not to be tooforthcoming--that she would be delighted to help him, if she could? Whatwas wrong?

"Nothing but my own idiocy, " he said, smiling. "I find myself guardian toan extremely headstrong young woman, and I don't know how to manage her. I want your advice. "

Cynthia lay back in her chair, and prepared to give him all her mind. Buther eyes showed a certain mockery. 

"I wonder why you undertook it!"

"So do I. But--well, I couldn't help it. We won't discuss that. But whatI had very little idea of--was the modern girl!" Cynthia laughed out. 

"And now you have discovered her--in one day?" He laughed too, butrather dismally. 

"Oh, I am only on the first step. What I shall come to presently, I don'tknow. But the immediate problem is that Helena bombed me last night bythe unexpected announcement that she had asked Donald--Lord Donald--forthe week-end. Do you know him?" Cynthia's eyebrows had gone up. 

"Very slightly. "

"You know his reputation?"

"I begin to remember a good deal about him. Go on. "

"Well, Helena had asked that man, without consulting me, to stay at myhouse, and she sprang the announcement on me, on Thursday, theinvitation being for Saturday. I had to tell her then and there--that hecouldn't come. "

"Naturally. How did she take it?"

"Very ill. You see, in a rash moment, I had told her to invite herfriends for week-ends as she pleased. So she holds that I have brokenfaith, and this morning she told me she had arranged to go up and lunchwith Donald at the Ritz next week--alone! So again I had to stop it. ButI don't play the jailer even decently. I feel the greatest fool increation. " Cynthia smiled. 

"I quite believe you! And this all happened in the first twenty-fourhours? Poor Philip!"

"And I have also been informed that Helena's 'views' will not allowher--in the future--to take my advice on any such questions--thatshe prefers her liberty to her reputation--and 'wants to understanda bad man. ' She said so. It's all very well to laugh, Cynthia! Butwhat am I to do?"

Cynthia, however, continued to laugh unrestrainedly. And he joined in. 

"And now you want advice?" she said at last, checking her mirth. "I'mawfully sorry for you, Philip. What about the little chaperon?"

"As nice a woman as ever was--but I don't see her preventing Helena fromdoing anything she wants to do. Helena will jolly well take care of that. Besides she is too new to the job. "

"She may get on better with Helena, perhaps, than a stronger woman, "mused Cynthia. "But I am afraid you have got your work cut out. Wasn't itvery rash of you?"

"I couldn't help it, " he repeated briefly. "And I must just do my best. But I'd be awfully grateful if you'd take a hand, Cynthia. Won't you comeup and really make friends with her? She might take things from you thatshe wouldn't from me. "

Cynthia looked extremely doubtful. 

"I am sure last night she detested me. "

"How could you tell? And why should she?"

"I'm twenty years older. That's quite enough. "

"You scarcely look a day older, Cynthia. "

She sighed, and lightly touched his hand, with a caressing gesture heremembered of old. 

"Very nice of you to say it--but of course it isn't true. Well, Philip, I'll do what I can. I'll wander up some time--on Sunday perhaps. Withyour coaching, I could at least give her a biography of Jim Donald. Oneneedn't be afraid of shocking her?"

His eyebrows lifted. 

"Who's shocked at anything nowadays? Look at the things girls read anddiscuss! I'm old-fashioned, I suppose. But I really couldn't talk aboutDonald to her this morning. The fellow is such a worm! It would comebetter from you. "

"Tell me a few more facts, then, about him, than I know at present. "

He gave her rapidly a sketch of the life and antecedents of Lord Donaldof Dunoon--gambler, wastrel, _divorcé_, et cetera, speaking quitefrankly, almost as he would have spoken to a man. For there was nothingat all distasteful to him in Cynthia's knowledge of life. In a woman offorty it was natural and even attractive. The notion of a discussion ofDonald's love-affairs with Helena had revolted him. It was on thecontrary something of a relief--especially with a practical object inview--to discuss them with Cynthia. 

They sat chatting till the shadows lengthened, then wandered into thegarden, still talking. Lady Georgina, watching from her window upstairs, had to admit that Buntingford seemed to like her sister's society. But ifshe had been within earshot at the last five minutes of theirconversation, she would perhaps have seen no reason, finally, to changeher opinion. Very agreeable that discursive talk had been to bothparticipants. Buntingford had talked with great frankness of his ownplans. In three months or so, his Admiralty work would be over. Hethought very likely that the Government would then give him a modestplace in the Administration. He might begin by representing the Admiraltyin the Lords, and as soon as he got a foot on the political ladderprospects would open. On the whole, he thought, politics would be hisline. He had no personal axes to grind; was afraid of nothing; wouldn'tcare if the Lords were done away with to-morrow, and could live on afraction of his income if the Socialists insisted on grabbing the rest. But the new world which the war had opened was a desperately interestingone. He hadn't enough at stake in it to spoil his nerve. Whateverhappened, he implied, he was steeled--politically and intellectually. Nothing could deprive him either of the joy of the fight, or theamusement of the spectacle. 

And Cynthia, her honey-gold hair blown back from her white temples by thesummer wind, her blue parasol throwing a summer shade about her, showedherself, as they strolled backwards and forwards over the shady lawn ofthe cottage, a mistress of the listening art; and there is no art morewinning, either to men or women. 

Then, in a moment, what broke the spell? Some hint or question from her, of a more intimate kind?--something that touched a secret place, whollyunsuspected by her? She racked her brains afterwards to think what itcould have been; but in vain. All she knew was that the man beside herhad suddenly stiffened. His easy talk had ceased to flow; while stillwalking beside her, he seemed to be miles away. So that by a quick commonimpulse both stood still. 

"I must go back to the village, " said Cynthia. She smiled, but her facehad grown a little tired and faded. 

He looked at his watch. 

"And I told the car to fetch me half an hour ago. You'll be up some timeperhaps--luncheon to-morrow?--or Sunday?"

"If I can. I'll do my best. "

"Kind Cynthia!" But his tone was perfunctory, and his eyes avoided her. When he had gone, she could only wonder what she had done to offend him;and a certain dreariness crept into the evening light. She was not theleast in love with Philip--that she assured herself. But his suddenchanges of mood were very trying to one who would like to be his friend. 

Buntingford walked rapidly home. His way lay through an oak wood, thatwas now a revel of spring; overhead, a shimmering roof of golden leaf andwild cherry-blossom, and underfoot a sea of blue-bells. A winding pathled through it, and through the lovely open and grassy spaces which fromtime to time broke up the density of the wood--like so many green floorscleared for the wood nymphs' dancing. From the west a level sun struckthrough the trees, breaking through storm-clouds which had been rapidlyfilling the horizon, and kindling the tall trees, with their ribbed greybark, till they shone for a brief moment like the polished pillars in thehouse of Odysseus. Then a nightingale sang. Nightingales were rare atBeechmark; and Buntingford would normally have hailed the enchantedflute-notes with a boyish delight. But this evening they fell on deafears, and when the garish sunlight gave place to gloom, and drops of rainbegan to patter on the new leaf, the gathering storm, and the darksilence of the wood, after the nightingale had given her last trill, werewelcome to a man struggling with a recurrent and desperate oppression. 

Must he always tamely submit to the fetters which bound him? Could he donothing to free himself? Could the law do nothing? Enquiry--violentaction of some sort--rebellion against the conditions which had grown sorigid about him:--for the hundredth time, he canvassed all ways ofescape, and for the hundredth time, found none. 

He knew very well what was wrong with him. It was simply the imperiousneed for a woman's companionship in his life--for _love_. Physically andmorally, the longing which had lately taken possession of him, wasbecoming a gnawing and perpetual distress. There was the plain fact. Thishour with Cynthia Welwyn had stirred in him the depths of old pain. Buthe was not really in love with Cynthia. During the war, amid theabsorption of his work, and the fierce pressure of the national need, hehad been quite content to forget her. His work--and England's strait--hadfilled his mind and his time. Except for certain dull resentments andregrets, present at all times in the background of consciousness, thefour years of the war had been to him a period of relief, almost ofdeliverance. He had been able to lose himself; and in that inner historyof the soul which is the real history of each one of us, that had beenfor long years impossible. 

But now all that protection and help was gone; the floodgates wereloosened again. His work still went on; but it was no longer absorbing;it no longer mattered enough to hold in check the vague impulses andpassions that were beating against his will. 

And meanwhile the years were running on. He was forty-four, HelenaPitstone's guardian, and clearly relegated already by that unmanageablechild to the ranks of the middle-aged. He had read her thought in hergreat scornful eyes. "What has your generation to do with mine? Yourday is over!"

And all the while the ugly truth was that he had never had his "day"--andwas likely now to miss it for good. Or at least such "day" as had shoneupon him had been so short, so chequered, so tragically wiped out, itmight as well never have dawned. Yet the one dear woman friend to whom inthese latter years he had spoken freely, who knew him through andthrough--Helena Pitstone's mother--had taken for granted, in her quietascetic way, that he had indeed had his chance, and must accept for goodand all what had come of it. It was because she thought of him as setapart, as debarred by what had happened to him, from honest love-making, and protected by his own nature from anything less, that she had askedhim to take charge of Helena. He realized it now. It had been the notionof a fanciful idealist, springing from certain sickroom ideas ofsacrifice--renunciation--submission to the will of God--and so forth. 

It was _not_ the will of God!--that he should live forsaken and dieforlorn! He hurled defiance, even at Rachel, his dear dead friend, whohad been so full of pity for him, and for whom he had felt the purest andmost unselfish affection he had ever known--since his mother's death. 

And now the presence of her child in his house seemed to represent averdict, a sentence--of hers upon him, which he simply refused to acceptas just or final. If Rachel had only lived a little longer he would havehad it out with her. But in those last terrible days, how could he eitherargue--or refuse?

All the same, he would utterly do his duty by Helena. If she chose toregard him as an old fogy, well and good--it was perhaps better so. Notthat--if circumstances had been other than they were---he would have beenthe least inclined to make love to her. Her beauty was astonishing. Butthe wonderful energy and vitality of her crude youth rather repelled thanattracted him. 

The thought of the wrestles ahead of him was a weariness to an alreadytired man. Debate with her, on all the huge insoluble questions sheseemed to be determined to raise, was of all things in the world mostdistasteful to him. He would certainly cut a sorry figure in it; nothingwas more probable. 

The rain began to plash down upon his face and bared head, cooling aninner fever. The damp wood, the soft continuous dripping of thecherry-blossoms, the scent of the blue-bells, --there was in them acertain shelter and healing. He would have liked to linger there. Butalready, at Beechmark, guests must have arrived; he was being missed. 

The trees thinned, and the broad lawns of Beechmark came in sight. Ah!--there was Geoffrey, walking up and down with Helena. _Suppose_ thatreally came off? What a comfortable way out! He and Cynthia must back itall they could. 

CHAPTER VI

"Buntingford looks twice as old as he need!" said Geoffrey French, lighting a cigarette as he and Helena stepped out of the drawing-roomwindow after dinner into the May world outside--a world which lay steepedin an after-glow of magical beauty. "What's wrong, I wonder! Have youbeen plaguing him, Helena?" The laughing shot was fired purely at random. But the slight start and flush it produced in Helena struck him. 

"I see nothing wrong with him, " said Helena, a touch of defiance in hervoice. "But of course it's extraordinarily difficult to get on with him. "

"With Philip!--the jolliest, kindest chap going! What do you mean?"

"All right. It's no good talking to anybody with a _parti pris_!"

"No--but seriously, Helena--what's the matter? Why, you told me you onlybegan the new arrangement two days ago. "

"Exactly. And there's been time already for a first-class quarrel. Timealso for me to see that I shall never, never get on with him. I don'tknow how we are to get through the two years!"

"_Well_!" ejaculated her companion. "In Heaven's name, what has hebeen doing?"

Helena shrugged her shoulders. She was striding beside him like a youngArtemis--in white, with a silver star in her hair, and her short skirtsbeaten back from her slender legs and feet by the evening wind. GeoffreyFrench, who had had a classical education, almost looked for the quiverand the bow. He was dazzled at once, and provoked. A magnificentcreature, certainly--"very mad and very handsome!"--he recalledBuntingford's letter. 

"Do tell me, Helena!" he urged. 

"What's the good? You'll only side with him--and _preach_. You've donethat several times already. "

The young man frowned a little. 

"I don't preach!" he said shortly. "I say what I think--_when_ you askme. Twice, if I remember right, you told me of some proceeding of yours, and asked me for my opinion. Well, I gave it, and it didn't happen to beyours. But that isn't preaching. "

"You gave so many reasons--it _was_ preaching. "

"Great Scott!--wasn't it more polite to give one's reasons?"

"Perhaps. But one shouldn't _burst_ with them. One should be sorry todisagree. "

"Hm. Well--now kindly lay down for me, how I am to disagree with youabout Philip. For I do disagree with you, profoundly. "

"There it is. Profoundly--that shows how you enjoy disagreeing. Why can'tyou put yourself at my point of view?"

"Well, I'll try. But at least--explain it to me. "

Helena threw herself into a garden chair, under a wild cherry which rosea pyramid of silver against an orange sky. Other figures were scatteredabout the lawns, three or four young men, and three or four girls inlight dresses. The air seemed to be full of laughter and young voices. Only Mrs. Friend sat shyly by herself just within the drawing-roomwindow, a book on her knee. A lamp behind her brought out the lines ofher bent head and slight figure. 

"I wonder if I like you well enough, " said Helena coolly, biting at astalk of grass--"well enough, I mean, to explain things. I haven't madeyou my father confessor yet, Geoffrey. "

"Suppose you begin--and see how it answers, " said French lazily, rollingover on the grass in front of her, his chin in his hands. 

"Well, I don't mind--for fun. Only if you preach I shall stop. But, firstof all, let's get some common ground. You admit, I suppose, that the warhas changed the whole position of women?"

"Yes--with reservations. "

"Don't state them!" said Helena hastily. "That would be preaching. Yes, or No?"

"Yes, then, --you tyrant!"

"And that means--doesn't it--at the very least--that girls of my own agehave done with all the old stupid chaperonage business--at least nearlyall--that we are to choose our own friends, and make our ownarrangements?--doesn't it?" she repeated peremptorily. 

"I don't know. My information is--that the mothers are stiffening. "

A laughing face looked up at her from the grass. 

"Stiffening!" The tone was contemptuous. "Well, that may be so--for babesof seventeen--like that one--" her gesture indicated a slight figure inwhite at the edge of the lawn--"who have never been out of theschool-room--but--"

"You think nineteen makes all the difference? I doubt, " said GeoffreyFrench coolly, as he sat up tailor-fashion, and surveyed her. "Well, myview is that for the babes, as you call them, chaperonage is certainlyreviving. I have just been sitting next Lady Maud, this babe's mother, and she told me an invitation came for the babe from some great houselast week, addressed to 'Miss Luton and partner'--whereon Lady Maud wroteback--'My daughter has no partner and I shall be very happy to bringher. ' Rather a poke in the eye! Then there are the women of five or sixand twenty who have been through the war, and are not likely to give upthe freedom of it--ever again. That's all right. They'll take their ownrisks. Many of them will prefer not to live at home again. They'll livewith a friend--and visit their people perhaps every day! But, thenthere's _you_, Helena--the betwixt and between!--"

"Well--what about me?"

"You're neither a babe--nor a veteran. "

"I'm nineteen and a half--and I've done a year and a half of war work--"

"Canteen--and driving? All right. Am I to give an opinion?"

"You will give it, whatever I say. And it's you all over--to give it, before you've allowed me to explain anything. "

"Oh, I know your point of view--" said Geoffrey, unperturbed--"know it byheart. Haven't you dinned it into me at half a dozen dances lately?No!--I'm entitled to my say--and here it is. Claim all the freedom youlike--but as you're _not_ twenty-five, but nineteen--let a good fellowlike Buntingford give you advice--and be thankful!"

"Prig!" said Helena, pelting him with a spray of wild cherry, which hecaught and put in his button-hole. "If that isn't preaching, I shouldlike to know what is!"

"Not at all. Unbiased opinion--civilly expressed. If you really were anemancipated young woman, Helena, you'd take it so! But now--" his tonechanged--"let's come to business. What have you and Philip beenquarrelling about?"

Helena straightened her shoulders, as though to meet certain disapproval. 

"Because--I asked Lord Donald to spend the week-end here--"

"You didn't!"

"I did; and Cousin Philip wired to him and forbade him the house. Offence No. 1. Then as I intended all the same to see Jim, I told him Iwould go up and lunch with him at the Ritz. Cousin Philip vows I shan't, and he seems to have some underhand means of stopping it--I--I don'tknow what--"

"Underhand! Philip! I say, Helena, I wonder whether you have any idea howpeople who really know him think about Buntingford!"

"Oh, of course men back up men!"

"Stuff! It's really silly--abominable too--the way you talk of him--Ican't help saying it. "

And this time it was Geoffrey's turn to look indignant. His long facewith its deeply set grey eyes, a rather large nose, and a fine brow undercurly hair, had flushed suddenly. 

"If you can't help it, I suppose you must say it. But I don't know why Ishould stay and listen, " said Helena provokingly, making a movement asthough to rise. But he laid a hand on her dress:

"No, no, Helena, don't go--look here--do you ever happen to noticeBuntingford--when he's sitting quiet--and other people are talkinground him?"

"Not particularly. " The tone was cold, but she no longer threateneddeparture. 

"Well, I just ask you--some time--to _watch_. An old friend of hissaid to me the other day--'I often feel that Buntingford is thesaddest man I know. '"

"Why should he be?" asked Helena imperiously. 

"I can't tell you. No one can. It's just what those people think who knowhim best. Well, that's one fact about him--that his _men_ friends feelthey could no more torment a wounded soldier, than worry Buntingford--ifthey could help it. Then there are other facts that no one knows unlessthey've worked in Philip's office, where all the men clerks and all thewomen typists just adore him! I happen to know a good deal about it. Icould tell you things--"

"For Heaven's sake, don't!" cried Helena impatiently. "What does itmatter? He may be a saint--with seven haloes--for those that don't crosshim. But _I_ want my freedom!"--a white foot beat the groundimpatiently--"and he stands in the way. "

"Freedom to compromise yourself with a scoundrel like Donald! What _can_you know about such a man--compared with what Philip knows?"

"That's just it--I _want_ to know--" said Helena in her most stubbornvoice. "This is a world, now, in which we've all got to know, --both thebad and the good of it. No more taking it on trust from other people! Letus learn it for ourselves. "

"Helena!--you're quite mad!" said the young man, exasperated. 

"Perhaps I am. But it's a madness you can't cure. " And springing to herfeet, she sent a call across the lawn--"Peter!" A slim boy who waswalking beside the "babe" of seventeen, some distance away, turnedsharply at the sound, and running across the grass pulled up in frontof Helena. 

"Well?--here I am. "

"Shall we go and look at the lake? You might pull me about a little. "

"Ripping!" said the youth joyously. "Won't you want a cloak?"

"No--it's so hot. Shall we ask Miss Luton?"

Peter made a face. 

"Why should we?"

Helena laughed, and they went off together in the direction of a strip ofsilver under distant trees on which the moon was shining. 

French walked away towards the girlish figure now deserted. 

Helena watched him out of the corner of her eyes, saw the girl's eagergreeting, and the disappearance of the two in the woody walk thatbordered the lawn. Then she noticed a man sitting by himself not faraway, with a newspaper on his knee. 

"Suppose we take Mr. Horne, Peter?"

"Don't let's take anybody!" said the boy. "And anyway Horne's a nuisancejust now. He talks you dead with strikes--and nationalization--and labourmen--and all that rot. Can't we ever let it alone? I want to talk to_you_, Helena. I say, you are ripping in that dress! You're just_divine_, Helena!" The girl laughed, her sweetest, most rippling laugh. 

"Go on like that, Peter. You can't think how nice it sounds--especiallyafter Geoffrey's been lecturing for all he's worth. "

"Lecturing? Oh well, if it comes to that, I've got my grievance too, Helena. We'll have it out, when I've found the boat. "

"Forewarned!" said Helena, still laughing. "Perhaps I won't come. "

"Oh, yes, you will, " said the boy confidently. "I believe you knowperfectly well what it's about. You've got a guilty conscience, Miss Helena!"

Helena said nothing, till they had pushed the boat out from the reedsand the water-lilies, and she was sitting with the steering ropes inher hands opposite a boy in his shirt sleeves, with the head and faceof a cherub, and the spare frame of an athlete, who was devouring herwith his eyes. 

"Are you quite done with the Army, Peter?"

"Quite. Got out a month ago. You come to me, Helena, if you want anyadvice about foreign loans--eh? I can tell you a thing or two. "

"Are you going to be very rich?"

"Well, I'm pretty rich already, " said the boy candidly. "It seems beastlyto be wanting more. But my uncles would shove me into the Bank. Icouldn't help it. "

"You'll never look so nice as you did in your khaki, Peter. What have youdone with all your ribbons?"

"What, the decorations? Oh, they're kicking about somewhere. "

"You're not to let your Victoria Cross kick about, as you call it, " saidHelena severely. "By the way, Peter, you've never told me yet--Oh, I sawthe bit in the _Times_. But I want _you_ to tell me about it. Won't you?"

She bent forward, all softness, her beautiful eyes on her companion. 

"No!" said Peter with energy--"_never_!"

She considered him. 

"Was it so awful?" she asked under her breath. 

"For God's sake, don't ask questions!" said the boy angrily. "You know Iwant to forget it. I shall never be quite right till I do forget it. "

She was silent. It was his twin brother he had tried to save--staggeringback through a British barrage with the wounded man on hisshoulders--only to find, as he stumbled into the trench, that he had beencarrying the dead. He himself had spent six months in hospital from theeffects of wounds and shock. He had emerged to find himself a V. V. AndA. D. C. To his Army Commander; and apparently as gay and full of fun asbefore. But his adoring mother and sisters knew very well that there weresore spots in Peter. 

Helena realized that she had touched one. She bent forward presently, andlaid her own hand on one of the hands that were handling the sculls. 

"Dear Peter!"

He bent impetuously, and kissed the hand before she could withdraw it. 

"Don't you play with me, Helena, " he said passionately. "I'm not a child, though I look it ... Now, then, let's have it out. "

They had reached the middle of the pond, and were drifting across amoonlit pathway, on either side of which lay the shadow of deep woods, now impenetrably dark. The star in Helena's hair glittered in the light, and the face beneath it, robbed of its daylight colour, had become astudy in black and white, subtler and more lovely than the real Helena. 

"Why did you do it, Helena?" said Peter suddenly. 

"Do what?"

"Why did you behave to me as you did, at the Arts Ball? Why did you cutme, not once--but twice--three times--for that _beast_ Donald?"

Helena laughed. 

"Now _you're_ beginning!" she said, as she lazily trailed her hand in thewater. "It's really comic!"

"What do you mean?"

"Only that I've already quarrelled with Cousin Philip--andGeoffrey--about Lord Donald--so if you insist on quarrelling too, I shallhave no friends left. "

"Damn Donald! It's like his impudence to ask you to dance at all. It mademe sick to see you with him. He's the limit. Well, but--I'm not going toquarrel about Donald, Helena--I'm not going to quarrel about anything. I'm going to have my own say--and you can't escape this time--you witch!"

Helena looked round the pond. 

"I can swim, " she said tranquilly. 

"I should jump in after you--and we'd both go down together. No, but--listen to me, dear Helena! Why won't you marry me? You saysometimes--that you care for me a little. "

The boy's tone faltered. 

"Why won't I marry you? Perhaps because you ask me so often, " saidHelena, laughing. "Neglect me--be rude to me--cut me at a dance, andthen see. "

"I couldn't--it matters too much. "

"Dear Peter! But can't you understand that I don't want to commit myselfjust yet? I want to have my life to myself a bit. I'm like the miners andthe railway men. I'm full of unrest! I can't and won't settle down justyet. I want to look at things--the world's like a great cinema show justnow--everything passing so quick you can hardly take breath. I want tosample it where I please. I want to dance--and talk--and makeexperiments. "

"Well--marrying me would be an experiment, " said Peter stoutly. "I vowyou'd never regret it, Helena!"

"But I can't vow that you wouldn't! Let me alone, Peter. I suppose sometime I shall quiet down. It doesn't matter if I break my own heart. But Iwon't take the responsibility of anybody else's heart just yet. "

"Well, of course, that means you're not in love with anybody. You'd soonchuck all that nonsense if you were. "

The young, despairing voice thrilled her. It was allexperience--life--drama--this floating over summer water--with abeautiful youth, whose heart seemed to be fluttering in her very hands. But she was only thrilled intellectually--as a spectator. Peter wouldsoon get over it. She would be very kind to him, and let him down easily. They drifted silently a little. Then Peter said abruptly:

"Well, at least, Helena, you might promise me not to dance with JimDonald again!"

"Peter--my promises of that kind--are worth nothing! ... I think it'sgetting late--we ought to be going home!" And she gave the rudder a turnfor the shore. 

He unwillingly complied, and after rowing through the shadow of thewoods, they emerged on a moonlit slope of lawn, where was the usuallanding-place. Two persons who had been strolling along the edge of thewater approached them. 

"Who is that with Buntingford?" asked Dale. 

"My new chaperon. Aren't you sorry for her?"

"I jolly well am!" cried Peter. "She'll have a dog's life!"

"That's very rude of you, Peter. You may perhaps be surprised to hearthat I like her very much. She's a little dear--and I'm going to beawfully good to her. "

"Which means, of course, that she'll never dare to cross you!"

"Peter, don't be unkind! Dear Peter--make it up! I do want to be friends. There's just time for you to say something nice!"

For his vigorous strokes were bringing them rapidly to the bank. 

"Oh, what's the good of talking!" said the boy impatiently. "I shall befriends, of course--take what you fling me. I can't do anything else. "

Helena blew him a kiss, to which he made no response. 

"All right!--I'll bring you in!" said Lord Buntingford from the shore. 

He dragged the boat up on the sandy edge, and offered a hand to Helena. She stumbled out, and would have fallen into the shallow water but forhis sudden grip upon her. 

"That was stupid of me!" she said, vexed with herself. 

He made no reply. It was left to Mrs. Friend to express a hope that shehad not sprained her foot. 

"Oh, dear no, " said Helena. "But I'm cold. Peter, will you race me to thehouse? Give me a fair start!"

Peter eagerly placed her, and then--a maiden flying and a young godpursuing--they had soon drawn the eyes and laughter of all the otherguests, who cheered as the panting Helena, winner by a foot, dashedthrough the drawing-room window into the house. 

Helena and Mrs. Friend had been discussing the evening, --Helena on thefloor, in a white dressing-gown, with her hair down her back. She hadamused herself with a very shrewd analysis--not too favourable--ofGeoffrey French's character and prospects, and had rushed through aneloquent account of Peter's performances in the war; she had mocked atLady Maud's conventionalities, and mimicked the "babe's" simpering mannerwith young men; she had enquired pityingly how Mrs. Friend had got onwith the old Canon who had taken her in to dinner, and had launched intorather caustic and, to Mrs. Friend's ear, astonishing criticisms of"Cousin Philip's wine"--which Mrs. Friend had never even dreamt oftasting. But of Cousin Philip himself there was not a word. Mrs. Friendknew there had been an interview between them; but she dared not askquestions. How to steer her way in the moral hurricane she foresaw, waswhat preoccupied her; so as both to do her duty to Lord B. And yet keep ahold on this strange being in whose good graces she still foundherself--much to her astonishment. 

Then with midnight Helena departed. But long after she was herself inbed, Mrs. Friend heard movements in the adjoining room, and was aware ofa scent of tobacco stealing in through her own open window. 

Helena, indeed, when she found herself alone was, for a time, too excitedto sleep, and cigarettes were her only resource. She was conscious of anexaltation of will, a passionate self-assertion, beating through all herveins, which made sleep impossible. Cousin Philip had scarcely addresseda word to her during the evening, and had bade her a chilly good-night. Of course, if that was to be his attitude it was impossible she could goon living under his roof. Her mother could not for a moment have expectedher to keep her word, under such conditions ... And yet--why retreat? Whynot fight it out, temperately, but resolutely? "I lost my temper againlike an idiot, this morning--I mustn't--mustn't--lose it. He had jollywell the best of it. "

"Self-determination"--that was what she was bent on. If it was good fornations, it was good also for individuals. Liberty to make one's ownmistakes, to face one's own risks--that was the minimum. And for oneadult human being to accept the dictation of another human being was theonly sin worth talking about. The test might come on some trivial thing, like this matter of Lord Donald. Well, --she must be content to "findquarrel in a straw, where honour is at stake. " Yet, of course, herguardian was bound to resist. The fight between her will and his wasnatural and necessary. It was the clash of two generations, two views oflife. She was not merely the wilful and insubordinate girl she wouldhave been before the war; she saw herself, at any rate, as somethingmuch more interesting. All over the world there was the same breaking ofbonds; and the same instinct towards _violence_. "The violent taketh byforce. " Was it the instinct that war leaves, and must leave, behindit--its most sinister, or its most pregnant, legacy? She waspassionately conscious of it, and of a strange thirst to carry it intoreckless action. The unrest in her was the same unrest that was drivingmen everywhere--and women, too--into industrial disturbance and moralrevolt. The old is done with; and the Tree of Life needs to be wellshaken before the new fruit will drop. 

Wild thoughts like these ran through her mind. Then she scoffed atherself for such large notions, about so small a thing. And suddenlysomething checked her--the physical recollection, as it were, lefttingling in her hand, of the grasp by which Buntingford had upheld her, as she was leaving the boat. With it went a vision of his face, his dark, furrowed face, in the moonlight. 

"The saddest man I know. " Why and wherefore? Long after she was in bed, she lay awake, absorbed in a dreamy yet intense gathering together of allthat she could recollect of Cousin Philip, from her childhood up, throughher school years, and down to her mother's death. Till now he had beenpart of the more or less pleasant furniture of life. She seemed to be onthe way to realize him as a man--perhaps a force. It was unsuspected--andrather interesting. 

CHAPTER VII

The drought continued; and under the hot sun the lilacs were alreadypyramids of purple, the oaks were nearly in full leaf, and the hawthornsin the park and along the hedges would soon replace with another whitesplendour the fading blossom of the wild cherries. 

It was Sunday morning, and none of the Beechmark party except Mrs. Friend, Lady Luton and her seventeen-year-old daughter had shown anyinclination to go to church. Geoffrey French and Helena had escorted thechurchgoers the short way across the park, taking a laughing leave ofthem at the last stile, whence the old church was but a stone's throw. There was a circle of chairs on the lawn intermittently filled bytalkers. Lord Buntingford was indoors and was reported to have had someugly news that morning of a discharged soldiers' riot in a neighbouringtown where he owned a good deal of property. The disturbance had been forthe time being suppressed, but its renewal was expected, and Buntingford, according to Julian Horne, who had been in close consultation with him, was ready to go over at any moment, on a telephone call from the townauthorities, and take what other "specials" he could gather with him. 

"It's not at all a nice business, " said Horne, looking up from his longchair, as Geoffrey French and Helena reappeared. "And if Philip is rungup, he'll sweep us all in. So don't be out of the way, Geoffrey. "

"What's the matter? Somebody has been bungling as usual, I suppose, " saidHelena in her most confident and peremptory tone. 

"The discharged men say that nobody pays any attention to them--and theymean to burn down something. "

"On the principle of the Chinaman, and 'roast pig, '" said French, stretching himself at full length on the grass, where Helena was alreadysitting. "What an extraordinary state of mind we're all in! We all wantto burn something. I want to burn the doctors, because some of themedical boards have been beasts to some of my friends; the soldiers overat Dansworth want to burn the town, because they haven't been made enoughof; the Triple Alliance want to burn up the country to cook their roastpig--and as for you, Helena--"

He turned a laughing face upon her--but before she could reply, atelephone was heard ringing, through the open windows of the house. 

