CHAPTER XVI
Mrs. Friend was sitting in the bow-window of the "Fisherman's Rest," asmall Welsh inn in the heart of Snowdonia. The window was open, and asmell 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 andfoaming after rain, was dashing over a rocky bed towards some rapidswhich closed the view. The stream was crossed by a little bridge, andbeyond it rose a hill covered with oak-wood. Above the oak-wood and alongthe road to the right--mountain forms, deep blue and purple, wereemerging from the mists which had shrouded them all day. The sunwas breaking through. A fierce northwest wind which had been tearing theyoung leaf of the oak-woods all day, and strewing it abroad, had justdied away. Peace was returning, and light. The figure of Helena had justdisappeared through the oak-wood; Lucy would follow her later.
Behind Mrs. Friend, the walls of the inn parlour were covered deep insketches of the surrounding scenery--both oil and water-colour, bad andgood, 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, badlymoth-eaten, a book-case containing some battered books mostly aboutfishing, and a large Visitors' Book lying on a centre-table, between aBradshaw and an old guide-book. Shut up, in winter, the little room wouldsmell intolerably close and musty. But with the windows open, and a rainysun streaming in, it spoke pleasantly of holidays for plain hard-workingfolk, and of that "passion for the beauty flown," which distils, from thesummer hours of rest, strength for the winter to come.
Lucy had let Helena go out alone, of set purpose. For she knew, orguessed, what Nature and Earth had done for Helena during the month theyhad passed together in this mountain-land, since that night at Beechmark.Helena had made no moan--revealed nothing. Only a certain paleness in herbright cheek, a certain dreamy habit that Lucy had not before noticed inher; a restlessness at night which the thin partitions of the old innsometimes made audible, betrayed that the youth in her was fighting itsfirst suffering, and fighting to win. Lucy had never dared tospeak--still less to pity. But her love was always at hand, and Helenahad repaid it, and the silence it dictated, with an answering love. Lucybelieved--though with trembling--that the worst was now over, and thatnew horizons were opening on the stout soul that had earned them. Butnow, as before, she held her peace.
Her diary lay on her lap, and she was thoughtfully turning it over. Itcontained nothing but the barest entries of facts. But they meant a gooddeal to her, as she looked through them. Every letter, for instance, fromBeechmark had been noted. Lord Buntingford had written three times toHelena, and twice to herself. She had seen Helena's letters; and Helenahad read hers. It seemed to her that Helena had deliberately shown herown; that the act was part of the conflict which Lucy guessed at, butmust not comment on, by word or look. All the letters were the trueexpression of the man. The first, in which he described in words, few;but singularly poignant, the death of his wife, his recognition of hisson, and the faint beginnings of hope for the boy's maimed life, hadforced tears from Lucy. Helena had read it dry-eyed. But for severalhours 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 ofthinking, rather cruelly brief; at least after the first letter writtenin her own room, and posted by herself. Thenceforward, only a fewpost-cards, laid with Lucy's letters, for her or any one else to read, ifthey chose. And meanwhile Lucy was tolerably sure that she was slowly butresolutely making her own plans for the months ahead.
The little diary contained also the entry of Geoffrey French's visit--along week-end, during which as far as Lucy could remember, Helena and hehad never ceased "chaffing" from morning till night, and Helena hadcertainly never given him any opportunity for love-making. She, Lucy, hadhad a few short moments alone with him, moments in which his gaiety haddropped from him, like a ragged cloak, and a despondent word or two hadgiven her a glimpse of the lover he was not permitted to be, beneath therole of friend he was tired of playing. He was coming again soon. Helenahad neither invited nor repelled him. Whereas she had peremptorily biddenPeter Dale for this particular Sunday, and he had thrown over half adozen 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 ancientwide-awake, carrying a portfolio and a camp-stool. He had stopped in hiswalk outside the open window, and his disappointed look searched the innparlour for a person who was not there.
"Oh, Mr. McCready, I'm so sorry!--but Miss Pitstone is out, and I don'tknow when she will be back."
The artist undid his portfolio, and laid a half-finished sketch--a sketchof Helena's--on the window-sill.
"Will you kindly give her this? I have corrected it--made some notes onthe side. Do you think Miss Helena will be likely to be sketchingto-morrow?"
"I'm afraid I can't promise for her. She seems to like walking betterthan anything else just now."
