II

Six months of alternating ecstasy and despair with a persistent

undercurrent of nervous fatigue, so wrought upon Geoffrey's healthy

frame that when he caught influenza in the spring of 1924, he was

seriously ill and convalescence was long and difficult.

The day before he took ill when he was feeling particularly low and

inadequate, Helen had come to a serious and, she proclaimed, a final

decision. It coincided with a change in her method of painting. She

had abandoned the genre of conventional subjects placed in a futurist

setting of which the two white ponies were the last example, and had

turned instead to poster painting. After some months of very hard

work she had succeeded with a design which momentarily at least,

satisfied her exacting standards.

It was austere in line but richly heraldic in colouring and when she

stepped back to look at the finished work, she decided in one and the

same moment that it was good and that she would now have to eliminate

Geoffrey from her scheme of life.

Her reasons were obscure. The thought of doing without him brought

with it a faint shock of surprise and pain, but standing there in

front of her own work it seemed to her impossible to reconcile

anything so simple, so vigorous and so disciplined, with her

passionate and confused love for Geoffrey. Her painting was clear

and strenuous; it brought her a few moments of ease, followed always

by dissatisfaction and renewed efforts, which in their turn brought

her again to a period of content.

But there was no such rhythm in her emotional life. She loved

Geoffrey; at moments she desired him, and was impatient of the

scruples which constrained him to refuse her as a mistress; at

moments she was conscious of a surge of tenderness for him which made

the thought of marriage almost attractive. Often however, she felt a

strong revulsion against him, not only as an individual, but as an

interloper in her private life who interfered with her peace of mind

and destroyed her powers of concentration. The only constant factor

in their relationship was her savage determination to protect her

work against him. This determination showed itself in a frank and

laughing hostility when she was painting well, and in sullen

resentment when she was painting badly.

As she looked at the completed poster Helen sighed. Geoffrey must go

and the sooner the better. It could not fail to be painful to both

of them, but she must feel free again. She must disentangle herself

from emotional disruptions and reactions.

She rang him up at his office and left a message asking him to call

in the evening, then flung herself down in a big chair, her hands

folded idly in her lap and an expression of weary disenchantment on

her face.

Her thoughts depressed her. She realised that apart from all

sentimental pangs she would miss Geoffrey as an irritant. Already

she felt listless and uninspired at the thought of doing without him.

He stimulated her, she was goaded to work by the desire to justify

herself for her refusal to marry him. Even in her painting she was

beginning to rely on him; a state of dependence was almost

established.

She got up impatiently and looked at her watch. It was only four

o'clock and there was no possibility of Geoffrey being with her for

at least two hours.

Tearing off her painting overall she went through to her bedroom

where she slipped on a frock of red-brick crêpe-de-chine that stole

the colour from her cheeks and dulled her hair to brown. She caught

sight of herself in the mirror and told herself defiantly that at

times Helen Guest could look very plain, but when she had put on a

dark coat, and a small dark hat, she carefully arranged her hair in

an exact semi-circle on either cheek and brushed a little rouge over

her cheek bones.

The studio seemed unfriendly as she went through; the ashes were cold

in the grate, the sun lit up a layer of soft dust over the furniture,

a curtain had torn away from one of its rings and drooped a little.

Helen decided impatiently that when she had finally broken with

Geoffrey it would probably be better to go home for a time, and shut

up the studio. A few weeks in Lowndes Square would effectively drive

her to work again.

In the meantime, I'll go and see Lavinia, she decided; she's a

soothing little thing, and the sight of her house all so smug and

correct will reinforce me against Geoffrey. It's the sort of house

and life I'd fall into if I were such a fool as to marry him. She

shrugged at her own weakness in needing reinforcements and set out

briskly for Lavinia's house in Catherine Street.

It happened that Mrs. Rodney Greene was having tea with her daughter

when Helen was announced.

Lavinia greeted Helen affectionately, and turned to her mother.

"I don't think you've met Helen, Mother dear," she said. "Unless

perhaps for a moment at the wedding, but that hardly counts."

"No, I don't think I have," answered Mrs. Rodney. "But I know you're

a relation of Martin's, Miss Guest. I've often heard both him and

Lavinia talking of your work. You paint, don't you?"

Her voice was pleasant, but her eye raked Helen from her long legs to

the jaunty little hat that covered her eyebrows and it registered

unmistakable disapproval.

"I've just finished a thing to-day, but I feel I'll never paint

again," said Helen, and though her voice was low there was a violence

behind the words that struck unpleasantly on Mrs. Rodney's ears.

"Oh, but surely you won't give up like that," she began persuasively.

"Of course I can understand artistic discouragement; the finished

work falling so far short of the ideal"--she sketched a vague gesture

in the air--"But still I'm sure you should persevere."

