The drought continued; and under the hot sun the lilacs were already
pyramids of purple, the oaks were nearly in full leaf, and the hawthorns
in the park and along the hedges would soon replace with another white
splendour 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 any
inclination to go to church. Geoffrey French and Helena had escorted the
churchgoers the short way across the park, taking a laughing leave of
them 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 by
talkers. Lord Buntingford was indoors and was reported to have had some
ugly news that morning of a discharged soldiers' riot in a neighbouring
town where he owned a good deal of property. The disturbance had been for
the 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 town
authorities, and take what other "specials" he could gather with him.
"It's not at all a nice business," said Horne, looking up from his long
chair, as Geoffrey French and Helena reappeared. "And if Philip is rung
up, 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," said
Helena in her most confident and peremptory tone.
"The discharged men say that nobody pays any attention to them--and they
mean 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 already
sitting. "What an extraordinary state of mind we're all in! We all want
to burn something. I want to burn the doctors, because some of the
medical boards have been beasts to some of my friends; the soldiers over
at Dansworth want to burn the town, because they haven't been made enough
of; the Triple Alliance want to burn up the country to cook their roast
pig--and as for you, Helena--"
He turned a laughing face upon her--but before she could reply, a
telephone was heard ringing, through the open windows of the house.
"For me, I expect," exclaimed Helena, springing up. She disappeared
within the drawing-room, returning presently, with flushed cheeks, and a
bearing of which Geoffrey French at once guessed the meaning.
"Donald has thrown her over?" he said to himself. "Of course Philip had
the trump card!"
Helena, however, said nothing. She took up a book she had left on the
grass, and withdrew with it to the solitary shelter of a cedar some yards
away. Quiet descended on the lawns. The men smoked or buried themselves
in a sleepy study of the Sunday papers. The old house lay steeped in
sunshine. Occasional bursts of talk arose and died away; a loud cuckoo in
a neighbouring plantation seemed determined to silence all its bird
rivals; while once or twice the hum of an aeroplane overhead awoke even
in the drowsiest listener dim memories of the war.
Helena was only pretending to read. The telephone message which had
reached her had been from Lord Donald's butler--not even from Lord Donald
himself!--and had been to the effect that "his lordship" asked him to say
that he had been obliged to go to Scotland for a fortnight, and was very
sorry he had not been able to answer Miss Pitstone's telegram before
starting. Helena's cheeks were positively smarting under the humiliation
of it. Donald _daring_ to send her a message through a servant, when she
had telegraphed to him! For of course it was all a lie as to his having
left town--one could tell that from the butler's voice. He had been
somehow frightened by Cousin Philip, and was revenging himself by
rudeness to _her_. She seemed to hear "Jim" and his intimates discussing
the situation. Of course it would only amuse them!--everything amused
them!--that Buntingford should have put his foot down. How she had
boasted, both to Jim and to some of his friends, of the attitude she
meant to take up with her guardian during her "imprisonment on parole."
And this was the end of the first bout. Cousin Philip had been easily
master, and instead of making common cause with her against a ridiculous
piece of tyranny, Lord Donald had backed out. He might at least have been
sympathetic and polite--might have come himself to speak to her at the
telephone, instead--
Her blood boiled. How was she going to put up with this life? The irony
of the whole position was insufferable. Geoffrey's ejaculation for
instance when she had invited him to her sitting-room after breakfast
that he might look for a book he had lent her--"My word, Helena, what a
jolly place!--Why, this was the old school-room--I remember it
perfectly--the piggiest, shabbiest old den. And Philip has had it all
done up for you? Didn't know he had so much taste!" And then, Geoffrey's
roguish look at her, expressing the "chaff" he restrained for fear of
offending her. Lucy Friend, too, Captain Lodge, Peter--everybody--no one
had any sympathy with her. And lastly, Donald himself--coward!--had
refused 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 and
responsible being, and not as though she were still a child in the
nursery. "Cousin Philip may have had the right to say he wouldn't have
Jim Donald in his house, if he felt that way--but he had no right
whatever to prevent my meeting him in town, if I chose to meet
him--that's _my_ affair!--that's the point! All these men here are in
league. It's _not_ Jim's character that's in question--I throw Jim's
character to the wolves--it's the freedom of women!"