"Yes, she's a splendid walker," said the old man, with a sigh. "I envyher strength. Well, if she wants me, she knows where to find me--justbeyond 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 theriver. Her quick pity went with him, for she herself knew well what itmeant to be solitary and neglected. He seldom sold a picture, and nobodyknew what he lived on. The few lessons he had given Helena had been as agolden gleam in a very grey day. But alack, Helena had soon tired of herlessons, 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 thebooks the young Welsh-speaking curate of the little mountain church nearby 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 asbefore. She was neither to be held nor bound. Attempt to lay any fetterupon her--of hours, or habit--and she was gone; into the heart of themountains where no one could follow her. Lucy would often compare with itthe eager docility of those last weeks at Beechmark.
* * * * *
Helena's walk had taken her through the dripping oak-wood and over thecrest of the hill to a ravine beyond, where the river, swollen now by theabundant rains which had made an end of weeks of drought, ran, noisilyfull, between two steep banks of mossy crag. From the crag, oaks hungover the water, at fantastic angles, holding on, as it seemed, by onefoot and springing from the rock itself; while delicate rock plants, andfern fringed every ledge down to the water. A seat on the twisted rootsof an overhanging oak, from which, to either side, a little green path,as though marked for pacing, ran along the stream, was one of herfavourite haunts. From up-stream a mountain peak now kerchiefed in wispsof sunlit cloud peered in upon her. Above it, a lake of purest blue fromwhich the wind, which had brought them, was now chasing the clouds; andeverywhere the glory of the returning sun, striking the oaks to gold, andflinging 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 wherevershe hid herself. This spot was dear to her, as those places where lifehas consciously grown to a nobler stature are dear to men and women. Itwas here that within twenty-four hours of her last words with PhilipBuntingford, she had sat wrestling with something which threatened vitalforces in her that her will consciously, desperately, set itself tomaintain. Through her whole ripened being, the passion of that innerdebate 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 Iwant--when others go bare? Philip went bare for years. He endured--andsuffered. Why not I?
"But it is worse for me--who am young
! I have a right to give way to whatI 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. Shemust _never_ let feeling--pain--destroy her will! Everything depends uponher will. If I choose I _can_ put this feeling down. I have no right toit. 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. Itshan't darken my life. I will--and can master it. There is so much stillto learn, to do, to feel. I must wrench myself free--and go forward. HowI 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 thesame. I didn't know--how could I know?--that the test was so near. Ifwomen are to play a greater and grander part in the world, they must bemuch, much greater in soul, firmer in will.
"Yet--I must cry a little. No one could forbid me that. But it must beover soon."
Then the letters from Beechmark had begun to arrive, each of thembringing its own salutary smart as part of a general cautery. No guardiancould write more kindly, more considerately. But it was easy to see thatPhilip's whole being was, and would be, concentrated on his unfortunateson. And in that ministry Cynthia Welwyn was his natural partner, hadindeed 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, thatwas natural. Shouldn't I have done the same? Why should I feel like ajealous beast, because Cynthia has had her chance, and taken it? I won'tfeel like this! It's vile!--it's degrading! Only I wish Cynthia wasbigger, more generous--because he'll find it out some day. She'll neverlike me, just because he cares for me--or did. I mean, as my guardian, oran elder brother. For it was never--no never!--anything else. So when shecomes in at the front door, I shall go out at the back. I shall have togive 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 Ithink.
"It's wonderful about the boy. I envy Cynthia--I can't help it. I wouldhave given my whole life to it. I would have been trained--perhapsabroad. No one should have taught him but me. But then--if Philip hadloved me--only that was never possible!--he would have been jealous ofthe boy--and I should have lost him. I never do things in moderation. Igo 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 anincredible beauty on wood and river. The intoxication of it ran throughHelena's veins. For she possessed in perfection that earth-sense, thatpassionate sense of kinship, kinship both of the senses and the spirit,with the eternal beauty of the natural world, which the gods implant in ablest 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, achild of five, who had evidently lost his footing on the green bank abovethe crag which faced her, and was sliding down, unable to help himself,towards the point where nothing could prevent his falling headlong intothe stream below. The bank, however, was not wholly bare. There were somethin 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 wasalready a stalwart little mountaineer, accustomed to trot over the fellsafter his father's sheep, and the physical instinct in his, sturdy limbssaved him. He caught a jutting root, held on, and gradually draggedhimself up to the cushion of moss from which the tree grew, sittingastride the root, and clasping the tree with both arms. The position wasstill 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. Butbefore she could reach it, she saw the lad's father, cautiouslydescending the bank, helped by a rope tied to an oak tree at the top. Hereached the child, tied the rope to the stem of the tree where the littlefellow was sitting, and then with the boy under one arm and hauling onthe rope with the other hand, he made his way up the few perilous yardsthat divided them from safety. At the top he relieved his parentalfeelings by a good deal of smacking and scolding. For Bobby was anotorious "limb," the terror of his mother and the inn generally. Heroared vociferously under the smacking. But when Helena arrived on thescene, he stopped at once, and put out a slim red tongue at her. Helenalaughed, 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 herknees, staring at the bank opposite.