"For me, I expect, " exclaimed Helena, springing up. She disappearedwithin the drawing-room, returning presently, with flushed cheeks, and abearing of which Geoffrey French at once guessed the meaning. 

"Donald has thrown her over?" he said to himself. "Of course Philip hadthe trump card!"

Helena, however, said nothing. She took up a book she had left on thegrass, and withdrew with it to the solitary shelter of a cedar some yardsaway. Quiet descended on the lawns. The men smoked or buried themselvesin a sleepy study of the Sunday papers. The old house lay steeped insunshine. Occasional bursts of talk arose and died away; a loud cuckoo ina neighbouring plantation seemed determined to silence all its birdrivals; while once or twice the hum of an aeroplane overhead awoke evenin the drowsiest listener dim memories of the war. 

Helena was only pretending to read. The telephone message which hadreached her had been from Lord Donald's butler--not even from Lord Donaldhimself!--and had been to the effect that "his lordship" asked him to saythat he had been obliged to go to Scotland for a fortnight, and was verysorry he had not been able to answer Miss Pitstone's telegram beforestarting. Helena's cheeks were positively smarting under the humiliationof it. Donald _daring_ to send her a message through a servant, when shehad telegraphed to him! For of course it was all a lie as to his havingleft town--one could tell that from the butler's voice. He had beensomehow frightened by Cousin Philip, and was revenging himself byrudeness to _her_. She seemed to hear "Jim" and his intimates discussingthe situation. Of course it would only amuse them!--everything amusedthem!--that Buntingford should have put his foot down. How she hadboasted, both to Jim and to some of his friends, of the attitude shemeant to take up with her guardian during her "imprisonment on parole. "And this was the end of the first bout. Cousin Philip had been easilymaster, and instead of making common cause with her against a ridiculouspiece of tyranny, Lord Donald had backed out. He might at least have beensympathetic and polite--might have come himself to speak to her at thetelephone, instead--

Her blood boiled. How was she going to put up with this life? The ironyof the whole position was insufferable. Geoffrey's ejaculation forinstance when she had invited him to her sitting-room after breakfastthat he might look for a book he had lent her--"My word, Helena, what ajolly place!--Why, this was the old school-room--I remember itperfectly--the piggiest, shabbiest old den. And Philip has had it alldone up for you? Didn't know he had so much taste!" And then, Geoffrey'sroguish look at her, expressing the "chaff" he restrained for fear ofoffending her. Lucy Friend, too, Captain Lodge, Peter--everybody--no onehad any sympathy with her. And lastly, Donald himself--coward!--hadrefused to play up. Not that she cared one straw about him personally. She knew very well that he was a poor creature. It was the _principle_involved:--that a girl of nineteen is to be treated as a free andresponsible being, and not as though she were still a child in thenursery. "Cousin Philip may have had the right to say he wouldn't haveJim Donald in his house, if he felt that way--but he had no rightwhatever to prevent my meeting him in town, if I chose to meethim--that's _my_ affair!--that's the point! All these men here are inleague. It's _not_ Jim's character that's in question--I throw Jim'scharacter to the wolves--it's the freedom of women!"

So the tumult in her surged to and fro, mingled all through with acertain unwilling preoccupation. That semi-circular bow-window on thesouth side of the house, which she commanded from her seat under thecedar, was one of the windows of the library. Hidden from her by the oldbureau at which he was writing, sat Buntingford at work. She could seehis feet under the bureau, and sometimes the top of his head. Oh, ofcourse, he had a way with him--a certain magnetism--for the people wholiked him, and whom he liked. Lady Maud, for instance--how well they hadgot on at breakfast? Naturally, she thought him adorable. And Lady Maud'sgirl. To see Buntingford showing her the butterfly collections in thelibrary--devoting himself to her--and the little thing blushing andsmiling--it was simply idyllic! And then to contrast the scene with thatother scene, in the same room, the day before!

"Well, now, what am I going to do here--or in town?" she asked herself inexasperation. "If Cousin Philip and I liked each other it would bepleasant enough to ride together, to talk and read and argue--his brain'sall right!--with Lucy Friend to fall back upon between whiles--for justthese few weeks, at any rate, before we go to town--and with theweek-ends to help one out. But if we are to be at daggers-drawn--hedetermined to boss me--and I equally determined not to be bossed--why, the thing will be _intolerable_! Hullo!--is that Cynthia Welwyn? Sheseems to be making for me. "

It was Lady Cynthia, very fresh and brilliant in airy black and white, with a purple sunshade. She came straight over the grass to Helena'sshady corner. 

"You look so cool! May I share?"

Helena rather ungraciously pushed forward a chair as they shook hands. 

"The rest of your party seem to be asleep, " said Cynthia, glancing atvarious prostrate forms belonging to the male sex that were visible on adistant slope of the lawn. "But you've heard of the Dansworthdisturbances?--and that everybody here may have to go?"

"Yes. It's probably exaggerated--isn't it?"

"I don't know. Everybody coming out of church was talking of it. Therewas bad rioting last night--and a factory burnt down. They say it's begunagain. Buntingford will probably have to go. Where is he?"

Helena pointed to the library and to the feet under the bureau. 

"He's waiting indoors, no doubt, in case there's a summons. "

"No doubt, " said Helena. 

Cynthia found her task difficult. She had come determined to make friendswith this thorny young woman, and to smooth Philip's path for him if shecould. But now face to face with Helena she was conscious that neitherwas Philip's ward at all in a forthcoming mood, nor was her own effortspontaneous or congenial. They were both Buntingford's kinswomen, Helenaon his father's side, Cynthia on his mother's, and had been more or lessacquainted with each other since Helena left the nursery. But there wasnearly twenty years between them, and a critical spirit on both sides. 

Conversation very soon languished. An instinctive antagonism that neithercould have explained intelligibly would have been evident to any shrewdlistener. Helena was not long in suspecting that Lady Cynthia was in someway Buntingford's envoy, and had been sent to make friends, with anulterior object; while Cynthia was repelled by the girl's ungraciousmanner, and by the gulf which it implied between the outlook of forty, and that of nineteen. "She means to make me feel that I might have beenher mother--and that we have nothing in common!"

The result was that Cynthia was driven into an intimate and possessivetone with regard to Buntingford, which was more than the facts warranted, and soon reduced Helena to monosyllables, and a sarcastic lip. 

"You can't think, " said Cynthia effusively--"how good he is to ustwo. It is so like him. He never forgets us. But indeed he neverforgets anybody. "

Helena raised her eyebrows, as though the news astonished her, but shewas too polite to contradict. 

"He sends you flowers, doesn't he?" she said carelessly. 

"He sends us all kinds of things. But that's not what makes him socharming. He's always so considerate for everybody! The day you werecoming, for instance, he thought of nothing but how to get your roomfinished and your books in order. I hope you liked it?"

"Very much. " The tone was noncommittal. 

"I don't suppose he told you how he worked, " said Cynthia, smiling. "Oh, he's a great dear, Philip! Only he takes a good deal of knowing. "

"Did you ever see his wife?" said Helena abruptly. 

Cynthia's movement showed her unpleasantly startled. She lookedinstinctively towards the library window, where Buntingford was nowstanding with his back to them. No, he couldn't have heard. 

"No, never, " she said hurriedly, in a low voice. "Nobody ever speaks tohim about her. She was of course not his equal socially. "

"Is that the reason why nobody speaks of her?"

Cynthia flushed indignantly. 

"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"

"I thought you put the two things together, " said Helena in her mostdetached tone. "And she was an artist?"

"A very good one, I believe. A man who had seen her in Paris before hermarriage told me long ago--oh, years ago--that she was extraordinarilyclever, and very ambitious. "

"And beautiful?" said Helena eagerly. 

"I don't know. I never saw a picture of her. "

"I'll bet anything she was beautiful!"

"Most likely. Philip's very fastidious. "

Helena meditated. 

"I wonder if she had a good time?" she said at last. 

"If she didn't, it couldn't have been Philip's fault!" said Cynthia, withsome vigour. 

"No, really?"

The girl's note of interrogation was curiously provoking, and Cynthiacould have shaken her. 

Suddenly through the open French windows of the library, a shrilltelephone call rang out. It came from the instrument on Buntingford'sdesk, and the two outside could see him take up the receiver. 

"Hullo!"

"It's a message from Dansworth, " said Cynthia, springing to her feet. "They've sent for him. "

"Yes--yes--" came to them in Buntingford's deep assenting voice, as hestood with the receiver to his ear. "All right--In an hour?--That's it. Less, if possible? Well, I think we can do it in less. Good-bye. "

Helena had also risen. Buntingford emerged. 

"Geoffrey!--Peter!--Horne!--all of you!"

From different parts of the lawn, men appeared running. Geoffrey French, Captain Lodge, Peter, and Julian Horne, were in a few instants groupedround their host, with Helena and Cynthia just behind. 

"The Dansworth mob's out of hand, " said Buntingford briefly. "They've setfire to another building, and the police are hard pressed. They wantspecials at once. Who'll come? I've just had a most annoying message frommy chauffeur. His wife's been in to say that he's got atemperature--since eight o'clock this morning--and has gone to bed. Shewon't hear of his coming. "

"Funk?" said French quietly, --"or Bolshevism?"

Buntingford shrugged his shoulders. "We'll enquire into that later. There are two cars--a Vauxhall and a small Renault--a two-seater. Whocan drive?"

"I think I can drive the Renault, " said Dale. "I'll go and get it atonce. Hope I shan't kill anybody. "

He ran off. The other men looked at each other in perplexity. None ofthem knew enough about the business to drive a high-powered car withoutserious risk to their own lives and the car's. 

"I'll go and telephone to a man I know near here, " said Buntingford, turning towards the house. "He'll lend us his chauffeur. "

"Why not let me drive?" said a girl's half-sarcastic voice. "I've drivena Vauxhall most of the winter. "

Buntingford turned, smiling but uncertain. 

"Of course! I had forgotten! But I don't like taking you into danger, Helena. It sounds like an ugly affair!"

"Lodge and I will go with her, " said French, eagerly. "We can stop thecar outside the town. Horne can go with Dale. "

The eyes of the men were on the girl in white--men half humiliated, halfadmiring. Helena, radiant, was looking at Buntingford, and at hisreluctant word of assent, she began joyously taking the hat-pins out ofher white lace hat. 

"Give me five minutes to change. Lucky I've got my uniform here! ThenI'll go for the car. "

Within the five minutes she was in the garage in full uniform, lookingover and tuning up the car, without an unnecessary word. She was theprofessional, alert, cheerful, efficient--and handsomer than ever, thought French, in her close-fitting khaki. 

"One word, Helena, " said Buntingford, laying a hand on her arm, when allwas ready, and she was about to climb into her seat. "Remember I am incommand of the expedition--and for all our sakes there must be no dividedauthority. You agree?"

She looked up quietly. 

"I agree. "

He made way for her, and she took her seat with him beside her. French, Lodge, Jones the butler, and Tomline the odd man, got in behind her. Mrs. Friend appeared with a food hamper that she and Mrs. Mawson had beenrapidly packing. Her delicate little face was very pale, and Buntingfordstooped to reassure her. 

"We'll take every care of her. Don't be alarmed. It's always a womancomes to the rescue, isn't it? We're all ashamed. I shall take somelessons next week!"

Helena, with her hand on the steering wheel, nodded and smiled to her, and in another minute the splendid car was gliding out of the garageyard, and flying through the park. 

Cynthia, with Mrs. Friend, Lady Maud Luton, and Mrs. Mawson, were leftlooking after them. Cynthia's expression was hard to read; she seemed tobe rushing on with the car, watching the face beside Buntingford, theyoung hands on the wheel, the keen eyes looking ahead, the play of talkbetween them. 

"What a splendid creature!" said Lady Maud half-unwillingly, as she andCynthia walked back to the lawn. "I'm afraid I don't at all approve ofher in ordinary life. But just now--she was in her element. "

"Mother, you must let me learn motoring!" cried the girl of seventeen, hanging on her mother's arm. She was flushed with innocent envy. Helenadriving Lord Buntingford seemed to her at the top of creation. 

"Goose! It wouldn't suit you at all, " said the mother, smiling. "Pleasetake my prayer-book indoors. "

The babe went obediently. 

The miles ran past. Helena, on her mettle, was driving her best, andBuntingford had already paid her one or two brief compliments, which shehad taken in silence. Presently they topped a ridge, and there layDansworth in a hollow, a column of smoke gashed with occasional flamerising above the town. 

"A big blaze, " said Buntingford, examining it through a field-glass. "It's the large brewery in the market-place. Hullo, you there!" He haileda country cart, full of excited occupants, which was being driven rapidlytowards them. The driver pulled up with difficulty. 

Buntingford jumped out and went to make enquiries. 

"It's a bad business, Sir, " said the man in charge of the cart, a smallfarmer whom Buntingford recognized. "The men in it are just mad--theydon't know what they've done, nor why they've done it. But the soldierswill be there directly. There's far too few police, and I'm afraidthere's some people hurt. I wouldn't take ladies into the town if I wasyou, Sir. " He glanced at Helena. 

Buntingford nodded, and returned to the car. 

"You see that farm-house down there on the right?" he said to Helena asthey started again. "We'll stop there. "

They ran down the long slope to the town, the smoke carried towards themby a westerly wind beginning to beat in their faces, --the roar of thegreat bonfire in their ears. 

Helena drew up at the entrance of a short lane leading to a farm on theoutskirts of the small country town--the centre of an activefurniture-making industry, for which the material lay handy in the largebeechwoods which covered the districts round it. The people of the farmwere all standing outside the house-door, watching the fire and talking. 

"You're going to leave me here?" said Helena wistfully, looking atBuntingford. 

"Please. You've brought us splendidly! I'll send Geoffrey back to you assoon as possible, with instructions. "

She drove the car up to the farm. An elderly man came forward with whomBuntingford made arrangements. The car was to be locked up. "And you'lltake care of the lady, till I send?"

"Aye, aye, Sir. "

"I'll come back to you, as soon as I can, " said French to Helena. "Don'tbe anxious about us. We shall get into the market-hall by a back way andfind out what's going on. They've probably got the hose on by now. Nothing like a hose-pipe for this kind of thing! Congratters on asplendid bit of driving!"

"Hear, hear, " said Buntingford. 

They went off, and Helena was left alone with the farm people, who mademuch of her, and poured into her ears more or less coherent accounts ofthe rioting and its causes. A few discontented soldiers, an unpopularfactory manager, and a badly-handled strike:--the tale was a common onethroughout England at the moment, and behind and beneath the surfaceevents lay the heaving of that "tide in the affairs of men, " a tide ofchange, of restlessness, of revolt, set in motion by the great war. Helena paced up and down the orchard slope behind the house, watching theconflagration which was beginning to die down, startled every now andthen by what seemed to be the sound of shots, and once by the rush pastof a squadron of mounted police coming evidently from the big countrytown some ten miles away. Hunger asserted itself, and she made a raid onthe hamper in the car, sharing some of its contents with the black-eyedchildren of the farm. Every now and then news came from persons passingalong the road, and for a time things seemed to be mending. The policewere getting the upper hand; the Mayor had made a plucky speech to thecrowd in the market-place, with good results; the rioters were wavering;and the soldiers had been stopped by telephone. Then following hard onthe last rumour came a sudden rush of worse news. A policeman had beenkilled--two injured--the rioters had gained a footing in the market-hall, and driven out both the police and the specials--and after all, thesoldiers had been sent for. 

Helena wandered down to the gate of the farm lane opening on the mainroad, consumed with restlessness and anxiety. If only they had let her gowith them! Buntingford's last look as he raised his hat to her beforedeparting, haunted her memory--the appeal in it, the unspoken message. Might they not, after all, be friends? There seemed to be an exquisiterelaxation in the thought. 

Another hour passed. Geoffrey French at last! He came on a motor bicycle, and threw himself off beside her, breathless. 

"Please get the car, Helena, and I'll go on with you. The town's safe. The troops have arrived, and the rioters are scattering. The police havemade some arrests, and Philip believes the thing is over--or I shouldn'thave been allowed to come for you!"

"Why not?" said Helena half-indignantly, as they hurried towards thebarn in which the car had been driven. "Perhaps I might have been ofsome use!"

"No--you helped us best by staying here. The last hour's been pretty bad. And now Philip wants you to take two wounded police to the SmeatonHospital--five miles. He'll go with you. They're badly hurt, I'mafraid--there was some vicious stone-throwing. "

"All right! Perhaps you don't know that's my job!"

French helped her get out the car. 

"We shall want mattresses and stretcher boards, " said Helena, surveyingit thoughtfully. "A doctor too and a nurse. "

"Right you are. They've thought of all that. You'll find everything atthe market-hall, --where the two men are. "

They drove away together, and into the outer streets of the town, wherenow scarcely a soul was to be seen, though as the car passed, the windowswere crowded with heads. Police were everywhere, and the market-place--asorry sight of smoky wreck and ruin--was held by a cordon of soldiers, behind which a crowd still looked on. French, sitting beside her, watchedthe erect girl-driver, the excellence of her driving, the brain and skillshe was bringing to bear upon her "job. " Here was the "new woman" indeed, in her best aspect. He could not but compare the Helena of thisadventure--this competent and admirable Helena--with the girl of thenight before. Had the war produced the same dual personality in thousandsof English men and English women?--in the English nation itself?

They drew up at the steps of the market-hall, where a group of personswere standing, including a nurse in uniform. Buntingford came forward, and bending over the side of the car, said to Helena:

"Do you want to be relieved? There are several people here who coulddrive the car. "

She flushed. 

"I want to take these men to hospital. "

He smiled at her. 

"You shall. "

He turned back to speak to the doctor who was to accompany the car. Helena jumped out, and went to consult with the nurse. In a very shorttime, the car had been turned as far as possible into an ambulance, andthe wounded men were brought out. 

"As gently as you can, " said the doctor to Helena. "Are yoursprings good?"

"The car's first-rate, and I'll do my best. I've been driving for nearlya year, up to the other day. " She pointed to her badge. The doctor noddedapproval, and he and the nurse took their places. Then Buntingford jumpedinto the car, beside Helena. 

"I'll show you the way. It won't take long. "

In a few minutes, the car was in country lanes, and all the smokingtumult of the town had vanished from sight and hearing. It had becomealready indeed almost incredible, in the glow of the May afternoon, and amid the hawthorn white of the hedges, the chattering birds thatfled before them, the marvellous green of the fields. Helena drovewith the deftness of a practised hand, avoiding ruts, going softlyover rough places. 

"Good!" said Buntingford to her more than once--"that was excellent!"

But the suffering of the men behind overshadowed everything else, and itwas with a big breath of relief that Buntingford at last perceived thewalls of the county hospital rising out of a group of trees in front ofthem. Helena brought the car gently to a standstill, and, jumping out, was ready to help as a V. A. D. In the moving of the men. The hospitalhad been warned by telephone, and all preparations had been made. Whenthe two unconscious men were safely in bed, the Dansworth doctor turnedwarmly to Helena:

"I don't know what we should have done without you, Miss Pitstone! Butyou look awfully tired. I hope you'll go home at once, and rest. "

"I'm going to take her home--at once, " said Buntingford. "We can't doanything more, can we?"

"Nothing. And here's the matron with a message. "

The message was from the mayor of Dansworth. "Situation well in hand. Nomore trouble feared. Best thanks. "

"All right!" said Buntingford. He turned smiling to Helena. "Now we'll gohome and get some dinner!"

The Dansworth doctor and nurse remained behind. Once more Buntingford gotinto the car beside his ward. 

"What an ass I am!" he said, in disgust--"not to be able to drive thecar. But I should probably kill you and myself. "

Helena laughed at him, a new sweetness in the sound, and they started. 

Presently Buntingford said gently:

"I want to thank you, --for one thing especially--for having waited sopatiently--while we got the thing under. "

"I wasn't patient at all! I wanted desperately to be in it!"

"All the more credit! It would have been a terrible anxiety if you hadbeen there. A policeman was killed just beside us. There was a man with arevolver running amuck. He just missed French by a hair-breadth. "

Helena exclaimed in horror. 

"You see--one puts the best face on it--but it might have been a terriblebusiness. But what I shall always remember most--is your part in it"

Their eyes met, hers half shy, half repentant, his full of a kindness shehad never yet seen there. 

CHAPTER VIII

"Oh, what a jolly day! We've had a glorious ride, " said Helena, throwingherself down on the grass beside Mrs. Friend. "And how are you? Have youbeen resting--or slaving--as you were _expressly_ forbidden to do?"

For Mrs. Friend had been enjoying a particularly bad cold and had notlong emerged from her bedroom, looking such a pitiful little wreck, thatboth Lord Buntingford and Helena had been greatly concerned. In the fiveweeks that had now elapsed since her arrival at Beechmark she had stolenher quiet way into the liking of everybody in the house to such an extentthat, during the days she had been in bed with a high temperature, shehad been seriously missed in the daily life of the place, and the wholehousehold had actively combined to get her well again. Mrs. Mawson hadfed her; and Lucy Friend was aghast to think how much her convalescencemust be costing her employer in milk, eggs, butter, cream and chickens, when all such foods were still so frightfully, abominably dear. But theywere forced down her throat by Helena and the housekeeper; while LordBuntingford enquired after her every morning, and sent her a recklesssupply of illustrated papers and novels. To see her now in the library oron the lawn again, with her white shawl round her, and the usualneedlework on her knee, was a pleasant sight to everybody in the house. 

The little lady had not only won this place for herself by the sweet andselfless gift which was her natural endowment; she was becoming thepractical helper of everybody, of Mrs. Mawson in the house, of old Fennin the garden, even of Buntingford himself, who was gradually fallinginto the habit of letting her copy important letters for him, and keepsome order in the library. She was not in the least clever oraccomplished; but her small fingers seemed to have magic in them; and hergood will was inexhaustible. 

Helena had grown amazingly fond of her. She appealed to somethingmaternal and protecting in the girl's strong nature. Since her mother'sdeath, there had been a big streak of loneliness in Helena's heart, though she would have suffered tortures rather than confess it; andlittle Lucy Friend's companionship filled a void. She must needs respectLucy's conscience, Lucy's instincts had more than once shamed her own. 

"What are you going to wear to-night?" said Mrs. Friend, softly smoothingback the brown hair from the girl's hot brow. 

"Pale green and apple-blossom. "

Lucy Friend smiled, as though already she had a vision of thefull-dress result. 

"That'll be delicious, " she said, with enthusiasm. 

"Lucy!--am I good-looking?"

The girl spoke half wistfully, half defiantly, her eyes fixed on Lucy. 

Mrs. Friend laughed. 

"I asked that question before I had seen you. "

"Of whom?" said Helena eagerly. "You didn't see anybody but Cousin Philipbefore I arrived. Tell me, Lucy--tell me at once. "

Mrs. Friend kept a smiling silence for a minute. At last she said--"LordBuntingford showed me a portrait of you before you arrived. "

"A portrait of me? There isn't one in the house! Lucy, you deceiver, whatdo you mean?"

"I was taken to see one in the hall. "

A sudden light dawned on Helena. 

"The Romney? No! And I've been showing it to everybody as the loveliestthing going!"

"There--you see!"

Helena's face composed itself. 

"I don't know why I should be flattered. She was a horrid minx. That nodoubt was what the likeness consisted in!"

Mrs. Friend laughed, but said nothing. Helena rose from the grass, pausing to say as she turned towards the house:

"We're going to dance in the drawing-room, Mawson says. They'vecleared it. "

"Doesn't it look nice?"

Helena assented. "Let me see--" she added slowly--"this is the thirddance, isn't it, since I came?"

"Yes--the third. "

"I don't think we need have another"--the tone was decided, almostimpatient--"at least when this party's over. "

Mrs. Friend opened her eyes. 

"I thought you liked to dance every week-end?"

"Well--ye-es--amongst ourselves. I didn't mean to turn the houseupside-down every week. "

"Well, you see--the house-parties have been so large. And besides therehave been neighbours. "

"I didn't ask _them_, " said Helena. "But--we won't have another--till wego to Town. "

"Very well. It might be wise. The servants are rather tired, and if theygive warning, we shall never get any more!"

Mrs. Friend watched the retreating figure of Helena. There had indeedbeen a dizzy succession of week-end parties, and it seemed to her thatLord Buntingford's patience under the infliction had been simplymiraculous. For they rarely contained friends of his own; his lamenesscut him off from dancing; and it had been clear to Lucy Friend that inmany cases Helena's friends had been sharply distasteful to him. Hewas, in Mrs. Friend's eyes, a strange mixture as far as socialstandards were concerned. A boundless leniency in some cases; thesternest judgment in others. 

For instance, a woman he had known from childhood had lately left herhusband, carried off her children, and joined her lover. Lord Buntingfordwas standing, stoutly by her, helping her in her divorce proceedings, paying for the education of the children, and defending her whenever heheard her attacked. On the other hand, his will had been iron in thematter of Lord Donald, whose exposure as co-respondent in theparticularly disreputable case had been lately filling the newspapers. Mrs. Friend had seen Helena take up the _Times_ on one of the days onwhich the evidence in this case had appeared, and fling it down againwith a flush and a look of disgust. But since the day of the Dansworthriot, she had never mentioned Lord Donald's name. 

Certainly the relations between her and her guardian had curiouslychanged. In the first place, since her Dansworth adventure, Helena hadfound something to do to think about other than quarrelling with "CousinPhilip. " Her curiosity as to how the two wounded police, whom she haddriven to the County Hospital that day, might be faring had led to hergoing over there two or three times a week, either to relieve anoverworked staff, or to drive convalescent soldiers, still undertreatment in the wards. 

The occupation had been a godsend to her, and everybody else. She stilltalked revolution, and she was always ready to spar with LordBuntingford, or other people. But all the same Lucy Friend was oftenaware of a much more tractable temper, a kind of hesitancy--andappeasement--which, even if it passed away, made her beauty, for themoment, doubly attractive. 

Was it, after all, the influence of Lord Buntingford--and was the eventjustifying her mother's strange provision for her? He had certainlytreated her with a wonderful kindness and indulgence. Of late he hadreturned to his work at the Admiralty, only coming down to Beechmark forlong week-ends from Friday to Monday. But in these later week-ends he hadgradually abandoned the detached and half-sarcastic attitude which he hadoriginally assumed towards Helena, and it seemed to Lucy Friend that hewas taking his function towards her with a new seriousness. If so, it hadaffected himself at least as much as the proud and difficult girl whoseguidance had been so hurriedly thrust upon him. His new role had broughtout in him unexpected resources, or revived old habits. For instance hehad not ridden for years; though, as a young man, and before hisaccident, he had been a fine horseman. But he now rode whenever he was atBeechmark, to show Helena the country; and they both looked so well onhorseback that it was a pleasure of which Lucy Friend never tired towatch them go and to welcome them home. 

Then the fact that he was a trained artist, which most of his friends hadforgotten, became significant again for Helena's benefit. She had someaptitude, and more ambition--would indeed, but for the war, have been aSouth Kensington student, and had long cherished yearnings for the Slade. He set her work to do during the week, and corrected it with professionalsharpness when he reappeared. 

And more important perhaps than either the riding or the drawing, was thepartial relaxation for her benefit of the reserve and taciturnity whichhad for years veiled the real man from those who liked and respected himmost. He never indeed talked of himself or his past; but he would discussaffairs, opinions, books--especially on their long rides together--with afrankness, and a tone of gay and equal comradeship, which, or so Mrs. Friend imagined, had had a disarming and rather bewildering effect onHelena. The girl indeed seemed often surprised and excited. It wasevident that they had never got on during her mother's lifetime, and thathis habitual bantering or sarcastic tone towards her while she was stillin the school-room had roused an answering resentment in her. Hence theaggressive mood in which, after two or three months of that half-madwhirl of gaiety into which London had plunged after the Armistice, shehad come down to Beechmark. 

They still jarred, sometimes seriously; Helena was often provocative andaggressive; and Buntingford could make a remark sting without intendingit. But on the whole Lucy Friend felt that she was watching somethingwhich had in it possibilities of beauty; indeed of a rather touching andrare development. But not at all as the preliminary to a love-affair. InBuntingford's whole relation to his ward, Lucy Friend, at least, hadnever yet detected the smallest sign of male susceptibility. It suggestedsomething quite different. Julian Horne, who had taken a great fancy toHelena's chaperon, was now recommending books to her instead of toHelena, who always forgot or disobeyed his instructions. With a littlepreliminary lecture, he had put the "Greville Memoirs" in her hands byway of improving her mind; and she had been struck by a passage in whichGreville describes Lord Melbourne's training of the young Queen Victoria, whose Prime Minister he was. The man of middle-age, accomplished, cynicaland witty, suddenly confronted with a responsibility which challengedboth his heart and his conscience--and that a responsibility towards anattractive young girl whom he could neither court nor command, towardswhom his only instrument was the honesty and delicacy of his ownpurpose:--there was something in this famous, historical situation whichseemed to throw a light on the humbler situation at Beechmark. 

Four o'clock! In another hour the Whitsuntide party for which the housestood ready would have arrived. Helena's particular "pals" were allcoming, and various friends and kinsfolk of Lord Buntingford's; includingLady Mary Chance, a general or two, some Admiralty officials, and one ortwo distinguished sailors with the halo of Zeebrugge about them. Thegathering was to last nearly a week. Mrs. Mawson had engaged two extraservants, and the master of the house had resigned himself. But he hadlaid it down that the fare was to be simple--and "no champagne. " Andthough of course there would be plenty of bridge, he had given a hint toVivian Lodge, who, as his heir-apparent, was his natural aide-de-camp inthe management of the party, that anything like high play would beunwelcome. Some of Helena's friends during the latter week-ends of Mayhad carried things to extremes. 

Meanwhile the social and political sky was darkening in the June England. Peace was on the point of being signed in Paris; but the industrial warat home weighed on every thinking mind. London was dancing night afternight; money was being spent like water; and yet every man and woman ofsense knew that the only hope for Britain lay in work and saving. Buntingford's habitual frown--the frown not of temper but ofoppression--had grown deeper; and on their long rides together he hadshown a great deal of his mind to Helena--the mind of a patriot full offear for his country. 

A man came across the lawn. Lucy Friend was glad to recognize GeoffreyFrench, who was a great favourite with her. 

"You are early!" she said, as they greeted. 

"I came down by motor-bike. London is hateful, and I was in a hurry toget out of it. Where is Helena?"

"Gone to change her dress. She has been riding. "

Frank mopped his brow in silence for a little. Then he said with thehalf-mischievous smile which in Lucy Friend's eyes was one of his chiefphysical "points. "

"How you and Philip have toned her down!"

"Oh, not I!" said Lucy, her modesty distressed. "I've always admired herso! Of course--I was sometimes surprised--"

Geoffrey laughed. 

"I daresay we shall all be surprised a good many times yet?" Then hemoved a little closer to the small person, who was becoming everybody'sconfidante. "Do you mind telling me something--if you know it?" he said, lowering his voice. 

"Ask me--but I can't promise!"

"Do you think Helena has quite made up her mind not to marry Dale?"

Mrs. Friend hesitated. 

"I don't know--"

"But what do you think?"

She lifted her gentle face, under his compulsion, and slowly, pitifullyshook her head. 

Geoffrey drew a long breath. 

"Then she oughtn't to ask him here! The poor little fellow is goingthrough the tortures of the damned!"

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Isn't there anything we can do?" cried Mrs. Friend. 

"Nothing--but keep him away. After all he's only the first victim. "

Startled by the note in her companion's voice, Mrs. Friend turned to lookat him. He forced a smile, as their eyes met. 

"Oh, we must all take our chance! But Peter's not the boy he was--beforethe war. Things bowl him over easily. "

"She likes him so much, " murmured Lucy. "I'm sure she never means tobe unkind. "

"She isn't unkind!" said Geoffrey with energy. "It's the natural fatedthing. We are all the slaves of her car and she knows it. When she was inthe stage of quarrelling with us all, it was just fun. But if Helenagrows as delicious--as she promised to be last week--" He shrugged hisshoulders, with a deep breath--"Well, --she'll have to marry somebody someday--and the rest of us may drown! Only, if you're to be umpire--and shelikes you so much that I expect you will be--play fair!"