So the tumult in her surged to and fro, mingled all through with a
certain unwilling preoccupation. That semi-circular bow-window on the
south side of the house, which she commanded from her seat under the
cedar, was one of the windows of the library. Hidden from her by the old
bureau at which he was writing, sat Buntingford at work. She could see
his feet under the bureau, and sometimes the top of his head. Oh, of
course, he had a way with him--a certain magnetism--for the people who
liked him, and whom he liked. Lady Maud, for instance--how well they had
got on at breakfast? Naturally, she thought him adorable. And Lady Maud's
girl. To see Buntingford showing her the butterfly collections in the
library--devoting himself to her--and the little thing blushing and
smiling--it was simply idyllic! And then to contrast the scene with that
other scene, in the same room, the day before!
"Well, now, what am I going to do here--or in town?" she asked herself in
exasperation. "If Cousin Philip and I liked each other it would be
pleasant enough to ride together, to talk and read and argue--his brain's
all right!--with Lucy Friend to fall back upon between whiles--for just
these few weeks, at any rate, before we go to town--and with the
week-ends to help one out. But if we are to be at daggers-drawn--he
determined to boss me--and I equally determined not to be bossed--why,
the thing will be _intolerable_! Hullo!--is that Cynthia Welwyn? She
seems 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's
shady 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 at
various prostrate forms belonging to the male sex that were visible on a
distant slope of the lawn. "But you've heard of the Dansworth
disturbances?--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. There
was bad rioting last night--and a factory burnt down. They say it's begun
again. 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 friends
with this thorny young woman, and to smooth Philip's path for him if she
could. But now face to face with Helena she was conscious that neither
was Philip's ward at all in a forthcoming mood, nor was her own effort
spontaneous or congenial. They were both Buntingford's kinswomen, Helena
on his father's side, Cynthia on his mother's, and had been more or less
acquainted with each other since Helena left the nursery. But there was
nearly twenty years between them, and a critical spirit on both sides.
Conversation very soon languished. An instinctive antagonism that neither
could have explained intelligibly would have been evident to any shrewd
listener. Helena was not long in suspecting that Lady Cynthia was in some
way Buntingford's envoy, and had been sent to make friends, with an
ulterior object; while Cynthia was repelled by the girl's ungracious
manner, 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 been
her mother--and that we have nothing in common!"
The result was that Cynthia was driven into an intimate and possessive
tone 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 us
two. It is so like him. He never forgets us. But indeed he never
forgets anybody."
Helena raised her eyebrows, as though the news astonished her, but she
was 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 so
charming. He's always so considerate for everybody! The day you were
coming, for instance, he thought of nothing but how to get your room
finished 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 looked
instinctively towards the library window, where Buntingford was now
standing with his back to them. No, he couldn't have heard.
"No, never," she said hurriedly, in a low voice. "Nobody ever speaks to
him 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 most
detached tone. "And she was an artist?"
"A very good one, I believe. A man who had seen her in Paris before her
marriage told me long ago--oh, years ago--that she was extraordinarily
clever, 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, with
some vigour.
"No, really?"
The girl's note of interrogation was curiously provoking, and Cynthia
could have shaken her.
Suddenly through the open French windows of the library, a shrill
telephone call rang out. It came from the instrument on Buntingford's
desk, 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 he
stood 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 grouped
round their host, with Helena and Cynthia just behind.
"The Dansworth mob's out of hand," said Buntingford briefly. "They've set
fire to another building, and the police are hard pressed. They want
specials at once. Who'll come? I've just had a most annoying message from
my chauffeur. His wife's been in to say that he's got a
temperature--since eight o'clock this morning--and has gone to bed. She
won'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. Who
can drive?"