"I very nearly slipped in!--like Bobby--but not quite. I'm sound--thoughbruised. No desperate harm done." She drew a long breath--laughing toherself--though her eyes were rather wet. "Well, now, then--what am Igoing to do? I'm not going into a convent. I don't think I'm even goingto college. I'm going to take my guardian's advice. 'Marry--my dearchild--and bring up children.' 'Marry?'--Very well!"--she sprang to herfeet--"I shall marry!--that's settled. As to the children--that remainsto be seen!"
And with her hands behind her, she paced the little path, in a strangeexcitement and exaltation. Presently from the tower of the little church,half a mile down the river, a bell began to strike the hour. "Sixo'clock!--Peter will be here directly. Now, _he's_ got to belectured--for his good. I'm tired of lecturing myself. It's somebodyelse's turn--"
And taking a letter from her pocket, she read and pondered it withsmiling eyes. "Peter will think I'm a witch. Dear old Peter! ... Hullo!"
For the sound of her name, shouted by some one still invisible, caughther ear. She shouted back, and in another minute the boyish form ofPeter Dale emerged among the oaks above her. Three leaps, and he wasat her side.
"I say, Helena, this is jolly! You were a brick to write. How I gothere I'm sure I don't know. I seem to have broken every rule, andput everybody out. My boss will sack me, I expect. Never mind!--I'ddo it again!"
And dropping to a seat beside her, on a fallen branch that had somehowescaped the deluge of the day, he feasted his eyes upon her. She hadclambered back into her seat, and taken off her water-proof hat. Her hairwas tumbling about her ears, and her bright cheeks were moist with rain,or rather with the intermittent showers that the wind shook every now andthen from the still dripping oak trees above her. Peter thought herlovelier than ever--a wood-nymph, half divine. Yet, obscurely, he felt achange in her, from the beginning of their talk. Why had she sent forhim? The wildest notions had possessed him, ever since her letter reachedhim. Yet, now that he saw her, they seemed to float away from him, likethistle-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 usedto getting all you want, I know--but you wouldn't have ordered me upfrom Town--twelve hours in a beastly train--packed like sardines--justto tell me that."
Helena looked at him thoughtfully. She began to eat some unripebilberries which she had gathered from the bank beside her, and they madelittle 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 danceslately, Peter?"
"You bet!" The young Adonis shrugged his shoulders. "I seem to have beenthrough 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.
Pe
ter laughed--but rather angrily.
"All very well for you to talk, Miss Helena! Please--how many men wereyou making fools of--including your humble servant--before you went downto Beechmark? You have no conscience, Helena! You are the 'Belle Damesans 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!" saidHelena, with vigour. Peter hesitated, and Helena at once pursued heradvantage.
"Let's talk of something more to the point. I'm told, Peter, thatyou've been paying great attentions--marked attentions--to a verynice girl--that everybody's talking about it,--and that you oughtlong ago either to have fixed it up,--or cleared out. What do you sayto that, Peter?"
Peter flushed.
"I suppose you mean--Jenny Dumbarton," he said slowly. "Of course, she'sa very dear, pretty, little thing. But do you know why I first took toher?" He looked defiantly at his companion.
"No."
"Because--she's rather like you. She's your colour--she has yourhair--she's a way with her that's something like you. When I'm dancingwith 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 cryof 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-cutface the sudden intensity of expression compelled her--held herguiltily silent.
"Once more, Helena"--he said, in a voice that shook--"is there nochance for me?"
"No, no, dear Peter!" she cried, stretching out her hands to him. "Oh, Ithought that was all over. I sent for you because I wanted just to say toyou--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 awarm 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 mossat his feet, poking at it with his stick.
"What makes you think I've been breaking Jenny's heart?" he said at lastin another voice.
"Some of your friends, Peter, yours and mine--have been writing tome. She's--she's very fond of you, they say, and lately she's beenlooking a little limp ghost--all along of you, Mr. Peter! What haveyou been doing?"