He held out his hand, and she put hers into it, astonished to realizethat her own eyes were full of tears. 

"I'm a mass of dust--I must go and change before tea, " he said abruptly. 

He went into the house, and she was left to some agitated thinking. 

An hour later, the broad lawns of Beechmark, burnt yellow by the Maydrought, were alive with guests, men in khaki and red tabs, fresh fromtheir War Office work; two naval Commanders, and a resplendentFlag-Lieutenant; a youth in tennis flannels, just released from a cityoffice, who seven months earlier had been fighting in the last advance ofthe war, and a couple of cadets who had not been old enough to fight atall; girls who had been "out" before the war, and two others, Helena'sjuniors, who were just leaving the school-room and seemed to be all aglowwith the excitement and wonder of this peace-world; a formidablegrey-haired woman, who was Lady Mary Chance; Cynthia and Georgina Welwyn, and the ill-dressed, arresting figure of Mr. Alcott. Not all wereBuntingford's guests; some were staying at the Cottage, some in anotherneighbouring house; but Beechmark represented the headquarters of agathering of which Helena Pitstone and her guardian were in truth thecentral figures. 

Helena in white, playing tennis; Helena with a cigarette, resting betweenher sets, and chaffing with a ring of dazzled young men; Helena talkingwild nonsense with Geoffrey French, for the express purpose of shockingLady Mary Chance; and the next minute listening with a deference gracefulenough to turn even the seasoned head of a warrior to a grey-hairedgeneral describing the taking of the Vimy Ridge; and finally, Helena, holding a dancing class under the cedars on the yellow smoothness of thelawn, after tea, for such young men as panted to conquer the mysteries of"hesitation" or jazzing, and were ardently courting instruction in thedesperate hope of capturing their teacher for a dance that night:--it wason these various avatars of Helena that the whole party turned; and LadyMary indignantly felt that there was no escaping the young woman. 

"Why do you let her smoke--and paint--and _swear_--I declare I heard herswear!" she said in Buntingford's ear, as the dressing-bell rang, and hewas escorting her to the house. "And mark my words, Philip--men may beamused by that kind of girl, but they won't marry her. "

Buntingford laughed. 

"As Helena's guardian I'm not particularly anxious about that!"

"Ah, no doubt, she tells you people propose to her--but is it true?"snapped Lady Mary. 

"You imagine that Helena tells me of her proposals?" said Buntingford, wondering. 

"My dear Philip, don't pose! Isn't that the special function of aguardian?"

"It may be. But, if so, Helena has never given me the chance ofperforming it. "

"I told you so! Men will flirt with her, but they _don't_ propose toher!" said Lady Mary triumphantly. 

Buntingford, smiling, let her have the last word, as he asked Mrs. Friendto show her to her room. 

Meanwhile the gardens were deserted, save for a couple of gardeners andan electrician, who were laying some wires for the illumination of therose-garden in front of the drawing-room, and Geoffrey French, who was ina boat, lazily drifting across the pond, and reading a volume of poems bya friend which he had brought down with him. The evening was fastdeclining; and from the shadow of the deep wood which bordered thewestern edge of the pond he looked out on the sunset glow as it climbedthe eastern hill, transfiguring the ridge, and leaving a rich twilight inthe valley below. The tranquillity of the water, the silence of thewoods, the gentle swaying of the boat, finally wooed him from his book, which after all he had only taken up as a protection from tormentingthoughts. Had he--had he--any chance with Helena? A month before he wouldhave scornfully denied that he was in love with her. And now--he hadactually confessed his plight to Mrs. Friend!

As he lay floating between the green vault above, and the green weedydepths below, his thoughts searched the five weeks that lay between himand that first week-end when he had scolded Helena for her offences. Itseemed to him that his love for her had first begun that day of theDansworth riot. She had provoked and interested him before that--butrather as a raw self-willed child--a "flapper" whose extraordinary beautygave her a distinction she had done nothing to earn. But every moment inthat Dansworth day was clear in memory:--the grave young face behind thesteering-wheel, the perfect lips compressed, the eyes intent upon theirtask, the girl's courage and self-command. Still more the patient Helenawho waited for him at the farm--the grateful exultant look when he said"Come"--and every detail of the scene in Dansworth:--Helena with her mostprofessional air, driving through soldiers and police, Helena helping tocarry and place the two wounded men, and that smiling "good-bye" she hadthrown him as she drove away with Buntingford beside her. 

The young man moved restlessly; and the light boat was set rocking. Itwas curious how he too, like Lucy Friend, only from another point ofview, was beginning to reflect on the new intimacy that seemed to bedeveloping between Buntingford and his ward. Philip of course was anawfully good fellow, and Helena was just finding it out; what else wasthere in it? But the jealous pang roused by the thought of Buntingford, once felt, persisted. Not for a moment did French doubt the honour or theintegrity of a man, who had done him personally many a kindness, and hadmoreover given him some reason to think---(he recalled the odd littlenote he had received from Buntingford before Helena's firstweek-end)--that if he were to fall in love with Helena, his suit would befavourably watched by Helena's guardian. He could recall moreover one ortwo quite recent indications on Buntingford's part--very slight andguarded--which seemed to point in the same direction. 

All very well: Buntingford himself might be quite heart-whole and mightremain so. French, who knew him well, though there was fourteen yearsbetween them, was tolerably certain--without being able to give any veryclear reason for the conviction--that Buntingford would never haveundertaken the guardianship of Helena, had the merest possibility ofmarrying her crossed his mind. French did not believe that it had everyet crossed his mind. There was nothing in his manner towards her tosuggest anything more than friendship, deepening interest, affectionateresponsibility--all feelings which would have shown themselves plainlyfrom the beginning had she allowed it. 

But Helena herself? It was clear that however much they might stilldisagree, Buntingford had conquered her original dislike of him, and wasin process of becoming the guide, philosopher, and friend her mother hadmeant him to be. And Buntingford had charm and character, andimagination. He could force a girl like Helena to respect himintellectually; with such a nature that was half the battle. He would beher master in time. Besides, there were all Philip's endlessopportunities of making life agreeable and delightful to her. When theywent to London, for instance, he would come out of the shell he had livedin so long, and Helena would see him as his few intimate friends hadalways seen him:--as one of the most accomplished and attractive ofmortals, with just that touch of something ironic and mysterious in hispersonality and history, which appeals specially to a girl's fancy. 

And what would be the end of it? Tragedy for Helena?--as well as bitterdisappointment and heartache for himself, Geoffrey French? He wasconfident that Helena had in her the capacity for passion; that theflowering-time of such a nature would be one of no ordinary intensity. She would love, and be miserable--and beat herself to pieces--poor, brilliant Helena!--against her own pain. 

What could he do? Might there not be some chance forhimself--_now_--while the situation was still so uncertain andundeveloped? Helena was still unconscious, unpledged. Why not cut in atonce? "She likes me--she has been a perfect dear to me these last fewtimes of meeting! Philip backs me. He would take my part. Perhaps, afterall, my fears are nonsense, and she would no more dream of marryingPhilip, than he would dream, under cover of his guardianship, of makinglove to her. "

He raised himself in the boat, filled with a new inrush of will andhope, and took up the drifting oars. Across the water, on the whiteslopes of lawn, and in some of the windows of the house, lights wereappearing. The electricians were testing the red and blue lamps they hadbeen stringing among the rose-beds, and from the gabled boathouse on thefurther side, a bright shaft from a small searchlight which had beenfixed there, was striking across the water. Geoffrey watched itwandering over the dark wood on his right, lighting up the tall stems ofthe beeches, and sending a tricky gleam or two among the tangledunderwood. It seemed to him a symbol of the sudden illumination of mindand purpose which had come to him, there, on the shadowed water--and heturned to look at a window which he knew was Helena's. There were lightswithin it, and he pictured Helena at her glass, about to slip into somebright dress or other, which would make her doubly fair. Meanwhile fromthe rose of the sunset, rosy lights were stealing over the water andfaintly glorifying the old house and its spreading gardens. Anoverpowering sense of youth--of the beauty of the world--of the mysteryof the future, beat through his pulses. The coming dance became a riteof Aphrodite, towards which all his being strained. 

Suddenly, there was a loud snapping noise, as of breaking branches in thewood beside him. It was so startling that his hands paused on the oars, as he looked quickly round to see what could have produced it. And at thesame moment the searchlight on the boathouse reached the spot to whichhis eyes were drawn, and he saw for an instant--sharply distinct andghostly white--a woman's face and hands--amid the blackness of the wood. He had only a moment in which to see them, in which to catch a glimpse ofa figure among the trees, before the light was gone, leaving a doublegloom behind it. 

Mysterious! Who could it be? Was it some one who wanted to be put acrossthe pond? He shouted. "Who is that?"

Then he rowed in to the shore, straining his eyes to see. It occurred tohim that it might be a lady's maid brought by a guest, who had been outfor a walk, and missed her way home in a strange park. "Do you want toget to the house? I can put you across to it if you wish, " he said in aloud voice, addressing the unknown--"otherwise you'll have to go a longway round. "

No answer--only an intensity of silence, through which he heard from agreat distance a church clock striking. The wood and all its detail hadvanished in profound shadow. 

Conscious of a curious excitement he rowed still further in to the bank, and again spoke to the invisible woman. In vain. He began then to doubthis own eyes. Had it been a mere illusion produced by some caprice of thesearchlight opposite? But the face!--the features of it were stamped onhis memory, the gaunt bitterness of them, the brooding misery. 

How could he have imagined such a thing?

Much perplexed and rather shaken in nerve, he rowed back across thepond--to hear the band tuning in the flower-filled drawing-room, as heapproached the house. 

CHAPTER IX

About ten o'clock on the night of the ball at Beechmark, a labourer wascrossing the park on his way home from his allotment. Thanks tosummertime and shortened hours of labour he had been able to get hiswinter greens in, and to earth up his potatoes, all in two strenuousevenings; and he was sauntering home dead-tired. But he had doubled hiswages since the outbreak of war and his fighting son had come back to himsafe, so that on the whole he was inclined to think that the old countrywas worth living in! The park he was traversing was mostly open pasturestudded with trees, except where at the beginning of the eighteenthcentury the Lord Buntingford of the day had planted a wood of oak andbeech about the small lake which he had made by the diversion of twostreamlets that had once found a sluggish course through the grassland. The trees in it were among the finest in the country, but like so much ofEnglish woodland before the war, they had been badly neglected for manyyears. The trees blown down by winter storms had lain year after yearwhere they fell; the dead undergrowth was choking the young saplings; andsome of the paths through the wood had practically disappeared. 

The path from the allotments to the village passed at the back of thewood. Branching off from it, an old path leading through the trees andround the edge of the lake had once been frequently used as a short cutfrom the village to the house, but was now badly grown up and indeedsuperseded by the new drive from the western lodge, made some twentyyears before this date. 

The labourer, Richard Stimson, was therefore vaguely surprised when heturned the corner of the wood and reached the fork of the path, to see afigure of a woman, on the old right-of-way, between him and the wood, forwhich she seemed to be making. 

It was not the figure of anyone he knew. It was a lady, apparently, in adark gown, and a small hat with a veil. The light was still good, and hesaw her clearly. He stopped indeed to watch her, puzzled to know what astranger could be doing in the park, and on that path at ten o'clock atnight. He was aware indeed that there were gay doings at Beechmark. Hehad seen the illuminated garden and house from the upper park, and hadcaught occasional gusts of music from the band to which no doubt thequality were dancing. But the fact didn't seem to have much to do withthe person he was staring at. 

And while he stared at her, she turned, and instantly perceived--hethought--that she was observed. She paused a moment, and then made anabrupt change of direction; running round the corner of the wood, shereached the path along which he himself had just come and disappearedfrom view. 

The whole occurrence filliped the rustic mind; but before he reached hisown cottage, Stimson had hit on an explanation which satisfied him. Itwas of course a stranger who had lost her way across the park, mistakingthe two paths. On seeing him, she had realized that she was wrong and hadquickly set herself right. He told his wife the tale before he went tosleep, with this commentary; and they neither of them troubled to thinkabout it any more. 

Perhaps the matter would not have appeared so simple to either of themhad they known that Stimson had no sooner passed completely out of sight, leaving the wide stretches of the park empty and untenanted under a skyalready alive with stars, than the same figure reappeared, and afterpausing a moment, apparently to reconnoitre, disappeared within the wood. 

"A year ago to-day, where were you?" said one Brigadier to another, asthe two Generals stood against the wall in the Beechmark drawing-room towatch the dancing. 

"Near Albert, " said the man addressed. "The brigade was licking itswounds and training drafts. "

The other smiled. 

"Mine was doing the same thing--near Armentičres. We didn't think then, did we, that it would be all over in five months?"

"It isn't all over!" said the first speaker, a man with a refined andsharply cut face, still young under a shock of grey hair. "We are in theground swell of the war. The ship may go down yet. "

"While the boys and girls dance? I hope not!" The soldier's eyes ransmiling over the dancing throng. Then he dropped his voice:

"Listen!"

For a very young boy and girl had come to stand in front of them. The boyhad just parted from a girl a good deal older than himself, who hadnodded to him a rather patronizing farewell, as she glided back into thedance with a much decorated Major. 

"These pre-war girls are rather dusty, aren't they?" said the boy angrilyto his partner. 

"You mean they give themselves airs? Well, what does it matter? It's _we_who have the good time now!" said the little creature beside him, a fairyin filmy white, dancing about him as she spoke, hardly able to keep herfeet still for a moment, life and pleasure in every limb. 

The two soldiers--both fathers--smiled at each other. Then Helena camedown the room, a vision of spring, with pale green floating about her, and apple-blossoms in her brown hair. She was dancing with GeoffreyFrench, and both were dancing with remarkable stateliness and grace tosome Czech music, imposed upon the band by Helena, who had given herparticular friends instruction on the lawn that afternoon in some of thesteps that fitted it. They passed with the admiring or envious eyes ofthe room upon them, and disappeared through the window leading to thelawn. For on the smooth-shaven turf of the lawn there was supplementarydancing, while the band in the conservatory, with all barriers removed, was playing both for the inside and outside revellers. 

Peter Dale was sitting out on the terrace over-looking the principal lawnwith the daughter of Lady Mary Chance, a rather pretty but stupid girl, with a genius for social blunders. Buntingford had committed him to adance with her, and he was not grateful. 

"She is pretty, of course, but horribly fast!" said his partnercontemptuously, as Helena passed. "Everybody thinks her such bad style!"

"Then everybody is an ass!" said Peter violently, turning upon her. "Butit doesn't matter to Helena. "

The girl flushed in surprise and anger. 

"I didn't know you were such great friends. I only repeat what I hear, "she said stiffly. 

"It depends on where you hear it, " said Peter. "There isn't a man in thisball that isn't pining to dance with her. "

"Has she given you a dance?" said the girl, with a touch of malice inher voice. 

"Oh, I've come off as well as other people!" said Peter evasively. 

Then, of a sudden, his chubby face lit up. For Helena, just as the musicwas slackening to the close of the dance, and a crowd of aspirants forsupper dances were converging on the spot where she stood, had turned andbeckoned to Peter. 

"Do you mind?--I'll come back!" he said to his partner, and rushed off. 

"Second supper dance!" "All right!"

He returned radiant, and in his recovered good humour proceeded to makehimself delightful even to Miss Chance, whom, five minutes before, hehad detested. 

But when he had returned her to her mother, Peter wandered off alone. Hedid not want to dance with anybody, to talk to anybody. He wanted just toremember Helena's smile, her eager--"I've kept it for you, Peter, all theevening!"--and to hug the thought of his coming joy. Oh, he hadn't adog's chance, he knew, but as long as she was not actually married tosomebody else, he was not going to give up hope. 

In a shrubbery walk, where a rising moon was just beginning to chequerthe path with light and shade, he ran into Julian Horne, who wasstrolling tranquilly up and down, book in hand. 

"Hullo, what are you doing here?" said the invaded one. 

"Getting cool. And you?"

Julian showed his book--_The Coming Revolution_, a Bolshevist pamphlet, then enjoying great vogue in manufacturing England. 

"What are you reading such rot for?" said Peter, wondering. 

"It gives a piquancy to this kind of thing!" was Horne's smiling reply, as they reached an open space in the walk, and he waved his hand towardsthe charming scene before them, the house with its lights, on its risingground above the lake, the dancing groups on the lawn, the illuminatedrose-garden; and below, the lake, under its screen of wood, with boats onthe smooth water, touched every now and then by the creeping fingers ofthe searchlight from the boathouse, so that one group after another ofyoung men and maidens stood out in a white glare against the darkness ofthe trees. 

"It will last our time, " said Peter recklessly. "Have you seenBuntingford?"

"A little while ago, he was sitting out with Lady Cynthia. But when hepassed me just now, he told me he was going down to look after the lakeand the boats--in case of accidents. There is a current at one endapparently, and a weir; and the keeper who understands all about it is ina Canada regiment on the Rhine. "

"Do you think Buntingford's going to marry Lady Cynthia?" askedPeter suddenly. 

Horne laughed. "That's not my guess, at present, " he said after a moment. 

As he spoke, a boat on the lake came into the track of the searchlight, and the two persons in it were clearly visible--Buntingford rowing, andHelena, in the stern. The vision passed in a flash; and Horne turned apair of eyes alive with satirical meaning on his companion. 

"Well!" said Peter, troubled, he scarcely knew why--"what do you mean?"

Horne seemed to hesitate. His loose-limbed ease of bearing in his shabbyclothes, his rugged head, and pile of reddish hair, above a thinker'sbrow, made him an impressive figure in the half light--gave him a kind ofseer's significance. 

"Isn't it one of the stock situations?" he said at last--"thissituation of guardian and ward?--romantic situations, I mean? Of coursethe note of romance must be applicable. But it certainly is applicable, in this case. "

Peter stared. Julian Horne caught the change in the boy's delicate faceand repented him--too late. 

"What rubbish you talk, Julian! In the first place it would bedishonourable!"

"Why?"

"It would, I tell you, --damned dishonourable! And in the next, why, a fewweeks ago--Helena hated him!"

"Yes--she began with 'a little aversion'! One of the stock openings, "laughed Horne. 

"Well, ta-ta. I'm not going to stay to listen to you talking bosh anymore, " said Peter roughly. "There's the next dance beginning. "

He flung away. Horne resumed his pacing. He was very sorry for Peter, whose plight was plain to all the world. But it was better he should bewarned. As for himself, he too had been under the spell. But he had soonemerged. A philosopher and economist, holding on to Helena's skirts inher rush through the world, would cut too sorry a figure. Besides, couldshe ever have married him--which was of course impossible, in spite ofthe courses in Meredith and Modern Literature through which he had takenher--she would have tired of him in a year, by which time both theirfortunes would have been spent. For he knew himself to be a spendthrifton a small income, and suspected a similar propensity in Helena, on thegrand scale. He returned, therefore, more or less contentedly, to hismusings upon an article he was to contribute to _The Market Place_, on"The Influence of Temperament in Economics. " The sounds of dance music inthe distance made an agreeable accompaniment. 

Meanwhile a scene--indisputably sentimental--was passing on the lake. Helena and Geoffrey French going down to the water's edge to find a boat, had met halfway with Cynthia Welwyn, in some distress. She had just heardthat Lady Georgina had been taken suddenly ill, and must go home. Sheunderstood that Mawson was looking after her sister, who was liable toslight fainting attacks at inconvenient moments. But how to find theircarriage! She had looked for a servant in vain, and Buntingford wasnowhere to be seen. French could do no less than offer to assist; andHelena, biting her lip, despatched him. "I will wait for you at theboathouse. "

He rushed off, with Cynthia toiling after him, and Helena descended tothe lake. As she neared the little landing stage, a boat approached it, containing Buntingford, and two or three of his guests. 

"Hullo, Helena, what have you done with Geoffrey?"

She explained. "We were just coming down for a row. "

"All right. I'll take you on till he comes. Jump in!"

She obeyed, and they were soon halfway towards the further side. Butabout the middle of the lake Buntingford was seized with belatedcompunction that he had not done his host's duty to his queer, inarticulate cousin, Lady Georgina. "I suppose I ought to have gone tolook after her?"

"Not at all, " said Helena coolly. "I believe she does it often. She can'twant more than Lady Cynthia--_and_ Geoffrey--_and_ Mawson. Peopleshouldn't be pampered!"

Her impertinence was so alluring as she sat opposite to him, trailingboth hands in the water, that Buntingford submitted. There was amomentary silence. Then Helena said:

"Lady Cynthia came to see me the other day. Did you send her?"

"Of course. I wanted you to make friends. "

"That we should never do! We were simply born to dislike each other. "

"I never heard anything so unreasonable!" said Buntingford warmly. "Cynthia is a very good creature, and can be excellent company. "

Helena gave a shrug. 

"What does all that matter?" she said slowly--"when one hasinstincts--and intuitions. No!--don't let's talk any more about LadyCynthia. But--there's something--please, Cousin Philip--I want to say--Imay as well say it now. "

He looked at her rather astonished, and, dimly as he saw her inthe shadow they had just entered, it seemed to him that her aspecthad changed. 

"What is it? I hope nothing serious. "

"Yes--it is serious, to me. I hate apologizing!--I always have. "

"My dear Helena!--why should you apologize? For goodness' sake, don't!Think better of it. "

"I've got to do it, " she said firmly, "Cousin Philip, you were quiteright about that man, Jim Donald, and I was quite wrong. He's a beast, and I loathe the thought of having danced with him--there!--I'm sorry!"She held out her hand. 

Buntingford was supremely touched, and could not for the moment find ajest wherewith to disguise it. 

"Thank you!" he said quietly, at last. "Thank you, Helena. That was verynice of you. " And with a sudden movement he stooped and kissed the wetand rather quivering hand he held. At the same moment, the searchlightwhich had been travelling about the pond, lighting up one boat afteranother to the amusement of the persons in them, and of those watchingfrom the shore, again caught the boat in which sat Buntingford andHelena. Both figures stood sharply out. Then the light had travelled on, and Helena had hastily withdrawn her hand. 

She fell back on the cushions of the stern seat, vexed with her ownagitation. She had described herself truly. She was proud, and it washard for her to "climb down. " But there was much else in the mixedfeeling that possessed her. There seemed, for one thing, to be a curioushappiness in it; combined also with a renewed jealousy for anindependence she might have seemed to be giving away. She wanted tosay--"Don't misunderstand me!--I'm not really giving up anything vital--Imean all the same to manage my life in my own way. " But it was difficultto say it in the face of the coatless man opposite, of whose house shehad become practically mistress, and who had changed all his personalmodes of life to suit hers. Her eyes wandered to the gay scene of thehouse and its gardens, with its Watteau-ish groups of young men andmaidens, under the night sky, its light and music. All that had beendone, to give her pleasure, by a man who had for years conspicuouslyshunned society, and whose life in the old country house, before heradvent, had been, as she had come to know, of the quietest. She bentforward again, impulsively:

"Cousin Philip!--I'm enjoying this party enormously--it's awfully, awfully good of you--but I don't want you to do it any more--"

"Do what, Helena?"

"Please, I can get along without any more week-ends, or parties. You--youspoil me!"

"Well--we're going up to London, aren't we, soon? But I daresay you'reright"--his tone grew suddenly grave. "While we dance, there is aterrible amount of suffering going on in the world. "

"You mean--after the war?"

He nodded. "Famine everywhere--women and children dying--half a dozenbloody little wars. And here at home we seem to be on the brink ofcivil war. "

"We oughtn't to be amusing ourselves at all!--that's the real truth ofit, " said Helena with gloomy decision. "But what are we to do--women, Imean? They told me at the hospital yesterday they get rid of their lastconvalescents next week. What _is_ there for me to do? If I were afactory girl, I should be getting unemployment benefit. My occupation'sgone--such as it was--it's not my fault!"

"Marry, my dear child, --and bring up children, " said Buntingford bluntly. "That's the chief duty of Englishwomen just now. "

Helena flushed and said nothing. They drifted nearer to the bank, andHelena perceived, at the end of a little creek, a magnificent group ofyew trees, of which the lower branches were almost in the water. Behindthem, and to the side of them, through a gap in the wood, the moonlightfound its way, but they themselves stood against the faint light, superbly dark, and impenetrable, black water at their feet. Buntingfordpointed to them. 

"They're fine, aren't they? This lake of course is artificial, and thepark was only made out of arable land a hundred years ago. I alwaysimagine these trees mark some dwelling-house, which has disappeared. Theyused to be my chief haunt when I was a boy. There are four of them, extraordinarily interwoven. I made a seat in one of them. I could seeeverything and everybody on the lake, or in the garden; and nobody couldsee me. I once overheard a proposal!"

"Eavesdropper!" laughed Helena. "Shall we land?--and go and look atthem?"

She gave a touch to the rudder. Then a shout rang out from thelanding-stage on the other side of the water. 

"Ah, that's Geoffrey, " said Buntingford. "And I must really get back tothe house--to see people off. "

With a little vigorous rowing they were soon across the lake. Helena satsilent. She did not want Geoffrey--she did not want to reach theland--she had been happy on the water--why should things end?

 * * * * *

Geoffrey reported that all was well with Lady Georgina, she had gonehome, and then stepping into the boat as Buntingford stepped out, hebegan to push off. 

"Isn't it rather late?" began Helena in a hesitating voice, half risingfrom her seat. "I promised Peter a supper dance. "

Geoffrey turned to look at her. 

"Nobody's gone in to supper yet. Shall I take you back?"

There was something in his voice which meant that this _tęte-ŕ-tęte_ hadbeen promised him. Helena resigned herself. But that she would ratherhave landed was very evident to her companion, who had been balked ofhalf his chance already by Lady Georgina. Why did elderly persons liableto faint come to dances?--that was what he fiercely wanted to know as hepulled out into the lake. 

Helena was very quiet. She seemed tired, or dreamy. InstinctivelyGeoffrey lost hold on his own purpose. Something warned him to go warily. By way of starting conversation he began to tell her of his own adventureon the lake--of the dumb woman among the trees, whom he had seen andspoken to, without reply. Helena was only moderately interested. It wassome village woman passing through the wood, she supposed. Very likelythe searchlight frightened her, and she knew she had no business there inJune when there were young pheasants about--

"Nobody's started preserving again yet--" put in Geoffrey. 

"Old Fenn told me yesterday that there were lots of wild ones, " saidHelena languidly. "So there'll be something to eat next winter. "

"Are you tired, Helena?"

"Not at all, " she said, sitting up suddenly. "What were we talkingabout?--oh, pheasants. Do you think we really shall starve next winter, Geoffrey, as the Food Controller says?"

"I don't much care!" said French. 

Helena bent forward. 

"Now, you're cross with me, Geoffrey! Don't be cross! I think I really amtired. I seem to have danced for hours. " The tone was childishlyplaintive, and French was instantly appeased. The joy of being withher--alone--returned upon him in a flood. 

"Well, then, rest a little. Why should you go back just yet? Isn't itjolly out here?"

"Lovely, " she said absently--"but I promised Peter. "

"That'll be all right. We'll just go across and back. "

There was a short silence--long enough to hear the music from the house, and the distant voices of the dancers. A little northwest wind wascreeping over the lake, and stirring the scents of the grasses andsedge-plants on its banks. Helena looked round to see in what directionthey were going. 

"Ah!--you see that black patch, Geoffrey?"

"Yes--it was near there I saw my ghost--or village woman--or lady'smaid--whatever you like to call it. "

"It was a lady's maid, I think, " said Helena decidedly. "They have a wayof getting lost. Do you mind going there?"--she pointed--"I want toexplore it. "

He pulled a stroke which sent the boat towards the yews; while sherepeated Buntingford's story of the seat. 

"Perhaps we shall find her there, " said Geoffrey with a laugh. 

"Your woman? No! That would be rather creepy! To think we had a spy on usall the time! I should hate that!"

She spoke with animation; and a sudden question shot across French'smind. She and Buntingford had been alone there under the darkness of theyews. If a listener had been lurking in that old hiding-place, what wouldhe--or she--have heard? Then he shook the thought from him, and rowedvigorously for the creek. 

He tied the boat to a willow-stump, and helped Helena to land. 

"I warn you--" he said, laughing. "You'll tear your dress, and wetyour shoes. "

But with her skirts gathered tight round her she was alreadyhalfway through the branches, and Geoffrey heard her voice from thefurther side--

"Oh I--such a wonderful place!"

He followed her quickly, and was no less astonished than she. They stoodin a kind of natural hall, like that "pillared shade" under the yews ofBorrowdale, which Wordsworth has made immortal:

 beneath whose sable roofOf boughs, as if for festal purpose, deckedWith unrejoicing berries, Ghostly shapesMay meet at noon-tide; Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight; Death the SkeletonAnd Time the Shadow:--

For three yew trees of great age had grown together, forming a domed tentof close, perennial leaf, beneath which all other vegetation haddisappeared. The floor, carpeted with "the pining members" of the yews, was dry and smooth; Helena's light slippers scarcely sank in it. Theygroped their way; and Helena's hand had slipped unconsciously intoGeoffrey's. In the velvety darkness, indeed, they would have seennothing, but for the fact that the moon stood just above the wood, andthrough a small gap in the dome, where a rotten branch had fallen, alittle light came down. 

"I've found the seat!" said Helena joyously, disengaging herself from hercompanion. And presently a dim ray from overhead showed her to him seateddryad-like in the very centre of the black interwoven trunks. Or, rather, he saw the sparkle of some bright stones on her neck, and the whitenessof her brow; but for the rest, only a suggestion of lovely lines; as itwere, a Spirit of the Wood, almost bodiless. 

He stood before her, in an ecstasy of pleasure. 

"Helena!--you are a vision--a dream: Don't fade away! I wish we couldstay here for ever. "

"Am I a vision?" She put out a mischievous hand, and pinched him. "Butcome here, Geoffrey--come up beside me--look! Anybody sitting here couldsee a good deal of the lake!"

He squeezed in beside her, and true enough, through a natural parting inthe branches, which no one could have noticed from outside, the littlecreek, with their boat in it, was plainly visible, and beyond it thelights on the lawn. 

"A jolly good observation post for a sniper!" said Geoffrey, recollections of the Somme returning upon him; so far as he was able tothink of anything but Helena's warm loveliness beside him. Mad thoughtsbegan to surge up in him. 

But an exclamation from Helena checked them:

"I say!--there's something here--in the seat. "

Her hand groped near his. She withdrew it excitedly. 

"It's a scarf, or a bag, or something. Let's take it to the light. Yourwoman, Geoffrey!"

She scrambled down, and he followed her unwillingly, the blood racingthrough his veins. But he must needs help her again through theclose-grown branches, and into the boat. 

She peered at the soft thing she held in her hand. 

"It's a bag, a little silk bag. And there's something in it! Light amatch, Geoffrey. "

He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and obeyed her. Their two headsstooped together over the bag. Helena drew out a handkerchief--torn, witha lace edging. 

"That's not a village woman's handkerchief!" she said, wondering. "Andthere are initials!"

He struck another match, and they distinguished something like F. M. Veryfinely embroidered in the corner of the handkerchief. The match went out, and Helena put the handkerchief back into the bag, which she examined inthe now full moonlight, as they drifted out of the shadow. 

"And the bag itself is a most beautiful little thing! It's shabby andold, but it cost a great deal when it was new. What a strange, strangething! We must tell Cousin Philip. Somebody, perhaps, was watching us allthe time!"

She sat with her chin on her hands, gazing thoughtfully at French, thebag on her knees. Now that the little adventure was over, and she wasbegging him to take her back quickly to the house, Geoffrey was onlyconscious of disappointment and chagrin. What did the silly mystery initself matter to him or her? But it had drawn a red herring across histrack. Would the opportunity it had spoilt ever return?

