CHAPTER VI
"Buntingford looks twice as old as he need!" said Geoffrey French,lighting a cigarette as he and Helena stepped out of the drawing-roomwindow after dinner into the May world outside--a world which lay steepedin an after-glow of magical beauty. "What's wrong, I wonder! Have youbeen plaguing him, Helena?" The laughing shot was fired purely at random.But the slight start and flush it produced in Helena struck him.
"I see nothing wrong with him," said Helena, a touch of defiance in hervoice. "But of course it's extraordinarily difficult to get on with him."
"With Philip!--the jolliest, kindest chap going! What do you mean?"
"All right. It's no good talking to anybody with a _parti pris_!"
"No--but seriously, Helena--what's the matter? Why, you told me you onlybegan the new arrangement two days ago."
"Exactly. And there's been time already for a first-class quarrel. Timealso for me to see that I shall never, never get on with him. I don'tknow how we are to get through the two years!"
"_Well_!" ejaculated her companion. "In Heaven's name, what has hebeen doing?"
Helena shrugged her shoulders. She was striding beside him like a youngArtemis--in white, with a silver star in her hair, and her short skirtsbeaten back from her slender legs and feet by the evening wind. GeoffreyFrench, who had had a classical education, almost looked for the quiverand the bow. He was dazzled at once, and provoked. A magnificentcreature, certainly--"very mad and very handsome!"--he recalledBuntingford's letter.
"Do tell me, Helena!" he urged.
"What's the good? You'll only side with him--and _preach_. You've donethat several times already."
The young man frowned a little.
"I don't preach!" he said shortly. "I say what I think--_when_ you askme. Twice, if I remember right, you told me of some proceeding of yours,and asked me for my opinion. Well, I gave it, and it didn't happen to beyours. But that isn't preaching."
"You gave so many reasons--it _was_ preaching."
"Great Scott!--wasn't it more polite to give one's reasons?"
"Perhaps. But one shouldn't _burst_ with them. One should be sorry todisagree."
"Hm. Well--now kindly lay down for me, how I am to disagree with youabout Philip. For I do disagree with you, profoundly."
"There it is. Profoundly--that shows how you enjoy disagreeing. Why can'tyou put yourself at my point of view?"
"Well, I'll try. But at least--explain it to me."
Helena threw herself into a garden chair, under a wild cherry which rosea pyramid of silver against an orange sky. Other figures were scatteredabout the lawns, three or four young men, and three or four girls inlight dresses. The air seemed to be full of laughter and young voices.Only Mrs. Friend sat shyly by herself just within the drawing-roomwindow, a book on her knee. A lamp behind her brought out the lines ofher bent head and slight figure.
"I wonder if I like you well enough," said Helena coolly, biting at astalk of grass--"well enough, I mean, to explain things. I haven't madeyou my father confessor yet, Geoffrey."
"Suppose you begin--and see how it answers," said French lazily, rollingover on the grass in front of her, his chin in his hands.
"Well, I don't mind--for fun. Only if you preach I shall stop. But, firstof all, let's get some common ground. You admit, I suppose, that the warhas changed the whole position of women?"
"Yes--with reservations."
"Don't state them!" said Helena hastily. "That would be preaching.Yes, or No?"
"Yes, then,--you tyrant!"
"And that means--doesn't it--at the very least--that girls of my own agehave done with all the old stupid chaperonage business--at least nearlyall--that we are to choose our own friends, and make our ownarrangements?--doesn't it?" she repeated peremptorily.
"I don't know. My information is--that the mothers are stiffening."
A laughing face looked up at her from the grass.