"What any other man in my position would have been doing--wishingto Heaven I knew _what_ to do!" said Peter, still poking vigorouslyat the moss.
Helena bent forward from the oak tree, and just whispered--"Go backto-morrow, Peter,--and propose to Jenny Dumbarton!"
Peter could not trust himself to look up at what he knew must be thesmiling seduction of her eyes and lips. He was silent; and Helenawithdrew--dryad-like--into the hollow made by the intertwined stems ofthe 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, lookingvery manly, and rather pale.
"Having disposed of me for the last six months--you may as well disposeof me altogether," he said slowly. "Very well--I will go--and proposeto Jenny Dumbarton---the day after to-morrow. Her people asked me forthe week-end. I gave a shuffling answer. I'll wire to her to-morrowthat 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'llbe very good to her, Peter?"
She looked at him searchingly, stirred by one of the sudden tremors thatbeset 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 numberof times you've refused me. But she knows quite enough. She'll takeme--if she does take me--with her eyes open. Well, now that'ssettled!--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 ofhow 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 isall bust up. Philip's got an idiot-boy to look after--with Cynthia Welwynin 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 littlechaperon. I can roam the world where I please--without making anyscandals."
"You'll always make scandals--"
"_Scandals_, Peter!" protested Helena.
"Well, victories, wherever you go--unless somebody has you pretty tightlyin 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 ranfrom 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 tiptoefor a flight."
"It's time for supper, Peter. Mrs. Friend will think we're drowned. And Icaught 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 readpoetry. I have some money in the bank; and Cousin Philip will let medo what I like with it. Lastly--I have another month in which to makeup 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 moreimportant than that--before long. I happened to be--in the Gallery of theHouse of Commons yesterday--"
"Improving your mind?"
"Listening to a lot of wild men talking rot about the army. But there wasone man who didn't talk rot, though I agreed with scarcely a thing hesaid. But then he's a Labour man--or thinks he is--and I know that I'm aTory--as blue as you make 'em. Anyway I'm perfectly certain you'd haveliked to be there, Miss Helena!"
"Geoffrey?" said Helena coolly.
"Right you are. Well, I can tell you he made a ripping success! The mannext to me in the gallery, who seemed to have been born and bredthere--knew everybody and everything--and got as much fun out of it as Ido out of 'Chu-Chin-Chow'--he told me it was the first time Geoffrey hadreally got what he called the 'ear of the House'--it was pretty fulltoo!--and that he was certain to get on--office, and all that kind ofthing--if he stuck to it. He certainly did it jolly well. He made even anignorant 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 ofmine--nice old boy--who's sat for a Yorkshire constituency for about ahundred 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 supposeyou must climb. Now, then, Helena!--if you won't take a man like me whomyou can run--take a man like Geoffrey who can run you--and make you jollyhappy all the same! There--I can give advice too, you see--and you've noright to be offended!"
Helena could not keep he
r features still. Her eyes shot fire, though ofwhat kind the fire might be Peter was not quite sure. The two youngcreatures faced each other. There was laughter in each face, butsomething else; something strenuous, tragic even; as though "Life at itsgrindstone set" had been at work on the radiant pair, evoking theMeredithian 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 slippedpast him, and was flying through the wood, homeward, looking back to mockhim, as he sped after her in vain.
CHAPTER XVI
A week had passed. Mrs. Friend at ten o'clock in the morning had justbeen having a heart to heart talk with the landlady of the inn on thesubject of a decent luncheon for three persons, and a passable dinner forfour. 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, whenany guest was expected, was not a happy one. It was a difficult thingindeed to get anything said or settled at all; since the five-year oldBobby was generally scrimmaging round, capturing his mother's broom andthreatening 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 hissmall sister, aged eight weeks; and had only that morning, while hismother's back was turned, taken the baby out of her cradle, run down asteep 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 beenprovoked to smacking, and the inn had been filled with howls androarings, which deadened even the thunder of the swollen stream outside.Then Helena, her fingers in her ears, had made a violent descent upon thekitchen, and carried off the "limb" to the river, where, being givensomething to do in the shape of damming up a brook that ran into the mainstream, he had suddenly developed angelic qualities, and tied himself toHelena's skirts.
There they both were, on the river's pebbly bank, within hail, Helena ina short white skirt with a green jersey and cap. She was alternatelyhelping Bobby to build the dam, and lying with her hands beneath herhead, under the shelter of the bank. Moderately fine weather hadreturned, and the Welsh farmer had once more begun to hope that after allhe might get in his oats. The morning sun sparkled on the river, on thefreshly washed oak-woods, and on Bobby's bare curly head, as he satbusily playing beside Helena.