CHAPTER X

It was a glorious June morning; and Beechmark, after the ball, was justbeginning to wake up. Into the June garden, full of sun but gently beatenby a fresh wind, the dancers of the night before emerged one by one. Peter Dale had come out early, having quarrelled with his bed almost forthe first time in his life. He was now, however, fast asleep in agarden-chair under a chestnut-tree. Buntingford, in flannels, and asfresh as though he had slept ten hours instead of three, strolled outthrough the library window, followed by French and Vivian Lodge. 

"I say, what weather, " said French, throwing himself down on the grass, his hands under his head. "Why can't Mother Nature provide us with thissort of thing a little more plentifully?"

"How much would any man jack of us do if it were always fine?" saidJulian Horne, settling himself luxuriously in a deep and comfortablechair under a red hawthorn in full bloom. "When the weather makes onewant to hang oneself, then's the moment for immortal works. "

"For goodness' sake, don't prate, Julian!" said French, yawning, andflinging a rose-bud at Horne, which he had just gathered from agarden-bed at his elbow. "You've had so much more sleep than the rest ofus, it isn't fair. "

"I saw him sup, " said Buntingford. "Who saw him afterwards?"

"No one but his Maker, " said Lodge, who had drawn his hat over his eyes, and was lying on the grass beside French:--"and _le bon Dieu_ alone knowswhat he was doing; for he wasn't asleep. I heard him tubbing at someunearthly hour in the room next to mine. "

"I finished my article about seven a. M. , " said Horne tranquilly--"whileyou fellows were sleeping off the effects of debauch. "

"Brute!" said Geoffrey languidly. Then suddenly, as though he hadremembered something, he sat up. 

"By the way, Buntingford, I had an adventure yesterday evening--Ah, here comes Helena! Half the story's mine--and half is hers. So we'llwait a moment. "

The men sprang to their feet. Helena in the freshest of white gowns, white shoes and a white hat approached, looking preoccupied. Lady MaryChance, who was sitting at an open drawing-room window, with a newspapershe was far too tired to read on her lap, was annoyed to see the generaleagerness with which a girl who occasionally, and horribly said "D--mn!"and habitually smoked, was received by a group of infatuated males. Buntingford found the culprit a chair, and handed her a cigarette. Therest, after greeting her, subsided again on the grass. 

"Poor Peter!" said Helena, in a tone of mock pity, turning her eyes tothe sleeping form under the chestnut. "Have I won, or haven't I? I bethim I would be down first. "

"You've lost--of course, " said Horne. "Peter was down an hour ago. "

"That's not what I meant by 'down. ' I meant 'awake. '"

"No woman ever pays a bet if she can help it, " said Horne, "--though I'veknown exceptions. But now, please, silence. Geoffrey says he hassomething to tell us--an adventure--which was half his and half yours. Which of you will begin?"

Helena threw a quick glance at Geoffrey, who nodded to her, perceiving atthe same moment that she had in her hand the little embroidered bag ofthe night before. 

"Geoffrey begins. "

"Well, it'll thrill you, " said Geoffrey slowly, "because there was a spyamong us last night--'takin' notes. '"

And with the heightening touches that every good story-teller bestowsupon a story, he described the vision of the lake--the strange woman'sface, as he had seen it in the twilight beside the yew trees. 

Buntingford gradually dropped his cigarette to listen. 

"Very curious--very interesting, " he said ironically, as French paused, "and has lost nothing in the telling. "

"Ah, but wait till you hear the end!" cried Helena. "Now, it's my turn. "

And she completed the tale, holding up the bag at the close of it, sothat the tarnished gold of its embroidery caught the light. 

Buntingford took it from her, and turned it over. Then he opened it, drewout the handkerchief, and looked at the initials, "'F. M. '" He shook hishead. "Conveys nothing. But you're quite right. That bag has nothing todo with a village woman--unless she picked it up. "

"But the face I saw had nothing to do with a village woman, either, " saidFrench, with conviction. "It was subtle--melancholy--intense--more thanthat!--_fierce_, fiercely miserable. I guess that the woman possessing itwould be a torment to her belongings if they happened not to suit her. And, my hat!--if you made her jealous!"

"Was she handsome?" asked Lodge. 

Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders. 

"Must have been--probably--when she was ten years younger. "

"And she possessed this bag?" mused Buntingford--"which she or someone bought at Florence--for I've discovered the address of a shop init--Fratelli Cortis, Via Tornabuoni, Firenze. You didn't find thatout, Helena. "

He passed the bag to her, pointing out a little printed silk label whichhad been sewn into the neck of it. Then Vivian Lodge asked for it andturned it over. 

"Lovely work--and beautiful materials. Ah!--do you see what it is?"--heheld it up--"the Arms of Florence, embroidered in gold and silverthread. H'm. I suppose, Buntingford, you get some Whitsuntide visitorsin the village?"

"Oh, yes, a few. There's a little pub with one or two decent rooms, andseveral cottagers take lodgers. The lady, whoever she was, was scarcely aperson of delicacy. "

"She was in that place for an object, " said Geoffrey, interrupting himwith some decision. "Of that I feel certain. If she had just lost herway, and was trespassing--she must have known, I think, that she wastrespassing--why didn't she answer my call and let me put her over thelake? Of course I should never have seen her at all, but for thataccident of the searchlight. "

"The question is, " said Buntingford, "how long did she stay there? Shewas not under the yews when you saw her?"

"No--just outside. "

"Well, then, supposing, to get out of the way of the searchlight, shefound her way in and discovered my seat--how long do you guess she wasthere?--and when the bag dropped?"

"Any time between then--and midnight--when Helena found it, " said French. "She may have gone very soon after I saw her, leaving the bag on theseat; or, if she stayed, on my supposition that she was there for thepurpose of spying, then she probably vanished when she heard our boatdrawn up, and knew that Helena and I were getting out. "

"A long sitting!" said Buntingford with a laugh--"four hours. I reallycan't construct any reasonable explanation on those lines. "

"Why not? Some people have a passion for spying and eavesdropping. If Iwere such a person, dumped in a country village with nothing to do, Ithink I could have amused myself a good deal last night, in thatobservation post. Through that hole I told you of, one could see thelights and the dancing on the lawn, and watch the boats on the lake. Shecould hear the music, and if anyone did happen to be talking secrets justunder the yews, she could have heard every word, quite easily. "

Involuntarily he looked at Helena, Helena was looking at the grass. Wasit mere fancy, or was there a sudden pinkness in her cheeks? Buntingfordtoo seemed to have a slightly conscious air. But he rose to his feet, with a laugh. 

"Well, I'll have a stroll to the village, some time to-day, and see whatI can discover about your _Incognita_, Helena. If she is a holidayvisitor, she'll be still on the spot. Geoffrey had better come with me, as he's the only person who's seen her. "

"Right you are. After lunch. "

Buntingford nodded assent and went into the house. 

 * * * * *

The day grew hotter. Lodge and Julian Horne went off for a swim in thecool end of the lake. Peter still slept, looking so innocent andinfantine in his sleep that no one had the heart to wake him. French andHelena were left together, and were soon driven by the advancing sun tothe deep shade of a lime-avenue, which, starting from the back of thehouse, ran for half a mile through the park. Here they were absolutelyalone. Lady Mary's prying eyes were defeated, and Helena incidentallyremarked that Mrs. Friend, being utterly "jacked up, " had been bulliedinto staying in bed till luncheon. 

So that in the green sunflecked shadow of the limes, Geoffrey had--ifHelena so pleased--a longer _tęte-ŕ-tęte_ before him, and a more generousopportunity, even, than the gods had given him on the lake. His pulsesleapt; goaded, however, by alternate hope and fear. But at least he hadthe chance to probe the situation a little deeper; even if prudenceshould ultimately forbid him anything more. 

Helena had chosen a wooden seat round one of the finest limes. Some booksbrought out for show rather than use, lay beside her. A piece ofknitting--a scarf of a bright greenish yellow--lay on the lap of herwhite dress. She had taken off her hat, and Geoffrey was passionatelyconscious of the beauty of the brown head resting, as she talked, againstthe furrowed trunk of the lime. Her brown-gold hair was dressed in thenew way, close to the head and face, and fastened by some sapphire pinsbehind the ear. From this dark frame, and in the half light of theavenue, the exquisite whiteness of the forehead and neck, the brown eyes, so marvellously large and brilliant, and yet so delicately finished inevery detail beneath their perfect brows, and the curve of the lips overthe small white teeth, stood out as if they had been painted on ivory bya miniature-painter of the Renaissance. Her white dress, according to theprevailing fashion, was almost low--as children's frocks used to be inthe days of our great-grandmothers. It was made with a childish fullbodice, and a childish sash of pale blue held up the rounded breast, thatrose and fell with her breathing, beneath the white muslin. Pale bluestockings, and a pair of white shoes, with preposterous heels and pointedtoes, completed the picture. The mingling, in the dress, of extremesimplicity with the cunningest artifice, and the greater daring and _joiede vivre_ which it expressed, as compared with the dress of pre-war days, made it characteristic and symbolic:--a dress of the New Time. 

Geoffrey lay on the grass beside her, feasting his eyes uponher--discreetly. Since when had English women grown so beautiful? At allthe weddings and most of the dances he had lately attended, the bridesand the _débutantes_ had seemed to him of a loveliness out of allproportion to that of their fore-runners in those far-off days before thewar. And when a War Office mission, just before the Armistice, had takenhim to some munition factories in the north, he had been scarcely lessseized by the comeliness of the girl-workers:--the long lines of them intheir blue overalls, and the blue caps that could scarcely restrain thebeauty and wealth of pale yellow or red-gold hair beneath. Is theresomething in the rush and flame of war that quickens old powers anddormant virtues in a race? Better feeding and better wages among theworking-classes--one may mark them down perhaps as factors in thisproduct of a heightened beauty. But for these exquisite women of theupper class, is it the pace at which they have lived, unconsciously, forthese five years, that has brought out this bloom and splendour?--andwill it pass as it has come?

Questions of this kind floated through his mind as he lay looking atHelena, melting rapidly into others much more peremptory and personal. 

"Are you soon going up to Town?" he asked her presently. His voice seemedto startle her. She returned evidently with difficulty from thoughts ofher own. He would have given his head to read them. 

"No, " she said hesitatingly. "Why should we? It is so jolly down here. Everything's getting lovely. "

"I thought you wanted a bit of season! I thought that was part of yourbargain with Philip?"

"Yes--but"--she laughed--"I didn't know how nice Beechmark was. "

His sore sense winced. 

"Doesn't Philip want you to go?"

"Not at all. He says he gets much more work done in Town, without Mrs. Friend and me to bother him--"

"He puts it that way?"

"Politely! And it rests him to come down here for Sundays. He lovesthe riding. "

"I shouldn't have thought the Sundays were much rest?"

"Ah, but they're going to be!" she said eagerly. "We're not going to haveanother party for a whole month. Cousin Philip has been treating me likea spoiled child--stuffing me with treats--and I've put an end to it!"

And this was the Helena that had stipulated so fiercely for her week-endsand her pals! The smart deepened. 

"And you won't be tired of the country?"

"In the winter, perhaps, " she said carelessly. "Philip and I have allsorts of plans for the things we want to do in London in the winter. Butnot now--when every hour's delicious!"

"_Philip and I_!"--a new combination indeed!

She threw her head back again, drinking in the warm light and shade, thegolden intensity of the fresh leaf above her. 

"And next week there'll be frost, and you'll be shivering over the fire, "he threw at her, in a sarcastic voice. 

"Well, even that--would be nicer--than London, " she said slowly. "I neverimagined I should like the country so much. Of course I wish there wasmore to do. I told Philip so last night. "

"And what did he say?"

But she suddenly flushed and evaded the question. 

"Oh, well, he hadn't much to say, " said Helena, looking a littleconscious. "Anyway, I'm getting a little education. Mrs. Friend'sbrushing up my French--which is vile. And I do some reading every weekfor Philip--and some drawing. By the way"--she turned upon hercompanion--"do you know his drawings?--they're just ripping! He must havebeen an awfully good artist. But I've only just got him to show me histhings. He never talks of them himself. "

"I've never seen one. His oldest friends can hardly remember that time inhis life. He seems to want to forget it. "

"Well, naturally!" said Helena, with an energy that astonished herlistener; but before he could probe what she meant, she stooped over him:

"Geoffrey!"

"Yes!"

He saw that she had coloured brightly. 

"Do you remember all that nonsense I talked to you a month ago?"

"I can remember it if you want me to. Something about old Philip being abully and a tyrant, wasn't it?"

"Some rubbish like that. Well--I don't want to be maudlin--but I wish toput it on record that Philip _isn't_ a bully and he _isn't_ a tyrant. Hecan be a jolly good friend!"

"With some old-fashioned opinions?" put in Geoffrey mockingly. 

"Old-fashioned opinions?--yes, of course. And you needn't imagine that Ishall agree with them all. Oh, you may laugh, Geoffrey, but it's quitetrue. I'm not a bit crushed. That's the delightful part of it. It'sbecause he has a genius--yes, a genius--for friendship. I didn't know himwhen I came down here--I didn't know him a bit--and I was an idiot. Butone could trust him to the very last. "

Her hands lay idly on the bright-coloured knitting, and Geoffrey couldwatch the emotion on her face. 

"And one is so glad to be his friend!" she went on softly, "because hehas suffered so!"

"You mean in his marriage? What do you know about it?"

"Can't one guess?" she went on in the same low voice. "He never speaks ofher! There isn't a picture of her, of any sort, in the house. He used tospeak of her sometimes, I believe, to mother--of course she never said aword--but never, never, to anyone else. It's quite clear that he wants toforget it altogether. Well, you don't want to forget what made you happy. And he says such bitter things often. Oh, I'm sure it was a tragedy!"

"Well--why doesn't he marry again?" Geoffrey had turned over on hiselbows, and seemed to be examining the performances of an ant who wastrying to carry off a dead fly four times his size. 

Helena did not answer immediately, and Geoffrey, looking up from the ant, was aware of conflicting expressions passing across her face. At last shesaid, drawing a deep breath:

"Well, at least, I'm glad he's come to like this dear old place--He neverused to care about it in the least. "

"That's because you've made it so bright for him, " said Geoffrey, findinga seat on a tree-stump near her, and fumbling for a cigarette. Thepraises of Philip were becoming monotonous and a reckless wish to testhis own fate was taking possession of him. 

"I haven't!"--said Helena vehemently. "I have asked all sorts of peopledown he didn't like--and I've made him live in one perpetual racket. I'vebeen an odious little beast. But now--perhaps--I shall know better whathe wants. "

"Excellent sentiments!" A scoffer looked down upon her through curlingrings of smoke. "Shall I tell you what Philip wants?"

"What?"

"He wants a wife. "

The attentive eyes fixed on him withdrew themselves. 

"Well--suppose he does?"

"Are you going to supply him with one? Lady Cynthia, I think, wouldaccommodate you. "

Helena flushed angrily. 

"He hasn't the smallest intention of proposing to Cynthia. Nobody witheyes in their head would suggest it. "

"No--but if you and he are such great friends--couldn't you pull it off?It would be very suitable, " said Geoffrey coolly. 

Helena broke out--the quick breath beating against her white bodice:

"Of course I understand you perfectly, Geoffrey--perfectly! You're notvery subtle--are you? What you're thinking is that when I call Philip myfriend I'm meaning something else--that I'm plotting--intriguing--"

Her words choked her. Geoffrey put out a soothing hand--and touched hers. 

"My dear child:--how could I suggest anything of the kind? I'm only alittle sorry--for Philip, "

"Philip can take care of himself, " she said passionately. "Only a_stupid--conventional_--mind could want to spoil what is really so--so--"

"So charming?" suggested Geoffrey, springing to his feet. "Very well, Helena!--then if Philip is really nothing more to you than your guardian, and your very good friend--why not give some one else a chance?"

He bent over her, his kind, clever face aglow with the feeling he couldno longer conceal. Their eyes met--Helena's at first resentful, scornfuleven--then soft. She too stood up, and put out a pair of protestinghands--"Please--please, Geoffrey, --_don't_. "

"Why not--you angel!" He possessed himself of one of the hands and madeher move with him along the avenue, looking closely into her eyes. "Youmust know what I feel! I wanted to speak to you last night, but youtricked me. I just adore you, Helena! I've got quite goodprospects--I'm getting on in the House of Commons--and I would work foryou day and night!"

"You didn't adore me a month ago!" said Helena, a triumphant little smileplaying about her mouth. "How you lectured me!"

"For you highest good, " he said, laughing; though his heart beat tosuffocation. "Just give me a word of hope, Helena! Don't turn medown, at once. "

"Then you mustn't talk nonsense, " she said vehemently, withdrawing herhand. "I don't want to be engaged! I don't want to be married! Why can'tI be let alone?"

Geoffrey had turned a little pale. In the pause that followed he fellback on a cigarette for consolation. "Why can't you be let alone?" hesaid at last. "Why?--because--you're Helena!"

"What a stupid answer!" she said contemptuously. Then, with one of herquick changes, she came near to him again. "Geoffrey!--it's no goodpressing me--but don't be angry with me, there's a dear. Just be myfriend and help me!"

She put a hand on his arm, and the face that looked into his would havebewitched a stone. 

"That's a very old game, Helena. 'Marry you? Rather not! but you may jointhe queue of rejected ones if you like. '"

A mischievous smile danced in Helena's eyes. 

"None of them can say I don't treat them nicely!"

"I daresay. But I warn you I shan't accept the position for long. I shallbegin again. "

"Well, but not yet!--not for a long time, " she pleaded. Then she gave alittle impatient stamp, as she walked beside him. 

"I tell you--I don't want to be bound. I won't be bound! I want to befree. "

"So you said--_ŕ propos_ of Philip, " he retorted drily. 

He saw the shaft strike home--the involuntary dropping of the eyelids, the soft catch in the breath. But she rallied quickly. 

"That was altogether different! You had no business to say that, Geoffrey. "

"Well, then, forgive me--and keep me quiet--just--just one kiss, Helena!"

The last passionate words were hardly audible. They had passed into thedeepest shadow of the avenue. No one was visible in all its green length. They stood ensiled by summer; the great trees mounting guard. Helenathrew a glance to right and left. 

"Well, then--to keep you quiet--_sans préjudice_!"

She demurely offered her cheek. But his lips were scarcely allowed totouch it, she drew away so quickly. 

"Now, then, that's quite settled!" she said in her most matter-of-factvoice. "Such a comfort! Let's go back. "

They turned back along the avenue, a rather flushed pair, enjoying eachother's society, and discussing the dance, and their respective partners. 

It happened, however, that this little scene--at its most criticalpoint--had only just escaped a spectator. Philip Buntingford passedacross the further end of the avenue on his way to the Horne Farm, at themoment when Helena and Geoffrey turned their backs to him, walkingtowards the house. They were not aware of him; but he stopped a moment towatch the young figures disappearing under the green shade. A look ofpleasure was in his blue eyes. It seemed to him that things were goingwell in that direction. And he wished them to go well. He had knownGeoffrey since he was a little chap in his first breeches; had watchedhim through Winchester and Oxford, had taken as semi-paternal pride inthe young man's distinguished war record, and had helped him with hiselection expenses. He himself was intimate with very few of the youngergeneration. His companions in the Admiralty work, and certain seniornaval officers with whom that work had made him acquainted:--a certainintimacy, a certain real friendship had indeed grown up between him andsome of them. But something old and tired in him made the effort ofbridging the gulf between himself and men in their twenties--generallyspeaking--too difficult. Or he thought so. The truth was, perhaps, asGeoffrey had expressed it to Helena, that many of the younger men who hadbeen brought into close official or business contact with him felt a realaffection for him. Buntingford would have thought it strange that theyshould do so, and never for one moment assumed it. 

After its languid morning, Beechmark revived with the afternoon. Itsyoung men guests, whom the Dansworth rioters would probably have classedas parasites and idlers battening on the toil of the people, had in factearned their holiday by a good many months of hard work, whether in thewinding up of the war, or the re-starting of suspended businesses, or therenewed activities of the bar; and they were taking it whole-heartedly. Golf, tennis, swimming, and sleep had filled the day, and it was a crowdin high spirits that gathered round Mrs. Friend for tea on the lawn, somewhere about five o'clock. Lucy, who had reached that stage of fatiguethe night before when--like Peter Dale, only for different reasons--herbed became her worst enemy, had scarcely slept a wink, but wasnevertheless presiding gaily over the tea-table. She looked particularlysmall and slight in a little dress of thin grey stuff that Helena hadcoaxed her to wear in lieu of her perennial black, but there was thatexpression in her pretty eyes as of a lifted burden, and a new friendshipwith life, which persons in Philip Buntingford's neighbourhood, when theybelonged to the race of the meek and gentle, were apt to put on. PeterDale hung about her, distributing tea and cake, and obedient to all herwishes. More than once in these later weeks he had found, in the dumbsympathy and understanding of the little widow, something that had beento him like shadow in the desert. He was known to fame as one of thesmartest young aide-de-camps in the army, and fabulously rich besides. His invitation cards, carelessly stacked in his Curzon Street rooms, werea sight to see. But Helena had crushed his manly spirit. Sitting underthe shadow of Mrs. Friend, he liked to watch from a distance thebeautiful and dazzling creature who would have none of him. He was verysorry for himself; but, all the same, he had had some rattling games oftennis; the weather was divine, and he could still gaze at Helena; sothat although the world was evil, "the thrushes still sang in it. "

Buntingford and Geoffrey were seen walking up from the lake when tea wasnearly over. 

All eyes were turned to them. 

"Now, then, " said Julian Horne--"for the mystery, and its key. What apity mysteries are generally such frauds! They can't keep it up. They letyou down when you least expect it. "

"Well, what news?" cried Helena, as the two men approached. Buntingfordshook his head. 

"Not much to tell--very little, indeed. "

It appeared to Horne that both men looked puzzled and vaguely excited. But their story was soon told. They had seen Richard Stimson, a labourer, who reported having noticed a strange lady crossing the park in thedirection of the wood, which, however, she had not entered, havingfinally changed her course so as to bear towards the Western Lodge andthe allotments. 

"That, you will observe, was about ten o'clock, " interjected French, "andI saw my lady about eight. " Buntingford found a chair, lit a cigarette, and resumed:

"She appeared in the village some time yesterday morning and went intothe church. She told the woman who was cleaning there that she had cometo look at an old window which was mentioned in her guide-book. The womannoticed that she stayed some time looking at the monuments in the church, and the tombs in the Buntingford chantry, which all the visitors go tosee. She ordered some sandwiches at the Rose-and-Crown and got into talkwith the landlord. He says she asked the questions strangers generally doask--'Who lived in the neighbourhood?'--If she took a lodging in thevillage for August were there many nice places to go and see?--and so on. She said she had visited the Buntingford tombs in the chantry, and askedsome questions about the family, and myself--Was I married?--Who was theheir? etc. Then when she had paid her bill, she enquired the way acrossthe park to Feetham Station, and said she would have a walk and catch asix o'clock train back to London. She loved the country, she said--andliked walking. And that really is--all!"

"Except about her appearance, " put in Geoffrey. "The landlord said hethought she must be an actress, or 'summat o' that sort. ' She had such astrange way of looking at you. But when we asked what that meant, hescratched his head and couldn't tell us. All that we got out of him washe wouldn't like to have her for a lodger--'she'd frighten his missus. 'Oh, and he did say that she looked dead-tired, and that he advised hernot to walk to Feetham, but to wait for the five o'clock bus that goesfrom the village to the station. But she said she liked walking, andwould find some cool place in the park to sit in--till it was time tocatch the train. "

"She was well-dressed, he said, " added Buntingford, addressing himself toCynthia Welwyn, who sat beside him; "and his description of her hat andveil, etc. , quite agreed with old Stimson's account. "

There was a silence, in which everybody seemed to be trying to piece theevidence together as to the mysterious onlooker of the night, and make acollected whole of it. Buntingford and Geoffrey were especiallythoughtful and preoccupied. At last the former, after smoking a whilewithout speaking, got up with the remark that he must see to some lettersbefore post. 

"Oh, no!"--pleaded Helena, intercepting him, and speaking so that he onlyshould hear. "To-morrow's Whitsunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday. What'sthe use of writing letters? Don't you remember--you promised to show methose drawings before dinner--and may Geoffrey come, too?"

A sudden look of reluctance and impatience crossed Buntingford's face. Helena perceived it at once, and drew back. But Buntingford saidimmediately:

"Oh, certainly. In half an hour, I'll have the portfolios ready. "

He walked away. Helena sat flushed and silent, her eyes on the ground, twisting and untwisting the handkerchief on her lap. And, presently, shetoo disappeared. The rest of the party were left to discuss with GeoffreyFrench the ins and outs of the evidence, and to put up various theoriesas to the motives of the woman of the yew trees; an occupation thatlasted them till dressing-time. 

Cynthia Welwyn took but little share in it. She was sitting rather apartfrom the rest, under a blue parasol which made an attractive combinationwith her semi-transparent black dress and the bright gold of her hair. Inreality, her thoughts were busy with quite other matters than the lady ofthe yews. It did not seem to her of any real importance that a half-crazystranger, attracted by the sounds and sights of the ball, on such abeautiful night, should have tried to watch it from the lake. The wholetale was curious, but--to her--irrelevant. The mystery she burned to findout was nearer home. Was Helena Pitstone falling in love with Philip? Andif so, what was the effect on Philip? Cynthia had not much enjoyed herdance. The dazzling, the unfair ascendency of youth, as embodied inHelena, had been rather more galling than usual; and the "sittings out"she had arranged with Philip during the supper dances had been allcancelled by her sister's tiresome attack. Julian Horne, who generallygot on with her, chivalrously moved his seat near to her, and tried totalk. But he found her in a rather dry and caustic mood. The ball hadseemed to her "badly managed"; and the guests, outside the house-party, "an odd set. "

Meanwhile, exactly at the hour named by Buntingford, he heard a knock atthe library door. Helena appeared. 

She stood just inside the door, looking absurdly young and childish inher white frock. But her face was grave. 

"I thought just now"--she said, almost timidly, --"that you were bored bymy asking you to show us those things. Are you? Please tell me. I didn'tmean to get in the way of anything you were doing. "

"Bored! Not in the least. Here they are, all ready for you. Come in. "

She saw two or three large portfolios distributed on chairs, and one ortwo drawings already on exhibition. Her face cleared. 

"Oh, what a heavenly thing!"

She made straight for a large drawing of the Val d'Arno in spring, andthe gap in the mountains that leads to Lucca, taken from some high pointabove Fiesole. She knelt down before it in an ecstasy of pleasure. 

"Mummy and I were there two years before the war. I do believe you cametoo?" She looked up, smiling, at the face above her. 

It was the first time she had ever appealed to her childish recollectionsof him in any other than a provocative or half-resentful tone. He couldremember a good many tussles with her in her frail mother's interest, when she was a long-legged, insubordinate child of twelve. And whenHelena first arrived at Beechmark, it had hurt him to realize howbitterly she remembered such things, how grossly she had exaggeratedthem. The change indicated in her present manner, soothed his tired, nervous mood. His smile answered her. 

"Yes, I was there with you two or three days. Do you remember the wildtulips we gathered at Settignano?"

"And the wild cherries--and the pear-blossoms! Italy in the spring is_Heaven_!" she said, under her breath, as she dropped to a sittingposture on the floor while he put the drawings before her. 

"Well!--shall we go there next spring?"

"Don't tempt me--and then back out!"

"If I did, " he said, laughing, "you could still go with Mrs. Friend. "

She made no answer. Another knock at the door. 

"There's Geoffrey. Come in, old boy. We've only just begun. "

Half an hour's exhibition followed. Both Helena and French wereintelligent spectators, and their amazement at the quality and variety ofthe work shown them seemed half-welcome, half-embarrassing to their host. 

"Why don't you go on with it? Why don't you exhibit?" cried Helena. 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

"It doesn't interest me now. It's a past phase. "

She longed to ask questions. But his manner didn't encourage it. And whenthe half-hour was done he looked at his watch. 

"Dressing-time, " he said, smiling, holding it out to Helena. She rose atonce. Philip was a delightful artist, but the operations of dressingwere not to be trifled with. Her thanks, however, for "a lovely time!"and her pleading for a second show on the morrow, were so graceful, sosweet, that French, as he silently put the drawings back, felt hisspirits drop to zero. What could have so changed the thorny, insolentgirl of six weeks before--but the one thing? He stole a glance atBuntingford. Surely he must realize what was happening--and his hugeresponsibility--he _must_. 

Helena disappeared. Geoffrey volunteered to tie up a portfolio they hadonly half examined, while Buntingford finished a letter. While he washandling it, the portfolio slipped, and a number of drawings fell outpell-mell upon the floor. 

Geoffrey stooped to pick them up. A vehement exclamation startledBuntingford at his desk. 

"What's the matter, Geoffrey?"

"Philip! _That's_ the woman I saw!--that's her face!--I could swear to itanywhere!"

He pointed with excitement to the drawing of a woman's head andshoulders, which had fallen out from the very back of the portfolio, whereof the rotting straps and fastenings showed that it had not beenopened for many years. 

Buntingford came to his side. He looked at the drawing--then at French. His face seemed suddenly to turn grey and old. 

"My God!" he said under his breath, and again, still lower--"_My God_! Ofcourse. I knew it!"

He dropped into a chair beside Geoffrey, and buried his face inhis hands. 

Geoffrey stared at him in silence, a bewildering tumult of ideas andconjectures rushing through his brain. 

Another knock at the door. Buntingford rose automatically, went to thedoor, spoke to the servant who had knocked, and came back with a note inhis hand, which he took to the window to read. Then with steps whichseemed to French to waver like those of a man half drunk he went to hiswriting-desk, and wrote a reply which he gave to the servant who waswaiting in the passage. He stood a moment thinking, his hand over hiseyes, before he approached his nephew. 

"Geoffrey, will you please take my place at dinner to-night? I am goingout. Make any excuse you like. " He moved away--but turned back again, speaking with much difficulty--"The woman you saw--is at the Rectory. Alcott took her in last night. He writes to me. I am going there. "

CHAPTER XI

Buntingford walked rapidly across the park, astonishing the oldlodge-keeper who happened to see him pass through, and knew that hislordship had a large Whitsuntide party at the house, who must at thatvery moment be sitting down to dinner. 

The Rectory lay at the further extremity of the village, which was longand straggling. The village street, still bathed in sun, was full ofgroups of holiday makers, idling and courting. To avoid them, Buntingfordstepped into one of his own plantations, in which there was a pathleading straight to the back of the Rectory. 

He walked like one half-stunned, with very little conscious thought. Asto the blow which had now fallen, he had lived under the possibility ofit for fourteen years. Only since the end of the war had he begun tofeel some security, and in consequence to realize a new ferment inhimself. Well--now at least he would _know_. And the hunger to knowwinged his feet. 

He found a gate leading into the garden of the Rectory open, and wentthrough it towards the front of the house. A figure in grey flannels, with a round collar, was pacing up and down the little grass-plot there, waiting for him. 

John Alcott came forward at sight of him. He took Buntingford's hand inboth his own, and looked into his face. "Is it true?" he said, gently. 

"Probably, " said Buntingford, after a moment. 

"Will you come into my study? I think you ought to hear our story beforeyou see her. "

He led the way into the tiny house, and into his low-roofed study, packedwith books from floor to ceiling, the books of a lonely man who had foundin them his chief friends. He shut the door with care, suggesting thatthey should speak as quietly as possible, since the house was so small, and sound travelled so easily through it. 

"Where is she?" said Buntingford, abruptly, as he took the chair Alcottpushed towards him. 

"Just overhead. It is our only spare room. "

Buntingford nodded, and the two heads, the black and the grey, benttowards each other, while Alcott gave his murmured report. 

