It was a glorious June morning; and Beechmark, after the ball, was just
beginning to wake up. Into the June garden, full of sun but gently beaten
by 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 for
the first time in his life. He was now, however, fast asleep in a
garden-chair under a chestnut-tree. Buntingford, in flannels, and as
fresh as though he had slept ten hours instead of three, strolled out
through 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 this
sort of thing a little more plentifully?"
"How much would any man jack of us do if it were always fine?" said
Julian Horne, settling himself luxuriously in a deep and comfortable
chair under a red hawthorn in full bloom. "When the weather makes one
want to hang oneself, then's the moment for immortal works."
"For goodness' sake, don't prate, Julian!" said French, yawning, and
flinging a rose-bud at Horne, which he had just gathered from a
garden-bed at his elbow. "You've had so much more sleep than the rest of
us, 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 knows
what he was doing; for he wasn't asleep. I heard him tubbing at some
unearthly hour in the room next to mine."
"I finished my article about seven a.m.," said Horne tranquilly--"while
you fellows were sleeping off the effects of debauch."
"Brute!" said Geoffrey languidly. Then suddenly, as though he had
remembered 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'll
wait 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 Mary
Chance, who was sitting at an open drawing-room window, with a newspaper
she was far too tired to read on her lap, was annoyed to see the general
eagerness 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. The
rest, after greeting her, subsided again on the grass.
"Poor Peter!" said Helena, in a tone of mock pity, turning her eyes to
the sleeping form under the chestnut. "Have I won, or haven't I? I bet
him 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've
known exceptions. But now, please, silence. Geoffrey says he has
something 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 at
the same moment that she had in her hand the little embroidered bag of
the night before.
"Geoffrey begins."
"Well, it'll thrill you," said Geoffrey slowly, "because there was a spy
among us last night--'takin' notes.'"
And with the heightening touches that every good story-teller bestows
upon a story, he described the vision of the lake--the strange woman's
face, 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, so
that the tarnished gold of its embroidery caught the light.
Buntingford took it from her, and turned it over. Then he opened it, drew
out the handkerchief, and looked at the initials, "'F. M.'" He shook his
head. "Conveys nothing. But you're quite right. That bag has nothing to
do with a village woman--unless she picked it up."
"But the face I saw had nothing to do with a village woman, either," said
French, with conviction. "It was subtle--melancholy--intense--more than
that!--_fierce_, fiercely miserable. I guess that the woman possessing it
would 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 some
one bought at Florence--for I've discovered the address of a shop in
it--Fratelli Cortis, Via Tornabuoni, Firenze. You didn't find that
out, Helena."
He passed the bag to her, pointing out a little printed silk label which
had been sewn into the neck of it. Then Vivian Lodge asked for it and
turned it over.
"Lovely work--and beautiful materials. Ah!--do you see what it is?"--he
held it up--"the Arms of Florence, embroidered in gold and silver
thread. H'm. I suppose, Buntingford, you get some Whitsuntide visitors
in the village?"
"Oh, yes, a few. There's a little pub with one or two decent rooms, and
several cottagers take lodgers. The lady, whoever she was, was scarcely a
person of delicacy."
"She was in that place for an object," said Geoffrey, interrupting him
with some decision. "Of that I feel certain. If she had just lost her
way, and was trespassing--she must have known, I think, that she was
trespassing--why didn't she answer my call and let me put her over the
lake? Of course I should never have seen her at all, but for that
accident of the searchlight."
"The question is," said Buntingford, "how long did she stay there? She
was not under the yews when you saw her?"
"No--just outside."
"Well, then, supposing, to get out of the way of the searchlight, she
found her way in and discovered my seat--how long do you guess she was
there?--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 the
seat; or, if she stayed, on my supposition that she was there for the
purpose of spying, then she probably vanished when she heard our boat
drawn up, and knew that Helena and I were getting out."
"A long sitting!" said Buntingford with a laugh--"four hours. I really
can't construct any reasonable explanation on those lines."
"Why not? Some people have a passion for spying and eavesdropping. If I
were such a person, dumped in a country village with nothing to do, I
think I could have amused myself a good deal last night, in that
observation post. Through that hole I told you of, one could see the
lights and the dancing on the lawn, and watch the boats on the lake. She
could hear the music, and if anyone did happen to be talking secrets just
under the yews, she could have heard every word, quite easily."
