Mrs. Friend was sitting in the bow-window of the "Fisherman's Rest," a
small Welsh inn in the heart of Snowdonia. The window was open, and a
smell 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 and
foaming after rain, was dashing over a rocky bed towards some rapids
which closed the view. The stream was crossed by a little bridge, and
beyond it rose a hill covered with oak-wood. Above the oak-wood and along
the road to the right--mountain forms, deep blue and purple, were
emerging from the mists which had shrouded them all day. The sun
was breaking through. A fierce northwest wind which had been tearing the
young leaf of the oak-woods all day, and strewing it abroad, had just
died away. Peace was returning, and light. The figure of Helena had just
disappeared through the oak-wood; Lucy would follow her later.
Behind Mrs. Friend, the walls of the inn parlour were covered deep in
sketches of the surrounding scenery--both oil and water-colour, bad and
good, 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, badly
moth-eaten, a book-case containing some battered books mostly about
fishing, and a large Visitors' Book lying on a centre-table, between a
Bradshaw and an old guide-book. Shut up, in winter, the little room would
smell intolerably close and musty. But with the windows open, and a rainy
sun streaming in, it spoke pleasantly of holidays for plain hard-working
folk, and of that "passion for the beauty flown," which distils, from the
summer hours of rest, strength for the winter to come.
Lucy had let Helena go out alone, of set purpose. For she knew, or
guessed, what Nature and Earth had done for Helena during the month they
had passed together in this mountain-land, since that night at Beechmark.
Helena had made no moan--revealed nothing. Only a certain paleness in her
bright cheek, a certain dreamy habit that Lucy had not before noticed in
her; a restlessness at night which the thin partitions of the old inn
sometimes made audible, betrayed that the youth in her was fighting its
first suffering, and fighting to win. Lucy had never dared to
speak--still less to pity. But her love was always at hand, and Helena
had repaid it, and the silence it dictated, with an answering love. Lucy
believed--though with trembling--that the worst was now over, and that
new horizons were opening on the stout soul that had earned them. But
now, as before, she held her peace.
Her diary lay on her lap, and she was thoughtfully turning it over. It
contained nothing but the barest entries of facts. But they meant a good
deal to her, as she looked through them. Every letter, for instance, from
Beechmark had been noted. Lord Buntingford had written three times to
Helena, and twice to herself. She had seen Helena's letters; and Helena
had read hers. It seemed to her that Helena had deliberately shown her
own; that the act was part of the conflict which Lucy guessed at, but
must not comment on, by word or look. All the letters were the true
expression of the man. The first, in which he described in words, few;
but singularly poignant, the death of his wife, his recognition of his
son, and the faint beginnings of hope for the boy's maimed life, had
forced tears from Lucy. Helena had read it dry-eyed. But for several
hours 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 of
thinking, rather cruelly brief; at least after the first letter written
in her own room, and posted by herself. Thenceforward, only a few
post-cards, laid with Lucy's letters, for her or any one else to read, if
they chose. And meanwhile Lucy was tolerably sure that she was slowly but
resolutely making her own plans for the months ahead.
The little diary contained also the entry of Geoffrey French's visit--a
long week-end, during which as far as Lucy could remember, Helena and he
had never ceased "chaffing" from morning till night, and Helena had
certainly never given him any opportunity for love-making. She, Lucy, had
had a few short moments alone with him, moments in which his gaiety had
dropped from him, like a ragged cloak, and a despondent word or two had
given her a glimpse of the lover he was not permitted to be, beneath the
role of friend he was tired of playing. He was coming again soon. Helena
had neither invited nor repelled him. Whereas she had peremptorily bidden
Peter Dale for this particular Sunday, and he had thrown over half a
dozen 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 ancient
wide-awake, carrying a portfolio and a camp-stool. He had stopped in his
walk outside the open window, and his disappointed look searched the inn
parlour for a person who was not there.
"Oh, Mr. McCready, I'm so sorry!--but Miss Pitstone is out, and I don't
know when she will be back."
The artist undid his portfolio, and laid a half-finished sketch--a sketch
of Helena's--on the window-sill.
"Will you kindly give her this? I have corrected it--made some notes on
the side. Do you think Miss Helena will be likely to be sketching
to-morrow?"
"I'm afraid I can't promise for her. She seems to like walking better
than anything else just now."