"You know we have no servant. My sister does everything, with my help, and a village woman once or twice a week. Lydia came down this morningabout seven o'clock and opened the front door. To her astonishment shefound a woman leaning against the front pillar of our little porch. Mysister spoke to her, and then saw she must be exhausted or ill. She toldher to come in, and managed to get her into the dining-room where thereis a sofa. She said a few incoherent things after lying down and thenfainted. My sister called me, and I went for our old doctor. He came backwith me, said it was collapse, and heart weakness--perhaps afterinfluenza--and that we must on no account move her except on to a bed inthe dining-room till he had watched her a little. She was quite unable togive any account of herself, and while we were watching her she seemed togo into a heavy sleep. She only recovered consciousness about fiveo'clock this evening. Meanwhile I had been obliged to go to a diocesanmeeting at Dansworth and I left my sister and Dr. Ramsay in charge ofher, suggesting that as there was evidently something unusual in the casenothing should be said to anybody outside the house till I came back andshe was able to talk to us. I hurried back, and found the doctor givinginjections of strychnine and brandy which seemed to be reviving her. While we were all standing round her, she said quite clearly--'I want tosee Philip Buntingford. ' Dr. Ramsay knelt down beside her, and asked herto tell him, if she was strong enough, why she wanted to see you. She didnot open her eyes, but said again distinctly--'Because I am'--or was--Iam not quite sure which--'his wife. ' And after a minute or two she saidtwice over, very faintly--'Send for him--send for him. ' So then I wrotemy note to you and sent it off. Since then the doctor and my sister havesucceeded in carrying her upstairs--and the doctor gives leave for you tosee her. He is coming back again presently. During her sleep, she talkedincoherently once or twice about a lake and a boat--and once shesaid--'Oh, do stop that music!' and moved her head about as though ithurt her. Since then I have heard some gossip from the village about astrange lady who was seen in the park last night. Naturally one puts twoand two together--but we have said nothing yet to anyone. Nobody knowsthat she--if the woman seen in the park, and the woman upstairs are thesame--is here. "

He looked interrogatively at his companion. But Buntingford, who hadrisen, stood dumb. 

"May I go upstairs?" was all he said. 

The rector led the way up a small cottage staircase. His sister, agrey-haired woman of rather more than middle age, spectacled and prim, but with the eyes of the pure in heart, heard them on the stairs and cameout to meet them. 

"She is quite ready, and I am in the next room, if you want me. Pleaseknock on the wall. "

Buntingford entered and shut the door. He stood at the foot of the bed. The woman lying on it opened her eyes, and they looked at each other longand silently. The face on the pillow had still the remains of beauty. Thepowerful mouth and chin, the nose, which was long and delicate, thedeep-set eyes, and broad brow under strong waves of hair, were all fusedin a fine oval; and the modelling of the features was intensely andpassionately expressive. That indeed was at once the distinction and, soto speak, the terror of the face, --its excessive, abnormal individualism, its surplus of expression. A woman to fret herself and others to decay--awoman, to burn up her own life, and that of her lover, her husband, herchild. Only physical weakness had at last set bounds to what had oncebeen a whirlwind force. 

"Anna!" said Buntingford gently. 

She made a feeble gesture which beckoned him to come nearer--to sitdown--and he came. All the time he was sharply, irrelevantly conscious ofthe little room, the bed with its white dimity furniture, the texts onthe distempered walls, the head of the Leonardo Christ over themantelpiece, the white muslin dressing-table, the strips of carpet on thebare boards, the cottage chairs:--the spotless cleanliness and thepoverty of it all. He saw as the artist, who cannot help but see, even atmoments of intense feeling. 

"You thought--I was dead?" The woman in the bed moved her haggard eyestowards him. 

"Yes, lately I thought it. I didn't, for a long time. "

"I put that notice in--so that--you might marry again, " she said, slowly, and with difficulty. 

"I suspected that. "

"But you--didn't marry. "

"How could I?--when I had no real evidence?"

She closed her eyes, as though any attempt to argue, or explain wasbeyond her, and he had to wait while she gathered strength again. Afterwhat seemed a long time, and in a rather stronger voice she said:

"Did you ever find out--what I had done?"

"I discovered that you had gone away with Rocca--into Italy. I followedyou by motor, and got news of you as having gone over the Splugen. My carhad a bad accident on the pass, and I was ten weeks in hospital at Chur. After that I lost all trace. "

"I heard of the accident, " she said, her eyes all the while searching outthe changed details of a face which had once been familiar to her. "ButRocca wasn't with me then. I had only old Zélie--you remember?"

"The old _bonne_--we had at Melun?"

She made a sign of assent. --"I never lived with Rocca--till after thechild was born. "

"The child! What do you mean?"

The words were a cry. He hung over her, shaken and amazed. 

"You never knew!"--There was a faint, ghastly note of triumph in hervoice. "I wouldn't tell you--after that night we quarrelled--I concealedit. But he is your son--sure enough. "

"My son!--and he is alive?" Buntingford bent closer, trying to see herface. 

She turned to look at him, nodding silently. 

"Where is he?"

"In London. It was about him--I came down here. I--I--want to getrid of him. "

A look of horror crossed his face, as though in her faint yetviolent words he caught the echoes of an intolerable past. But hecontrolled himself. 

"Tell me more--I want to help you. "

"You--you won't get any joy of him!" she said, still staring at him. "He's not like other children--he's afflicted. It was a bad doctor--whenI was confined--up in the hills near Lucca. The child was injured. There's nothing wrong with him--but his brain. "

A flickering light in Buntingford's face sank. 

"And you want to get rid of him?"

"He's so much trouble, " she said peevishly. "I did the best I could forhim. Now I can't afford to look after him. I thought of everything Icould do--before--"

"Before you thought of coming to me?"

She assented. A long pause followed, during which Miss Alcott came in, administered stimulant, and whispered to Buntingford to let her rest alittle. He sat there beside her motionless, for half an hour or more, unconscious of the passage of time, his thoughts searching the past, andthen again grappling dully with the extraordinary, the incrediblestatement that he possessed a son--a living but, apparently, an idiotson. The light began to fail, and Miss Alcott slipped in noiselesslyagain to light a small lamp out of sight of the patient. "The doctor willsoon be here, " she whispered to Buntingford. 

The light of the lamp roused the woman. She made a sign to Miss Alcott tolift her a little. 

"Not much, " said the Rector's sister in Buntingford's ear. "It's theheart that's wrong. "

Together they raised her just a little. Miss Alcott put a fan intoBuntingford's hands, and opened the windows wider. 

"I'm all right, " said the stranger irritably. "Let me alone. I've got alot to say. " She turned her eyes on Buntingford. "Do you want toknow--about Rocca?"

"Yes. "

"He died seven years ago. He was always good to me--awfully good to meand to the boy. We lived in a horrible out-of-the-way place--up in themountains near Naples. I didn't want you to know about the boy. I wantedrevenge. Rocca changed his name to Melegrani. I called myself FrancescaMelegrani. I used to exhibit both at Naples and Rome. Nobody ever foundout who we were. "

"What made you put that notice in the _Times_?"

She smiled faintly, and the smile recalled to him an old expression ofhers, half-cynical, half-defiant. 

"I had a pious fit once--when Rocca was very ill. I confessed to an oldpriest--in the Abruzzi. He told me to go back to you--and ask yourforgiveness. I was living in sin, he said--and would go to hell. A dearold fool! But he had some influence with me. He made me feel someremorse--about you--only I wouldn't give up the boy. So when Rocca gotwell and was going to Lyons, I made him post the notice from there--tothe _Times_. I hoped you'd believe it. " Then, unexpectedly, she slightlyraised her head, the better to see the man beside her. 

"Do you mean to marry that girl I saw on the lake?"

"If you mean the girl that I was rowing, she is the daughter of a cousinof mine. I am her guardian. "

"She's handsome. " Her unfriendly eyes showed her incredulity. 

He drew himself stiffly together. 

"Don't please waste your strength on foolish ideas. I am not going tomarry her, nor anybody. "

"You couldn't--till you divorce me--or till I die, " she said feebly, herlids dropping again--"but I'm quite ready to see any lawyers--so that youcan get free. "

"Don't think about that now, but tell me again--what you want me to do. "

"I want--to go to--America. I've got friends there. I want you to pay mypassage--because I'm a pauper--and to take over the boy. "

"I'll do all that. You shall have a nurse--when you are strongenough--who will take you across. Now I must go. Can you just tell mefirst where the boy is?"

Almost inaudibly she gave an address in Kentish Town. He saw that shecould bear no more, and he rose. 

"Try and sleep, " he said in a voice that wavered. "I'll see you againto-morrow. You're all right here. "

She made no reply, and seemed again either asleep or unconscious. 

As he stood by the bed, looking down upon her, scenes and persons he hadforgotten for years rushed back into the inner light of memory:--thatfirst day in Lebas's atelier when he had seen her in her Holland overall, her black hair loose on her neck, the provocative brilliance of her darkeyes; their close comradeship in the contests, the quarrels, theambitions of the atelier; her patronage of him as her junior in art, though her senior in age; her increasing influence over him, and theexcitement of intimacy with a creature so unrestrained, so gifted, soconsumed with jealousies, whether as an artist or a woman; his proposalof marriage to her in one of the straight roads that cut the forest ofCompiegne; the ceremony at the Mairie, with only a few of their fellowstudents for witnesses; the little apartment on the Rive Gauche, with itsbits of old furniture, and unframed sketches pinned up on the walls;Anna's alternations of temper, now fascinating, now sulky, and thatsteady emergence in her of coarse or vulgar traits, like rocks in anebbing sea; their early quarrels, and her old mother who hated him; theirpoverty because of her extravagance; his growing reluctance to take herto England, or to present her to persons of his own class and breeding inParis, and her frantic jealousy and resentment when she discovered it;their scenes of an alternate violence and reconciliation and finally herdisappearance, in the company, as he had always supposed, of SigismondoRocca, an Italian studying in Paris, whose pursuit of her had beennotorious for some time. 

The door opened gently, and Miss Alcott's grey head appeared. 

"The doctor!" she said, just audibly. 

Buntingford followed her downstairs, and found himself presently inAlcott's study, alone with a country doctor well known to him, a man whohad pulled out his own teeth in childhood, had attended his father andgrandfather before him, and carried in his loyal breast the secrets andthe woes of a whole countryside. 

They grasped hands in silence. 

"You know who she is?" said Buntingford quietly. 

"I understand that she tells Mr. Alcott that she was Mrs. Philip Bliss, that she left you fifteen years ago, and that you believed her dead?"

He saw Buntingford shrink. 

"At times I did--yes, at times I did--but we won't go into that. Is sheill--really ill?"

Ramsay spoke deliberately, after a minute's thought:

"Yes, she is probably very ill. The heart is certainly in a dangerousstate. I thought she would have slipped away this morning, when theycalled me in--the collapse was so serious. She is not a strong woman, andshe had a bad attack of influenza last week. Then she was out all lastnight, wandering about, evidently in a state of great excitement. It wasas bad a fainting fit as I have ever seen. "

"It would be impossible to move her?"

"For a day or two certainly. She keeps worrying about a boy--apparentlyher own boy?"

"I will see to that. "

Ramsay hesitated a moment and then said--"What are we to call her? Itwill not be possible, I imagine, to keep her presence here altogether asecret. She called herself, in talking to Miss Alcott, Madame Melegrani. "

"Why not? As to explaining her, I hardly know what to say. "

Buntingford put his hand across his eyes; the look of weariness, ofperplexity, intensified ten-fold. 

"An acquaintance of yours in Italy, come to ask you for help?"suggested Ramsay. 

Buntingford withdrew his hand. 

"No!" he said with decision. "Better tell the truth! She was my wife. Sheleft me, as she has told the Alcotts, and took steps eleven years ago tomake me believe her dead. And up to seven years ago, she passed as thewife of a man whom I knew by the name of Sigismondo Rocca. When theannouncement of her death appeared, I set enquiries on foot at once, withno result. Latterly, I have thought it must be true; but I have neverbeen quite certain. She has reappeared now, it seems, partly because shehas no resources, and partly in order to restore to me my son. "

"Your son!" said Ramsay, startled. 

"She tells me that a boy was born after she left me, and that I am thefather. All that I must verify. No need to say anything whatever aboutthat yet. Her main purpose, no doubt, was to ask for pecuniaryassistance, in order to go to America. In return she will furnish mylawyers with all the evidence necessary for my divorce from her. "

Ramsay slowly shook his head. 

"I doubt whether she will ever get to America. She has worn herself out. "

There was a silence. Then Buntingford added:

"If these kind people would keep her, it would be the best solution. I would make everything easy for them. To-morrow I go up to Town--tothe address she has given me. And--I should be glad if you wouldcome with me?"

The doctor looked surprised. 

"Of course--if you want me--"

"The boy--his mother says--is abnormal--deficient. An injury at birth. Ifyou will accompany me I shall know better what to do. "

A grasp of the hand, a look of sympathy answered; and they parted. Buntingford emerged from the little Rectory to find Alcott again waitingfor him in the garden. The sun had set some time and the moon was peeringover the hills to the east. The mounting silver rim suddenly recalled toBuntingford the fairy-like scene of the night before?--the searchlight onthe lake, the lights, the music, and the exquisite figure of Helenadancing through it all. Into what Vale of the Shadow of Death had hepassed since then?--

Alcott and he turned into the plantation walk together. Various practicalarrangements were discussed between them. Alcott and his sister wouldkeep the sick woman in their house as long as might be necessary, andBuntingford once more expressed his gratitude. 

Then, under the darkness of the trees, and in reaction from theexperience he had just passed through, an unhappy man's hithertoimpenetrable reserve, to some extent, broke down. And the companionwalking beside him showed himself a true minister of Christ---humble, tactful, delicate, yet with the courage of his message. What struck himmost, perhaps, was the revelation of what must have been Buntingford'sutter loneliness through long years; the spiritual isolation in which aman of singularly responsive and confiding temper had passed perhaps aquarter of his life, except for one blameless friendship with a woman nowdead. His utmost efforts had not been able to discover the wife who haddeserted him, or to throw any light upon her subsequent history. The law, therefore, offered him no redress. He could not free himself; and hecould not marry again. Yet marriage and fatherhood were his naturaldestiny, thwarted by the fatal mistake of his early youth. Nothingremained but to draw a steady veil over the past, and to make what hecould of the other elements in life. 

Alcott gathered clearly from the story that there had been no other womanor women in the case, since his rupture with his wife. Was it that hismarriage, with all its repulsive episodes, had disgusted a fastidiousnature with the coarser aspects of the sex relation? The best was deniedhim, and from the worse he himself turned away; though haunted all thetime by the natural hunger of the normal man. 

As they walked on, Alcott gradually shaped some image for himself ofwhat had happened during the years of the marriage, piecing ittogether from Buntingford's agitated talk. But he was not prepared fora sudden statement made just as they were reaching the spot whereAlcott would naturally turn back towards the Rectory. It came with aburst, after a silence. 

"For God's sake, Alcott, don't suppose from what I have been telling youthat all the fault was on my wife's side, that I was a mere injuredinnocent. Very soon after we married, I discovered that I had ceased tolove her, that there was hardly anything in common between us. And therewas a woman in Paris--a married woman, of my own world--cultivated, andgood, and refined--who was sorry for me, who made a kind of spiritualhome for me. We very nearly stepped over the edge--we should havedone--but for her religion. She was an ardent Catholic and her religionsaved her. She left Paris suddenly, begging me as the last thing shewould ever ask me, to be reconciled to Anna, and to forget her. For somedays I intended to shoot myself. But, at last, as the only thing I coulddo for her, I did as she bade me. Anna and I, after a while, cametogether again, and I hoped for a child. Then, by hideous ill luck, Anna, about three months after our reconciliation, discovered a fragment of aletter--believed the very worst--made a horrible scene with me, and wentoff, as she has just told me, --not actually with Rocca as I believed, butto join him in Italy. From that day I lost all trace of her. Herconcealment of the boy's birth was her vengeance upon me. She knew howpassionately I had always wanted a son. But instead she punished him--thepoor, poor babe!"

There was an anguish in the stifled voice which made sympathyimpertinent. Alcott asked some practical questions, and Buntingfordrepeated his wife's report of the boy's condition, and her account of aninjury at birth, caused by the unskilful hands of an ignorant doctor. 

"But I shall see him to-morrow. Ramsay and I go together. Perhaps, afterall, something can be done. I shall also make the first arrangements forthe divorce. "

Alcott was silent a moment--hesitating in the dark. 

"You will make those arrangements immediately?"

"Of course. "

"If she dies? She may die. "

"I would do nothing brutal--but--She came to make a bargain with me. "

"Yes--but if she dies--might you not have been glad to say, 'I forgive'?"

The shy, clumsy man was shaken as he spoke, with the passion of his ownfaith. The darkness concealed it, as it concealed its effect onBuntingford. Buntingford made no direct reply, and presently they parted, Alcott engaging to send a messenger over to Beechmark early, with areport of the patient's condition, before Buntingford and Dr. Ramsaystarted for London. Buntingford walked on. And presently in the dimmoonlight ahead he perceived Geoffrey French. 

The young man approached him timidly, almost expecting to be denounced asan intruder. Instead, Buntingford put an arm through his, and leaned uponhim, at first in a pathetic silence that Geoffrey did not dare to break. Then gradually the story was told again, as much of it as was necessary, as much as Philip could bear. Geoffrey made very little comment, tillthrough the trees they began to see the lights of Beechmark. 

Then Geoffrey said in an unsteady voice:

"Philip!--there is one person you must tell--perhaps first of all. Youmust tell Helena--yourself. "

Buntingford stopped as though under a blow. 

"Of course, I shall tell Helena--but why?--"

His voice spoke bewilderment and pain. 

"Tell her _yourself_--that's all, " said Geoffrey, resolutely--"and, ifyou can, before she hears it from anybody else. "

CHAPTER XII

Buntingford and French reached home between ten and eleven o'clock. Whenthey entered the house, they heard sounds of music from the drawing-room. Peter Dale was playing fragments from the latest musical comedy, with awhistled accompaniment on the drawing-room piano. There seemed to benothing else audible in the house, in spite of the large party itcontained. Amid the general hush, unbroken by a voice or a laugh, the"funny bits" that Peter was defiantly thumping or whistling made a kindof goblin chorus round a crushed and weary man, as he pushed past thedoor of the drawing-room to the library. Geoffrey followed him. 

"No one knows it yet, " said the young man, closing the door behind them. "I had no authority from you to say anything. But of course they allunderstood that something strange had happened. Can I be any help withthe others, while--"

"While I tell Helena?" said Buntingford, heavily. "Yes. Better get itover. Say, please--I should be grateful for no more talk than isinevitable. "

Geoffrey stood by awkwardly, not knowing how to express the painfulsympathy he felt. His very pity made him abrupt. 

"I am to say--that you always believed--she was dead?"

Under what name to speak of the woman lying at the Rectory puzzled him. The mere admission of the thought that however completely in the realm ofmorals she might have forfeited his name, she was still Buntingford'swife in the realm of law, seemed an outrage. 

At the question, Buntingford sprang up suddenly from the seat on which hehad fallen; and Geoffrey, who was standing near him involuntarilyretreated a few steps, in amazement at the passionate animation which forthe moment had transformed the whole aspect of the elder man. 

"Yes, you may say so--you must say so! There is no other account you cangive of it!--no other account I can authorize you to give it. It isfour-fifths true--and no one in this house--not even you--has any rightto press me further. At the same time, I am not going to put even thefraction of a lie between myself and you, Geoffrey, for you have been--adear fellow--to me!" He put his hand a moment on Geoffrey's shoulder, withdrawing it instantly. "The point is--what would have come about--ifthis had not happened? That is the test. And I can't give a perfectlyclear answer. " He began to pace the room--thinking aloud. "I have beenvery anxious--lately--to marry. I have been so many years alone; andI--well, there it is!--I have suffered from it, physically and morally;more perhaps than other men might have suffered. And lately--you must tryand understand me, Geoffrey!--although I had doubts--yes, deep down, Istill had doubts--whether I was really free--I have been much more readyto believe than I used to be, that I might now disregard thedoubts--silence them!--for good and all. It has been my obsession--youmay say now my temptation. Oh! the divorce court would probably havefreed me--have allowed me to presume my wife's death after these fifteenyears. But the difficulty lay in my own conscience. Was I certain? No! Iwas not certain! Anna's ways and standards were well known to me. I couldimagine various motives which might have induced her to deceive me. Atthe same time"--he stopped and pointed to his writing-table--"thesedrawers are stuffed full of reports and correspondence, from agents allover Europe, whom I employed in the years before the war to find outanything they could. I cannot accuse myself of any deliberate or wilfulignorance. I made effort after effort--in vain. I was entitled--atlast--it often seemed to me to give up the effort, to take my freedom. But then"--his voice dropped--"I thought of the woman I might love--andwish to marry. I should indeed have told her everything, and the lawmight have been ready to protect us. But if Anna still lived, and weresuddenly to reappear in my life--what a situation!--for a sensitive, scrupulous woman!"

"It would have broken--spoiled--everything!" said Geoffrey, under hisbreath, but with emphasis. He was leaning against the mantelpiece, andhis face was hidden from his companion. Buntingford threw him a strange, deprecating look. 

"You are right--you are quite right. Yet I believe, Geoffrey, I mighthave committed that wrong--but for this--what shall I call it?--this 'actof God' that has happened to me. Don't misunderstand me!" He came tostand beside his nephew, and spoke with intensity. "It was _only_ apossibility--and there is no guilt on my conscience. I have no realperson in my mind. But any day I might have failed my own sense ofjustice--my own sense of honour--sufficiently--to let a woman risk it!"

Geoffrey thought of one woman--if not two women--who would have riskedit. His heart was full of Helena. It was as though he could onlyappreciate the situation as it affected her. How deep would the blowstrike, when she knew? He turned to look at Buntingford, who had resumedhis restless walk up and down the room, realizing with mingled affectionand reluctance the charm of his physical presence, the dark head, thekind deep eyes, the melancholy selfishness that seemed to enwrap him. Yet all the time he had not been selfless! There had been no individualwoman in the case. But none the less, he had been consumed with the samepersonal longing--the same love of loving; the _amor amandi_--as othermen. That was a discovery. It brought him nearer to the young man'stenderness; but it made the chance of a misunderstanding on Helena'spart greater. 

"Shall I tell Helena you would like to speak to her?" he said, breakingthe silence. 

Buntingford assented. 

Philip, left alone, tried to collect his thoughts. He did not concealfrom himself what had been implied rather than said by Geoffrey. The hinthad startled and disquieted him. But he could not believe it had any realsubstance; and certainly he felt himself blameless. A creature soradiant, with the world at her feet!--and he, prematurely aged, who hadseemed to her, only a few weeks ago, a mere old fogy in her path! Thatshe should have reconsidered her attitude towards him, was surelynatural, considering all the pains he had taken to please her. But as toanything else--absurd!

Latterly, indeed, since she had come to that tacit truce with Jim, he waswell aware how much her presence in his house had added to the pleasantmoments of daily life. In winning her good will, in thinking for her, intrying to teach her, in watching the movements of her quick untrainedintelligence and the various phases of her enchanting beauty, he hadfound not only a new occupation, but a new joy. Rachel's prophecy for himhad begun to realize itself. And, all the time, his hopes as toGeoffrey's success with her had been steadily rising. He and Geoffrey hadindeed been at cross-purposes, if Geoffrey really believed what he seemedto believe! But it was nothing--it could be nothing--but the fantasy of alover, starting at a shadow. 

And suddenly his mind, as he stood waiting, plunged into matters whichwere not shadows--but palpitating realities. _His son_!--whom he was tosee on the morrow. He believed the word of the woman who had been hiswife. Looking back on her character with all its faults, he did not thinkshe would have been capable of a malicious lie, at such a moment. Fortymiles away then, there was a human being waiting and suffering, to whomhis life had given life. Excitement--yearning--beat through his pulses. He already felt the boy in his arms; was already conscious of the ardourwith which every device of science should be called in, to help restoreto him, not only his son's body, but his mind. 

There was a low tap at the door. He recalled his thoughts and wentto open it. 

"Helena!--my dear!"

He took her hand and led her in. She had changed her white dress of theafternoon for a little black frock, one of her mourning dresses for hermother, with a bunch of flame-coloured roses at her waist. Thesemi-transparent folds of the black brought out the brilliance of thewhite neck and shoulders, the pale carnations of the face, the beautifulhair, following closely the contours of the white brow. Even through allhis pain and preoccupation, Buntingford admired; was instantly consciousof the sheer pleasure of her beauty. But it was the pleasure of anartist, an elder brother--a father even. Her mother was in his mind, andthe strong affection he had begun to feel for his ward was shot throughand through by the older tenderness. 

"Sit there, dear, " he said, pushing forward a chair. "Has Geoffrey toldyou anything?"

"No. He said you wanted to tell me something yourself, and he would speakto the others. "

She was very pale, and the hand he touched was cold. But she wasperfectly self-possessed. 

He sat down in front of her collecting his thoughts. 

"Something has happened, Helena, to-day--this very evening--which must--Ifear--alter all your plans and mine. The poor woman whom Geoffrey saw inthe wood, whose bag you found, was just able to make her escape, when youand Geoffrey landed. She wandered about the rest of the night, and in theearly morning she asked for shelter--being evidently ill--at the Rectory, but it was not till this evening that she made a statement which inducedthem to send for me. Helena!--what did your mother ever tell you about mymarriage?"

"She told me very little--only that you had married someone abroad--whenyou were studying in Paris--and that she was dead. "

Buntingford covered his eyes with his hand. 

"I told your mother, Helena, all I knew. I concealed nothing fromher--both what I knew--and what I didn't know. "

He paused, to take from his pocket a small leather case and to extractfrom it a newspaper cutting. He handed it to her. It was from the firstcolumn of the _Times_, was dated 1907, and contained the words:--"On July19th at Lyons, France, Anna, wife of Philip Bliss, aged 28. "

Helena read it, and looked up. Buntingford anticipated the words thatwere on her lips. 

"Wait a moment!--let me go on. I read that announcement in the _Times_, Helena, three years after my wife had deserted me. I had spent thosethree years, first in recovering from a bad accident, and then inwandering about trying to trace her. Naturally, I went off to Lyons atonce, and could discover--nothing! The police there did all they could tohelp me--our own Embassy in Paris got at the Ministry of theInterior--useless! I recovered the original notice and envelope from the_Times_. Both were typewritten, and the Lyons postmark told us no morethan the notice had already told. I could only carry on my search, andfor some years afterwards, even after I had returned to London, I spentthe greater part of all I earned and possessed upon it. About that timemy friendship with your mother began. She was already ill, and spent mostof her life--as you remember--except for those two or three invalidwinters in Italy--in that little drawing-room, I knew so well. I couldalways be sure of finding her at home; and gradually--as yourecollect--she became my best friend. She was the only person in Englandwho knew the true story of my marriage. She always suspected, from thetime she first heard of it, that the notice in the _Times_--"

Helena made a quick movement forward. Her lips parted. 

"--was not true?"

Buntingford took her hand again, and they looked at each other, shetrembling involuntarily. 

"And the woman last night?" she said, breathlessly--"was she someone whoknew--who could tell you the truth?"

"She was my wife--herself!"

Helena withdrew her hand. 

"How strange!--how strange!" She covered her eyes. There was a silence. After it, Buntingford resumed:

"Has Geoffrey told you the first warning of it--you left this room?"

"No. "

He described the incident of the sketch. 

"It was a drawing I had made of her only a few weeks before she left me. I had no idea it was in that portfolio. We had scarcely time to put itaway before Mr. Alcott's note arrived--sending for me at once. "

Helena's hands had dropped, while she hung upon his story. And awonderful unconscious sweetness had stolen into her expression. Her youngheart was in her eyes. 

"Oh, I am so glad--so glad--you had that warning!"

Buntingford was deeply touched. 

"You dear child!" he said in a rather choked voice, and, rising, hewalked away from her to the further end of the room. When he returned, hefound a pale and thoughtful Helena. 

"Of course, Cousin Philip, this will make a great change--in yourlife--and in mine. "

He stood silently before her--preferring that she should make her ownsuggestions. 

"I think--I ought to go away at once. Thanks to you--I have Mrs. Friend--who is such a dear. "

"There is the London house, Helena. You can make any use of it you like. "

"No, I think not, " she said resolutely. Then with an odd laugh whichrecalled an earlier Helena--"I don't expect Lucy Friend would want tohave the charge of me in town; and you too--perhaps--would still beresponsible--and bothered about me--if I were in your house. "

Buntingford could not help a smile. 

"My responsibility scarcely depends--does it--upon where you are?" Thenhis voice deepened. "I desire, wherever you are, to cherish and care foryou--in your mother's place. I can't say what a joy it has been to me tohave you here. "

"No!--that's nonsense!--ridiculous!--" she said, suddenly breaking down, and dashing the tears from her eyes. 

"It's very true, " he said gently. "You've been the dearest pupil, andforgiven me all my pedantic ways. But if not London--I will arrangeanything you wish. "

She turned away, evidently making a great effort not to weep. He too wasmuch agitated, and for a little while he busied himself with some letterson his table. 

When, at her call, he returned to her, she said, quite in herusual voice:

"I should like to go somewhere--to some beautiful place--and draw. Thatwould take a month--perhaps. Then we can settle. " After a pause, sheadded without hesitation--"And you?--what is going to happen?"

"It depends--upon whether it's life at the Rectory--or death. "

She was evidently startled, but said nothing, only gave him her beautifuleyes again, and her unspoken sympathy. 

Then an impulse which seemed invincible came upon him to be really frankwith her--to tell her more. 

"It depends, also, --upon something else. But this I asked Geoffrey notto tell the others in the drawing-room--just yet--and I ask you thesame. Of course you may tell Mrs. Friend. " She saw his face work withemotion. "Helena, this woman that was my wife declares to me--that Ihave a son living. "

He saw the light of amazement that rushed into her face, and hurriedon:--"But in the same breath that she tells me that, she tells me thetragedy that goes with it. " And hardly able to command his voice, herepeated what had been told him. 

"Of course everything must be enquired into--verified. I go to townto-morrow--with Ramsay. Possibly I shall bring him back--perhaps toRamsay's care, for the moment. Possibly, I shall leave him withsomeone in town. "

"Couldn't I help, " she said, after a moment, "if I stayed?"

"No, no!" he said with repugnance, which was almost passion. "I couldn'tlay such a burden upon you, or any young creature. You must go and behappy, dear Helena--it is your duty to be happy! And this home for a timewill be a tragic one. Well, but now, where would you like to go? Will youand Geoffrey and Mrs. Friend consult? I will leave any money you want inGeoffrey's hands. "

"You mean"--she said abruptly--"that I really ought to go atonce--to-morrow. "

"Wouldn't it be best? It troubles me to think of you here--under theshadow--of this thing. "

"I see!--I see! All right. You are going to London to-morrow morning?"She had risen, and was moving towards the door. 

"Yes, I shall go to the Rectory first for news. And then on to thestation. "

She paused a moment. 

"And if--if she--I don't know what to call her--if she lives?"

"Well, then--I must be free, " he said, gravely; adding immediately--"Shepassed for fifteen years after she left me as the wife of an Italian Iused to know. It would be very quickly arranged. I should provide forher--and keep my boy. But all that is uncertain. "

"Yes, I understand. " She held out her hand. "Cousin Philip--I am awfullysorry for you. I--I realized--somehow--only after I'd come downhere--that you must have had--things in your life--to make you unhappy. And you've been so nice--so awfully nice to me! I just want to thankyou--with all my heart. "

And before he could prevent her, she had seized his hands and kissedthem. Then she rushed to the door, turning to show him a face betweentears and laughter. 

"There!--I've paid you back!"

And with that she vanished. 

Helena was going blindly through the hall, towards her own room, whenPeter Dale emerged from the shadows. He caught her as she passed. 