"Stiffening!" The tone was contemptuous. "Well, that may be so--for babesof seventeen--like that one--" her gesture indicated a slight figure inwhite at the edge of the lawn--"who have never been out of theschool-room--but--"
"You think nineteen makes all the difference? I doubt," said GeoffreyFrench coolly, as he sat up tailor-fashion, and surveyed her. "Well, myview is that for the babes, as you call them, chaperonage is certainlyreviving. I have just been sitting next Lady Maud, this babe's mother,and she told me an invitation came for the babe from some great houselast week, addressed to 'Miss Luton and partner'--whereon Lady Maud wroteback--'My daughter has no partner and I shall be very happy to bringher.' Rather a poke in the eye! Then there are the women of five or sixand twenty who have been through the war, and are not likely to give upthe freedom of it--ever again. That's all right. They'll take their ownrisks. Many of them will prefer not to live at home again. They'll livewith a friend--and visit their people perhaps every day! But, thenthere's _you_, Helena--the betwixt and between!--"
"Well--what about me?"
"You're neither a babe--nor a veteran."
"I'm nineteen and a half--and I've done a year and a half of war work--"
"Canteen--and driving? All right. Am I to give an opinion?"
"You will give it, whatever I say. And it's you all over--to give it,before you've allowed me to explain anything."
"Oh, I know your point of view--" said Geoffrey, unperturbed--"know it byheart. Haven't you dinned it into me at half a dozen dances lately?No!--I'm entitled to my say--and here it is. Claim all the freedom youlike--but as you're _not_ twenty-five, but nineteen--let a good fellowlike Buntingford give you advice--and be thankful!"
"Prig!" said Helena, pelting him with a spray of wild cherry, which hecaught and put in his button-hole. "If that isn't preaching, I shouldlike to know what is!"
"Not at all. Unbiased opinion--civilly expressed. If you really were anemancipated young woman, Helena, you'd take it so! But now--" his tonechanged--"let's come to business. What have you and Philip beenquarrelling about?"
Helena straightened her shoulders, as though to meet certain disapproval.
"Because--I asked Lord Donald to spend the week-end here--"
"You didn't!"
"I did; and Cousin Philip wired to him and forbade him the house.Offence No. 1. Then as I intended all the same to see Jim, I told him Iwould go up and lunch with him at the Ritz. Cousin Philip vows I shan't,and he seems to have some underhand means of stopping it--I--I don'tknow what--"
"Underhand! Philip! I say, Helena, I wonder whether you have any idea howpeople who really know him think about Buntingford!"
"Oh, of course men back up men!"
"Stuff! It's really silly--abominable too--the way you talk of him--Ican't help saying it."
And this time it was Geoffrey's turn to look indignant. His long facewith its deeply set grey eyes, a rather large nose, and a fine brow undercurly hair, had flushed suddenly.
"If you can't help it, I suppose you must say it. But I don't know why Ishould stay and listen," said Helena provokingly, making a movement asthough to rise. But he laid a hand on her dress:
"No, no, Helena, don't go--look here--do you ever happen to noticeBuntingford--when he's sitting quiet--and other people are talkinground him?"
"Not particularly." The tone was cold, but she no longer threateneddeparture.
"Well, I just ask you--some time--to _watch_. An old friend of hissaid to me the other day--'I often feel that Buntingford is thesaddest man I know.'"
"Why should he be?" asked Helena imperiously.
"I can't tell you. No one can. It's just what those people think who knowhim best. Well, that's one fact about him--that his _men_ friends feelthey could no more torment a wounded soldier, than worry Buntingford--ifthey could help it. Then there are other facts that no one knows unlessthey've worked in Philip's office, where all the men clerks and all thewomen typists just adore him! I happen to know a good deal about it. Icould tell you things--"
"For Heaven's sake, don't!" cried Helena imp
atiently. "What does itmatter? He may be a saint--with seven haloes--for those that don't crosshim. But _I_ want my freedom!"--a white foot beat the groundimpatiently--"and he stands in the way."
"Freedom to compromise yourself with a scoundrel like Donald! What _can_you know about such a man--compared with what Philip knows?"
"That's just it--I _want_ to know--" said Helena in her most stubbornvoice. "This is a world, now, in which we've all got to know,--both thebad and the good of it. No more taking it on trust from other people! Letus learn it for ourselves."