Involuntarily he looked at Helena, Helena was looking at the grass. Was
it mere fancy, or was there a sudden pinkness in her cheeks? Buntingford
too 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 what
I can discover about your _Incognita_, Helena. If she is a holiday
visitor, 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 the
cool end of the lake. Peter still slept, looking so innocent and
infantine in his sleep that no one had the heart to wake him. French and
Helena were left together, and were soon driven by the advancing sun to
the deep shade of a lime-avenue, which, starting from the back of the
house, ran for half a mile through the park. Here they were absolutely
alone. Lady Mary's prying eyes were defeated, and Helena incidentally
remarked that Mrs. Friend, being utterly "jacked up," had been bullied
into staying in bed till luncheon.
So that in the green sunflecked shadow of the limes, Geoffrey had--if
Helena so pleased--a longer _tête-à-tête_ before him, and a more generous
opportunity, even, than the gods had given him on the lake. His pulses
leapt; goaded, however, by alternate hope and fear. But at least he had
the chance to probe the situation a little deeper; even if prudence
should ultimately forbid him anything more.
Helena had chosen a wooden seat round one of the finest limes. Some books
brought out for show rather than use, lay beside her. A piece of
knitting--a scarf of a bright greenish yellow--lay on the lap of her
white dress. She had taken off her hat, and Geoffrey was passionately
conscious of the beauty of the brown head resting, as she talked, against
the furrowed trunk of the lime. Her brown-gold hair was dressed in the
new way, close to the head and face, and fastened by some sapphire pins
behind the ear. From this dark frame, and in the half light of the
avenue, the exquisite whiteness of the forehead and neck, the brown eyes,
so marvellously large and brilliant, and yet so delicately finished in
every detail beneath their perfect brows, and the curve of the lips over
the small white teeth, stood out as if they had been painted on ivory by
a miniature-painter of the Renaissance. Her white dress, according to the
prevailing fashion, was almost low--as children's frocks used to be in
the days of our great-grandmothers. It was made with a childish full
bodice, and a childish sash of pale blue held up the rounded breast, that
rose and fell with her breathing, beneath the white muslin. Pale blue
stockings, and a pair of white shoes, with preposterous heels and pointed
toes, completed the picture. The mingling, in the dress, of extreme
simplicity with the cunningest artifice, and the greater daring and _joie
de 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 upon
her--discreetly. Since when had English women grown so beautiful? At all
the weddings and most of the dances he had lately attended, the brides
and the _débutantes_ had seemed to him of a loveliness out of all
proportion to that of their fore-runners in those far-off days before the
war. And when a War Office mission, just before the Armistice, had taken
him to some munition factories in the north, he had been scarcely less
seized by the comeliness of the girl-workers:--the long lines of them in
their blue overalls, and the blue caps that could scarcely restrain the
beauty and wealth of pale yellow or red-gold hair beneath. Is there
something in the rush and flame of war that quickens old powers and
dormant virtues in a race? Better feeding and better wages among the
working-classes--one may mark them down perhaps as factors in this
product of a heightened beauty. But for these exquisite women of the
upper class, is it the pace at which they have lived, unconsciously, for
these five years, that has brought out this bloom and splendour?--and
will it pass as it has come?
Questions of this kind floated through his mind as he lay looking at
Helena, melting rapidly into others much more peremptory and personal.
"Are you soon going up to Town?" he asked her presently. His voice seemed
to startle her. She returned evidently with difficulty from thoughts of
her 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 your
bargain 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 loves
the 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 have
another party for a whole month. Cousin Philip has been treating me like
a 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-ends
and 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 all
sorts of plans for the things we want to do in London in the winter. But
not 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, the
golden 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 never
imagined I should like the country so much. Of course I wish there was
more 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 little
conscious. "Anyway, I'm getting a little education. Mrs. Friend's
brushing up my French--which is vile. And I do some reading every week
for Philip--and some drawing. By the way"--she turned upon her
companion--"do you know his drawings?--they're just ripping! He must have
been an awfully good artist. But I've only just got him to show me his
things. He never talks of them himself."
"I've never seen one. His oldest friends can hardly remember that time in
his life. He seems to want to forget it."
"Well, naturally!" said Helena, with an energy that astonished her
listener; 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 a
bully and a tyrant, wasn't it?"