"Let me have just a word, Helena! You know, everything will be broken uphere. I only want to say my mother would just adore to have you for theseason. We'd all make it nice for you--we'd be your slaves--just let mewire to Mater to-morrow morning. "

"No, thank you, Peter. Please--please! don't stop me! I want to seeMrs. Friend. "

"Helena, do think of it!" he implored. 

"No, I can't. It's impossible!" she said, almost fiercely. "Let me go, Peter! Good-night!"

He stood, a picture of misery, at the foot of the stairs watching her runup. Then at the top she turned, ran down a few steps again, kissed herhand to him, and vanished, the bright buckles on her shoes flashing alongthe gallery overhead. 

But in the further corner of the gallery she nearly ran into the arms ofGeoffrey French, who was waiting for her outside her room. 

"Is it too late, Helena--for me to have just a few words in yoursitting-room?"

He caught hold of her. The light just behind him showed him a tense andfrowning Helena. 

"Yes--it is much too late! I can't talk now. "

"Only a few words?"

"No"--she panted--"no!--Geoffrey, I shall _hate_ you if you don'tlet me go!"

It seemed to her that everybody was in league to stand between her andthe one thing she craved for--to be alone and in the dark. 

She snatched her dress out of his grasp, and he fell back. 

She slipped into her own room, and locked the door. He shook his head, and went slowly downstairs. He found Peter pacing the hall, and they wentout into the June dark together, a discomfited pair. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Friend waited for Helena. She heard voices in the passageand the locking of Helena's door. She was still weak from her illness, soit seemed wisest to get into bed. But she had no hope or intention ofsleep. She sat up in bed, with a shawl round her, certain that Helenawould come. She was in a ferment of pity and fear, --she scarcely knewwhy--fear for the young creature she had come to love with all her heart;and she strained her ears to catch the sound of an opening door. 

But Helena did not come. Through her open window Lucy could hear stepsalong the terrace coming and going--to and fro. Then they ceased; allsounds in the house ceased. The church clock in the distance struckmidnight, and a little owl close to the house shrieked and wailed like ahuman thing, to the torment of Lucy's nerves. A little later she wasaware of Buntingford coming upstairs, and going to his room on thefurther side of the gallery. 

Then, nothing. Deep silence--that seemed to flow through the house andall its rooms and passages like a submerging flood. 

Except!--What was that sound, in the room next to hers--in Helena's room?

Lucy Friend got up trembling, put on a dressing-gown, and laid an earto the wall between her and Helena. It was a thin wall, mostly indeed apanelled partition, belonging to an old bit of the house, in which thebuilding was curiously uneven in quality--sometimes inexplicablystrong, and sometimes mere lath and plaster, as though the persons, building or re-building, had come to an end of their money and werescamping their work. 

Lucy, from the other side of the panels, had often heard Helena singingwhile she dressed, or chattering to the housemaid. She listened now in ananguish, her mind haunted alternately by the recollection of the scene inthe drawing-room, and the story told by Geoffrey French, and by herrising dread and misgiving as to Helena's personal stake in it. She hadobserved much during the preceding weeks. But her natural timidity andhesitancy had forbidden her so far to draw hasty deductions. Andnow--perforce!--she drew them. 

The sounds in the next room seemed to communicate their rhythm of pain toLucy's own heart. She could not bear it after a while. She noiselesslyopened her own door, and went to Helena's. To her scarcely audible knockthere was no answer. After an interval she knocked again--a pause. Thenthere were movements inside, and Helena's muffled voice through the door. 

"Please, Lucy, go to sleep! I am all right. "

"I can't sleep. Won't you let me in?"

Helena seemed to consider. But after an interval which seemedinterminable to Lucy Friend, the key was slowly turned and thedoor yielded. 

Helena was standing inside, but there was so little light in the roomthat Lucy could only see her dimly. The moon was full outside, but thecurtains had been drawn across the open window, and only a few faint rayscame through. As Mrs. Friend entered Helena turned from her, and gropingher way back to the bed, threw herself upon it, face downwards. It wasevidently the attitude from which she had risen. 

Lucy Friend followed her, trembling, and sat down beside her. Helena wasstill fully dressed, except for her hair, which had escaped from combsand hairpins. As her eyes grew used to the darkness, Lucy could see itlying, a dim mass on the white pillow, also a limp hand upturned. Sheseized the hand and cherished it in hers. 

"You are so cold, dear! Mayn't I cover you up and help you into bed?"

No answer. She found a light eiderdown that had been thrown aside, andcovered the prone figure, gently chafing the cold hands and feet. Afterwhat seemed a long time, Helena, who had been quite still, said in avoice she had to stoop to hear:

"I suppose you heard me crying. Please, Lucy, go back to bed. I won't cryany more. "

"Dear--mayn't I stay?"

"Well, then--you must come and lie beside me. I am a brute to keepyou awake. "

"Won't you undress?"

"Please let me be! I'll try and go to sleep. "

Lucy slipped her own slight form under the wide eiderdown. There was along silence, at the end of which Helena said:

"I'm only--sorry--it's all come to an end--here. "

But with the words the girl's self-control again failed her. A deep sobshook her from head to foot. Lucy with the tears on her own cheeks, hungover her, soothing and murmuring to her as a mother might have done. Butthe sob had no successor, and presently Helena said faintly--"Good-night, Lucy. I'm warm now. I'm going to sleep. "

Lucy listened for the first long breaths of sleep, and seemed to hearthem, just as the dawn was showing itself, and the dawn-wind was pushingat the curtains. But she herself did not sleep. This young creature lyingbeside her, with her full passionate life, seemed to have absolutelyabsorbed her own. She felt and saw with Helena. Through the night, visions came and went--of "Cousin Philip, "--the handsome, melancholy, courteous man, and of all his winning ways with the girl under his care, when once she had dropped her first foolish quarrel with him, and made itpossible for him to show without reserve the natural sweetness andchivalry of his character. Buntingford and Helena riding, theirwell-matched figures disappearing under the trees, the sun glancing fromthe glossy coats of their horses; Helena, drawing in some nook of thepark, her face flushed with the effort to satisfy her teacher, andBuntingford bending over her; or again, Helena dancing, in pale green andapple-blossom, while Buntingford leaned against the wall, watching herwith folded arms, and eyes that smiled over her conquests. 

It all grew clear to Lucy--Helena's gradual capture, and the innocence, the unconsciousness, of her captor. Her own shrewdness, nevertheless, putthe same question as Buntingford's conscience. Could he ever have beenquite sure of his freedom? Yet he had taken the risks of a free man. Butshe could not, she did not blame him. She could only ask herself thebreathless question that French had already asked:

"How far has it gone with her? How deep is the wound?"

CHAPTER XIII

Cynthia and Georgina Welwyn were dining at Beechmark on the eventfulevening. They took their departure immediately after the scene in thedrawing-room when Geoffrey French, at his cousin's wish, gatheredBuntingford's guests together, and revealed the identity of the woman inthe wood. In the hurried conversation that followed, Cynthia scarcelyjoined, and she was more than ready when Georgina proposed to go. JulianHorne found them their wraps, and saw them off. It was a beautiful night, and they were to walk home through the park. 

"Shall I bring you any news there is to-morrow?" said Horne from thedoorstep--"Geoffrey has asked me to stay till the evening. Everybody elseof course is going early. It will be some time, won't it, "--he loweredhis voice--"before we shall see the bearing of all this?"

Cynthia assented, rather coldly; and when she and her sister were walkingthrough the moonlit path leading to the cottage, her silence was stillmarked, whereas Georgina in her grim way was excited and eager to talk. 

The truth was that Cynthia was not only agitated by the news of theevening. She was hurt--bitterly hurt. Could not Buntingford have sparedher a word in private? She was his kinswoman, his old and particularfriend, neglectful as he had shown himself during the war. Had he notonly a few weeks before come to ask her help with the trouble-some girlwhose charge he had assumed? She had been no good, she knew. Helena hadnot been ready to make friends; and Cynthia's correctness had always beenrepelled by the reckless note in Helena. Yet she had done her best onthat and other occasions and she had been rewarded by being treated inthis most critical, most agitated moment like any other of Buntingford'sweek-end guests. Not a special message even--just the news that everybodymight now know, and--Julian Horne to see them off! Yet Helena had beensent for at once. Helena had been closeted with Philip for half an hour. No doubt he had a special responsibility towards her. But what use couldshe possibly be? Whereas Cynthia felt herself the practical, experiencedwoman, able to give an old friend any help he might want in a graveemergency. 

"Of course we must all hope she will die--and die quickly!" said LadyGeorgina, with energy, after some remarks to which Cynthia paid smallattention. "It would be the only sensible course for Providence--aftermaking such a terrible mistake. "

"Is there any idea of her dying?" Cynthia looked down upon her sisterwith astonishment. "Geoffrey didn't say so. "

"He said she was 'very ill, ' and from her conduct she must be crazy. Sothere's hope. "

"You mean, for Philip?"

"For the world in general, " said Georgina, cautiously, with an unnoticedglance at her companion. "But of course Philip has only himself to blame. Why did he marry such a woman?"

"She may have been very beautiful--or charming--you don't know. "

Lady Georgina shrugged her shoulders. 

"Well, of course there must have been something to bait the hook! Butwhen a man marries out of his own class, unless the woman dies, the mangoes to pieces. "

"Philip has not gone to pieces!" cried Cynthia indignantly. 

"Because she removed herself. For practical purposes that was as good asdying. He has much to be grateful for. Suppose she had come home withhim! She would have ruined him socially and morally. "

"And if she doesn't die, " said Cynthia slowly, "what will Philip dothen?"

"Ship her off to America, as she asks him, and prove a few little factsin the divorce court--simple enough! It oughtn't to take him much morethan six months to get free--which he never has been yet!" addedGeorgina, with particular emphasis. 

"It's a mercy, my dear, that you didn't just happen to be LadyBuntingford!"

"As if I had ever expected to be!" said Cynthia, much nettled. 

"Well, you would, and you wouldn't have been!" said Georginaobstinately. "It's very complicated. You would have had to be marriedagain--after the divorce. "

"I don't know why you are so unkind, Georgie!" There was a littlequaver in Cynthia's voice. "Philip's a very old friend of mine, and I'mvery sorry and troubled about him. Why do you smirch it all with thesehorrid remarks?"

"I won't make any more, if you don't like them, " said Georgina, unabashed--"except just to say this, Cynthia--for the first time Ibegin to believe in your chance. There was always something not clearedup about Philip, and it might have turned out to be something pastmending. Now it is cleared up; and it's bad--but it might have beenworse. However--we'll change the subject. What about that handsomeyoung woman, Helena?"

"Now, if you'd chanced to say it was a mercy _she_ didn't happen to beLady Buntingford, there'd have been some sense in it!" Cynthia's tonebetrayed the soreness within. 

Lady Georgina laughed, or rather chuckled. 

"I know Philip a great deal better than you do, my dear, though he isyour friend. He has made himself, I suspect, as usual, much too nice tothat child; and he may think himself lucky if he hasn't broken herheart. He isn't a flirt--I agree. But he produces the sameeffect--without meaning it. Without meaning anything indeed--except tobe good and kind to a young thing. The men with Philip's manners andPhilip's charm--thank goodness, there aren't many of them!--have anabominable responsibility. The poor moth flops into the candle beforeshe knows where she is. But as to marrying her--it has never entered hishead for a moment, and never would. "

"And why shouldn't it, please?"

"Because she is much too young for him--and Philip is a tired man. Haven't you seen that, Cynthy? Before you knew him, Philip hadexhausted his emotions--that's my reading of him. I don't for a momentbelieve his wife was the only one, if what Geoffrey said of her, andwhat one guesses, is true. She would never have contented him. And nowit's done. If he ever marries now, it will be for peace--not passion. As I said before, Cynthy--and I mean no offence--your chances arebetter than they were. "

Cynthia winced and protested again, but all the same she was secretlysoothed by her odd sister's point of view. They began to discuss thesituation at the Rectory, --how Alice Alcott, their old friend, with hersmall domestic resources, could possibly cope with it, if a long illnessdeveloped. 

"Either the woman will die, or she will be divorced, " said Georginatrenchantly. "And as soon as they know she isn't going to die, what onearth will they do with her?"

As she spoke they were passing along the foot of the Rectory garden. TheRectory stood really on the edge of the park, where it bordered on thehighroad; and their own cottage was only a hundred yards beyond. Therewere two figures walking up and down in the garden. The Welwynsidentified them at once as the Rector and his sister. 

Cynthia stopped. 

"I shall go and ask Alice if we can do anything for her. "

She made for the garden gate that opened on the park and called softly. The two dim figures turned and came towards her. It was soon conveyed tothe Alcotts that the Welwyns shared their knowledge, and a conversationfollowed, almost in whispers under a group of lilacs that flung roundthem the scents of the unspoilt summer. Alice Alcott, to get a breath ofair, had left her patient in the charge of their old housemaid, for aquarter of an hour, but must go back at once and would sit up all night. A nurse was coming on the morrow. 

Then, while Georgina employed her rasping tongue on Mr. Alcott, Cynthiaand the Rector's sister conferred in low tones about various urgentmatters--furniture for the nurse's room, sheets, pillows, and the rest. The Alcotts were very poor, and the Rectory had no reserves. 

"Of course, we could send for everything to Beechmark, " murmuredMiss Alcott. 

"Why should you? It is so much further. We will send in everything youwant. What are we to call this--this person?" said Cynthia. 

"Madame Melegrani. It is the name she has passed by for years. "

"You say she is holding her own?"

"Just--with strychnine and brandy. But the heart is very weak. She toldDr. Ramsay she had an attack of flu last week--temperature up to 104. Butshe wouldn't give in to it--never even went to bed. Then came theexcitement of travelling down here and the night in the park. This is theresult. It makes me nervous to think that we shan't have Dr. Ramsayto-morrow. His partner is not quite the same thing. But he is going toLondon with Lord Buntingford. "

"Buntingford--going to London?" said Cynthia in amazement. 

Miss Alcott started. She remembered suddenly that her brother had toldher that no mention was to be made, for the present, of the visit toLondon. In her fatigue and suppressed excitement she had forgotten. Shecould only retrieve her indiscretion--since white lies were not practisedat the Rectory--by a hurried change of subject and by reminding herbrother it was time for them to go back to the house. They accordinglydisappeared. 

"What is Buntingford going to London for?" said Georgina as they nearedtheir own door. 

Cynthia could not imagine--especially when the state of the Rectorypatient was considered. "If she is as bad as the Alcotts say, they willprobably want to-morrow to get a deposition from her of some kind, "remarked Georgina, facing the facts as usual. Cynthia acquiesced. But shewas not thinking of the unhappy stranger who lay, probably dying, underthe Alcotts' roof. She was suffering from a fresh personal stab. For, clearly, Geoffrey French had not told all there was to be known; therewas some further mystery. And even the Alcotts knew more than she. Affection and pride were both wounded anew. 

But with the morning came consolation. Her maid, when she called her, brought in the letters as usual. Among them, one in a large familiarhand. She opened it eagerly, and it ran:--

"Saturday night, 11 p. M. 

"MY DEAR CYNTHIA:--I was so sorry to find when I went to the drawing-roomjust now that you had gone home. I wanted if possible to walk part of theway with you, and to tell you a few things myself. For you are one of myoldest friends, and I greatly value your sympathy and counsel. But theconfusion and bewilderment of the last few hours have been such--you willunderstand!

"To-morrow we shall hardly meet--for I am going to London on a strangeerrand! Anna--the woman that was my wife--tells me that six months aftershe left me, a son was born to me, whose existence she has till nowconcealed from me. I have no reason to doubt her word, but of course foreverybody's sake I must verify her statement as far as I can. My son--alad of fifteen--is now in London, and so is the French _bonne_--ZélieRonchicourt--who originally lived with us in Paris, and was with Anna atthe time of her confinement. You will feel for me when you know that heis apparently deaf and dumb. At any rate he has never spoken, and thebrain makes no response. Anna speaks of an injury at birth. There mightpossibly be an operation. But of all this I shall know more presently. The boy, of course, is mine henceforth--whatever happens. 

"With what mingled feelings I set out to-morrow, you can imagine. I feelno bitterness towards the unhappy soul who has come back so suddenly intomy life. Except so far as the boy is concerned--(_that_ I feelcruelly!)--I have not much right--For I was not blameless towards her inthe old days. She had reasons--though not of the ordinary kind--for thefrantic jealousy which carried her away from me. I shall do all I can forher; but if she gets through this illness, there will be a divorce inproper form. 

"For me, in any case, it is the end of years of miserableuncertainty--of a semi-deception I could not escape--and of a moralloneliness I cannot describe. I must have often puzzled you and manyothers of my friends. Well, you have the key now. I can and will speakfreely when we meet again. 

"According to present plans, I bring the boy back to-morrow. Ramsay is tofind me a specially trained nurse and will keep him under his ownobservation for a time. We may also have a specialist down at once. 

"I shall of course hurry back as soon as I can--Anna's state iscritical--

"Yours ever effectionately, "BUNTINGFORD. "

"P. S. --I don't know much about the domestic conditions in the Ramsays'house. Ramsay I have every confidence in. He has always seemed to me avery clever and a very nice fellow. And I imagine Mrs. Ramsay is acompetent woman. "

"She isn't!" said Cynthia, suddenly springing up in bed. "She is anincompetent goose! As for looking after that poor child and hisnurse--properly--she couldn't!"

Quite another plan shaped itself in her mind. But she did not as yetcommunicate it to Georgina. 

After breakfast she loaded her little pony carriage with all the invalidnecessaries she had promised Miss Alcott, and drove them over to theRectory. Alcott saw her arrival from his study, and came out, his fingeron his lip, to meet her. 

"Many, many thanks, " he said, looking at what she had brought. "It isawfully good of you. I will take them in--but I ask myself--will she everlive through the day? Lord Buntingford and Ramsay hurried off by thefirst train this morning. She has enquired for the boy, and they willbring him back as soon as they can. She gives herself no chance! She isso weak--but her will is terribly strong! We can't get her to obey thedoctor's orders. Of course, it is partly the restlessness of thecondition. "

Cynthia's eyes travelled to the upper window above the study. Buntingford's wife lay there! It seemed to her that the little room heldall the secrets of Buntingford's past. The dying woman knew them, and shealone. A new jealousy entered into Cynthia--a despairing sense of theirrevocable. Helena was forgotten. 

At noon Julian Horne arrived, bringing a book that Cynthia had lent him. He stayed to gossip about the break-up of the party. 

"Everybody has cleared out except myself and Geoffrey. Miss Helena andher chaperon went this morning before lunch. Buntingford of course hadgone before they came down. French tells me they have gone to a littleinn in Wales he recommended. Miss Helena said she wanted something todraw, and a quiet place. I must say she looked pretty knocked up!--Isuppose by the dance?"

His sharp greenish eyes perused Cynthia's countenance. She made no reply. His remark did not interest a preoccupied woman. Yet she did not fail toremember, with a curious pleasure, that there was no mention of Helena inBuntingford's letter. 

Between five and six that afternoon a party of four descended at astation some fifteen miles from Beechmark, where Buntingford was not verylikely to be recognized. It consisted of Buntingford, the doctor, awrinkled French _bonne_, in a black stuff dress, and black bonnet, and afrail little boy whom a spectator would have guessed to be eleven ortwelve years old. Buntingford carried him, and the whole party passedrapidly to a motor standing outside. Then through a rainy evening theysped on at a great pace towards the Beechmark park and village. The boysat next to Buntingford who had his arm round him. But he was neverstill. He had a perpetual restless motion of the head and the emaciatedright hand, as though something oppressed the head, and he were trying tobrush it away. His eyes wandered round the faces in the car, --from hisfather to the doctor, from the doctor to the Frenchwoman. But there wasno comprehension in them. He saw and did not see. Buntingford hung overhim, alive to his every movement, absorbed indeed in his son. The boy'spaternity was stamped upon him. He had Buntingford's hair and brow; everyline and trait in those noticeable eyes of his father seemed to bereproduced in him; and there were small characteristics in the handswhich made them a copy in miniature of his father's. No one seeing himcould have doubted his mother's story; and Buntingford had been able toverify it in all essential particulars by the evidence of the old_bonne_, who had lived with Anna in Paris before her flight, and had beenpresent at the child's birth. The old woman was very taciturn, andapparently hostile to Buntingford, whom she perfectly remembered; but shehad told enough. 

The June evening was in full beauty when the car drew up at theRectory. Alcott and Dr. Ramsay's partner received them. The patientthey reported had insisted on being lifted to a chair, and wasfeverishly expecting them. 

Buntingford carried the boy upstairs, the _bonne_ following. The doctorsremained on the landing, within call. At sight of her mistress, Zélie'srugged face expressed her dismay. She hurried up to her, dropped on herknees beside her, and spoke to her in agitated French. Anna Melegraniturned her white face and clouded eyes upon her for a moment; but made noresponse. She looked past her indeed to where Buntingford stood with theboy, and made a faint gesture that seemed to summon him. 

He put him down on his feet beside her. The pathetic little creature waswearing a shabby velveteen suit, with knickerbockers, which bagged abouthis thin frame. The legs like white sticks appearing below theknickerbockers, the blue-veined hollows of the temples, and the tinyhands--together with the quiet wandering look--made so pitiable animpression that Miss Alcott standing behind the sick woman could not keepback the tears. The boy himself was a centre of calm in the agitatedroom, except for the constant movement of the head. He seemed to perceivesomething familiar in his mother's face, but when she put out a feeblehand to him, and tried to kiss him, he began to whimper. Her expressionchanged at once; with what strength she had she pushed him away. "_Il estafreux_!" she said sombrely, closing her eyes. 

Buntingford lifted him up, and carried him to Zélie, who was in aneighbouring room. She had brought with her some of the coloured bricks, and "nests" of Japanese boxes which generally amused him. He was soonsitting on the floor, aimlessly shuffling the bricks, and apparentlyhappy. As his father was returning to the sickroom a note was put intohis hand by the Rector. It contained these few words--"Don't make finalarrangements with the Ramsays till you have seen me. Think I couldpropose something you would like better. Shall be here all the evening. Yours affectionately--Cynthia. "

He had just thrust it into his pocket, when the Rector drew him aside atthe head of the stairs, while the two doctors were with the patient. 

"I don't want to interfere with any of your arrangements, " whispered theRector, "but I think perhaps I ought to tell you that Mrs. Ramsay is nogreat housewife. She is a queer little flighty thing. She spends her timein trying to write plays and bothering managers. There's no harm in her, and he's very fond of her. But it is an untidy, dirty little house! Andnothing ever happens at the right time. My sister said I must warn you. She's had it on her mind--as she's had a good deal of experience of Mrs. Ramsay. And I believe Lady Cynthia has another plan. "

Buntingford thanked him, remembering opportunely that when he hadproposed to Ramsay to take the boy into his house, the doctor hadaccepted with a certain hesitation, which had puzzled him. "I will goover and see my cousin when I can be spared. "

But a sudden call from the sickroom startled them both. Buntingfordhurried forward. 

When Buntingford entered he found the patient lying in a deepold-fashioned chair propped up by pillows. She had been supplied with thesimplest of night-gear by Miss Alcott, and was wearing besides a bluecotton overall or wrapper in which the Rector's sister was oftenaccustomed to do her morning's work. There was a marked incongruitybetween the commonness of the dress, and a certain cosmopolitan stamp, atouch of the grand air, which was evident in its wearer. The face, evenin its mortal pallor and distress, was remarkable both for its intellectand its force. Buntingford stood a few paces from her, his sad eyesmeeting hers. She motioned to him. 

"Send them all away. "

The doctors went, with certain instructions to Buntingford, one of themremaining in the room below. Buntingford came to sit close by her. 

"They say I shall kill myself if I talk, " she said in her gaspingwhisper. "It doesn't matter. I must talk! So--you don't doubt the boy?"Her large black eyes fixed him intently. 

"No. I have no doubts--that he is my son. But his condition is verypiteous. I have asked a specialist to come down. "

There was a gleam of scorn in her expression. 

"That'll do no good. I suppose--you think--we neglected the boy. _Niente_. We did the best we could. He was under a splendid man--inNaples--as good as any one here. He told me nothing could be done--andnothing can be done. "

Buntingford had the terrible impression that there was a certaintriumph in the faint tone. He said nothing, and presently the whisperbegan again. 

"I keep seeing those people dancing--and hearing the band. I dropped alittle bag--did anybody find it?"

"Yes, I have it here. " He drew it out of his pocket, and put it in herhand, which feebly grasped it. 

"Rocca gave it to me at Florence once, I am very fond of it. I supposeyou wonder that--I loved him?"

There was a strange and tragic contrast between the woman's weakness, andher bitter provocative spirit; just as there was between the picturesquestrength of Buntingford--a man in his prime--and the humble, deprecatinggentleness of his present voice and manner. 

"No, " he answered. "I am glad--if it made you happy. "

"Happy!" She opened her eyes again. "Who's ever happy? We werenever happy!"

"Yes--at the beginning, " he said, with a certain firmness. "Why takethat away?"

She made a protesting movement. 

"No--never! I was always--afraid. Afraid you'd get tired of me. I wasonly happy--working--and when they hung my picture--in the Salon--youremember?"

"I remember it well. "

"But I was always jealous--of you. You drew better--than I did. That mademe miserable. "

After a long pause, during which he gave her some of the preparedstimulant Ramsay had left ready, she spoke again, with rather morevigour. 

"Do you remember--that Artists' Fęte--in the Bois--when I went asPrimavera--Botticelli's Primavera?"

"Perfectly. "

"I was as handsome then--as that girl you were rowing. And now--But Idon't want to die!"--she said with sudden anguish--"Why should I die? Iwas quite well a fortnight ago. Why does that doctor frighten me so?" Shetried to sit more erect, panting for breath. He did his best to sootheher, to induce her to go back to bed. But she resisted with all herremaining strength; instead, she drew him down to her. 

"Tell me!--confess to me!"--she said hoarsely--"Madame de Chaville wasyour mistress!"

"Never! Calm yourself, poor Anna! I swear to you. Won't you believe me?"

She trembled violently. "If I left you--for nothing--"

She closed her eyes, and tears ran down her cheeks. 

He bent over her--"Won't you rest now--and let them take you back to bed?You mustn't talk like this any more. You will kill yourself. "

He left her in Ramsay's charge, and went first to find Alcott, begginghim to pray with her. Then he wandered out blindly, into the summerevening. It was clear to him that she had only a few more hours--or atmost--days to live. In his overpowering emotion--a breaking up of thegreat deeps of thought and feeling--he found his way into the shelter ofone of the beechwoods that girdled the park, and sat there in a kind ofmoral stupor, till he had somehow mastered himself. The "old unhappyfar-off things" were terribly with him; the failures and faults of hisown distant life, far more than those of the dying woman. The onlythought--the only interest--which finally gave him fresh strength--wasthe recollection of his boy. 

Cynthia!--her letter--what was it she wanted to say to him? He got up, and resolutely turned his steps towards the cottage. 

Cynthia was waiting for him. She brought him into the little drawing-roomwhere a lamp had been lighted, and a tray of food was waiting of whichshe persuaded him to eat some mouthfuls. But when he questioned her as tothe meaning of her letter, she evaded answering for a little while, tillhe had eaten something and drunk a glass of wine. Then she stretched outa hand to him, with a quiet smile. 

"Come and see what I have been doing upstairs. It will be dreadful if youdon't approve!"

He followed her in surprise, and she led him upstairs through thespotless passages of the cottage, bright with books and engravings, wherenever a thing was out of place, to a room with a flowery paper and brightcurtains, looking on the park. 

"I had it all got ready in a couple of hours. We have so much room--andit is such a pleasure--" she said, in half apology. "Nobody ever gets anymeals at the Ramsays'--and they can't keep any servants. Of course you'llchange it, if you don't like it. But Dr. Ramsay himself thought it thebest plan. You see we are only a stone's throw from him. He can run inconstantly. He really seemed relieved!"

And there in a white bed, with the newly arrived specialnurse--kind-faced and competent--beside him, lay his recovered son, deeply and pathetically asleep. For in his sleep the piteous headmovement had ceased, and he might have passed for a very delicate childof twelve, who would soon wake like other children to a new summer day. 

Into Buntingford's strained consciousness there fell a drop of balm as hesat beside him, listening to the quiet breathing, and comforted by themere peace of the slight form. 

He looked up at Cynthia and thanked her; and Cynthia's heart sang forjoy. 

CHAPTER XIV

The Alcotts' unexpected guest lingered another forty-eight hours undertheir roof, --making a hopeless fight for life. But the influenza poison, recklessly defied from the beginning, had laid too deadly a grip on analready weakened heart. And the excitement of the means she had taken toinform herself as to the conditions of Buntingford's life andsurroundings, before breaking in upon them, together with the exhaustionof her night wandering, had finally destroyed her chance of recovery. Buntingford saw her whenever the doctors allowed. She claimed hispresence indeed, and would not be denied. But she talked little more; andin her latest hours it seemed to those beside her both that the desire tolive had passed, and that Buntingford's attitude towards her had, in theend, both melted and upheld her. On the second night after her arrival, towards dawn she sent for him. She then could not speak. But her righthand made a last motion towards his. He held it, till Ramsay who had hisfingers on the pulse of the left, looked up with that quiet gesture whichtold that all was over. Then he himself closed her eyes, and stooping, hekissed her brow--

"_Pardonnons--nous! Adieu_!" he said, under his breath, in the languagefamiliar to their student youth together. Then he went straight out ofthe room, and through the dewy park, and misty woods already vocal withthe awakening birds; he walked back to Beechmark, and for some hours shuthimself into his library, where no one disturbed him. 

When he emerged it was with the air of a man turning to a new chapter inlife. Geoffrey French was still with him. Otherwise the big house wasempty and seemed specially to miss the sounds of Helena's voice, andtripping feet. Buntingford enquired about her at once, and Geoffrey wasable to produce a letter from Mrs. Friend describing the little WelshInn, near the pass of Aberglasslyn, where they had settled themselves;the delicious river, shrunken however by the long drought, which ran pasttheir windows, and the many virtues--qualified by too many children--ofthe primitive Welsh pair who ran the inn. 

"I am to say that Miss Pitstone likes it all very much, and has foundsome glorious things to draw. Also an elderly gentleman who is sketchingon the river has already promised her a lesson. "

"You'll be going down there sometime?" said Buntingford, turning anenquiring look on his nephew. 

"The week-end after next, " said Geoffrey--"unless Helena forbids it. Imust inspect the inn, which I recommended--and take stock of the elderlygentleman!"

The vision of Helena, in "fresh woods and pastures new" radiantlytransfixing the affections of the "elderly gentleman, " put them both forthe moment in spirits. Buntingford smiled, and understanding thatGeoffrey was writing to his ward, he left some special messages for her. 

But in the days that followed he seldom thought of Helena. He buried hiswife in the village church-yard, and the wondering villagers mightpresently read on the headstone he placed over her grave, the shortinscription--"Anna Buntingford, wife of Philip, Lord Buntingford, " withthe dates of her birth and death. The Alcotts, authorized by Philip, madepublic as much of the story as was necessary, and the presence of thepoor son and heir in the Welwyns' house, together with his tragiclikeness to his father, both completed and verified it. A wave ofunspoken but warm sympathy spread through the countryside. Buntingford'sown silence was unbroken. After the burial, he never spoke of what hadhappened, except on one or two rare occasions to John Alcott, who hadbecome his intimate friend. But unconsciously the attitude of hisneighbours towards him had the effect of quickening his liking forBeechmark, and increasing the probability of his ultimate settlementthere, at least for the greater part of the year. 