She looked brightly and expectantly at Helen but her glib words of

consolation fell on a grim silence. Helen lay back wearily in her

chair hardly seeming to hear what was said, and it was Lavinia who

answered rather awkwardly: "Helen paints beautifully, Mother. She

did a picture of some ponies a little while ago that you would simply

love."

"Oh Lavinia, that thing's no good at all," said Helen impatiently.

"It's absolutely wrong; the idea was wrong to begin with, and then I

didn't even carry it out properly. What I'm doing now is quite

different," she leaned forward, eager and unselfconscious, "I think

I've discovered at last what I want to do; not impressionistic at

all, purely decorative and very severe and simple. I really believe

it's a style I can express myself in."

She caught Mrs. Rodney's blank expression and relapsed into silence.

"Well, I'm glad to know you're not really giving it up," said Mrs.

Rodney, kindly. "But now I must be going, Lavinia, dear; I've got

some shopping to do on the way home." Mrs. Greene stood up.

"Good-bye, Miss Guest," she said. "Perhaps Lavinia will bring you to

tea with me one day. I should enjoy a little talk about art."

Helen winced visibly, but her voice was polite and non-committal as

she said: "Thank you, Mrs. Greene, it's very good of you. Good-bye."

"Do you mind if I go down with Mother; I won't be a minute?" asked

Lavinia.

She left the room, forgetting to close the door, and presently Mrs.

Rodney's clear voice floated up from the hall.

"Well, come and see us soon, darling, won't you? And tell me, do you

see much of that Miss Guest? I think she's a very exaggerated young

woman, and her manner struck me as most unfortunate."

"We like her very much," Lavinia answered simply. "And she's awfully

clever."

"I must say I don't think mere cleverness is enough to excuse such

brusque behaviour. Good-bye, dear; take care of yourself."

The front door closed, and Lavinia came upstairs and into the

drawing-room.

Helen looked at her and laughed.

"I'm glad you like me," she said. "But your Mother's perfectly

right. I'm not nearly clever enough to justify my brusque behaviour,

and from her point of view my manner is undoubtedly unfortunate."

Lavinia flushed. "I'm sorry you heard," she said. "Mother is very

critical, but she would like you if she knew you properly."

"No she wouldn't. It's inconceivable that she could ever like me.

Not in a thousand years. But I'm sorry I burst in on you and her

like that. I was in a bad mood and thought I'd come and look at you

and your house and profit by its example."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't mean anything at all nice, so let's leave it at that.

You're looking very pretty Lavinia; the baby hasn't even begun to

spoil your looks yet."

"It will soon, I'm afraid. I look horribly black under the eyes in

the morning. I only begin to get human about midday."

"You really are extremely like Geoffrey." Helen spoke abruptly.

"Lavinia, do you know I've been treating him abominably."

"No, I didn't know that. I'm sorry. Geoffrey is a dear really; I'm

awfully fond of him."

"So am I. I love him in a way but I can't marry him. I can't face

being stuck down in a little house and having to run it and be

amiable at breakfast and welcome my husband's friends and be polite

to his relations. I simply can't do it."

"Can't you really, Helen? Geoffrey hasn't told me anything about it,

but I know he's been miserable about something for months, and I did

just think once from something he said, that it might be because of

you."

"Well, it's no good anyhow. I'm not going to see him any more after

this evening. I do think anything's better than dragging on like

this."

"You know, Helen, I honestly think you wouldn't find it so very

difficult to be married. You'd be quite rich. You've got some money

of your own, and Geoffrey isn't doing so badly; he went into the

business very young, so you could have decent maids, who would run

the house for you. It makes all the difference if you have enough

money not to have to bother."

"Lavinia, your cynical outlook surprises me. But you see it isn't

only things like that. It's Geoffrey. Loving him would get so

frightfully in the way of my work. I don't believe it's possible to

reconcile everything satisfactorily."

She shut her mouth obstinately and Lavinia sighed.

"I really am sorry," she said. "I think you could be perfectly

happy, you two; and of course I'd love it from my own point of view,

so perhaps I'm prejudiced, but still I do think it's possible."

"It isn't, Lavinia; don't let's talk about it any more. I must go

now; I'm going to shut up the studio for a bit; come and see me at

home. Mother would love you. She thinks my friends are apt to be a

little erratic, and you'd be a welcome change. Goodbye and thanks;

don't come down."

As Helen walked home she was racked with uncertainty. Lavinia had

shaken instead of strengthening her decision. Nothing of this showed

in her manner as she greeted Geoffrey a little later. He looked pale

and ill, and when she said, "Sit down and be a little comfortable,"

he only shook his head, looked at her dumbly, and remained leaning

against the mantelpiece.

"Geoffrey dear," she said. "I've been thinking and worrying about

us, and I've come to the conclusion that we simply mustn't see each

other any more. I'm sorry; I'm sorry for myself, and I'm sorry for

you, but it's no good."

