The next thing that happened was Guy’s twenty-first birthday.
He had been at Oxford two years by then, and Hugo was just leaving
Winchester.
It was on the 15th of July, and there was a party at Yearsly.
On the day before there was a dinner to the tenants and a school
treat, but on the day itself there were no official festivities,
just a party of people Guy wanted, mostly staying in the house,
and a dance in the evening in the hall.
Hugo and I had come back from school for it, for the school terms
were not quite over. It was my first real dance, and I was very
excited.
A good many people were staying in the house. There were three
Oxford friends of Guy’s—Ralph Freeman, John Ellis and Anthony
Cowper. Ellis and Cowper had been at Winchester with him too,
and stayed with us before. Ralph Freeman was new. Then there
were Mary and Margaret Lacey, second cousins of Guy and Hugo
on the other side, they too had stayed at Yearsly before, and
Faith Vincent, the Vicar’s daughter, and Claude Pincent, who
was also some sort of cousin of Cousin Delia’s. There were no
other Laurier cousins, for my grandmother and Hugo’s grandfather
had no other children but our fathers.
Claude Pincent too had come before, but not often. He was older
than Guy and had been at Cambridge. He was supposed to be a very
brilliant young man, and we were a little bit in awe of him.
He was distinguished looking, with bright, big eyes and a crest
of hair. He seemed much more mature and experienced than we were,
and that impressed us too.
In the afternoon we bathed in the fishing pool by the willow,
and then we had tea down there by the stream. Cousin Delia and
Cousin John were at the picnic, and we liked them to be there.
They never spoiled the fun of what we did—even rather silly young
parties like this one.
It was a perfect day, hot and almost cloudless, and the hay was
not yet cut. Buttercups danced in the long grass, just as they
had on that day nine years before when we heard that Hugo was
going to school.
The pool was hardly big enough to swim in, but it was clear and
deep and very lovely, and the dogs came too. Maurice, the deerhound,
stood on the bank and watched us, but Libbet and Oscar, the spaniels,
jumped in after us and swam all about. Then we lay in the long
grass—we were allowed to spoil the hay for this occasion—and
had tea, and laughed a great deal at silly jokes, and then we
lay still and were lazy, and before we knew where we were it
was time to pack up the tea things and get ready for the dance.
The Hall had been decorated since the morning. Cousin Delia and
old Joseph had done it together, and I had helped them for a
bit. There were big clusters of roses in silver vases—light coloured
roses against the dark wood of the stairs and the panelled wall—and
four white lilies in pots at the four corners, and there were
sconces with pale green candles fixed up along the walls to light
later on, when it got dark.
Mary and Margaret were sharing a room, and Faith Vincent, who
was a special friend of theirs, had brought her dress to change
in their room. I was alone in mine and I was glad. It was always
the same room, looking out into the beech trees on one side,
and the big light window to the north, and the shiny chintz curtains
were the same that I had always had, and the little comfortable
arm-chairs. There was a special jug and basin too—rather too
small for general use, but pretty—very fine clear china and hand-painted
flowers. Cousin Delia had put it there for me when I was little
and I would not have it changed. Now there was a shining brass
can of hot water waiting for me and a thick soft towel over it,
and Nunky came in to help me dress.
I had a pale yellow dress, very pale yellow and very soft and
plain. It was the first time I had worn a low-cut evening gown.
The first time too that my hair was to be done up.
Nunky was as pleased dressing me as though she had been dressing
a doll. I had yellow stockings and satin shoes too, and Cousin
Delia had given me a coloured Spanish shawl, which belonged to
Mary Geraldine. It was a beautiful shawl. The colours were a
little faded, but still brilliant. It had a creamy background
and a quaint intricate pattern of bright flowers upon it; red
and pink flowers and bright green leaves.
I sat in front of the looking-glass while Nunky did my hair,
and laughed at myself and her, reflected smiling at me in the
glass.
My hair was not difficult to do, for it was always curly—a little
bit curly, so that it stayed where it was put—and very bright
golden brown. I know that it was pretty hair. It is so long ago
now, that it is not silly to say so, for it isn’t like that any
more.
I was pleased with my hair done up. It looked much nicer, I thought,
than just tied behind with a ribbon. And with the stockings and
the satin slippers and the dress. I was pleased with my bare
neck and arms. I had a dark blue enamel bracelet that was almost
black, and a little necklace of yellow topaz, that my father
had brought back from India for me when I was a baby.
Then Cousin Delia came in to see me, and she turned me round
and round, and then she kissed me, smiling as though she were
pleased.
‘Dear heart,’ she said.