What was Helena thinking of? Lucy Friend would have given a good deal toknow. On the little table before Lucy lay two telegrams: one signed"Geoffrey" announced that he would reach Bettws station by twelve, andthe "Fisherman's Rest" about half an hour later. The other announced thearrival of Lord Buntingford by the evening train. Lord Buntingford'svisit had been arranged two or three days before; and Mrs. Friend wishedit 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 thisprimitive corner of Wales. And both he and Geoffrey were leaving historicscenes behind them in order to spend these few hours with Helena. Forthis was Peace Day, when the victorious generals and troops of theEmpire, and the Empire's allies, were to salute England's king amid themultitudes of London, in solemn and visible proof that the long nightmareof the war had found its end. Buntingford had naturally no heart forpageants; but Helena had been astonished by Geoffrey's telegram, whichhad arrived the night before from the Lancashire town he represented inParliament. As an M.P. he ought surely to have been playing his part inthe great show. Moreover, she had not expected him so soon, and she haddone nothing to hurry his coming. His telegram had brought a great flushof colour into her face. But she made no other sign.
"Oh, well, we can take them out to see bonfires!" she had said, puttingon her most careless air, and had then dismissed the subject. For thatnight the hills of the north were to run their fiery message through theland, blazoning a greater victory than Drake's; and Helena, who had bynow made close friends with the mountains, had long since decided on thebest points of view.
Since then Lucy had received no confidences, and asked no questions. Aletter had reached her, however; by the morning's post, from Miss Alcott,giving an account of the situation at Beechmark, of the removal of theboy to his father's house, and of the progress that had been made inawakening his intelligence and fortifying his bodily health.
"It is wonderful to see the progress he has made--so far, entirelythrough imitation and handwork. He begins to have some notion of countingand numbers--he has learnt to crochet and thread beads---poor little ladof fifteen!--he has built not only a tower but something like a house, ofbricks--and now his enthusiastic teacher is attempting to teach him thefirst rudiments of speech, in this wonderful modern way--lip-reading andthe like. He has been under training for about six weeks, and certainlythe results are most promising. I believe his mother protested to LordBuntingford that he had not been neglected. Nobody can believe her, whosees now what has been done. Apparently a brain-surgeon in Naples wasconsulted as to the possibility of an operation. But when that wasdropped, nothing else was ever tried, no training was attempted, and thechild would have fared very badly, if it had not been for the old_bonne_--Zelie--who was and is devoted to him. His mother was ashamed ofhim, and came positively to hate the sight of him.
"But the tragic thing is that as his mind develops, his body seems toweaken. Food, special exercise, massage--poor Lord Buntingford has beentrying everything--but with small result. It is pitiful to see himwatching the child, and hanging on the doctors. 'Shall we stop all theteaching?' he said to John the other day in despair--'my first object isthat 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 stepfollows another, and the door opens a little wider for his poor prisonedsoul. He adores his father, and will sit beside him, stroking his silkybeard, with his tiny fingers, and looking at him with his large patheticeyes ... They have taken him to Beechmark, as you know, and given him aset of rooms, where he and his wonderful little teacher, MissDenison--trained in the Seguin method, they say--and the old _bonne_Zelie live. The nurse has gone.
"I am so sorry for Lady Cynthia--she seems to miss him so. Of courseshe goes over to Beechmark a good deal, but it is not the same ashaving him under her own roof. And she was so good to him! She lookstired of late, and rather depressed. I wonder if her dragoon of asister has been worrying her. Of course Lady Georgina is enchanted tohave got rid of Arthur.
"I am very glad to hear Lord Buntingford is going to Wales. Miss Pitstonehas been evidently a great deal on his mind. He said to John the otherday that he had arranged everything at Beechmark so that, when you andshe came back, he did not think you would find Arthur in the way. Theboy's rooms are in a separate wing, and would not interfere at all withvisitors. I said to him once that I was sure Miss Helena would be veryfond of the little fellow. But he frowned and looked distressed. 'Ishould scarcely allow her to see him,' he said. I asked why. 'Because ayoung girl ought to be protected from anything irremediably sad. Lifeshould be always bright for her. And I can still make it bright forHelena--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. Hermodest ministrations in the parish and the school had amply earned it.But it amazed her that anyone should attach any value to them. And thatMr. Alcott should miss her--why, it was ridiculous!