"Some rubbish like that. Well--I don't want to be maudlin--but I wish to
put it on record that Philip _isn't_ a bully and he _isn't_ a tyrant. He
can 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 I
shall agree with them all. Oh, you may laugh, Geoffrey, but it's quite
true. I'm not a bit crushed. That's the delightful part of it. It's
because he has a genius--yes, a genius--for friendship. I didn't know him
when I came down here--I didn't know him a bit--and I was an idiot. But
one could trust him to the very last."
Her hands lay idly on the bright-coloured knitting, and Geoffrey could
watch the emotion on her face.
"And one is so glad to be his friend!" she went on softly, "because he
has 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 of
her! There isn't a picture of her, of any sort, in the house. He used to
speak of her sometimes, I believe, to mother--of course she never said a
word--but never, never, to anyone else. It's quite clear that he wants to
forget 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 his
elbows, and seemed to be examining the performances of an ant who was
trying 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 she
said, drawing a deep breath:
"Well, at least, I'm glad he's come to like this dear old place--He never
used to care about it in the least."
"That's because you've made it so bright for him," said Geoffrey, finding
a seat on a tree-stump near her, and fumbling for a cigarette. The
praises of Philip were becoming monotonous and a reckless wish to test
his own fate was taking possession of him.
"I haven't!"--said Helena vehemently. "I have asked all sorts of people
down he didn't like--and I've made him live in one perpetual racket. I've
been an odious little beast. But now--perhaps--I shall know better what
he wants."
"Excellent sentiments!" A scoffer looked down upon her through curling
rings 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, would
accommodate you."
Helena flushed angrily.
"He hasn't the smallest intention of proposing to Cynthia. Nobody with
eyes 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 not
very subtle--are you? What you're thinking is that when I call Philip my
friend 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 a
little 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 could
no longer conceal. Their eyes met--Helena's at first resentful, scornful
even--then soft. She too stood up, and put out a pair of protesting
hands--"Please--please, Geoffrey,--_don't_."
"Why not--you angel!" He possessed himself of one of the hands and made
her move with him along the avenue, looking closely into her eyes. "You
must know what I feel! I wanted to speak to you last night, but you
tricked me. I just adore you, Helena! I've got quite good
prospects--I'm getting on in the House of Commons--and I would work for
you day and night!"
"You didn't adore me a month ago!" said Helena, a triumphant little smile
playing about her mouth. "How you lectured me!"
"For you highest good," he said, laughing; though his heart beat to
suffocation. "Just give me a word of hope, Helena! Don't turn me
down, at once."
"Then you mustn't talk nonsense," she said vehemently, withdrawing her
hand. "I don't want to be engaged! I don't want to be married! Why can't
I be let alone?"
Geoffrey had turned a little pale. In the pause that followed he fell
back on a cigarette for consolation. "Why can't you be let alone?" he
said at last. "Why?--because--you're Helena!"
"What a stupid answer!" she said contemptuously. Then, with one of her
quick changes, she came near to him again. "Geoffrey!--it's no good
pressing me--but don't be angry with me, there's a dear. Just be my
friend and help me!"
She put a hand on his arm, and the face that looked into his would have
bewitched a stone.
"That's a very old game, Helena. 'Marry you? Rather not! but you may join
the 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 shall
begin again."
"Well, but not yet!--not for a long time," she pleaded. Then she gave a
little 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 be
free."
"So you said--_à 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 the
deepest shadow of the avenue. No one was visible in all its green length.
They stood ensiled by summer; the great trees mounting guard. Helena
threw 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 to
touch it, she drew away so quickly.
"Now, then, that's quite settled!" she said in her most matter-of-fact
voice. "Such a comfort! Let's go back."
They turned back along the avenue, a rather flushed pair, enjoying each
other's society, and discussing the dance, and their respective partners.