"Yes, she's a splendid walker," said the old man, with a sigh. "I envy
her strength. Well, if she wants me, she knows where to find me--just
beyond 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 the
river. Her quick pity went with him, for she herself knew well what it
meant to be solitary and neglected. He seldom sold a picture, and nobody
knew what he lived on. The few lessons he had given Helena had been as a
golden gleam in a very grey day. But alack, Helena had soon tired of her
lessons, 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 the
books the young Welsh-speaking curate of the little mountain church near
by 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 as
before. She was neither to be held nor bound. Attempt to lay any fetter
upon her--of hours, or habit--and she was gone; into the heart of the
mountains where no one could follow her. Lucy would often compare with it
the eager docility of those last weeks at Beechmark.
* * * * *
Helena's walk had taken her through the dripping oak-wood and over the
crest of the hill to a ravine beyond, where the river, swollen now by the
abundant rains which had made an end of weeks of drought, ran, noisily
full, between two steep banks of mossy crag. From the crag, oaks hung
over the water, at fantastic angles, holding on, as it seemed, by one
foot and springing from the rock itself; while delicate rock plants, and
fern fringed every ledge down to the water. A seat on the twisted roots
of an overhanging oak, from which, to either side, a little green path,
as though marked for pacing, ran along the stream, was one of her
favourite haunts. From up-stream a mountain peak now kerchiefed in wisps
of sunlit cloud peered in upon her. Above it, a lake of purest blue from
which the wind, which had brought them, was now chasing the clouds; and
everywhere the glory of the returning sun, striking the oaks to gold, and
flinging 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 wherever
she hid herself. This spot was dear to her, as those places where life
has consciously grown to a nobler stature are dear to men and women. It
was here that within twenty-four hours of her last words with Philip
Buntingford, she had sat wrestling with something which threatened vital
forces in her that her will consciously, desperately, set itself to
maintain. Through her whole ripened being, the passion of that inner
debate 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 I
want--when others go bare? Philip went bare for years. He endured--and
suffered. Why not I?
"But it is worse for me--who am young! I have a right to give way to what
I 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. She
must _never_ let feeling--pain--destroy her will! Everything depends upon
her will. If I choose I _can_ put this feeling down. I have no right to
it. 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. It
shan't darken my life. I will--and can master it. There is so much still
to learn, to do, to feel. I must wrench myself free--and go forward. How
I 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 the
same. I didn't know--how could I know?--that the test was so near. If
women are to play a greater and grander part in the world, they must be
much, much greater in soul, firmer in will.
"Yet--I must cry a little. No one could forbid me that. But it must be
over soon."
Then the letters from Beechmark had begun to arrive, each of them
bringing its own salutary smart as part of a general cautery. No guardian
could write more kindly, more considerately. But it was easy to see that
Philip's whole being was, and would be, concentrated on his unfortunate
son. And in that ministry Cynthia Welwyn was his natural partner, had
indeed 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, that
was natural. Shouldn't I have done the same? Why should I feel like a
jealous beast, because Cynthia has had her chance, and taken it? I won't
feel like this! It's vile!--it's degrading! Only I wish Cynthia was
bigger, more generous--because he'll find it out some day. She'll never
like me, just because he cares for me--or did. I mean, as my guardian, or
an elder brother. For it was never--no never!--anything else. So when she
comes in at the front door, I shall go out at the back. I shall have to
give 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 I
think.
"It's wonderful about the boy. I envy Cynthia--I can't help it. I would
have given my whole life to it. I would have been trained--perhaps
abroad. No one should have taught him but me. But then--if Philip had
loved me--only that was never possible!--he would have been jealous of
the boy--and I should have lost him. I never do things in moderation. I
go 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 an
incredible beauty on wood and river. The intoxication of it ran through
Helena's veins. For she possessed in perfection that earth-sense, that
passionate sense of kinship, kinship both of the senses and the spirit,
with the eternal beauty of the natural world, which the gods implant in a
blest 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, a
child of five, who had evidently lost his footing on the green bank above
the crag which faced her, and was sliding down, unable to help himself,
towards the point where nothing could prevent his falling headlong into
the stream below. The bank, however, was not wholly bare. There were some
thin 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 was
already a stalwart little mountaineer, accustomed to trot over the fells
after his father's sheep, and the physical instinct in his, sturdy limbs
saved him. He caught a jutting root, held on, and gradually dragged
himself up to the cushion of moss from which the tree grew, sitting
astride the root, and clasping the tree with both arms. The position was
still 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. But
before she could reach it, she saw the lad's father, cautiously
descending the bank, helped by a rope tied to an oak tree at the top. He
reached the child, tied the rope to the stem of the tree where the little
fellow was sitting, and then with the boy under one arm and hauling on
the rope with the other hand, he made his way up the few perilous yards
that divided them from safety. At the top he relieved his parental
feelings by a good deal of smacking and scolding. For Bobby was a
notorious "limb," the terror of his mother and the inn generally. He
roared vociferously under the smacking. But when Helena arrived on the
scene, he stopped at once, and put out a slim red tongue at her. Helena
laughed, 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 her
knees, staring at the bank opposite.