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sight of Helena, returning to theinn along the river bank, with Bobby clinging to her skirt.
"Take him in tow, please," said Helena through the window. "I am going towalk a little way to meet Geoffrey."
Bobby's chubby hand held her so firmly that he could only be detachedfrom her by main force. He was left howling in Mrs. Friend's grasp, tillHelena, struck with compunction, turned back from the bend of the road,to stuff a chocolate into his open mouth, and then ra
n off again,laughing at the sudden silence which had descended on hill and stream.
Through the intermittent shade and sunshine of the day, Helena steppedon. She had never held herself so erect; never felt so conscious of anintense and boundless vitality. Yet she was quite uncertain as to whatthe next few hours would bring her. Peter had given a hint--that she wassure; and she was now, it seemed, to be wooed in earnest. On Geoffrey'sformer visit, she had teased him so continuously, and put so many pettyobstacles of all kinds in his way, that he had finally taken his cue fromher, and they had parted, in a last whirlwind of "chaff," but secretlyangry, with each other or themselves.
"He might have held out a little longer," thought Helena. "When shall Iever 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 flutteringout. Groups of school children were scattered along the road, wavinglittle flags and singing. Over the wide valley below her, with its woodyhills and silver river, floated great cloud-shadows, chasing and chasedby the sun. There were wild roses in the hedges, and perfume in everygust of wind. The summer was at its height, and the fire and sap of itwere running full-tilt in Helena's pulses.
Far down the winding road she saw at last a man on a motorbicycle--bare-headed, and long-bodied.
Up he came, and soon was near enough to wave to her, while Helena wasstill 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 oldprimeval instinct of the pursued maiden--set itself to baffle him.
"Very nice to see you!" she smiled, as she gave him a passive hand--"butwhy aren't you in the Mall?"
"My Sovereign had not expressed any burning desire for my presence. Can'twe go to-night and feed a bonfire?"
"Several, if you like. I have watched the building of three. But itwill rain."
"That won't matter," he said joyously. "Nothing will matter!" And againhis ardent look challenged in her the Eternal Feminine.
"I don't agree. I hate a wet mackintosh dripping into my boots, andCousin 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 todo with it?"
"He arrives to-night by the London train."
He resumed his walk beside her, in silence, pushing his bicycle. Hadshe done it of malice prepense? No--impossible! He had onlytelegraphed his own movements to her late on the previous evening,much too late to make any sudden arrangement with Philip, who wascoming 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 hadmet last:--a richer, intenser personality, suggested by a newself-mastery. She seemed to him older--and a thought remote. Fears flewthrough him. What had been passing in her mind since he had seen herlast? or in Philip's? Had he been fooled after all by those few wildwords from Peter, which had reached him in Lancashire, bidding him catchhis 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 LucyFriend sitting in the little garden beside the road. Geoffrey pulledhimself together, and prepared to play the game that Helena set him,until the afternoon and the walk she could not deny him, should givehim his chance.
The little meal passed gaily, and after it Lucy Friend watched--notwithout 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 wouldnever forgive her; and finally she invited the fuming M.P. to fish thepreserved water with her, accompanied by the odd-man as gilly. At thisGeoffrey's patience fairly broke. He faced her, crimson, in the innparlour; forgetting Lucy altogether and standing in front of the door, sothat Lucy could not escape and could only roll herself in a curtain andlook out of the window.
"I didn't come here to fish, Helena--or to sketch--but simply and solelyto 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 themdepart, across the foot-bridge, and by a green path that would lead thembefore long to the ferny slopes of the mountain beyond the oak-wood. AsHelena was mounting the bridge, a servant of the inn ran out with atelegram which had just arrived and gave it her.
Helena peered at the telegram, and then with a dancing smile thrust itinto her pocket without a word.
Her mood, as they walked on, was now, it seemed, eagerly political. Sheinsisted on hearing his own account of his successful speech in theHouse; she wished to discuss his relations with the Labour party, whichwere at the moment strained, on the question of Coal Nationalization; sheasked for his views on the Austrian Treaty, and on the prospects of theGovernment. He lent himself to her caprice, so long as they were walkingone behind the other through a crowded oak-wood and along a narrow pathwhere she could throw her questions back over her shoulder, herself wellout 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 fringedwith junipers. Then he sprang to her side, and Helena knew that the hourhad 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 sittingthere, peremptorily guided by her companion, and feeling dizzily that shewas beginning to lose control of the situation, as Geoffrey sank downinto 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 ofan intellectual, with that deep scar on the temple, where a fragment ofshrapnel 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 wantto 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 handtenderly.