"Helena!--you're quite mad!" said the young man, exasperated.
"Perhaps I am. But it's a madness you can't cure." And springing to herfeet, she sent a call across the lawn--"Peter!" A slim boy who waswalking beside the "babe" of seventeen, some distance away, turnedsharply at the sound, and running across the grass pulled up in frontof Helena.
"Well?--here I am."
"Shall we go and look at the lake? You might pull me about a little."
"Ripping!" said the youth joyously. "Won't you want a cloak?"
"No--it's so hot. Shall we ask Miss Luton?"
Peter made a face.
"Why should we?"
Helena laughed, and they went off together in the direction of a strip ofsilver under distant trees on which the moon was shining.
French walked away towards the girlish figure now deserted.
Helena watched him out of the corner of her eyes, saw the girl's eagergreeting, and the disappearance of the two in the woody walk thatbordered the lawn. Then she noticed a man sitting by himself not faraway, with a newspaper on his knee.
"Suppose we take Mr. Horne, Peter?"
"Don't let's take anybody!" said the boy. "And anyway Horne's a nuisancejust now. He talks you dead with strikes--and nationalization--and labourmen--and all that rot. Can't we ever let it alone? I want to talk to_you_, Helena. I say, you are ripping in that dress! You're just_divine_, Helena!" The girl laughed, her sweetest, most rippling laugh.
"Go on like that, Peter. You can't think how nice it sounds--especiallyafter Geoffrey's been lecturing for all he's worth."
"Lecturing? Oh well, if it comes to that, I've got my grievance too,Helena. We'll have it out, when I've found the boat."
"Forewarned!" said Helena, still laughing. "Perhaps I won't come."
"Oh, yes, you will," said the boy confidently. "I believe you knowperfectly well what it's about. You've got a guilty conscience,Miss Helena!"
Helena said nothing, till they had pushed the boat out from the reedsand the water-lilies, and she was sitting with the steering ropes inher hands opposite a boy in his shirt sleeves, with the head and faceof a cherub, and the spare frame of an athlete, who was devouring herwith his eyes.
"Are you quite done with the Army, Peter?"
"Quite. Got out a month ago. You come to me, Helena, if you want anyadvice about foreign loans--eh? I can tell you a thing or two."
"Are you going to be very rich?"
"Well, I'm pretty rich already," said the boy candidly. "It seems beastlyto be wanting more. But my uncles would shove me into the Bank. Icouldn't help it."
"You'll never look so nice as you did in your khaki, Peter. What have youdone with all your ribbons?"
"What, the decorations? Oh, they're kicking about somewhere."
"You're not to let your Victoria Cross kick about, as you call it," saidHelena severely. "By the way, Peter, you've never told me yet--Oh, I sawthe bit in the _Times_. But I want _you_ to tell me about it. Won't you?"
She bent forward, all softness, her beautiful eyes on her companion.
"No!" said Peter with energy--"_never_!"
She considered him.
"Was it so awful?" she asked under her breath.
"For God's sake, don't ask questions!" said the boy angrily. "You know Iwant to forget it. I shall never be quite right till I do forget it."
She was silent. It was his twin brother he had tried to save--staggeringback through a British barrage with the wounded man on hisshoulders--only to find, as he stumbled into the trench, that he had beencarrying the dead. He himself had spent six months in hospital from theeffects of wounds and shock. He had emerged to find himself a V. V. andA. D. C. to his Army Commander; and apparently as gay and full of fun asbefore. But his adoring mother and sisters knew very well that there weresore spots in Peter.
Helena realized that she had touched one. She bent forward presently, andlaid her own hand on one of the hands that were handling the sculls.
"Dear Peter!"
He bent impetuously, and kissed the hand before she could withdraw it.
"Don't you play with me, Helena," he said passionately. "I'm not a child,though I look it ... Now, then, let's have it out."