"I think I can drive the Renault," said Dale. "I'll go and get it at
once. Hope I shan't kill anybody."
He ran off. The other men looked at each other in perplexity. None of
them knew enough about the business to drive a high-powered car without
serious 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 driven
a 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 the
car outside the town. Horne can go with Dale."
The eyes of the men were on the girl in white--men half humiliated, half
admiring. Helena, radiant, was looking at Buntingford, and at his
reluctant word of assent, she began joyously taking the hat-pins out of
her white lace hat.
"Give me five minutes to change. Lucky I've got my uniform here! Then
I'll go for the car."
Within the five minutes she was in the garage in full uniform, looking
over and tuning up the car, without an unnecessary word. She was the
professional, 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 all
was ready, and she was about to climb into her seat. "Remember I am in
command of the expedition--and for all our sakes there must be no divided
authority. 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 been
rapidly packing. Her delicate little face was very pale, and Buntingford
stooped to reassure her.
"We'll take every care of her. Don't be alarmed. It's always a woman
comes to the rescue, isn't it? We're all ashamed. I shall take some
lessons 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 garage
yard, and flying through the park.
Cynthia, with Mrs. Friend, Lady Maud Luton, and Mrs. Mawson, were left
looking after them. Cynthia's expression was hard to read; she seemed to
be rushing on with the car, watching the face beside Buntingford, the
young hands on the wheel, the keen eyes looking ahead, the play of talk
between them.
"What a splendid creature!" said Lady Maud half-unwillingly, as she and
Cynthia walked back to the lawn. "I'm afraid I don't at all approve of
her 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. Helena
driving Lord Buntingford seemed to her at the top of creation.
"Goose! It wouldn't suit you at all," said the mother, smiling. "Please
take my prayer-book indoors."
The babe went obediently.
The miles ran past. Helena, on her mettle, was driving her best, and
Buntingford had already paid her one or two brief compliments, which she
had taken in silence. Presently they topped a ridge, and there lay
Dansworth in a hollow, a column of smoke gashed with occasional flame
rising 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 hailed
a country cart, full of excited occupants, which was being driven rapidly
towards 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 small
farmer whom Buntingford recognized. "The men in it are just mad--they
don't know what they've done, nor why they've done it. But the soldiers
will be there directly. There's far too few police, and I'm afraid
there's some people hurt. I wouldn't take ladies into the town if I was
you, 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 as
they started again. "We'll stop there."
They ran down the long slope to the town, the smoke carried towards them
by a westerly wind beginning to beat in their faces,--the roar of the
great bonfire in their ears.
Helena drew up at the entrance of a short lane leading to a farm on the
outskirts of the small country town--the centre of an active
furniture-making industry, for which the material lay handy in the large
beechwoods which covered the districts round it. The people of the farm
were all standing outside the house-door, watching the fire and talking.
"You're going to leave me here?" said Helena wistfully, looking at
Buntingford.
"Please. You've brought us splendidly! I'll send Geoffrey back to you as
soon as possible, with instructions."
She drove the car up to the farm. An elderly man came forward with whom
Buntingford made arrangements. The car was to be locked up. "And you'll
take 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't
be anxious about us. We shall get into the market-hall by a back way and
find 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 a
splendid bit of driving!"
"Hear, hear," said Buntingford.
They went off, and Helena was left alone with the farm people, who made
much of her, and poured into her ears more or less coherent accounts of
the rioting and its causes. A few discontented soldiers, an unpopular
factory manager, and a badly-handled strike:--the tale was a common one
throughout England at the moment, and behind and beneath the surface
events lay the heaving of that "tide in the affairs of men," a tide of
change, of restlessness, of revolt, set in motion by the great war.