"I very nearly slipped in!--like Bobby--but not quite. I'm sound--though
bruised. No desperate harm done." She drew a long breath--laughing to
herself--though her eyes were rather wet. "Well, now, then--what am I
going to do? I'm not going into a convent. I don't think I'm even going
to college. I'm going to take my guardian's advice. 'Marry--my dear
child--and bring up children.' 'Marry?'--Very well!"--she sprang to her
feet--"I shall marry!--that's settled. As to the children--that remains
to be seen!"
And with her hands behind her, she paced the little path, in a strange
excitement and exaltation. Presently from the tower of the little church,
half a mile down the river, a bell began to strike the hour. "Six
o'clock!--Peter will be here directly. Now, _he's_ got to be
lectured--for his good. I'm tired of lecturing myself. It's somebody
else's turn--"
And taking a letter from her pocket, she read and pondered it with
smiling eyes. "Peter will think I'm a witch. Dear old Peter! ... Hullo!"
For the sound of her name, shouted by some one still invisible, caught
her ear. She shouted back, and in another minute the boyish form of
Peter Dale emerged among the oaks above her. Three leaps, and he was
at her side.
"I say, Helena, this is jolly! You were a brick to write. How I got
here I'm sure I don't know. I seem to have broken every rule, and
put everybody out. My boss will sack me, I expect. Never mind!--I'd
do it again!"
And dropping to a seat beside her, on a fallen branch that had somehow
escaped the deluge of the day, he feasted his eyes upon her. She had
clambered back into her seat, and taken off her water-proof hat. Her hair
was tumbling about her ears, and her bright cheeks were moist with rain,
or rather with the intermittent showers that the wind shook every now and
then from the still dripping oak trees above her. Peter thought her
lovelier than ever--a wood-nymph, half divine. Yet, obscurely, he felt a
change in her, from the beginning of their talk. Why had she sent for
him? The wildest notions had possessed him, ever since her letter reached
him. Yet, now that he saw her, they seemed to float away from him, like
thistle-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 used
to getting all you want, I know--but you wouldn't have ordered me up
from Town--twelve hours in a beastly train--packed like sardines--just
to tell me that."
Helena looked at him thoughtfully. She began to eat some unripe
bilberries which she had gathered from the bank beside her, and they made
little 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 dances
lately, Peter?"
"You bet!" The young Adonis shrugged his shoulders. "I seem to have been
through 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 were
you making fools of--including your humble servant--before you went down
to Beechmark? You have no conscience, Helena! You are the 'Belle Dame
sans 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!" said
Helena, with vigour. Peter hesitated, and Helena at once pursued her
advantage.
"Let's talk of something more to the point. I'm told, Peter, that
you've been paying great attentions--marked attentions--to a very
nice girl--that everybody's talking about it,--and that you ought
long ago either to have fixed it up,--or cleared out. What do you say
to that, Peter?"
Peter flushed.
"I suppose you mean--Jenny Dumbarton," he said slowly. "Of course, she's
a very dear, pretty, little thing. But do you know why I first took to
her?" He looked defiantly at his companion.
"No."
"Because--she's rather like you. She's your colour--she has your
hair--she's a way with her that's something like you. When I'm dancing
with 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 cry
of 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-cut
face the sudden intensity of expression compelled her--held her
guiltily silent.
"Once more, Helena"--he said, in a voice that shook--"is there no
chance for me?"
"No, no, dear Peter!" she cried, stretching out her hands to him. "Oh, I
thought that was all over. I sent for you because I wanted just to say to
you--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 a
warm 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 moss
at his feet, poking at it with his stick.
"What makes you think I've been breaking Jenny's heart?" he said at last
in another voice.
"Some of your friends, Peter, yours and mine--have been writing to
me. She's--she's very fond of you, they say, and lately she's been
looking a little limp ghost--all along of you, Mr. Peter! What have
you been doing?"