They had reached the middle of the pond, and were drifting across amoonlit pathway, on either side of which lay the shadow of deep woods,now impenetrably dark. The star in Helena's hair glittered in the light,and the face beneath it, robbed of its daylight colour, had become astudy in black and white, subtler and more lovely than the real Helena.
"Why did you do it, Helena?" said Peter suddenly.
"Do what?"
"Why did you behave to me as you did, at the Arts Ball? Why did you cutme, not once--but twice--three times--for that _beast_ Donald?"
Helena laughed.
"Now _you're_ beginning!" she said, as she lazily trailed her hand in thewater. "It's really comic!"
"What do you mean?"
"Only that I've already quarrelled with Cousin Philip--andGeoffrey--about Lord Donald--so if you insist on quarrelling too, I shallhave no friends left."
"Damn Donald! It's like his impudence to ask you to dance at all. It mademe sick to see you with him. He's the limit. Well, but--I'm not going toquarrel about Donald, Helena--I'm not going to quarrel about anything.I'm going to have my own say--and you can't escape this time--you witch!"
Helena looked round the pond.
"I can swim," she said tranquilly.
"I should jump in after you--and we'd both go down together. No,but--listen to me, dear Helena! Why won't you marry me? You saysometimes--that you care for me a little."
The boy's tone faltered.
"Why won't I marry you? Perhaps because you ask me so often," saidHelena, laughing. "Neglect me--be rude to me--cut me at a dance, andthen see."
"I couldn't--it matters too much."
"Dear Peter! But can't you understand that I don't want to commit myselfjust yet? I want to have my life to myself a bit. I'm like the miners andthe railway men. I'm full of unrest! I can't and won't settle down justyet. I want to look at things--the world's like a great cinema show justnow--everything passing so quick you can hardly take breath. I want tosample it where I please. I want to dance--and talk--and makeexperiments."
"Well--marrying me would be an experiment," said Peter stoutly. "I vowyou'd never regret it, Helena!"
"But I can't vow that you wouldn't! Let me alone, Peter. I suppose sometime I shall quiet down. It doesn't matter if I break my own heart. But Iwon't take the responsibility of anybody else's heart just yet."
"Well, of course, that means you're not in love with anybody. You'd soonchuck all that nonsense if you were."
The young, despairing voice thrilled her. It was allexperience--life--drama--this floating over summer water--with abeautiful youth, whose heart seemed to be fluttering in her very hands.But she was only thrilled intellectually--as a spectator. Peter wouldsoon get over it. She would be very kind to him, and let him down easily.They drifted silently a little. Then Peter said abruptly:
"Well, at least, Helena, you might promise me not to dance with JimDonald again!"
"Peter--my promises of that kind--are worth nothing! ... I think it'sgetting late--we ought to be going home!" And she gave the rudder a turnfor the shore.
He unwillingly complied, and after rowing through the shadow of thewoods, they emerged on a moonlit slope of lawn, where was the usuallanding-place. Two persons who had been strol
ling along the edge of thewater approached them.
"Who is that with Buntingford?" asked Dale.
"My new chaperon. Aren't you sorry for her?"
"I jolly well am!" cried Peter. "She'll have a dog's life!"
"That's very rude of you, Peter. You may perhaps be surprised to hearthat I like her very much. She's a little dear--and I'm going to beawfully good to her."
"Which means, of course, that she'll never dare to cross you!"
"Peter, don't be unkind! Dear Peter--make it up! I do want to be friends.There's just time for you to say something nice!"
For his vigorous strokes were bringing them rapidly to the bank.
"Oh, what's the good of talking!" said the boy impatiently. "I shall befriends, of course--take what you fling me. I can't do anything else."
Helena blew him a kiss, to which he made no response.
"All right!--I'll bring you in!" said Lord Buntingford from the shore.
He dragged the boat up on the sandy edge, and offered a hand to Helena.She stumbled out, and would have fallen into the shallow water but forhis sudden grip upon her.
"That was stupid of me!" she said, vexed with herself.
He made no reply. It was left to Mrs. Friend to express a hope that shehad not sprained her foot.