I put the Spanish shawl round my shoulders: I loved its many
colours and its softness and we went downstairs.
They were mostly there already, standing about in the hall. Hugo
was in the furthest corner talking to Anthony Cowper and Faith
Vincent. Guy was standing at the foot of the stairs with Claude.
They looked up at us as we came down. Cousin Delia came first,
and I followed her. The candles were not lit yet, for it was
still broad daylight, but the hall seemed filled with light,
as though it were illuminated—coming down into it, with its flowers,
from the shadow of the stairs. They both looked up at me and
smiled.
Guy said:
‘That’s splendid, Helen. You do look nice’—and he too looked
pleased.
I laughed and went past them into the hall, and as I passed I
heard Claude say to Guy:
‘I say, Guy, that little cousin of yours is a beauty!’
And I felt all warm and glowing, and as though I was stepping
on air. I ran across to Hugo, and he turned to look at me.
‘Jolly,’ he said, ‘and that shawl is just right. I love that
shawl.’
There was supper first, two long tables in the dining-room; and
after supper more people arrived, various neighbours, and the
dancing began.
The music was in the drawing-room with the doors open, and we
danced in the hall. The floor was polished oak, very smooth and
perfect for dancing, and there were chairs at the end for the
older people who were there.
Claude came up and asked me to dance, and I said, ‘Oh, the first
is for Hugo’—but I danced with him afterwards, three times, and
then with Guy.
Guy was the best dancer I know. It was like his riding and his
singing and everything he did—a complete mastery and ease, as
though it all came naturally to him with no trouble or effort
at all.
Hugo was not so perfect, but I loved dancing with him, and we
danced together a great deal.
Later the candles were lit, the pale green candles on the wall,
but it was not dark outside, hardly twilight, and the big doors
were open at each end of the hall, and people went out between
the dances and walked about or sat in chairs on the lawn.
Hugo and I went out into the garden. We were hot with dancing
and it was cooler outside.
There was a crescent moon, low down still over the walled garden,
and a long line of pink sky where the sun had just gone down.
There were stars beginning to show, pale stars in the light sky,
and the air was very warm and still.
We turned towards the walled garden. Cousin Delia’s roses smelt
sweet as we passed them, and we stopped and wandered about on
the little flagged paths among the cupids. The tune of the last
waltz kept echoing through my head, and my feet seemed to be
dancing while we walked.
‘It is too hot to go in for a bit,’ said Hugo, ‘and awfully nice
out here.’
And I said:
‘Yes, it is nice out here too.’
The jasmine on the Jasmine Gate smelled strong in the warm air.
We stopped to smell it. There was something strange and exciting
in the strong scent—all the garden round seemed excited that
night, still and expectant and waiting for something, and I was
excited, and Hugo. He pushed open the Jasmine Gate and we walked
through into the walled garden. A spray of jasmine was hanging
down. It caught in my hair as we stepped under it. I put up my
hand to pull it away, but I couldn’t at first. Hugo undid it
for me. He broke off the spray and gave it to me, and I stuck
it into the front of my dress. The Spanish shawl slipped down
from my shoulder and Hugo lifted it up. The music had begun in
the house again. We could hear it, dimmed by the distance and
the high garden wall. Up in the High Wood the owls had begun
to call.
I looked up at Hugo and found him looking at me. There was something
strange in his eyes that I had never seen before. I felt elated
and a little frightened, and still very excited and happy. We
stood and looked at each other, without speaking, and then Hugo
touched my arm.
‘Oh, Helen, how lovely you are!’ he said suddenly. ‘I never knew
you were like this!’
There was an odd excitement in his voice, and his face was very
white. He was breathing fast.
A thrill ran through me, and then I was afraid. I looked at Hugo
and he looked at me, and I felt his fingers, warm and strange,
on my bare arm.
And it seemed to me suddenly that he had become strange himself—that
he was not the Hugo I knew at all. I found that I was trembling
all over, and could not stop. I could not bear his fingers on
my arm. I wanted to pull it away, but I did not dare.
Then Hugo stepped back and took his hand away, and it seemed
as though something had snapped. It seemed as though a barrier
had come down between us, and we were suddenly very far apart.
Something had happened to us that I could not understand. We
had become strangers to each other and to ourselves, and for
the first time in our lives we were afraid of each other, and
shy.
Again I had the sense of a door closing, of time passing and
not to be called back. It will never be the same again, never
in all our lives, I said to myself, and a sense of complete desolation
came over me. It seemed to me then that the best thing in my
life had gone irretrievably. We had broken something that could
never be mended.