"What any other man in my position would have been doing--wishing
to Heaven I knew _what_ to do!" said Peter, still poking vigorously
at the moss.
Helena bent forward from the oak tree, and just whispered--"Go back
to-morrow, Peter,--and propose to Jenny Dumbarton!"
Peter could not trust himself to look up at what he knew must be the
smiling seduction of her eyes and lips. He was silent; and Helena
withdrew--dryad-like--into the hollow made by the intertwined stems of
the 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, looking
very manly, and rather pale.
"Having disposed of me for the last six months--you may as well dispose
of me altogether," he said slowly. "Very well--I will go--and propose
to Jenny Dumbarton---the day after to-morrow. Her people asked me for
the week-end. I gave a shuffling answer. I'll wire to her to-morrow
that 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'll
be very good to her, Peter?"
She looked at him searchingly, stirred by one of the sudden tremors that
beset 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 number
of times you've refused me. But she knows quite enough. She'll take
me--if she does take me--with her eyes open. Well, now that's
settled!--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 of
how 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 is
all bust up. Philip's got an idiot-boy to look after--with Cynthia Welwyn
in 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 little
chaperon. I can roam the world where I please--without making any
scandals."
"You'll always make scandals--"
"_Scandals_, Peter!" protested Helena.
"Well, victories, wherever you go--unless somebody has you pretty tightly
in 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 ran
from 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 tiptoe
for a flight."
"It's time for supper, Peter. Mrs. Friend will think we're drowned. And I
caught 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 read
poetry. I have some money in the bank; and Cousin Philip will let me
do what I like with it. Lastly--I have another month in which to make
up 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 more
important than that--before long. I happened to be--in the Gallery of the
House of Commons yesterday--"
"Improving your mind?"
"Listening to a lot of wild men talking rot about the army. But there was
one man who didn't talk rot, though I agreed with scarcely a thing he
said. But then he's a Labour man--or thinks he is--and I know that I'm a
Tory--as blue as you make 'em. Anyway I'm perfectly certain you'd have
liked to be there, Miss Helena!"
"Geoffrey?" said Helena coolly.
"Right you are. Well, I can tell you he made a ripping success! The man
next to me in the gallery, who seemed to have been born and bred
there--knew everybody and everything--and got as much fun out of it as I
do out of 'Chu-Chin-Chow'--he told me it was the first time Geoffrey had
really got what he called the 'ear of the House'--it was pretty full
too!--and that he was certain to get on--office, and all that kind of
thing--if he stuck to it. He certainly did it jolly well. He made even an
ignorant 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 of
mine--nice old boy--who's sat for a Yorkshire constituency for about a
hundred 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 suppose
you must climb. Now, then, Helena!--if you won't take a man like me whom
you can run--take a man like Geoffrey who can run you--and make you jolly
happy all the same! There--I can give advice too, you see--and you've no
right to be offended!"
Helena could not keep her features still. Her eyes shot fire, though of
what kind the fire might be Peter was not quite sure. The two young
creatures faced each other. There was laughter in each face, but
something else; something strenuous, tragic even; as though "Life at its
grindstone set" had been at work on the radiant pair, evoking the
Meredithian 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 slipped
past him, and was flying through the wood, homeward, looking back to mock
him, as he sped after her in vain.
CHAPTER XVI
A week had passed. Mrs. Friend at ten o'clock in the morning had just
been having a heart to heart talk with the landlady of the inn on the
subject of a decent luncheon for three persons, and a passable dinner for
four. 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, when
any guest was expected, was not a happy one. It was a difficult thing
indeed to get anything said or settled at all; since the five-year old
Bobby was generally scrimmaging round, capturing his mother's broom and
threatening 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 his
small sister, aged eight weeks; and had only that morning, while his
mother's back was turned, taken the baby out of her cradle, run down a
steep 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 been
provoked to smacking, and the inn had been filled with howls and
roarings, which deadened even the thunder of the swollen stream outside.
Then Helena, her fingers in her ears, had made a violent descent upon the
kitchen, and carried off the "limb" to the river, where, being given
something to do in the shape of damming up a brook that ran into the main
stream, he had suddenly developed angelic qualities, and tied himself to
Helena's skirts.