"Oh, dear no," said Helena. "But I'm cold. Peter, will you race me to thehouse? Give me a fair start!"
Peter eagerly placed her, and then--a maiden flying and a young godpursuing--they had soon drawn the eyes and laughter of all the otherguests, who cheered as the panting Helena, winner by a foot, dashedthrough the drawing-room window into the house.
Helena and Mrs. Friend had been discussing the evening,--Helena on thefloor, in a white dressing-gown, with her hair down her back. She hadamused herself with a very shrewd analysis--not too favourable--ofGeoffrey French's character and prospects, and had rushed through aneloquent account of Peter's performances in the war; she had mocked atLady Maud's conventionalities, and mimicked the "babe's" simpering mannerwith young men; she had enquired pityingly how Mrs. Friend had got onwith the old Canon who had taken her in to dinner, and had launched intorather caustic and, to Mrs. Friend's ear, astonishing criticisms of"Cousin Philip's wine"--which Mrs. Friend had never even dreamt oftasting. But of Cousin Philip himself there was not a word. Mrs. Friendknew there had been an interview between them; but she dared not askquestions. How to steer her way in the moral hurricane she foresaw, waswhat preoccupied her; so as both to do her duty to Lord B. and yet keep ahold on this strange being in whose good graces she still foundherself--much to her astonishment.
Then with midnight Helena departed. But long after she was herself inbed, Mrs. Friend heard movements in the adjoining room, and was aware ofa scent of tobacco stealing in through her own open window.
Helena, indeed, when she found herself alone was, for a time, too excitedto sleep, and cigarettes were her only resource. She was conscious of anexaltation of will, a passionate self-assertion, beating through all herveins, which made sleep impossible. Cousin Philip had scarcely addresseda word to her during the evening, and had bade her a chilly good-night.Of course, if that was to be his attitude it was impossible she could goon living under his roof. Her mother could not for a moment have expectedher to keep her word, under such conditions ... And yet--why retreat? Whynot fight it out, temperately, but resolutely? "I lost my temper againlike an idiot, this morning--I mustn't--mustn't--lose it. He had jollywell the best of it."
"Self-determination"--that was what she was bent on. If it was good fornations, it was good also for individuals. Liberty to make one's ownmistakes, to face one's own risks--that was the minimum. And for oneadult human being to accept the dictation of another human being was theonly sin worth talking about. The test might come on some trivial thing,like this matter of Lord Donald. Well,--she must be content to "findquarrel in a straw, where honour is at stake." Yet, of course, herguardian was bound to resist. The fight between her will and his wasnatural and necessary. It was the clash of two generations, two views oflife. She was not merely the wilful and insubordinate girl she wouldhave been before the war; she saw herself, at any rate, as somethingmuch more interesting. All over the world there was the same breaking ofbonds; and the same instinct towards _violence_. "The violent taketh byforce." Was it the instinct that war leaves, and must leave, behindit--its most sinister, or its most pregnant, legacy? She waspassionately conscious of it, and of a strange thirst to carry it intoreckless action. The unrest in her was the same unrest that was drivingmen everywhere--and women, too--into industrial disturbance and moralrevolt. The old is done with; and the Tree of Life needs to be wellshaken before the new fruit will drop.
Wild thoughts like these ran through her mind. Then she scoffed atherself for such large notions, about so small a thing. And suddenlysomething checked her--the physical recollection, as it were, lefttingling in her hand, of the grasp by which Buntingford had upheld her,as she was leaving the boat. With it went a vision of his face, his dark,furrowed face, in the moonlight.
"The saddest man I know." Why and wherefore? Long after she was in bed,she lay awake, absorbed in a dreamy yet intense gathering together of allthat she could recollect of Cousin Philip, from her childhood up, throughher school years, and down to her mother's death. Till now he had beenpart of the more or less pleasant furniture of life. She seemed to be onthe way to realize him as a man--perhaps a force. It was unsuspected--andrather interesting.