"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!--Ihad it out with myself. I may as well have it out with you! Two monthsago I was a bit in love with Cousin Philip. Now, of course, I love him--Ialways shall love him--but I'm not _in_ love with him!"
"Thank the Lord!" cried French--"since it has been the object of my lifefor 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 anote of something else than prosperous love-making. On his, thehaunting doubt lest she had so far given her heart to Philip that fullfruition for himself, that full fruition which youth at its zenithinstinctively claims from love and fortune, could never be his. Onhers, the consciousness, scarcely recognized till now, of a moment ofmental exhaustion caused by mental conflict. She was half indignantthat he should press her, yet aware that she would miss the pressure ifit ceased; while he, believing that his cause was really won, and
urgedon by Peter's hints, resented the barriers she would still put upbetween them.
There was a short silence after her last speech. Then Helena saidsoftly--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 eyescovered by his hands--"I'm not feeling philosophical."
"All the same, you made me once read half a volume of Bergson. I didn'tunderstand much of it, except that--whatever else he is, he's a greatpoet. And I do know something about poetry! But I remember one sentencevery 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 hecompares it to a rocket in a fire-works display rushing up in flamethrough the falling cinders of the dead rockets."
She paused.
"Go on--"
"Give the cinders a little time to fall, Geoffrey!" she said in afaltering voice.
He looked up ardently.
"Why? It's only the living fire that matters! Darling--let's come toclose quarters. You gave a bit of your warm heart to Philip, and youimagined that it meant much more than it really did. And poor Philip allthe time was determined--cribbed and cabined--by his past,--and now byhis boy. We both know that if he marries anybody it will be CynthiaWelwyn; 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 remembersthat your mother entrusted you to him in the firm belief that, in hisuncertainty about his wife, he neither could nor would marry anybody. Sothat for these two years, at any rate, he holds himself absolutely boundto 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 strokeyou bring two men into port."
The conflict of expressions passing through her features showed hershaken. 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." Shejumped up--"Are you going to climb that crag before tea? I am!"
She led him breathlessly up its steep side and down again. When theyregained the inn, Geoffrey had not even such a butterfly kiss to rememberas she had once given him in the lime-walk at Beechmark; and Lucy, tryingin her eager affection to solve the puzzle they presented her with, hadsimply to give it up.
* * * * *
The day grew wilder. Great flights of clouds came up from the west andfought the sun, and as the afternoon declined, light gusts of rain,succeeded by bursts of sunshine, began to sweep across the oak-woods. Thelandlord of the inn and his sons, who had been mainly responsible forbuilding the great bonfire on Moel Dun, and the farmers in their gigs whostopped at the inn door, began to shake their heads over the prospects ofthe night. Helena, Lucy Friend, and Geoffrey spent the afternoon chieflyin fishing and wandering by the river. Helena clung to Lucy's side,defying her indeed to leave her, and Geoffrey could only submit, andcount the tardy hours. They made tea in a green meadow beside the stream,and immediately afterwards Geoffrey, looking at his watch, announced toMrs. Friend that he proposed to bicycle down to Bettws to meet LordBuntingford.
Helena came with him to the inn to get his bicycle. They said little toeach other, till, just as he was departing, French bent over to her, asshe 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 washeavenly 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 downsome 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 thecheek that lay upon her shoulder. Helena's eyes too were wet; and in boththere was the memory of that night at Beechmark which had made themsisters 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 madefriends--real friends--in these three months, after years of loneliness.It seemed to her that was all that mattered. And half guiltily hermemory cherished those astonishing words--"_Mr. Alcott_ and I miss youvery much."
A drizzling rain had begun when towards eight o'clock they heard thesound 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 followedher into the twilight of the inn parlour.
"My dear Helena!" He put his arm round her shoulder and kissed herheartily. "God bless you!--good luck to you! Geoffrey has given me thebest 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 ownlong-cherished dream of what had now come to pass. "The very day you cameto Beechmark, I wrote to Geoffrey, inviting him. And I saw you by chancethe day after the dance, together, in the lime-walk." Helena's startalmost 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 wentaway in tip-top spirits--just an hour, I think, before Geoffrey foundthat drawing."