"You can't suddenly decide a thing like that; it isn't fair," said

Geoffrey, but he spoke without conviction.

"I have decided," she answered. "There's no use going over the same

old ground; don't let's discuss it again. I'm going home for a bit,

and I don't know whether I'll come back to this studio or not, so

there's no reason why we should meet ever if we're reasonably careful

to avoid each other. Goodbye, Geoffrey; I'd like you to go now."

She spoke coldly, her plans seemed to be cut and dried, and there was

a finality about her words that rang in Geoffrey's aching head.

"All right," he said. "I'll go now; goodbye."

Left alone, Helen began to pack a suitcase. As she threw in coats,

shoes, and frocks, tears streamed steadily down her cheeks.

Mechanically, she powdered her nose, locked the studio, got out her

car and drove to Lowndes Square where she learned that her father and

mother were away for the week-end and her sister out to dinner.

"I can easily get you something to eat, Miss Helen, and your room

will be ready in a moment," said the parlourmaid pleasantly,

accustomed to Helen's sudden arrivals and equally sudden departures.

"I don't want any dinner, thanks. I'll have a hot bath and go

straight to bed, and I'd like a bowl of bread and milk in bed, lots

of sugar and no crusts."

"Very well, Miss Helen."

The maid disappeared with her case, as Helen went into the library to

find a book before following her upstairs. She slept heavily for

twelve hours and wakened to a mood of discouragement and lethargy.

Life seemed meaningless. The thought of painting did not attract

her, she had no particular engagements, there was nothing to do.

Mr. and Mrs. Guest, returning in the evening, were pleased to find

her in the library sitting with her hands idle in her lap, but her

depression persisted and she answered her Mother's questions with

curt monosyllables.

"Yes, I'm all right thanks. No, nothing's wrong. Really, Mother,

I'm all right. I know I look tired. I've been working very hard,

but please just leave me alone."

In the weeks that followed she was forced to repeat very often her

plea to be left alone. Her family were used to the sight of Helen

working, but Helen idle and empty-handed was so unusual that they

made unceasing efforts to interest her in their varying occupations

which she as unceasingly spurned.

A month went past during which she had not lifted a brush and she was

in her sitting-room one afternoon wondering dismally if she would

ever again be caught by the desire to paint, when Lavinia was

announced.

Helen jumped to her feet.

"Do come in, Lavinia. I'm nearly mad with mooning about doing

nothing."

"But haven't you been painting?" Lavinia asked a little maliciously.

"I thought you'd given up Geoffrey so as to be able to paint."

Helen spread out her hands.

"I haven't done a thing," she said. "Not a single thing and what's

more I don't know whether I ever will or not. Sit down and talk to

me, Lavinia."

"I can't," said Lavinia. "I'm on my way to Geoffrey now and I

thought it just possible that you would like to come with me. You

know he's been ill?'

"I haven't heard a thing about him. Tell me, is he really ill?

What's wrong with him? I'll come with you at once."

"He's had influenza very badly. He was starting it that day you came

to tea with me when Mother was there; he went home that night very

seedy and he's really been pretty bad. He's much better now, but

he's still in bed, and Mother's going to be out this afternoon so she

rang me up to go and amuse him and I thought perhaps you'd come too."

"He may not want to see me," said Helen.

"He does, I asked him," answered Lavinia coolly.

Helen's cheeks were glowing, her eyes shining.

"I'll go and change. Wait here for me, I won't be long," she said

imperiously.

"No, I think I'll go on now and you can follow when you're ready,"

suggested Lavinia.

Helen caught her hand.

"Please no," she said. "Please wait. I don't want to go alone. I'd

rather go with you."

"You're shy," said Lavinia accusingly.

Helen was defiant and happy.

"And what if I am?" she said. "I'm going to ask Geoffrey to marry

me, and I'd rather have a chaperon there to make it more seemly.

Wait here for me."

She rushed upstairs to dress, and came down in the green frock and

hat she had worn to Lavinia's wedding.

"Look," she said. "Sheer sentiment made me put this on."

Lavinia looked at her standing in the doorway, tall and upright, the

rich green of her frock bringing out all the colour in her hair and

skin.

"You're lovely," she said impulsively. "Really lovely. No wonder

Geoffrey's quite mad about you."

"Is he?" asked Helen. "I do hope he is, I want him to be. You

really think then I needn't be nervous as to whether he'll accept me

or not."

She laughed. "Come on, Lavinia," she said. "I can't wait. I've had

nothing for a month. Neither my painting nor Geoffrey and evidently

I can't have one without the other, so even if they fight I'll have

to have both."

Suddenly her face sobered.

"It'll be a cat and dog life. Everything I meant it not to be, but

damn it, I can't help it; I can't do without him."