Helena paced up and down the orchard slope behind the house, watching the
conflagration which was beginning to die down, startled every now and
then by what seemed to be the sound of shots, and once by the rush past
of a squadron of mounted police coming evidently from the big country
town some ten miles away. Hunger asserted itself, and she made a raid on
the hamper in the car, sharing some of its contents with the black-eyed
children of the farm. Every now and then news came from persons passing
along the road, and for a time things seemed to be mending. The police
were getting the upper hand; the Mayor had made a plucky speech to the
crowd in the market-place, with good results; the rioters were wavering;
and the soldiers had been stopped by telephone. Then following hard on
the last rumour came a sudden rush of worse news. A policeman had been
killed--two injured--the rioters had gained a footing in the market-hall,
and driven out both the police and the specials--and after all, the
soldiers had been sent for.
Helena wandered down to the gate of the farm lane opening on the main
road, consumed with restlessness and anxiety. If only they had let her go
with them! Buntingford's last look as he raised his hat to her before
departing, haunted her memory--the appeal in it, the unspoken message.
Might they not, after all, be friends? There seemed to be an exquisite
relaxation 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 have
made some arrests, and Philip believes the thing is over--or I shouldn't
have been allowed to come for you!"
"Why not?" said Helena half-indignantly, as they hurried towards the
barn in which the car had been driven. "Perhaps I might have been of
some 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 Smeaton
Hospital--five miles. He'll go with you. They're badly hurt, I'm
afraid--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, surveying
it thoughtfully. "A doctor too and a nurse."
"Right you are. They've thought of all that. You'll find everything at
the market-hall,--where the two men are."
They drove away together, and into the outer streets of the town, where
now scarcely a soul was to be seen, though as the car passed, the windows
were crowded with heads. Police were everywhere, and the market-place--a
sorry sight of smoky wreck and ruin--was held by a cordon of soldiers,
behind which a crowd still looked on. French, sitting beside her, watched
the erect girl-driver, the excellence of her driving, the brain and skill
she 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 this
adventure--this competent and admirable Helena--with the girl of the
night before. Had the war produced the same dual personality in thousands
of English men and English women?--in the English nation itself?
They drew up at the steps of the market-hall, where a group of persons
were 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 could
drive 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 short
time, the car had been turned as far as possible into an ambulance, and
the wounded men were brought out.
"As gently as you can," said the doctor to Helena. "Are your
springs good?"
"The car's first-rate, and I'll do my best. I've been driving for nearly
a year, up to the other day." She pointed to her badge. The doctor nodded
approval, and he and the nurse took their places. Then Buntingford jumped
into 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 smoking
tumult of the town had vanished from sight and hearing. It had become
already indeed almost incredible, in the glow of the May afternoon,
and amid the hawthorn white of the hedges, the chattering birds that
fled before them, the marvellous green of the fields. Helena drove
with the deftness of a practised hand, avoiding ruts, going softly
over rough places.
"Good!" said Buntingford to her more than once--"that was excellent!"
But the suffering of the men behind overshadowed everything else, and it
was with a big breath of relief that Buntingford at last perceived the
walls of the county hospital rising out of a group of trees in front of
them. 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 hospital
had been warned by telephone, and all preparations had been made. When
the two unconscious men were safely in bed, the Dansworth doctor turned
warmly to Helena:
"I don't know what we should have done without you, Miss Pitstone! But
you 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 do
anything more, can we?"
"Nothing. And here's the matron with a message."
The message was from the mayor of Dansworth. "Situation well in hand. No
more trouble feared. Best thanks."
"All right!" said Buntingford. He turned smiling to Helena. "Now we'll go
home and get some dinner!"
The Dansworth doctor and nurse remained behind. Once more Buntingford got
into the car beside his ward.
"What an ass I am!" he said, in disgust--"not to be able to drive the
car. 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 so
patiently--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 had
been there. A policeman was killed just beside us. There was a man with a
revolver 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 terrible
business. 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 she
had never yet seen there.