Always supposing that it suited the boy--Arthur Philip--the names underwhich, according to Zélie, he had been christened in the church of thehill village near Lucca where he was born. For the care of this innocent, suffering creature became, from the moment of his mother's death, thedominating thought of Buntingford's life. The specialist, who came downbefore her death, gave the father however little hope of any favourableresult from operation. But he gave a confident opinion that much could bedone by that wonderful system of training which modern science andpsychology combined have developed for the mentally deficient or idiotchild. For the impression left by the boy on the spectator was never thatof genuine idiocy. It was rather that of an imprisoned soul. The normalsoul seemed somehow to be there; but the barrier between it and the worldaround it could not be broken through. By the specialist's advice, Buntingford's next step was to appeal to a woman, one of those remarkablewomen, who, unknown perhaps to more than local or professional fame, areevery year bringing the results of an ardent moral and mental research tobear upon the practical tasks of parent and teacher. This woman, whom wewill call Mrs. Delane, combined the brain of a man of science with thepassion of motherhood. She had spent her life in the educational serviceof a great municipality, varied by constant travel and investigation; andshe was now pensioned and retired. But all over England those who neededher still appealed to her; and she failed no one. She came down to seehis son at Buntingford's request, and spent some days in watching thechild, with Cynthia as an eager learner beside her. 

The problem was a rare one. The boy was a deaf-mute, but not blind. Hisvery beautiful eyes--; his father's eyes--seemed to be perpetuallyinterrogating the world about him, and perpetually baffled. He cried--amonotonous wailing sound--but he never smiled. He was capable of throwingall his small possessions into a large basket, and of taking them outagain; an operation which he performed endlessly hour after hour; but ofpurpose, or any action that showed it, he seemed incapable. He could notplace one brick upon another, or slip one Japanese box inside its fellow. His temper seemed to be always gentle; and in simple matters of dailyconduct and habit Zélie had her own ways of getting from him an automaticobedience. But he heard nothing; and in his pathetic look, howeverclearly his eyes might seem to be meeting those of a companion, there wasno answering intelligence. 

Mrs. Delane set patiently to work, trying this, and testing that; and atthe end of the first week, she and Cynthia were sitting on the floorbeside the boy, who had a heap of bricks before him. For more than anhour Mrs. Delane had been guiding his thin fingers in making a tower ofbricks one upon another, and then knocking them down. Then, at onemoment, it began to seem to her that each time his hand enclosed in hersknocked the bricks down, there was a certain faint flash in the blueeyes, as though the sudden movement of the bricks gave the child a thrillof pleasure. But to fall they must be built up. And his absorbed teacherlaboured vainly, through sitting after sitting, to communicate to thechild some sense of the connection between the two sets of movements. 

Time after time the small waxen hand lay inert in hers as she put a brickbetween its listless fingers, and guided it towards the brick waiting forit. Gradually the column of bricks mounted--built by her action, herfingers enclosing his passive ones--and, finally, came the expectedcrash, followed by the strange slight thrill in the child's features. Butfor long there was no sign of spontaneous action of any kind on his part. The ingenuity of his teacher attempted all the modes of approach to theobstructed brain that were known to her, through the two senses lefthim--sight and touch. But for many days in vain. 

At last, one evening towards the end of June, when his mother had beendead little more than a fortnight, Cynthia, Mrs. Delane's indefatigablepupil, was all at once conscious of a certain spring in the child's hand, as though it became--faintly--self-moved, a living thing. She cried out. Buntingford was there looking on; and all three hung over the child. Cynthia again placed the brick in his hand, and withdrew her own. Slowlythe child moved it forward--dropped it--then, with help, raised itagain--and, finally, with only the very slight guidance from Cynthia, putit on top of the other. Another followed, and another, his hand growingsteadier with each attempt. Then breathing deeply, --flushed, and with apuckered forehead--the boy looked up at his father. Tears ofindescribable joy had rushed to Buntingford's eyes. Cynthia's were hiddenin her handkerchief. 

The child's nurse peremptorily intervened and carried him off to bed. Mrs. Delane first arranged with Buntingford for the engagement of aspecial teacher, taught originally by herself, and then asked forsomething to take her to the station. She had set things in train, andhad no time to lose. There were too many who wanted her. 

Buntingford and Cynthia walked across the park to Beechmark. From theextreme despondency they were lifted to an extreme of hope. Buntingfordhad felt, as it were, the spirit of his son strain towards his own; thehidden soul had looked out. And in his deep emotion, he was verynaturally conscious of a new rush of affection and gratitude towards hisold playfellow and friend. The thought of her would be for ever connectedin his mind with the efforts and discoveries of the agitating daysthrough which--with such intensity--they had both been living. When heremembered that wonder-look in his son's, eyes, he would always seeCynthia bending over the child, no longer the mere agreeable andwell-dressed woman of the world, but, to him, the embodiment of aheavenly pity, "making all things new. "

Cynthia's spirits danced as she walked beside him. There was in her ajoyous, if still wavering certainty that through the child, her hold uponPhilip, whether he spoke sooner or later, was now secure. But she wasstill jealous of Helena. It had needed the moral and practical upheavalcaused by the reappearance and death of Anna, to drive Helena from Philipand Beechmark; and if Helena--enchanting and incalculable as ever, evenin her tamer mood--were presently to resume her life in Philip's house, no one could expect the Fates to intervene again so kindly. Georginamight be certain that in Buntingford's case the woman of forty hadnothing to fear from the girl of nineteen. Cynthia was by no means socertain; and she shivered at the risks to come. 

For it was soon evident that the question of his ward's immediate futurewas now much on Philip's mind. He complained that Helena wrote so little, and that he had not yet heard from Geoffrey since the week-end he was tospend in Wales. Mrs. Friend reported indeed in good spirits. Butobviously, whatever the quarters might be, Helena could not stay thereindefinitely. 

"Of course I suggested the London house to her at once--with Mrs. Friend for chaperon. But she didn't take to it. This week I must goback to my Admiralty work. But we can't take the boy to London, and Iintended to come back here every night. We mustn't put upon you muchlonger, my dear Cynthia!"

The colour rushed to Cynthia's face. 

"You are going to take him away?" she said, with a look of consternation. 

"Mustn't I bring him home, some time?" was his half-embarrassed reply. 

"But not yet! And how would it suit--with week-ends and dances forHelena?"

"It wouldn't suit at all, " he said, perplexed--"though Helena seems tohave thrown over dancing for the present. "

"That won't last long!"

He laughed. "I am afraid you never took to her!" he said lightly. 

"She never took to me!"

"I wonder if that was my fault? She suspected that I had called you in tohelp me to keep her in order!"

"What was it brought her to reason--so suddenly?" said Cynthia, seekinglight at last on a problem that had long puzzled her. 

"Two things, I imagine. First that she was the better man of us all, thatday of the Dansworth riot. She could drive my big car, and none of therest of us could! That seemed to put her right with us all. Andsecondly--the reports of that abominable trial. She told me so. I onlyhope she didn't read much of it!"

They had just passed the corner of the house, and come out on the slopinglawn of Beechmark, with the lake, and the wood beyond it. All that hadhappened behind that dark screen of yew, on the distant edge of thewater, came rushing back on Philip's imagination, so that he fell silent. Cynthia on her side was thinking of the moment when she came down to theedge of the lake to carry off Geoffrey French, and saw Buntingford andHelena push off into the puckish rays of the searchlight. She tastedagain the jealous bitterness of it--and the sense of defeat by somethingbeyond her fighting--the arrogance of Helena's young beauty. Philip wasnot in love with Helena; that she now knew. So far she, Cynthia, hadmarvellously escaped the many chances that might have undone her. But ifHelena came back?

Meanwhile there were some uneasy thoughts at the back of Philip's mind;and some touching and tender recollections which he kept sacred tohimself. Helena's confession and penitence--there, on that stillwater--how pretty they were, how gracious! Nor could he ever forget hersweetness, her pity on that first tragic evening. Geoffrey's alarms wereabsurd. Yet when he thought of merely reproducing the situation as it hadexisted before the night of the ball, something made him hesitate. Andbesides, how could he reproduce it? All his real mind was now absorbed inthis overwhelming problem of his son; of the helpless, appealing creatureto whose aid the whole energies of his nature had been summoned. 

He walked back some way with Cynthia, talking of the boy, with anintensity of hope that frightened her. 

"Don't, or don't be too certain--yet!" she pleaded. "We have only justseen the first sign--the first flicker. If it were all to vanish again!"

"Could I bear it?" he said, under his breath--"Could I?"

"Anyway, you'll let me keep him--a little longer?"

She spoke very softly and sweetly. 

"If your kindness really wishes it, " he said, rather reluctantly. "Butwhat does Georgina say?"

"Georgina is just as keen as I am, " said Cynthia boldly. "Don't you seehow fond she is of him already?"

Buntingford could not truthfully say that he had seen any signs onGeorgina's part, so far, of more than a decent neutrality in the matter. Georgina was a precisian; devoted to order, and in love with rules. Thepresence of the invalid boy, his nurse, and his teacher, must upset everyrule and custom of the little house. Could she really put up with it? Ingeneral, she made the impression upon Philip of a very wary cat, oftenapparently asleep, but with her claws ready. He felt uncomfortable; butCynthia had her way. 

A specially trained teacher, sent down by Mrs. Delane, arrived a few dayslater, and a process began of absorbing and fascinating interest to allthe spectators, except Georgina, who more than kept her head. 

Every morning Buntingford would motor up to town, spend some strenuoushours in demobilization work at the Admiralty, returning in the eveningto receive Cynthia's report of the day. Miss Denison, the boy's teacher, who had been trained in one of the London Special Schools, was a littleround-faced lady with spectacles, apparently without any emotions, butreally filled with that educator's passion which in so many women of ourday fills the place of motherhood. From the beginning she formed theconclusion that the pitiable little fellow entrusted to her was to agreat extent educable; but that he would not live to maturity. Thislatter conclusion was carefully hidden from Buntingford, though it wasknown to Cynthia; and Philip knew, for a time, all the happiness, theexcitement even of each day's slight advance, combined with a boundlesshope for the future. He spent his evenings absorbed in the voluminousliterature dealing with the deaf-mute, which has grown up since the daysof Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller. But Laura Bridgman and HelenKeller--as he eagerly reminded himself--were both of them blind; only onesense--that of touch--was left to them. Arthur's blue eyes, the copy ofhis own, already missed his father when he left home in the morning, andgreeted him when he came home at night. They contained for Philip amystery and a promise that he was never tired of studying. Every eveninghe would ride over from Dansworth station to the cottage, put up hishorse, and spend the long summer twilights in carrying his son about thegarden or the park, or watching Miss Denison at her work. The boy wasphysically very frail, and soon tired. But his look was now placid; thefurrows in the white brow were smoothed away; his general nutrition wasmuch better; his delicate cheeks had filled out a little; and his ghostlybeauty fascinated Philip's artistic sense, while his helplessnessappealed to the tenderest instinct of a strong man. Buntingford haddiscovered a new and potent reason for living; and for living happily. 

And meanwhile with all this slowly growing joy, Cynthia was more and moreclosely connected. She and Buntingford had a common topic, which wasendlessly interesting and delightful to them both. Philip was no longerconscious of her conventionalities and limitations, as he had beenconscious of them on his first renewed acquaintance with her after thepreoccupations of the war. He saw her now as Arthur's fairy godmother, and as his own daily companion and helper in an exquisite task. 

But Georgina was growing impatient. One evening she came home tired andout of temper. She had been collecting the rents of some cottagesbelonging to her, and the periodical operation was always trying toeverybody concerned. Georgina's secret conviction that "the poor in aloomp is bad" was stoutly met by her tenants' firm belief that alllandlords are extortionate thieves. She came home, irritated by a numberof petty annoyances, to find the immaculate little drawing-room, whereevery book and paper-knife knew its own place and kept it, given up toArthur and Miss Denison, with coloured blocks, pictures and models usedin that lady's teaching, strewn all over the floor, while the furniturehad been pushed unceremoniously aside. 

"I won't have this house made a bear-garden!" she said, angrily, to thedismayed teacher; and she went off straightway to find her sister. 

Cynthia was in her own little den on the first floor happily engaged intrimming a new hat. Georgina swept in upon her, shut the door, and stoodwith her back to it. 

"Cynthia--is this house yours or mine?"

As a matter of fact the house was Buntingford's. But Georgina wasformally the tenant of it, while the furniture was partly hers and partlyCynthia's. In fact, however, Georgina had been always tacitly held to bethe mistress. 

Cynthia looked up in astonishment, and at once saw that Georgina wasseriously roused. She put down her work and faced her sister. 

"I thought it belonged to both of us, " she said mildly. "What is thematter, Georgie?"

"I beg you to remember that I am the tenant. And I never consented tomake it an institution for the training of imbeciles!"

"Georgie!--Arthur is not an imbecile!"

"Of course I know he is an interesting one, " said Georgina, curtly. "Butall the same, from my point of view--However, I won't repeat the word, ifit annoys you. But what I want to know is, when are we to have the houseto ourselves again? Because, if this is to go on indefinitely, I depart!"

Cynthia came nearer to her sister. Her colour fluttered a little. 

"Don't interfere just at present, Georgie, " she said imploringly, in alow voice. 

The two sisters looked at each other--Georgina covered with the dust andcobwebs of her own cottages, her battered hat a little on one side, andher coat and skirt betraying at every seam its venerable antiquity; andCynthia, in pale grey, her rose-pink complexion answering to the gold ofher hair, with every detail of her summer dress as fresh and dainty asthe toil of her maid could make it. 

"Well, I suppose--I understand, " said Georgina, at last, in her gruffestvoice. "All the same, I warn you, I can't stand it much longer. I shallbe saying something rude to Buntingford. "

"No, no--don't do that!"

"I haven't your motive--you see. "

Cynthia coloured indignantly. 

"If you think I'm only pretending to care for the child, Georgie, you'revery much mistaken!"

"I don't think so. You needn't put words into my mouth, or thoughts intomy head. All the same, Cynthia, --cut it short!"

And with that she released the door and departed, leaving an anxious andmeditative Cynthia behind her. 

A little later, Buntingford's voice was heard below. Cynthia, descending, found him with Arthur in his arms. The day had been hot and rainy--anoppressive scirocco day--and the boy was languid and out of sorts. Thenurse advised his being carried up early to bed, and Buntingford hadarrived just in time. 

When he came downstairs again, he found Cynthia in a garden hat, and theystrolled out to look at the water-garden which was the common hobby ofboth the sisters. There, sitting among the rushes by the side of thelittle dammed-up stream, he produced a letter from Mrs. Friend, with thelatest news of his ward. 

"Evidently we shan't get Helena back just yet. I shall run up next weekto see her, I think, Cynthia, if you will let me. I really will takeArthur to Beechmark this week. Mrs. Mawson has arranged everything. Hisrooms are all ready for him. Will you come and look at them to-morrow?"

Cynthia did not reply at once, and he watched her a little anxiously. Hewas well aware what giving up the boy would mean to her. Her devotion hadbeen amazing. But the wrench must come some time. 

"Yes, of course--you must take him, " said Cynthia, at last. "If only--Ihadn't come to love him so!"

She didn't cry. She was perfectly self-possessed. But there was somethingin her pensive, sorrowful look that affected Philip more than anyvehement emotion could have done. The thought of all her devotion--theirlong friendship--her womanly ways--came upon him overwhelmingly. 

But another thought checked it--Helena!--and his promise to her deadmother. If he now made Cynthia the mistress of Beechmark, Helena wouldnever return to it. For they were incompatible. He saw it plainly. And toHelena he was bound; while she needed the shelter of his roof. 

So that the words that were actually on Philip's lips remained unspoken. They walked back rather silently to the cottage. 

At supper Cynthia told her sister that the boy, with Zélie and histeacher, would soon trouble her no more. Georgina expressed an ungracioussatisfaction, adding abruptly--"You'll be able to see him there, Cynthy, just as well as here. "

Cynthia made no reply. 

CHAPTER XVI

Mrs. Friend was sitting in the bow-window of the "Fisherman's Rest, " asmall Welsh inn in the heart of Snowdonia. The window was open, and asmell of damp earth and grass beat upon Lucy in gusts from outside, carried by a rainy west wind. Beyond the road, a full stream, white andfoaming after rain, was dashing over a rocky bed towards some rapidswhich closed the view. The stream was crossed by a little bridge, andbeyond it rose a hill covered with oak-wood. Above the oak-wood and alongthe road to the right--mountain forms, deep blue and purple, wereemerging from the mists which had shrouded them all day. The sunwas breaking through. A fierce northwest wind which had been tearing theyoung leaf of the oak-woods all day, and strewing it abroad, had justdied away. Peace was returning, and light. The figure of Helena had justdisappeared through the oak-wood; Lucy would follow her later. 

Behind Mrs. Friend, the walls of the inn parlour were covered deep insketches of the surrounding scenery--both oil and water-colour, bad andgood, framed and unframed, left there by the artists who haunted the inn. The room was also adorned by a glass case full of stuffed birds, badlymoth-eaten, a book-case containing some battered books mostly aboutfishing, and a large Visitors' Book lying on a centre-table, between aBradshaw and an old guide-book. Shut up, in winter, the little room wouldsmell intolerably close and musty. But with the windows open, and a rainysun streaming in, it spoke pleasantly of holidays for plain hard-workingfolk, and of that "passion for the beauty flown, " which distils, from thesummer hours of rest, strength for the winter to come. 

Lucy had let Helena go out alone, of set purpose. For she knew, orguessed, what Nature and Earth had done for Helena during the month theyhad passed together in this mountain-land, since that night at Beechmark. Helena had made no moan--revealed nothing. Only a certain paleness in herbright cheek, a certain dreamy habit that Lucy had not before noticed inher; a restlessness at night which the thin partitions of the old innsometimes made audible, betrayed that the youth in her was fighting itsfirst suffering, and fighting to win. Lucy had never dared tospeak--still less to pity. But her love was always at hand, and Helenahad repaid it, and the silence it dictated, with an answering love. Lucybelieved--though with trembling--that the worst was now over, and thatnew horizons were opening on the stout soul that had earned them. Butnow, as before, she held her peace. 

Her diary lay on her lap, and she was thoughtfully turning it over. Itcontained nothing but the barest entries of facts. But they meant a gooddeal to her, as she looked through them. Every letter, for instance, fromBeechmark had been noted. Lord Buntingford had written three times toHelena, and twice to herself. She had seen Helena's letters; and Helenahad read hers. It seemed to her that Helena had deliberately shown herown; that the act was part of the conflict which Lucy guessed at, butmust not comment on, by word or look. All the letters were the trueexpression of the man. The first, in which he described in words, few;but singularly poignant, the death of his wife, his recognition of hisson, and the faint beginnings of hope for the boy's maimed life, hadforced tears from Lucy. Helena had read it dry-eyed. But for severalhours afterwards, on an evening of tempest, she had vanished out of ken, on the mountainside; coming back as night fell, her hair and clothes, dripping with rain, her cheeks glowing from her battle with the storm, her eyes strangely bright. 

Her answers to her guardian's letters had been, to Lucy's way ofthinking, rather cruelly brief; at least after the first letter writtenin her own room, and posted by herself. Thenceforward, only a fewpost-cards, laid with Lucy's letters, for her or any one else to read, ifthey chose. And meanwhile Lucy was tolerably sure that she was slowly butresolutely making her own plans for the months ahead. 

The little diary contained also the entry of Geoffrey French's visit--along week-end, during which as far as Lucy could remember, Helena and hehad never ceased "chaffing" from morning till night, and Helena hadcertainly never given him any opportunity for love-making. She, Lucy, hadhad a few short moments alone with him, moments in which his gaiety haddropped from him, like a ragged cloak, and a despondent word or two hadgiven her a glimpse of the lover he was not permitted to be, beneath therole of friend he was tired of playing. He was coming again soon. Helenahad neither invited nor repelled him. Whereas she had peremptorily biddenPeter Dale for this particular Sunday, and he had thrown over half adozen engagements to obey her. 

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Friend. Is Miss Pitstone at home?"

The speaker was a shaggy old fellow in an Inverness cape and an ancientwide-awake, carrying a portfolio and a camp-stool. He had stopped in hiswalk outside the open window, and his disappointed look searched the innparlour for a person who was not there. 

"Oh, Mr. McCready, I'm so sorry!--but Miss Pitstone is out, and I don'tknow when she will be back. "

The artist undid his portfolio, and laid a half-finished sketch--a sketchof Helena's--on the window-sill. 

"Will you kindly give her this? I have corrected it--made some notes onthe side. Do you think Miss Helena will be likely to be sketchingto-morrow?"

"I'm afraid I can't promise for her. She seems to like walking betterthan anything else just now. "

"Yes, she's a splendid walker, " said the old man, with a sigh. "I envyher strength. Well, if she wants me, she knows where to find me--justbeyond that bend there. " He pointed to the river. 

"I'll tell her--and I'll give her the sketch. Good-bye. "

She watched him heavily cross the foot-bridge to the other side of theriver. Her quick pity went with him, for she herself knew well what itmeant to be solitary and neglected. He seldom sold a picture, and nobodyknew what he lived on. The few lessons he had given Helena had been as agolden gleam in a very grey day. But alack, Helena had soon tired of herlessons, as she had tired of the mile of coveted trout-fishing that Mr. Evans of the farm beyond the oak-wood had pressed upon her--or of thebooks the young Welsh-speaking curate of the little mountain church nearby was so eager to lend her. Through and behind a much gentler manner, the girl's familiar self was to be felt--by Lucy at least--as clearly asbefore. She was neither to be held nor bound. Attempt to lay any fetterupon her--of hours, or habit--and she was gone; into the heart of themountains where no one could follow her. Lucy would often compare with itthe eager docility of those last weeks at Beechmark. 

 * * * * *

Helena's walk had taken her through the dripping oak-wood and over thecrest of the hill to a ravine beyond, where the river, swollen now by theabundant rains which had made an end of weeks of drought, ran, noisilyfull, between two steep banks of mossy crag. From the crag, oaks hungover the water, at fantastic angles, holding on, as it seemed, by onefoot and springing from the rock itself; while delicate rock plants, andfern fringed every ledge down to the water. A seat on the twisted rootsof an overhanging oak, from which, to either side, a little green path, as though marked for pacing, ran along the stream, was one of herfavourite haunts. From up-stream a mountain peak now kerchiefed in wispsof sunlit cloud peered in upon her. Above it, a lake of purest blue fromwhich the wind, which had brought them, was now chasing the clouds; andeverywhere the glory of the returning sun, striking the oaks to gold, andflinging a chequer of light on the green floor of the wood. 

Helena sat down to wait for Peter, who would be sure to find her wherevershe hid herself. This spot was dear to her, as those places where lifehas consciously grown to a nobler stature are dear to men and women. Itwas here that within twenty-four hours of her last words with PhilipBuntingford, she had sat wrestling with something which threatened vitalforces in her that her will consciously, desperately, set itself tomaintain. Through her whole ripened being, the passion of that innerdebate was still echoing; though she knew that the fight was really won. It had run something like this:

"Why am I suffering like this?

"Because I am relaxed--unstrung. Why should I have everything Iwant--when others go bare? Philip went bare for years. He endured--andsuffered. Why not I?

"But it is worse for me--who am young! I have a right to give way to whatI feel--to feel it to the utmost. 

"That was the doctrine for women before the war--the old-fashioned women. The modern woman is stronger. She is not merely nerves and feeling. Shemust _never_ let feeling--pain--destroy her will! Everything depends uponher will. If I choose I _can_ put this feeling down. I have no right toit. Philip has done me no wrong. If I yield to it, if it darkens my life, it will be another grief added to those he has already suffered. Itshan't darken my life. I will--and can master it. There is so much stillto learn, to do, to feel. I must wrench myself free--and go forward. HowI chattered to Philip about the modern woman!--and how much older I feel, than I was then! If one can't master oneself, one is a slave--all thesame. I didn't know--how could I know?--that the test was so near. Ifwomen are to play a greater and grander part in the world, they must bemuch, much greater in soul, firmer in will. 

"Yet--I must cry a little. No one could forbid me that. But it must beover soon. "

Then the letters from Beechmark had begun to arrive, each of thembringing its own salutary smart as part of a general cautery. No guardiancould write more kindly, more considerately. But it was easy to see thatPhilip's whole being was, and would be, concentrated on his unfortunateson. And in that ministry Cynthia Welwyn was his natural partner, hadindeed already stepped into the post; so that gratitude, if not passion, would give her sooner or later all that she desired. 

"Cynthia has got the boy into her hands--and Philip with him. Well, thatwas natural. Shouldn't I have done the same? Why should I feel like ajealous beast, because Cynthia has had her chance, and taken it? I won'tfeel like this! It's vile!--it's degrading! Only I wish Cynthia wasbigger, more generous--because he'll find it out some day. She'll neverlike me, just because he cares for me--or did. I mean, as my guardian, oran elder brother. For it was never--no never!--anything else. So when shecomes in at the front door, I shall go out at the back. I shall have togive up even the little I now have. Let me just face what it means. 

"Yet perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps Cynthia isn't as mean-spirited as Ithink. 

"It's wonderful about the boy. I envy Cynthia--I can't help it. I wouldhave given my whole life to it. I would have been trained--perhapsabroad. No one should have taught him but me. But then--if Philip hadloved me--only that was never possible!--he would have been jealous ofthe boy--and I should have lost him. I never do things in moderation. Igo at them so blindly. But I shall learn some day. "

Thoughts like these, and many others, were rushing through Helena's mind, as after a long walk she found her seat again over the swollen stream. The evening had shaken itself free of the storm, and was pouring anincredible beauty on wood and river. The intoxication of it ran throughHelena's veins. For she possessed in perfection that earth-sense, thatpassionate sense of kinship, kinship both of the senses and the spirit, with the eternal beauty of the natural world, which the gods implant in ablest minority of mortals. No one who has it can ever be wholly forlorn, while sense and feeling remain. 

Suddenly:--a little figure on the opposite bank, and a child's cry. 

Helena sprang to her feet in dismay. She saw the landlord's small son, achild of five, who had evidently lost his footing on the green bank abovethe crag which faced her, and was sliding down, unable to help himself, towards the point where nothing could prevent his falling headlong intothe stream below. The bank, however, was not wholly bare. There were somethin gnarled oaks upon it, which might stop him. 

"Catch hold of the trees, Bobby!" she shouted to him, in an agony. 

The child heard, turned a white face to her, and tried to obey. He wasalready a stalwart little mountaineer, accustomed to trot over the fellsafter his father's sheep, and the physical instinct in his, sturdy limbssaved him. He caught a jutting root, held on, and gradually draggedhimself up to the cushion of moss from which the tree grew, sittingastride the root, and clasping the tree with both arms. The position wasstill extremely dangerous, but for the moment he was saved. 

"All right, Bobby--clever boy! Hold tight--I'm coming!"

And she rushed towards a little bridge at the head of the ravine. Butbefore she could reach it, she saw the lad's father, cautiouslydescending the bank, helped by a rope tied to an oak tree at the top. Hereached the child, tied the rope to the stem of the tree where the littlefellow was sitting, and then with the boy under one arm and hauling onthe rope with the other hand, he made his way up the few perilous yardsthat divided them from safety. At the top he relieved his parentalfeelings by a good deal of smacking and scolding. For Bobby was anotorious "limb, " the terror of his mother and the inn generally. Heroared vociferously under the smacking. But when Helena arrived on thescene, he stopped at once, and put out a slim red tongue at her. Helenalaughed, congratulated the father on his skill, and returned to her seat. 

"That's a parable of me!" she thought, as she sat with her elbows on herknees, staring at the bank opposite. 

"I very nearly slipped in!--like Bobby--but not quite. I'm sound--thoughbruised. No desperate harm done. " She drew a long breath--laughing toherself--though her eyes were rather wet. "Well, now, then--what am Igoing to do? I'm not going into a convent. I don't think I'm even goingto college. I'm going to take my guardian's advice. 'Marry--my dearchild--and bring up children. ' 'Marry?'--Very well!"--she sprang to herfeet--"I shall marry!--that's settled. As to the children--that remainsto be seen!"

And with her hands behind her, she paced the little path, in a strangeexcitement and exaltation. Presently from the tower of the little church, half a mile down the river, a bell began to strike the hour. "Sixo'clock!--Peter will be here directly. Now, _he's_ got to belectured--for his good. I'm tired of lecturing myself. It's somebodyelse's turn--"

And taking a letter from her pocket, she read and pondered it withsmiling eyes. "Peter will think I'm a witch. Dear old Peter! ... Hullo!"

For the sound of her name, shouted by some one still invisible, caughther ear. She shouted back, and in another minute the boyish form ofPeter Dale emerged among the oaks above her. Three leaps, and he wasat her side. 

"I say, Helena, this is jolly! You were a brick to write. How I gothere I'm sure I don't know. I seem to have broken every rule, andput everybody out. My boss will sack me, I expect. Never mind!--I'ddo it again!"

And dropping to a seat beside her, on a fallen branch that had somehowescaped the deluge of the day, he feasted his eyes upon her. She hadclambered back into her seat, and taken off her water-proof hat. Her hairwas tumbling about her ears, and her bright cheeks were moist with rain, or rather with the intermittent showers that the wind shook every now andthen from the still dripping oak trees above her. Peter thought herlovelier than ever--a wood-nymph, half divine. Yet, obscurely, he felt achange in her, from the beginning of their talk. Why had she sent forhim? The wildest notions had possessed him, ever since her letter reachedhim. Yet, now that he saw her, they seemed to float away from him, likethistle-down on the wind. 

"Helena!--why did you send for me?"

"I was very dull, Peter, --I wanted you to amuse me!"

The boy laughed indignantly. 

"That's all very well, Helena--but it won't wash. You're jolly well usedto getting all you want, I know--but you wouldn't have ordered me upfrom Town--twelve hours in a beastly train--packed like sardines--justto tell me that. "

Helena looked at him thoughtfully. She began to eat some unripebilberries which she had gathered from the bank beside her, and they madelittle blue stains on her white teeth. 

"Old boy--I wanted to give you some advice. "

"Well, give it quick, " said Peter impatiently. 

"No--you must let me take my time. Have you been to a great many danceslately, Peter?"

"You bet!" The young Adonis shrugged his shoulders. "I seem to have beenthrough a London season, which I haven't done, of course, since 1914. Never went to so many dances in my life!"

"Somebody tells me, Peter, that--you're a dreadful flirt!" said Helena, still with those grave, considering eyes. 

Peter laughed--but rather angrily. 

"All very well for you to talk, Miss Helena! Please--how many men wereyou making fools of--including your humble servant--before you went downto Beechmark? You have no conscience, Helena! You are the 'Belle Damesans merci. '"

"All that is most unjust--and ridiculous!" said Helena mildly. 

Peter went off into a peal of laughter. Helena persisted. 

"What do you call flirting, Peter?"

"Turning a man's head--making him believe that you're gone on him--when, in fact, you don't care a rap!"

"Peter!--then of course you _know_ I never flirted with you!" saidHelena, with vigour. Peter hesitated, and Helena at once pursued heradvantage. 

"Let's talk of something more to the point. I'm told, Peter, thatyou've been paying great attentions--marked attentions--to a verynice girl--that everybody's talking about it, --and that you oughtlong ago either to have fixed it up, --or cleared out. What do you sayto that, Peter?"

Peter flushed. 

"I suppose you mean--Jenny Dumbarton, " he said slowly. "Of course, she'sa very dear, pretty, little thing. But do you know why I first took toher?" He looked defiantly at his companion. 

"No. "

"Because--she's rather like you. She's your colour--she has yourhair--she's a way with her that's something like you. When I'm dancingwith her, if I shut my eyes, I can sometimes fancy--it's you!"

"Oh, goodness!" cried Helena, burying her face in her hands. It was a cryof genuine distress. Peter was silent a moment. Then he came closer. 

"Just look at me, please, Helena!"

She raised her eyes unwillingly. In the boy's beautiful clear-cutface the sudden intensity of expression compelled her--held herguiltily silent. 

"Once more, Helena"--he said, in a voice that shook--"is there nochance for me?"

"No, no, dear Peter!" she cried, stretching out her hands to him. "Oh, Ithought that was all over. I sent for you because I wanted just to say toyou--don't trifle!--don't shilly-shally! I know Jenny Dumbarton a little. She's charming--she's got a delicate, beautiful character--and such awarm heart! Don't break anybody's heart, Peter--for my silly sake!"