He released her, with an unconscious sigh, and she was able to see howmuch older he seemed to have grown; the touches of grey in his thickblack hair, and the added wrinkles round his eyes,--those blue eyesthat gave him his romantic look, and were his chief beauty. But heresumed at once:
"Well, now then, the sooner you come back to Beechmark the better. Thinkof the lawyers--the trousseau--the wedding. My dear, you've no time towaste!--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 _a quatre_. Afterwards, the rain seemed to havecleared off a little, and through the yellow twilight a thin stream ofpeople, driving or on foot, began to pour past the inn, towards thehills. Helena ran upstairs to put on an oilskin hat and cape over herwhite 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 climbingMoel Dun in the rain, and I'm getting too old! We'll walk up the road abit, and look at the people as they go by. I daresay we shall see as muchas the other two."
So the other two climbed, alone and almost in silence. Beside them and infront of them, scattered up and along the twilight fell, were dim groupsof pilgrims bent on the same errand with themselves. It was not much pastnine o'clock, and the evening would have been still light but for thedrizzle of rain and the low-hanging clouds. As it was, those bound forthe beacon-head had a blind climb up the rocks and the grassy slopes thatled 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 warmthof his strong clasp seemed to hypnotize her. She was silent, and let himpull her up.
On the top was a motley crowd of farmers, labourers and visitors, with aWelsh choir from a neighbouring village, singing hymns and pa
trioticsongs. The bonfire was to be fired on the stroke of ten, by aneighbouring landowner, whose white head and beard flashed hither andthither through the crowd and the mist, as he gave his orders, andgreeted the old men, farmers and labourers, he had known for a lifetime.The sweet Welsh voices rose in the "Men of Harlech," "Land of MyFathers," or in the magnificent "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of theComing of the Lord." And when the moment arrived, and the white-hairedSquire, with his three chosen men, fired the four corners of thehigh-built pile, out rushed the blaze, flaring up to heaven, defying therain, and throwing its crimson glow on the faces ringed round it. "GodSave the King!" challenged the dark, and then, hand in hand, the crowdmarched round about the pyramid of fire in measured rhythm, while "AuldLang Syne," sorrowfully sweet, echoed above the haunted mountain-topwhere in the infancy of Britain, Celt and Roman in succession had builttheir camps and reared their watch-towers. And presently from allquarters of the great horizon sprang the answering flames from mountainpeaks that were themselves invisible in the murky night, while they sentforward 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 herbathed 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 Helenaunconsciously leaning on him, her soft breath on his cheek. Her eyes werehis now, and her smiling lips, just parted over her white teeth, temptedhim beyond his powers of resistance.
"Come!" he whispered to her, and with a quick turn of the hand he hadswung her out of the fiery circle, and drawn her towards the surroundingdark. A few steps and they were on the mountainside again, while behindthem the top was still aflame, and black forms still danced round thedrooping fire.
But they were safely curtained by night and the rising storm. After thefirst stage of the descent, suddenly he flung his arms round her, hismouth found hers, and all Helena's youth rushed at last to meet him as hegathered 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 thoughto 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 rightnow to all your secrets."
"Some day--perhaps."
Darkness hid her eyes. Hand in hand they went down the hillside, whilethe Mount of Victory still blazed behind them.
Philip and Lucy were waiting for them. And then, at last, Helenaremembered her telegram of the afternoon, and read it to a group oflaughing 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 Geoffreylooking on.
Not quite twenty-four hours later, Buntingford was walking up throughthe late twilight to Beechmark. After the glad excitement kindled in himby Helena's and Geoffrey's happiness, his spirits had dropped steadilyall the way home. There before him across the park, rose his largebarrack of a house, so empty, but for that frail life which seemed nowpart of his own.
He walked on, his eyes fixed on the lights in the rooms where his boywas. When he reached the gate into the gardens, a figure came suddenlyout 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 timeto 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 takecharge of us both, dear Cynthia? I owe you so much already--I would do mybest to pay it."
He took her hand and pressed it. All was said.
Yet through all her gladness, Cynthia felt the truth of Georgina'sremark--"When he marries it will be for peace--not passion." Well, shemust accept it. The first-fruits were not for her. With all his chivalryhe 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 wasall 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 Providencehas given you every chance."
Peace indeed was the note of Philip's mood that night, as he paced up anddown beside the lake after his solitary dinner. He was, momentarily atleast, at rest, and full of patient hope. His youth was over. He resignedit, with a smile and a sigh; while seeming still to catch the echoes ofit far away, like music in some invisible city that a traveller leavesbehind him in the night. His course lay clear before him. Politics wouldgive 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 ofchange and reconstruction, was to make a woman and a child happy.
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