There they both were, on the river's pebbly bank, within hail, Helena in
a short white skirt with a green jersey and cap. She was alternately
helping Bobby to build the dam, and lying with her hands beneath her
head, under the shelter of the bank. Moderately fine weather had
returned, and the Welsh farmer had once more begun to hope that after all
he might get in his oats. The morning sun sparkled on the river, on the
freshly washed oak-woods, and on Bobby's bare curly head, as he sat
busily playing beside Helena.
What was Helena thinking of? Lucy Friend would have given a good deal to
know. On the little table before Lucy lay two telegrams: one signed
"Geoffrey" announced that he would reach Bettws station by twelve, and
the "Fisherman's Rest" about half an hour later. The other announced the
arrival of Lord Buntingford by the evening train. Lord Buntingford's
visit had been arranged two or three days before; and Mrs. Friend wished
it 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 this
primitive corner of Wales. And both he and Geoffrey were leaving historic
scenes behind them in order to spend these few hours with Helena. For
this was Peace Day, when the victorious generals and troops of the
Empire, and the Empire's allies, were to salute England's king amid the
multitudes of London, in solemn and visible proof that the long nightmare
of the war had found its end. Buntingford had naturally no heart for
pageants; but Helena had been astonished by Geoffrey's telegram, which
had arrived the night before from the Lancashire town he represented in
Parliament. As an M.P. he ought surely to have been playing his part in
the great show. Moreover, she had not expected him so soon, and she had
done nothing to hurry his coming. His telegram had brought a great flush
of colour into her face. But she made no other sign.
"Oh, well, we can take them out to see bonfires!" she had said, putting
on her most careless air, and had then dismissed the subject. For that
night the hills of the north were to run their fiery message through the
land, blazoning a greater victory than Drake's; and Helena, who had by
now made close friends with the mountains, had long since decided on the
best points of view.
Since then Lucy had received no confidences, and asked no questions. A
letter had reached her, however; by the morning's post, from Miss Alcott,
giving an account of the situation at Beechmark, of the removal of the
boy to his father's house, and of the progress that had been made in
awakening his intelligence and fortifying his bodily health.
"It is wonderful to see the progress he has made--so far, entirely
through imitation and handwork. He begins to have some notion of counting
and numbers--he has learnt to crochet and thread beads---poor little lad
of fifteen!--he has built not only a tower but something like a house, of
bricks--and now his enthusiastic teacher is attempting to teach him the
first rudiments of speech, in this wonderful modern way--lip-reading and
the like. He has been under training for about six weeks, and certainly
the results are most promising. I believe his mother protested to Lord
Buntingford that he had not been neglected. Nobody can believe her, who
sees now what has been done. Apparently a brain-surgeon in Naples was
consulted as to the possibility of an operation. But when that was
dropped, nothing else was ever tried, no training was attempted, and the
child 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 of
him, and came positively to hate the sight of him.
"But the tragic thing is that as his mind develops, his body seems to
weaken. Food, special exercise, massage--poor Lord Buntingford has been
trying everything--but with small result. It is pitiful to see him
watching the child, and hanging on the doctors. 'Shall we stop all the
teaching?' he said to John the other day in despair--'my first object is
that 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 step
follows another, and the door opens a little wider for his poor prisoned
soul. He adores his father, and will sit beside him, stroking his silky
beard, with his tiny fingers, and looking at him with his large pathetic
eyes ... They have taken him to Beechmark, as you know, and given him a
set of rooms, where he and his wonderful little teacher, Miss
Denison--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 course
she goes over to Beechmark a good deal, but it is not the same as
having him under her own roof. And she was so good to him! She looks
tired of late, and rather depressed. I wonder if her dragoon of a
sister has been worrying her. Of course Lady Georgina is enchanted to
have got rid of Arthur.
"I am very glad to hear Lord Buntingford is going to Wales. Miss Pitstone
has been evidently a great deal on his mind. He said to John the other
day that he had arranged everything at Beechmark so that, when you and
she came back, he did not think you would find Arthur in the way. The
boy's rooms are in a separate wing, and would not interfere at all with
visitors. I said to him once that I was sure Miss Helena would be very
fond of the little fellow. But he frowned and looked distressed. 'I
should scarcely allow her to see him,' he said. I asked why. 'Because a
young girl ought to be protected from anything irremediably sad. Life
should be always bright for her. And I can still make it bright for
Helena--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. Her
modest ministrations in the parish and the school had amply earned it.
But it amazed her that anyone should attach any value to them. And that
Mr. Alcott should miss her--why, it was ridiculous!