It happened, however, that this little scene--at its most critical
point--had only just escaped a spectator. Philip Buntingford passed
across the further end of the avenue on his way to the Horne Farm, at the
moment when Helena and Geoffrey turned their backs to him, walking
towards the house. They were not aware of him; but he stopped a moment to
watch the young figures disappearing under the green shade. A look of
pleasure was in his blue eyes. It seemed to him that things were going
well in that direction. And he wished them to go well. He had known
Geoffrey since he was a little chap in his first breeches; had watched
him through Winchester and Oxford, had taken as semi-paternal pride in
the young man's distinguished war record, and had helped him with his
election expenses. He himself was intimate with very few of the younger
generation. His companions in the Admiralty work, and certain senior
naval officers with whom that work had made him acquainted:--a certain
intimacy, a certain real friendship had indeed grown up between him and
some of them. But something old and tired in him made the effort of
bridging the gulf between himself and men in their twenties--generally
speaking--too difficult. Or he thought so. The truth was, perhaps, as
Geoffrey had expressed it to Helena, that many of the younger men who had
been brought into close official or business contact with him felt a real
affection for him. Buntingford would have thought it strange that they
should do so, and never for one moment assumed it.
After its languid morning, Beechmark revived with the afternoon. Its
young men guests, whom the Dansworth rioters would probably have classed
as parasites and idlers battening on the toil of the people, had in fact
earned their holiday by a good many months of hard work, whether in the
winding up of the war, or the re-starting of suspended businesses, or the
renewed activities of the bar; and they were taking it whole-heartedly.
Golf, tennis, swimming, and sleep had filled the day, and it was a crowd
in high spirits that gathered round Mrs. Friend for tea on the lawn,
somewhere about five o'clock. Lucy, who had reached that stage of fatigue
the night before when--like Peter Dale, only for different reasons--her
bed became her worst enemy, had scarcely slept a wink, but was
nevertheless presiding gaily over the tea-table. She looked particularly
small and slight in a little dress of thin grey stuff that Helena had
coaxed her to wear in lieu of her perennial black, but there was that
expression in her pretty eyes as of a lifted burden, and a new friendship
with life, which persons in Philip Buntingford's neighbourhood, when they
belonged to the race of the meek and gentle, were apt to put on. Peter
Dale hung about her, distributing tea and cake, and obedient to all her
wishes. More than once in these later weeks he had found, in the dumb
sympathy and understanding of the little widow, something that had been
to him like shadow in the desert. He was known to fame as one of the
smartest young aide-de-camps in the army, and fabulously rich besides.
His invitation cards, carelessly stacked in his Curzon Street rooms, were
a sight to see. But Helena had crushed his manly spirit. Sitting under
the shadow of Mrs. Friend, he liked to watch from a distance the
beautiful and dazzling creature who would have none of him. He was very
sorry for himself; but, all the same, he had had some rattling games of
tennis; the weather was divine, and he could still gaze at Helena; so
that although the world was evil, "the thrushes still sang in it."
Buntingford and Geoffrey were seen walking up from the lake when tea was
nearly over.
All eyes were turned to them.
"Now, then," said Julian Horne--"for the mystery, and its key. What a
pity mysteries are generally such frauds! They can't keep it up. They let
you down when you least expect it."
"Well, what news?" cried Helena, as the two men approached. Buntingford
shook 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 the
direction of the wood, which, however, she had not entered, having
finally changed her course so as to bear towards the Western Lodge and
the allotments.
"That, you will observe, was about ten o'clock," interjected French, "and
I 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 into
the church. She told the woman who was cleaning there that she had come
to look at an old window which was mentioned in her guide-book. The woman
noticed that she stayed some time looking at the monuments in the church,
and the tombs in the Buntingford chantry, which all the visitors go to
see. She ordered some sandwiches at the Rose-and-Crown and got into talk
with the landlord. He says she asked the questions strangers generally do
ask--'Who lived in the neighbourhood?'--If she took a lodging in the
village 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 asked
some questions about the family, and myself--Was I married?--Who was the
heir? etc. Then when she had paid her bill, she enquired the way across
the park to Feetham Station, and said she would have a walk and catch a
six o'clock train back to London. She loved the country, she said--and
liked walking. And that really is--all!"
"Except about her appearance," put in Geoffrey. "The landlord said he
thought she must be an actress, or 'summat o' that sort.' She had such a
strange way of looking at you. But when we asked what that meant, he
scratched his head and couldn't tell us. All that we got out of him was
he 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 her
not to walk to Feetham, but to wait for the five o'clock bus that goes
from the village to the station. But she said she liked walking, and
would find some cool place in the park to sit in--till it was time to
catch the train."
"She was well-dressed, he said," added Buntingford, addressing himself to
Cynthia Welwyn, who sat beside him; "and his description of her hat and
veil, etc., quite agreed with old Stimson's account."