The surge of emotion in Peter subsided slowly. He began to study the mossat his feet, poking at it with his stick. 

"What makes you think I've been breaking Jenny's heart?" he said at lastin another voice. 

"Some of your friends, Peter, yours and mine--have been writing tome. She's--she's very fond of you, they say, and lately she's beenlooking a little limp ghost--all along of you, Mr. Peter! What haveyou been doing?"

"What any other man in my position would have been doing--wishingto Heaven I knew _what_ to do!" said Peter, still poking vigorouslyat the moss. 

Helena bent forward from the oak tree, and just whispered--"Go backto-morrow, Peter, --and propose to Jenny Dumbarton!"

Peter could not trust himself to look up at what he knew must be thesmiling seduction of her eyes and lips. He was silent; and Helenawithdrew--dryad-like--into the hollow made by the intertwined stems ofthe oak, threw her head back against the main trunk, dropped her eyelids, and waited. 

"Are you asleep, Helena?" said Peter's voice at last. 

"Not at all. "

"Then sit up, please, and listen to me. "

She obeyed. Peter was standing over her, his hands on his sides, lookingvery manly, and rather pale. 

"Having disposed of me for the last six months--you may as well disposeof me altogether, " he said slowly. "Very well--I will go--and proposeto Jenny Dumbarton---the day after to-morrow. Her people asked me forthe week-end. I gave a shuffling answer. I'll wire to her to-morrowthat I'm coming--"

"Peter--you're a darling!" cried Helena in delight, clapping her hands. "_Oh_!--I wish I could see Jenny's face when she opens the wire! You'llbe very good to her, Peter?"

She looked at him searchingly, stirred by one of the sudden tremors thatbeset even the most well-intentioned match-maker. 

Peter smiled, with a rather twisted lip, straightening his shoulders. 

"I shouldn't ask any girl to marry me, that I couldn't love and honour, not even to please you, Helena! And she knows all about you!"

"She doesn't!" said Helena, in consternation. 

"Yes, she does. I don't mean to say that I've told her the exact numberof times you've refused me. But she knows quite enough. She'll takeme--if she does take me--with her eyes open. Well, now that'ssettled!--But you interrupted me. There's one condition, Helena!"

"Name it. " She eyed him nervously. 

--"That in return for managing my life, you give me some indication ofhow you're going to manage your own!"

Helena fell back on the bilberry stalk, to gain time. 

--"Because--" resumed Peter--"it's quite clear the Beechmark situation isall bust up. Philip's got an idiot-boy to look after--with Cynthia Welwynin constant attendance. I don't see any room for you there, Helena!"

"Neither do I, " said Helena, quietly. "You needn't tell me that. "

"Well, then, what are you going to do?"

"You forget, Peter, that I possess the dearest and nicest littlechaperon. I can roam the world where I please--without making anyscandals. "

"You'll always make scandals--"

"_Scandals_, Peter!" protested Helena. 

"Well, victories, wherever you go--unless somebody has you pretty tightlyin hand. But you and I--both know a man--that would be your match!"

He had moved, so as to stand firmly across the little path that ranfrom Helena's seat to the inn. She began to fidget--to drop one foot, that had been twisted under her, to the ground, as though "on tiptoefor a flight. "

"It's time for supper, Peter. Mrs. Friend will think we're drowned. And Icaught such a beautiful dish of trout yesterday, --all for your benefit!There's a dear man here who puts on the worms. "

"You don't go, till I get an answer, Helena. "

"There's nothing to answer. I've no plans. I draw, and fish, and readpoetry. I have some money in the bank; and Cousin Philip will let medo what I like with it. Lastly--I have another month in which to makeup my mind. "

"About what?"

"Goose!--where to go next, of course. "

Peter shook his head. His mood was now as determined, as hot in pursuit, as hers had been, a little earlier. 

"I bet you'll have to make up your mind about something much moreimportant than that--before long. I happened to be--in the Gallery of theHouse of Commons yesterday--"

"Improving your mind?"

"Listening to a lot of wild men talking rot about the army. But there wasone man who didn't talk rot, though I agreed with scarcely a thing hesaid. But then he's a Labour man--or thinks he is--and I know that I'm aTory--as blue as you make 'em. Anyway I'm perfectly certain you'd haveliked to be there, Miss Helena!"

"Geoffrey?" said Helena coolly. 

"Right you are. Well, I can tell you he made a ripping success! The mannext to me in the gallery, who seemed to have been born and bredthere--knew everybody and everything--and got as much fun out of it as Ido out of 'Chu-Chin-Chow'--he told me it was the first time Geoffrey hadreally got what he called the 'ear of the House'--it was pretty fulltoo!--and that he was certain to get on--office, and all that kind ofthing--if he stuck to it. He certainly did it jolly well. He made even anignorant ass like me sit up. I'd go and hear him again--I vow I would!And there was such a fuss in the lobby! I found Geoffrey there, shovelling out hand-shakes, and talking to press-men. An old uncle ofmine--nice old boy--who's sat for a Yorkshire constituency for about ahundred years, caught hold of me. 'Know that fellow, Peter?' 'Rather!''Good for you! _He's_ got his foot on the ladder--he'll climb. '"

"Horrid word!" said Helena. 

"Depends on what you mean by it. If you're to get to the top, I supposeyou must climb. Now, then, Helena!--if you won't take a man like me whomyou can run--take a man like Geoffrey who can run you--and make you jollyhappy all the same! There--I can give advice too, you see--and you've noright to be offended!"

Helena could not keep her features still. Her eyes shot fire, though ofwhat kind the fire might be Peter was not quite sure. The two youngcreatures faced each other. There was laughter in each face, butsomething else; something strenuous, tragic even; as though "Life at itsgrindstone set" had been at work on the radiant pair, evoking theMeredithian series of intellect from the senses, --"brain from blood";with "spirit, " or generous soul, for climax. 

But unconsciously Peter had moved aside. In a flash Helena had slippedpast him, and was flying through the wood, homeward, looking back to mockhim, as he sped after her in vain. 

CHAPTER XVI

A week had passed. Mrs. Friend at ten o'clock in the morning had justbeen having a heart to heart talk with the landlady of the inn on thesubject of a decent luncheon for three persons, and a passable dinner forfour. Food at the inn was neither good nor well-cooked, and as criticism, even the mildest, generally led to tears, Mrs. Friend's morning lot, whenany guest was expected, was not a happy one. It was a difficult thingindeed to get anything said or settled at all; since the five-year oldBobby was generally scrimmaging round, capturing his mother's broom andthreatening to "sweep out" Mrs. Friend, or brandishing the meat-chopper, as a still more drastic means of dislodging her. The little villain, having failed to drown himself, was now inclined to play tricks with hissmall sister, aged eight weeks; and had only that morning, while hismother's back was turned, taken the baby out of her cradle, run down asteep staircase with her in his arms, and laid her on a kitchen chair, forgetting all about her a minute afterwards. Even a fond mother had beenprovoked to smacking, and the inn had been filled with howls androarings, which deadened even the thunder of the swollen stream outside. Then Helena, her fingers in her ears, had made a violent descent upon thekitchen, and carried off the "limb" to the river, where, being givensomething to do in the shape of damming up a brook that ran into the mainstream, he had suddenly developed angelic qualities, and tied himself toHelena's skirts. 

There they both were, on the river's pebbly bank, within hail, Helena ina short white skirt with a green jersey and cap. She was alternatelyhelping Bobby to build the dam, and lying with her hands beneath herhead, under the shelter of the bank. Moderately fine weather hadreturned, and the Welsh farmer had once more begun to hope that after allhe might get in his oats. The morning sun sparkled on the river, on thefreshly washed oak-woods, and on Bobby's bare curly head, as he satbusily playing beside Helena. 

What was Helena thinking of? Lucy Friend would have given a good deal toknow. On the little table before Lucy lay two telegrams: one signed"Geoffrey" announced that he would reach Bettws station by twelve, andthe "Fisherman's Rest" about half an hour later. The other announced thearrival of Lord Buntingford by the evening train. Lord Buntingford'svisit had been arranged two or three days before; and Mrs. Friend wishedit well over. He was of course coming to talk about plans with his ward, who had now wasted the greater part of the London season in thisprimitive corner of Wales. And both he and Geoffrey were leaving historicscenes behind them in order to spend these few hours with Helena. Forthis was Peace Day, when the victorious generals and troops of theEmpire, and the Empire's allies, were to salute England's king amid themultitudes of London, in solemn and visible proof that the long nightmareof the war had found its end. Buntingford had naturally no heart forpageants; but Helena had been astonished by Geoffrey's telegram, whichhad arrived the night before from the Lancashire town he represented inParliament. As an M. P. He ought surely to have been playing his part inthe great show. Moreover, she had not expected him so soon, and she haddone nothing to hurry his coming. His telegram had brought a great flushof colour into her face. But she made no other sign. 

"Oh, well, we can take them out to see bonfires!" she had said, puttingon her most careless air, and had then dismissed the subject. For thatnight the hills of the north were to run their fiery message through theland, blazoning a greater victory than Drake's; and Helena, who had bynow made close friends with the mountains, had long since decided on thebest points of view. 

Since then Lucy had received no confidences, and asked no questions. Aletter had reached her, however; by the morning's post, from Miss Alcott, giving an account of the situation at Beechmark, of the removal of theboy to his father's house, and of the progress that had been made inawakening his intelligence and fortifying his bodily health. 

"It is wonderful to see the progress he has made--so far, entirelythrough imitation and handwork. He begins to have some notion of countingand numbers--he has learnt to crochet and thread beads---poor little ladof fifteen!--he has built not only a tower but something like a house, ofbricks--and now his enthusiastic teacher is attempting to teach him thefirst rudiments of speech, in this wonderful modern way--lip-reading andthe like. He has been under training for about six weeks, and certainlythe results are most promising. I believe his mother protested to LordBuntingford that he had not been neglected. Nobody can believe her, whosees now what has been done. Apparently a brain-surgeon in Naples wasconsulted as to the possibility of an operation. But when that wasdropped, nothing else was ever tried, no training was attempted, and thechild would have fared very badly, if it had not been for the old_bonne_--Zélie--who was and is devoted to him. His mother was ashamed ofhim, and came positively to hate the sight of him. 

"But the tragic thing is that as his mind develops, his body seems toweaken. Food, special exercise, massage--poor Lord Buntingford has beentrying everything--but with small result. It is pitiful to see himwatching the child, and hanging on the doctors. 'Shall we stop all theteaching?' he said to John the other day in despair--'my first object isthat he should _live_, ' But it would be cruel to stop the teaching now. The child would not allow it. He himself has caught the passion of it. He seems to me to live in a fever of excitement and joy, as one stepfollows another, and the door opens a little wider for his poor prisonedsoul. He adores his father, and will sit beside him, stroking his silkybeard, with his tiny fingers, and looking at him with his large patheticeyes ... They have taken him to Beechmark, as you know, and given him aset of rooms, where he and his wonderful little teacher, MissDenison--trained in the Séguin method, they say--and the old _bonne_Zélie live. The nurse has gone. 

"I am so sorry for Lady Cynthia--she seems to miss him so. Of courseshe goes over to Beechmark a good deal, but it is not the same ashaving him under her own roof. And she was so good to him! She lookstired of late, and rather depressed. I wonder if her dragoon of asister has been worrying her. Of course Lady Georgina is enchanted tohave got rid of Arthur. 

"I am very glad to hear Lord Buntingford is going to Wales. Miss Pitstonehas been evidently a great deal on his mind. He said to John the otherday that he had arranged everything at Beechmark so that, when you andshe came back, he did not think you would find Arthur in the way. Theboy's rooms are in a separate wing, and would not interfere at all withvisitors. I said to him once that I was sure Miss Helena would be veryfond of the little fellow. But he frowned and looked distressed. 'Ishould scarcely allow her to see him, ' he said. I asked why. 'Because ayoung girl ought to be protected from anything irremediably sad. Lifeshould be always bright for her. And I can still make it bright forHelena--I intend to make it bright. '

"Good-bye, my dear Mrs. Friend. John and I miss you very much. "

A last sentence which gave Lucy Friend a quite peculiar pleasure. Hermodest ministrations in the parish and the school had amply earned it. But it amazed her that anyone should attach any value to them. And thatMr. Alcott should miss her--why, it was ridiculous!

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Helena, returning to theinn along the river bank, with Bobby clinging to her skirt. 

"Take him in tow, please, " said Helena through the window. "I am going towalk a little way to meet Geoffrey. "

Bobby's chubby hand held her so firmly that he could only be detachedfrom her by main force. He was left howling in Mrs. Friend's grasp, tillHelena, struck with compunction, turned back from the bend of the road, to stuff a chocolate into his open mouth, and then ran off again, laughing at the sudden silence which had descended on hill and stream. 

Through the intermittent shade and sunshine of the day, Helena steppedon. She had never held herself so erect; never felt so conscious of anintense and boundless vitality. Yet she was quite uncertain as to whatthe next few hours would bring her. Peter had given a hint--that she wassure; and she was now, it seemed, to be wooed in earnest. On Geoffrey'sformer visit, she had teased him so continuously, and put so many pettyobstacles of all kinds in his way, that he had finally taken his cue fromher, and they had parted, in a last whirlwind of "chaff, " but secretlyangry, with each other or themselves. 

"He might have held out a little longer, " thought Helena. "When shall Iever get a serious word from her?" thought French. 

Slowly she descended the long and winding hill leading to the village. From the few scattered cottages and farms in sight, flags were flutteringout. Groups of school children were scattered along the road, wavinglittle flags and singing. Over the wide valley below her, with its woodyhills and silver river, floated great cloud-shadows, chasing and chasedby the sun. There were wild roses in the hedges, and perfume in everygust of wind. The summer was at its height, and the fire and sap of itwere running full-tilt in Helena's pulses. 

Far down the winding road she saw at last a man on a motorbicycle--bare-headed, and long-bodied. 

Up he came, and soon was near enough to wave to her, while Helena wasstill scolding her own emotions. When he flung himself off beside her, she saw at once that he had come in an exultant mood expecting triumph. And immediately something perverse in her--or was it merely the oldprimeval instinct of the pursued maiden--set itself to baffle him. 

"Very nice to see you!" she smiled, as she gave him a passive hand--"butwhy aren't you in the Mall?"

"My Sovereign had not expressed any burning desire for my presence. Can'twe go to-night and feed a bonfire?"

"Several, if you like. I have watched the building of three. But itwill rain. "

"That won't matter, " he said joyously. "Nothing will matter!" And againhis ardent look challenged in her the Eternal Feminine. 

"I don't agree. I hate a wet mackintosh dripping into my boots, andCousin Philip won't see any fun in it if it rains. "

He drew up suddenly. 

"Philip!" he said, with a frown of irritation. "What has Philip todo with it?"

"He arrives to-night by the London train. "

He resumed his walk beside her, in silence, pushing his bicycle. Hadshe done it of malice prepense? No--impossible! He had onlytelegraphed his own movements to her late on the previous evening, much too late to make any sudden arrangement with Philip, who wascoming from an Eastern county. 

"He is coming to find out your plans?"

"I suppose so. But I have no plans. "

He stole a look at her. Yes--there was change in her, even since they hadmet last:--a richer, intenser personality, suggested by a newself-mastery. She seemed to him older--and a thought remote. Fears flewthrough him. What had been passing in her mind since he had seen herlast? or in Philip's? Had he been fooled after all by those few wildwords from Peter, which had reached him in Lancashire, bidding him catchhis opportunity, or rue the loss of it for ever?

She saw the effervescence in him die down, and became gracious at once. Especially because they were now in sight of the inn, and of LucyFriend sitting in the little garden beside the road. Geoffrey pulledhimself together, and prepared to play the game that Helena set him, until the afternoon and the walk she could not deny him, should givehim his chance. 

The little meal passed gaily, and after it Lucy Friend watched--notwithout trepidation--Helena's various devices for staving off the crisis. She had two important letters to write; she must go and watch Mr. McCready sketching, as she had promised to do, or the old fellow wouldnever forgive her; and finally she invited the fuming M. P. To fish thepreserved water with her, accompanied by the odd-man as gilly. At thisGeoffrey's patience fairly broke. He faced her, crimson, in the innparlour; forgetting Lucy altogether and standing in front of the door, sothat Lucy could not escape and could only roll herself in a curtain andlook out of the window. 

"I didn't come here to fish, Helena--or to sketch--but simply and solelyto talk to you! And I have come a long way. Suppose we take a walk?"

Helena eyed him. She was a little pale--but composed. 

"At your service. Lead on, Sir Oracle!"

They went out together, Geoffrey taking command, and Lucy watched themdepart, across the foot-bridge, and by a green path that would lead thembefore long to the ferny slopes of the mountain beyond the oak-wood. AsHelena was mounting the bridge, a servant of the inn ran out with atelegram which had just arrived and gave it her. 

Helena peered at the telegram, and then with a dancing smile thrust itinto her pocket without a word. 

Her mood, as they walked on, was now, it seemed, eagerly political. Sheinsisted on hearing his own account of his successful speech in theHouse; she wished to discuss his relations with the Labour party, whichwere at the moment strained, on the question of Coal Nationalization; sheasked for his views on the Austrian Treaty, and on the prospects of theGovernment. He lent himself to her caprice, so long as they were walkingone behind the other through a crowded oak-wood and along a narrow pathwhere she could throw her questions back over her shoulder, herself wellout of reach. But presently they came out on a glorious stretch of fell, clothed with young green fern, and running up into a purple crag fringedwith junipers. Then he sprang to her side, and Helena knew that the hourhad come and the man. There was a flat rock on the slope below the crag, under a group of junipers, and Helena presently found herself sittingthere, peremptorily guided by her companion, and feeling dizzily that shewas beginning to lose control of the situation, as Geoffrey sank downinto the fern beside her. 

"At last!" he said, drawing a long breath--"_At last_!"

He lay looking up at her, his long face working with emotion--the face ofan intellectual, with that deep scar on the temple, where a fragment ofshrapnel had struck him on the first day of the Somme advance. 

"Unkind Helena!" he said, in a low voice that shook--"_unkind Helena_!"

Her lips framed a retort. Then suddenly the tears rushed into her eyes, and she covered them with her hands. 

"I'm not unkind. I'm afraid!"

"Afraid of what?"

"I told you, " she said piteously, "I didn't want to marry--I didn't wantto be bound!"

"And you haven't changed your mind at all?"

She didn't answer. There was silence a moment. Then she said abruptly:

"Do you want to hear secrets, Geoffrey?"

He pondered. 

"I don't know. I expect I guess them. "

"What do you guess?" She lifted a proud face. He touched her handtenderly. 

"I guess that when you came here--you were unhappy?"

Her lip trembled. 

"I was--very unhappy. "

"And now?" he asked, caressing the hand he held. 

"Well, now--I've walked myself back into--into common sense. There!--Ihad it out with myself. I may as well have it out with you! Two monthsago I was a bit in love with Cousin Philip. Now, of course, I love him--Ialways shall love him--but I'm not _in_ love with him!"

"Thank the Lord!" cried French--"since it has been the object of my lifefor much more than two months to persuade you to be in love with me!"

"I don't think I am--yet, " said Helena slowly. 

Her look was strange--half repellent. On both sides indeed there was anote of something else than prosperous love-making. On his, thehaunting doubt lest she had so far given her heart to Philip that fullfruition for himself, that full fruition which youth at its zenithinstinctively claims from love and fortune, could never be his. Onhers, the consciousness, scarcely recognized till now, of a moment ofmental exhaustion caused by mental conflict. She was half indignantthat he should press her, yet aware that she would miss the pressure ifit ceased; while he, believing that his cause was really won, and urgedon by Peter's hints, resented the barriers she would still put upbetween them. 

There was a short silence after her last speech. Then Helena saidsoftly--half laughing:

"You haven't talked philosophy to me, Geoffrey, for such a long time!"

"What's the use?" said Geoffrey, who was lying on his face, his eyescovered by his hands--"I'm not feeling philosophical. "

"All the same, you made me once read half a volume of Bergson. I didn'tunderstand much of it, except that--whatever else he is, he's a greatpoet. And I do know something about poetry! But I remember one sentencevery well--Life--isn't it Life?--is 'an action which is making itself, across an action of the same kind which is unmaking itself. ' And hecompares it to a rocket in a fire-works display rushing up in flamethrough the falling cinders of the dead rockets. "

She paused. 

"Go on--"

"Give the cinders a little time to fall, Geoffrey!" she said in afaltering voice. 

He looked up ardently. 

"Why? It's only the living fire that matters! Darling--let's come toclose quarters. You gave a bit of your warm heart to Philip, and youimagined that it meant much more than it really did. And poor Philip allthe time was determined--cribbed and cabined--by his past, --and now byhis boy. We both know that if he marries anybody it will be CynthiaWelwyn; and that he would be happier and less lonely if he married her. But so long as your life is unsettled he will marry nobody. He remembersthat your mother entrusted you to him in the firm belief that, in hisuncertainty about his wife, he neither could nor would marry anybody. Sothat for these two years, at any rate, he holds himself absolutely boundto his compact with her and you. "

"And the moral of that is--" said Helena, flushing. 

"Marry me!--Nothing simpler. Then the compact falls--and at one strokeyou bring two men into port. "

The conflict of expressions passing through her features showed hershaken. He waited. 

"Very well, Geoffrey--" she said at last, with a long, quivering breath, as though some hostile force rent her and came out. 

"If you want me so much--take me!"

But as she spoke she became aware of the lover in him ready to spring. She drew back instantly from his cry of joy, and his outstretched arms. 

"Ah, but give me time--dear Geoffrey, give me time! You have my word. "

He controlled himself, warned by her agitation, and her pallor. 

"Mayn't we tell Philip--when he comes?"

"Yes, we'll tell Philip--and Lucy--to-night. Not a word!--till then. " Shejumped up--"Are you going to climb that crag before tea? I am!"

She led him breathlessly up its steep side and down again. When theyregained the inn, Geoffrey had not even such a butterfly kiss to rememberas she had once given him in the lime-walk at Beechmark; and Lucy, tryingin her eager affection to solve the puzzle they presented her with, hadsimply to give it up. 

 * * * * *

The day grew wilder. Great flights of clouds came up from the west andfought the sun, and as the afternoon declined, light gusts of rain, succeeded by bursts of sunshine, began to sweep across the oak-woods. Thelandlord of the inn and his sons, who had been mainly responsible forbuilding the great bonfire on Moel Dun, and the farmers in their gigs whostopped at the inn door, began to shake their heads over the prospects ofthe night. Helena, Lucy Friend, and Geoffrey spent the afternoon chieflyin fishing and wandering by the river. Helena clung to Lucy's side, defying her indeed to leave her, and Geoffrey could only submit, andcount the tardy hours. They made tea in a green meadow beside the stream, and immediately afterwards Geoffrey, looking at his watch, announced toMrs. Friend that he proposed to bicycle down to Bettws to meet LordBuntingford. 

Helena came with him to the inn to get his bicycle. They said little toeach other, till, just as he was departing, French bent over to her, asshe stood beside his machine. 

"Do I understand?--I may tell him?"

"Yes. " And then for the first time she smiled upon him; a smile that washeavenly soft and kind; so that he went off in mounting spirits. 

Helena retraced her steps to the river-side, where they had left Lucy. She sat down on a rock by Lucy's side, and instinctively Lucy put downsome knitting she held, and turned an eager face--her soul in her eyes. 

"Lucy--I am engaged to Geoffrey French. "

Lucy laughed and cried; held the bright head in her arms and kissed thecheek that lay upon her shoulder. Helena's eyes too were wet; and in boththere was the memory of that night at Beechmark which had made themsisters rather than friends. 

"And of course, " said Helena--"you'll stay with me for ever. "

But Lucy was far too happy to think of her own future. She had madefriends--real friends--in these three months, after years of loneliness. It seemed to her that was all that mattered. And half guiltily hermemory cherished those astonishing words--"_Mr. Alcott_ and I miss youvery much. "

A drizzling rain had begun when towards eight o'clock they heard thesound of a motor coming up the Bettws road. Lucy retreated into the inn, while Helena stood at the gate waiting. 

Buntingford waved to her as they approached, then jumped out and followedher into the twilight of the inn parlour. 

"My dear Helena!" He put his arm round her shoulder and kissed herheartily. "God bless you!--good luck to you! Geoffrey has given me thebest news I have heard for many a long day. "

"You are pleased?" she said, softly, looking at him. 

He sat down by her, holding her hands, and revealing to her his ownlong-cherished dream of what had now come to pass. "The very day you cameto Beechmark, I wrote to Geoffrey, inviting him. And I saw you by chancethe day after the dance, together, in the lime-walk. " Helena's startalmost drew her hands away. He laughed. "I wasn't eavesdropping, dear, and I heard nothing. But my dream seemed to be coming true, and I wentaway in tip-top spirits--just an hour, I think, before Geoffrey foundthat drawing. "

He released her, with an unconscious sigh, and she was able to see howmuch older he seemed to have grown; the touches of grey in his thickblack hair, and the added wrinkles round his eyes, --those blue eyesthat gave him his romantic look, and were his chief beauty. But heresumed at once:

"Well, now then, the sooner you come back to Beechmark the better. Thinkof the lawyers--the trousseau--the wedding. My dear, you've no time towaste!--nor have I. Geoffrey is an impatient fellow--he always was. "

"And I shall see Arthur?" she asked him gently. 

His look thanked her. But he did not pursue the subject. 

Then Geoffrey and Lucy Friend came in, and there was much talk of plans, and a merry dinner _ŕ quatre_. Afterwards, the rain seemed to havecleared off a little, and through the yellow twilight a thin stream ofpeople, driving or on foot, began to pour past the inn, towards thehills. Helena ran upstairs to put on an oilskin hat and cape over herwhite dress. 

"You're coming to help light the bonfire?" said Geoffrey, addressing Philip. 

Buntingford shook his head. He turned to Lucy. 

"You and I will let the young ones go--won't we? I don't see you climbingMoel Dun in the rain, and I'm getting too old! We'll walk up the road abit, and look at the people as they go by. I daresay we shall see as muchas the other two. "

So the other two climbed, alone and almost in silence. Beside them and infront of them, scattered up and along the twilight fell, were dim groupsof pilgrims bent on the same errand with themselves. It was not much pastnine o'clock, and the evening would have been still light but for thedrizzle of rain and the low-hanging clouds. As it was, those bound forthe beacon-head had a blind climb up the rocks and the grassy slopes thatled to the top. Helena stumbled once or twice, and Geoffrey caught her. Thenceforward he scarcely let her go again. She protested at first, mountaineer that she was; but he took no heed, and presently the warmthof his strong clasp seemed to hypnotize her. She was silent, and let himpull her up. 

On the top was a motley crowd of farmers, labourers and visitors, with aWelsh choir from a neighbouring village, singing hymns and patrioticsongs. The bonfire was to be fired on the stroke of ten, by aneighbouring landowner, whose white head and beard flashed hither andthither through the crowd and the mist, as he gave his orders, andgreeted the old men, farmers and labourers, he had known for a lifetime. The sweet Welsh voices rose in the "Men of Harlech, " "Land of MyFathers, " or in the magnificent "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of theComing of the Lord. " And when the moment arrived, and the white-hairedSquire, with his three chosen men, fired the four corners of thehigh-built pile, out rushed the blaze, flaring up to heaven, defying therain, and throwing its crimson glow on the faces ringed round it. "GodSave the King!" challenged the dark, and then, hand in hand, the crowdmarched round about the pyramid of fire in measured rhythm, while "AuldLang Syne, " sorrowfully sweet, echoed above the haunted mountain-topwhere in the infancy of Britain, Celt and Roman in succession had builttheir camps and reared their watch-towers. And presently from allquarters of the great horizon sprang the answering flames from mountainpeaks that were themselves invisible in the murky night, while they sentforward yet, without fail or break, the great torch-race of victory, leaping on, invincible by rain or dark, far into the clouded north. 

But Geoffrey's eyes could not tear themselves from Helena. He saw herbathed in light, from top to toe, now gold, now scarlet, a fire-goddess, inimitably beautiful. They danced hand in hand, intoxicated by the music, and by the movement of their young swaying bodies. He felt Helenaunconsciously leaning on him, her soft breath on his cheek. Her eyes werehis now, and her smiling lips, just parted over her white teeth, temptedhim beyond his powers of resistance. 

"Come!" he whispered to her, and with a quick turn of the hand he hadswung her out of the fiery circle, and drawn her towards the surroundingdark. A few steps and they were on the mountainside again, while behindthem the top was still aflame, and black forms still danced round thedrooping fire. 

But they were safely curtained by night and the rising storm. After thefirst stage of the descent, suddenly he flung his arms round her, hismouth found hers, and all Helena's youth rushed at last to meet him as hegathered her to his breast. 

"Geoffrey--my Tyrant!--let me go!" she panted. 

"Are you mine--are you mine, at last?--you wild thing!"

"I suppose so--" she said, demurely. "Only, let me breathe!"

She escaped, and he heard her say with low sweet laughter as thoughto herself:

"I seem at any rate to be following my guardian's advice!"

"What advice? Tell me! you darling, tell me everything. I have a rightnow to all your secrets. "

"Some day--perhaps. "

Darkness hid her eyes. Hand in hand they went down the hillside, whilethe Mount of Victory still blazed behind them. 

Philip and Lucy were waiting for them. And then, at last, Helenaremembered her telegram of the afternoon, and read it to a group oflaughing hearers. 

"Right you are. I proposed last night to Jennie Dumbarton. Wedding, October--Await reply. PETER. "

"He shall have his reply, " said Helena. And she wrote it with Geoffreylooking on. 

Not quite twenty-four hours later, Buntingford was walking up throughthe late twilight to Beechmark. After the glad excitement kindled in himby Helena's and Geoffrey's happiness, his spirits had dropped steadilyall the way home. There before him across the park, rose his largebarrack of a house, so empty, but for that frail life which seemed nowpart of his own. 

He walked on, his eyes fixed on the lights in the rooms where his boywas. When he reached the gate into the gardens, a figure came suddenlyout of the shrubbery towards him. 

"Cynthia!"

"Philip! We didn't expect you till to-morrow. "

He turned back with her, inexpressibly comforted by her companionship. The first item in his news was of course the news of Helena's engagement. Cynthia's surprise was great, as she showed; so also was her relief, which she did not show. 

"And the wedding is to be soon?"

"Geoffrey pleads for the first week in September, that they may have timeto get to some favourite places of his in France before Parliament meets. Helena and Mrs. Friend will be here to-morrow. "

After a pause he turned to her, with another note in his voice:

"You have been with Arthur?"

She gave an account of her day. 

"He misses you so. I wanted to make up to him a little. "

"He loves you--so do I!" said Buntingford. "Won't you come and takecharge of us both, dear Cynthia? I owe you so much already--I would do mybest to pay it. "

He took her hand and pressed it. All was said. 

Yet through all her gladness, Cynthia felt the truth of Georgina'sremark--"When he marries it will be for peace--not passion. " Well, shemust accept it. The first-fruits were not for her. With all his chivalryhe would never be able to give her what she had it in her to give him. It was the touch of acid in the sweetness of her lot. But sweet it wasall the same. 

When she told Georgina, her sister broke into a little laugh--admiring, not at all unkind. 

"Cynthia, you are a clever woman! But I must point out that Providencehas given you every chance. "

Peace indeed was the note of Philip's mood that night, as he paced up anddown beside the lake after his solitary dinner. He was, momentarily atleast, at rest, and full of patient hope. His youth was over. He resignedit, with a smile and a sigh; while seeming still to catch the echoes ofit far away, like music in some invisible city that a traveller leavesbehind him in the night. His course lay clear before him. Politics wouldgive him occupation, and through political life power might come to him. But the real task to which he set his most human heart, in this moment ofchange and reconstruction, was to make a woman and a child happy.