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Helena, returning to the
inn along the river bank, with Bobby clinging to her skirt.
"Take him in tow, please," said Helena through the window. "I am going to
walk a little way to meet Geoffrey."
Bobby's chubby hand held her so firmly that he could only be detached
from her by main force. He was left howling in Mrs. Friend's grasp, till
Helena, 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 stepped
on. She had never held herself so erect; never felt so conscious of an
intense and boundless vitality. Yet she was quite uncertain as to what
the next few hours would bring her. Peter had given a hint--that she was
sure; and she was now, it seemed, to be wooed in earnest. On Geoffrey's
former visit, she had teased him so continuously, and put so many petty
obstacles of all kinds in his way, that he had finally taken his cue from
her, and they had parted, in a last whirlwind of "chaff," but secretly
angry, with each other or themselves.
"He might have held out a little longer," thought Helena. "When shall I
ever 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 fluttering
out. Groups of school children were scattered along the road, waving
little flags and singing. Over the wide valley below her, with its woody
hills and silver river, floated great cloud-shadows, chasing and chased
by the sun. There were wild roses in the hedges, and perfume in every
gust of wind. The summer was at its height, and the fire and sap of it
were running full-tilt in Helena's pulses.
Far down the winding road she saw at last a man on a motor
bicycle--bare-headed, and long-bodied.
Up he came, and soon was near enough to wave to her, while Helena was
still 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 old
primeval instinct of the pursued maiden--set itself to baffle him.
"Very nice to see you!" she smiled, as she gave him a passive hand--"but
why aren't you in the Mall?"
"My Sovereign had not expressed any burning desire for my presence. Can't
we go to-night and feed a bonfire?"
"Several, if you like. I have watched the building of three. But it
will rain."
"That won't matter," he said joyously. "Nothing will matter!" And again
his ardent look challenged in her the Eternal Feminine.
"I don't agree. I hate a wet mackintosh dripping into my boots, and
Cousin 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 to
do with it?"
"He arrives to-night by the London train."
He resumed his walk beside her, in silence, pushing his bicycle. Had
she done it of malice prepense? No--impossible! He had only
telegraphed his own movements to her late on the previous evening,
much too late to make any sudden arrangement with Philip, who was
coming 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 had
met last:--a richer, intenser personality, suggested by a new
self-mastery. She seemed to him older--and a thought remote. Fears flew
through him. What had been passing in her mind since he had seen her
last? or in Philip's? Had he been fooled after all by those few wild
words from Peter, which had reached him in Lancashire, bidding him catch
his 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 Lucy
Friend sitting in the little garden beside the road. Geoffrey pulled
himself together, and prepared to play the game that Helena set him,
until the afternoon and the walk she could not deny him, should give
him his chance.
The little meal passed gaily, and after it Lucy Friend watched--not
without 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 would
never forgive her; and finally she invited the fuming M.P. to fish the
preserved water with her, accompanied by the odd-man as gilly. At this
Geoffrey's patience fairly broke. He faced her, crimson, in the inn
parlour; forgetting Lucy altogether and standing in front of the door, so
that Lucy could not escape and could only roll herself in a curtain and
look out of the window.
"I didn't come here to fish, Helena--or to sketch--but simply and solely
to 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 them
depart, across the foot-bridge, and by a green path that would lead them
before long to the ferny slopes of the mountain beyond the oak-wood. As
Helena was mounting the bridge, a servant of the inn ran out with a
telegram which had just arrived and gave it her.
Helena peered at the telegram, and then with a dancing smile thrust it
into her pocket without a word.
Her mood, as they walked on, was now, it seemed, eagerly political. She
insisted on hearing his own account of his successful speech in the
House; she wished to discuss his relations with the Labour party, which
were at the moment strained, on the question of Coal Nationalization; she
asked for his views on the Austrian Treaty, and on the prospects of the
Government. He lent himself to her caprice, so long as they were walking
one behind the other through a crowded oak-wood and along a narrow path
where she could throw her questions back over her shoulder, herself well
out 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 fringed
with junipers. Then he sprang to her side, and Helena knew that the hour
had 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 sitting
there, peremptorily guided by her companion, and feeling dizzily that she
was beginning to lose control of the situation, as Geoffrey sank down
into 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 of
an intellectual, with that deep scar on the temple, where a fragment of
shrapnel 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 want
to 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 hand
tenderly.