There was a silence, in which everybody seemed to be trying to piece the
evidence together as to the mysterious onlooker of the night, and make a
collected whole of it. Buntingford and Geoffrey were especially
thoughtful and preoccupied. At last the former, after smoking a while
without speaking, got up with the remark that he must see to some letters
before post.
"Oh, no!"--pleaded Helena, intercepting him, and speaking so that he only
should hear. "To-morrow's Whitsunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday. What's
the use of writing letters? Don't you remember--you promised to show me
those 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 said
immediately:
"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, she
too disappeared. The rest of the party were left to discuss with Geoffrey
French the ins and outs of the evidence, and to put up various theories
as to the motives of the woman of the yew trees; an occupation that
lasted them till dressing-time.
Cynthia Welwyn took but little share in it. She was sitting rather apart
from the rest, under a blue parasol which made an attractive combination
with her semi-transparent black dress and the bright gold of her hair. In
reality, her thoughts were busy with quite other matters than the lady of
the yews. It did not seem to her of any real importance that a half-crazy
stranger, attracted by the sounds and sights of the ball, on such a
beautiful night, should have tried to watch it from the lake. The whole
tale was curious, but--to her--irrelevant. The mystery she burned to find
out was nearer home. Was Helena Pitstone falling in love with Philip? And
if so, what was the effect on Philip? Cynthia had not much enjoyed her
dance. The dazzling, the unfair ascendency of youth, as embodied in
Helena, had been rather more galling than usual; and the "sittings out"
she had arranged with Philip during the supper dances had been all
cancelled by her sister's tiresome attack. Julian Horne, who generally
got on with her, chivalrously moved his seat near to her, and tried to
talk. But he found her in a rather dry and caustic mood. The ball had
seemed 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 at
the library door. Helena appeared.
She stood just inside the door, looking absurdly young and childish in
her white frock. But her face was grave.
"I thought just now"--she said, almost timidly,--"that you were bored by
my asking you to show us those things. Are you? Please tell me. I didn't
mean 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 or
two 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, and
the gap in the mountains that leads to Lucca, taken from some high point
above 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 came
too?" She looked up, smiling, at the face above her.
It was the first time she had ever appealed to her childish recollections
of him in any other than a provocative or half-resentful tone. He could
remember a good many tussles with her in her frail mother's interest,
when she was a long-legged, insubordinate child of twelve. And when
Helena first arrived at Beechmark, it had hurt him to realize how
bitterly she remembered such things, how grossly she had exaggerated
them. 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 wild
tulips 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 sitting
posture 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 were
intelligent spectators, and their amazement at the quality and variety of
the 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 when
the half-hour was done he looked at his watch.
"Dressing-time," he said, smiling, holding it out to Helena. She rose at
once. Philip was a delightful artist, but the operations of dressing
were 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, so
sweet, that French, as he silently put the drawings back, felt his
spirits drop to zero. What could have so changed the thorny, insolent
girl of six weeks before--but the one thing? He stole a glance at
Buntingford. Surely he must realize what was happening--and his huge
responsibility--he _must_.
Helena disappeared. Geoffrey volunteered to tie up a portfolio they had
only half examined, while Buntingford finished a letter. While he was
handling it, the portfolio slipped, and a number of drawings fell out
pell-mell upon the floor.
Geoffrey stooped to pick them up. A vehement exclamation startled
Buntingford at his desk.
"What's the matter, Geoffrey?"
"Philip! _That's_ the woman I saw!--that's her face!--I could swear to it
anywhere!"
He pointed with excitement to the drawing of a woman's head and
shoulders, which had fallen out from the very back of the portfolio,
whereof the rotting straps and fastenings showed that it had not been
opened 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_! Of
course. I knew it!"
He dropped into a chair beside Geoffrey, and buried his face in
his hands.
Geoffrey stared at him in silence, a bewildering tumult of ideas and
conjectures rushing through his brain.
Another knock at the door. Buntingford rose automatically, went to the
door, spoke to the servant who had knocked, and came back with a note in
his hand, which he took to the window to read. Then with steps which
seemed to French to waver like those of a man half drunk he went to his
writing-desk, and wrote a reply which he gave to the servant who was
waiting in the passage. He stood a moment thinking, his hand over his
eyes, before he approached his nephew.
"Geoffrey, will you please take my place at dinner to-night? I am going
out. 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."