"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!--I
had it out with myself. I may as well have it out with you! Two months
ago I was a bit in love with Cousin Philip. Now, of course, I love him--I
always shall love him--but I'm not _in_ love with him!"
"Thank the Lord!" cried French--"since it has been the object of my life
for 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 a
note of something else than prosperous love-making. On his, the
haunting doubt lest she had so far given her heart to Philip that full
fruition for himself, that full fruition which youth at its zenith
instinctively claims from love and fortune, could never be his. On
hers, the consciousness, scarcely recognized till now, of a moment of
mental exhaustion caused by mental conflict. She was half indignant
that he should press her, yet aware that she would miss the pressure if
it ceased; while he, believing that his cause was really won, and urged
on by Peter's hints, resented the barriers she would still put up
between them.
There was a short silence after her last speech. Then Helena said
softly--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 eyes
covered by his hands--"I'm not feeling philosophical."
"All the same, you made me once read half a volume of Bergson. I didn't
understand much of it, except that--whatever else he is, he's a great
poet. And I do know something about poetry! But I remember one sentence
very 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 he
compares it to a rocket in a fire-works display rushing up in flame
through the falling cinders of the dead rockets."
She paused.
"Go on--"
"Give the cinders a little time to fall, Geoffrey!" she said in a
faltering voice.
He looked up ardently.
"Why? It's only the living fire that matters! Darling--let's come to
close quarters. You gave a bit of your warm heart to Philip, and you
imagined that it meant much more than it really did. And poor Philip all
the time was determined--cribbed and cabined--by his past,--and now by
his boy. We both know that if he marries anybody it will be Cynthia
Welwyn; 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 remembers
that your mother entrusted you to him in the firm belief that, in his
uncertainty about his wife, he neither could nor would marry anybody. So
that for these two years, at any rate, he holds himself absolutely bound
to 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 stroke
you bring two men into port."
The conflict of expressions passing through her features showed her
shaken. 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." She
jumped up--"Are you going to climb that crag before tea? I am!"
She led him breathlessly up its steep side and down again. When they
regained the inn, Geoffrey had not even such a butterfly kiss to remember
as she had once given him in the lime-walk at Beechmark; and Lucy, trying
in her eager affection to solve the puzzle they presented her with, had
simply to give it up.
* * * * *
The day grew wilder. Great flights of clouds came up from the west and
fought the sun, and as the afternoon declined, light gusts of rain,
succeeded by bursts of sunshine, began to sweep across the oak-woods. The
landlord of the inn and his sons, who had been mainly responsible for
building the great bonfire on Moel Dun, and the farmers in their gigs who
stopped at the inn door, began to shake their heads over the prospects of
the night. Helena, Lucy Friend, and Geoffrey spent the afternoon chiefly
in fishing and wandering by the river. Helena clung to Lucy's side,
defying her indeed to leave her, and Geoffrey could only submit, and
count the tardy hours. They made tea in a green meadow beside the stream,
and immediately afterwards Geoffrey, looking at his watch, announced to
Mrs. Friend that he proposed to bicycle down to Bettws to meet Lord
Buntingford.
Helena came with him to the inn to get his bicycle. They said little to
each other, till, just as he was departing, French bent over to her, as
she 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 was
heavenly 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 down
some 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 the
cheek that lay upon her shoulder. Helena's eyes too were wet; and in both
there was the memory of that night at Beechmark which had made them
sisters 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 made
friends--real friends--in these three months, after years of loneliness.
It seemed to her that was all that mattered. And half guiltily her
memory cherished those astonishing words--"_Mr. Alcott_ and I miss you
very much."
A drizzling rain had begun when towards eight o'clock they heard the
sound 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 followed
her into the twilight of the inn parlour.
"My dear Helena!" He put his arm round her shoulder and kissed her
heartily. "God bless you!--good luck to you! Geoffrey has given me the
best 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 own
long-cherished dream of what had now come to pass. "The very day you came
to Beechmark, I wrote to Geoffrey, inviting him. And I saw you by chance
the day after the dance, together, in the lime-walk." Helena's start
almost 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 went
away in tip-top spirits--just an hour, I think, before Geoffrey found
that drawing."
He released her, with an unconscious sigh, and she was able to see how
much older he seemed to have grown; the touches of grey in his thick
black hair, and the added wrinkles round his eyes,--those blue eyes
that gave him his romantic look, and were his chief beauty. But he
resumed at once:
"Well, now then, the sooner you come back to Beechmark the better. Think
of the lawyers--the trousseau--the wedding. My dear, you've no time to
waste!--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 _à quatre_. Afterwards, the rain seemed to have
cleared off a little, and through the yellow twilight a thin stream of
people, driving or on foot, began to pour past the inn, towards the
hills. Helena ran upstairs to put on an oilskin hat and cape over her
white 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 climbing
Moel Dun in the rain, and I'm getting too old! We'll walk up the road a
bit, and look at the people as they go by. I daresay we shall see as much
as the other two."
So the other two climbed, alone and almost in silence. Beside them and in
front of them, scattered up and along the twilight fell, were dim groups
of pilgrims bent on the same errand with themselves. It was not much past
nine o'clock, and the evening would have been still light but for the
drizzle of rain and the low-hanging clouds. As it was, those bound for
the beacon-head had a blind climb up the rocks and the grassy slopes that
led 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 warmth
of his strong clasp seemed to hypnotize her. She was silent, and let him
pull her up.
On the top was a motley crowd of farmers, labourers and visitors, with a
Welsh choir from a neighbouring village, singing hymns and patriotic
songs. The bonfire was to be fired on the stroke of ten, by a
neighbouring landowner, whose white head and beard flashed hither and
thither through the crowd and the mist, as he gave his orders, and
greeted the old men, farmers and labourers, he had known for a lifetime.
The sweet Welsh voices rose in the "Men of Harlech," "Land of My
Fathers," or in the magnificent "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the
Coming of the Lord." And when the moment arrived, and the white-haired
Squire, with his three chosen men, fired the four corners of the
high-built pile, out rushed the blaze, flaring up to heaven, defying the
rain, and throwing its crimson glow on the faces ringed round it. "God
Save the King!" challenged the dark, and then, hand in hand, the crowd
marched round about the pyramid of fire in measured rhythm, while "Auld
Lang Syne," sorrowfully sweet, echoed above the haunted mountain-top
where in the infancy of Britain, Celt and Roman in succession had built
their camps and reared their watch-towers. And presently from all
quarters of the great horizon sprang the answering flames from mountain
peaks that were themselves invisible in the murky night, while they sent
forward 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 her
bathed 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 Helena
unconsciously leaning on him, her soft breath on his cheek. Her eyes were
his now, and her smiling lips, just parted over her white teeth, tempted
him beyond his powers of resistance.
"Come!" he whispered to her, and with a quick turn of the hand he had
swung her out of the fiery circle, and drawn her towards the surrounding
dark. A few steps and they were on the mountainside again, while behind
them the top was still aflame, and black forms still danced round the
drooping fire.
But they were safely curtained by night and the rising storm. After the
first stage of the descent, suddenly he flung his arms round her, his
mouth found hers, and all Helena's youth rushed at last to meet him as he
gathered 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 though
to 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 right
now to all your secrets."
"Some day--perhaps."
Darkness hid her eyes. Hand in hand they went down the hillside, while
the Mount of Victory still blazed behind them.
Philip and Lucy were waiting for them. And then, at last, Helena
remembered her telegram of the afternoon, and read it to a group of
laughing 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 Geoffrey
looking on.
Not quite twenty-four hours later, Buntingford was walking up through
the late twilight to Beechmark. After the glad excitement kindled in him
by Helena's and Geoffrey's happiness, his spirits had dropped steadily
all the way home. There before him across the park, rose his large
barrack of a house, so empty, but for that frail life which seemed now
part of his own.
He walked on, his eyes fixed on the lights in the rooms where his boy
was. When he reached the gate into the gardens, a figure came suddenly
out 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 time
to 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 take
charge of us both, dear Cynthia? I owe you so much already--I would do my
best to pay it."
He took her hand and pressed it. All was said.
Yet through all her gladness, Cynthia felt the truth of Georgina's
remark--"When he marries it will be for peace--not passion." Well, she
must accept it. The first-fruits were not for her. With all his chivalry
he 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 was
all 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 Providence
has given you every chance."
Peace indeed was the note of Philip's mood that night, as he paced up and
down beside the lake after his solitary dinner. He was, momentarily at
least, at rest, and full of patient hope. His youth was over. He resigned
it, with a smile and a sigh; while seeming still to catch the echoes of
it far away, like music in some invisible city that a traveller leaves
behind him in the night. His course lay clear before him. Politics would
give 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 of
change and reconstruction, was to make a woman and a child happy.