CHAPTER VII
The drought continued; and under the hot sun the lilacs were alreadypyramids of purple, the oaks were nearly in full leaf, and the hawthornsin the park and along the hedges would soon replace with another whitesplendour the fading blossom of the wild cherries.
It was Sunday morning, and none of the Beechmark party except Mrs.Friend, Lady Luton and her seventeen-year-old daughter had shown anyinclination to go to church. Geoffrey French and Helena had escorted thechurchgoers the short way across the park, taking a laughing leave ofthem at the last stile, whence the old church was but a stone's throw.There was a circle of chairs on the lawn intermittently filled bytalkers. Lord Buntingford was indoors and was reported to have had someugly news that morning of a discharged soldiers' riot in a neighbouringtown where he owned a good deal of property. The disturbance had been forthe time being suppressed, but its renewal was expected, and Buntingford,according to Julian Horne, who had been in close consultation with him,was ready to go over at any moment, on a telephone call from the townauthorities, and take what other "specials" he could gather with him.
"It's not at all a nice business," said Horne, looking up from his longchair, as Geoffrey French and Helena reappeared. "And if Philip is rungup, he'll sweep us all in. So don't be out of the way, Geoffrey."
"What's the matter? Somebody has been bungling as usual, I suppose," saidHelena in her most confident and peremptory tone.
"The discharged men say that nobody pays any attention to them--and theymean to burn down something."
"On the principle of the Chinaman, and 'roast pig,'" said French,stretching himself at full length on the grass, where Helena was alreadysitting. "What an extraordinary state of mind we're all in! We all wantto burn something. I want to burn the doctors, because some of themedical boards have been beasts to some of my friends; the soldiers overat Dansworth want to burn the town, because they haven't been made enoughof; the Triple Alliance want to burn up the country to cook their roastpig--and as for you, Helena--"
He turned a laughing face upon her--but before she could reply, atelephone was heard ringing, through the open windows of the house.
"For me, I expect," exclaimed Helena, springing up. She disappearedwithin the drawing-room, returning presently, with flushed cheeks, and abearing of which Geoffrey French at once guessed the meaning.
"Donald has thrown her over?" he said to himself. "Of course Philip hadthe trump card!"
Helena, however, said nothing. She took up a book she had left on thegrass, and withdrew with it to the solitary shelter of a cedar some yardsaway. Quiet descended on the lawns. The men smoked or buried themselvesin a sleepy study of the Sunday papers. The old house lay steeped insunshine. Occasional bursts of talk arose and died away; a loud cuckoo ina neighbouring plantation seemed determined to silence all its birdrivals; while once or twice the hum of an aeroplane overhead awoke evenin the drowsiest listener dim memories of the war.
Helena was only pretending to read. The telephone message which hadreached her had been from Lord Donald's butler--not even from Lord Donaldhimself!--and had been to the effect that "his lordship" asked him to saythat he had been obliged to go to Scotland for a fortnight, and was verysorry he had not been able to answer Miss Pitstone's telegram beforestarting. Helena's cheeks were positively smarting under the humiliationof it. Donald _daring_ to send her a message through a servant, when shehad telegraphed to him! For of course it was all a lie as to his havingleft town--one could tell that from the butler's voice. He had beensomehow frightened by Cousin Philip, and was revenging himself byrudeness to _her_. She seemed to hear "Jim" and his intimates discussingthe situation. Of course it would only amuse them!--everything amusedthem!--that Buntingford should have put his foot down. How she hadboasted, both to Jim and to some of his friends, of the attitude shemeant to take up with her guardian during her "imprisonment on parole."And this was the end of the first bout. Cousin Philip had been easilymaster, and instead of making common cause with her against a ridiculouspiece of tyranny, Lord Donald had backed out. He might at least have beensympathetic and polite--might have come himself to speak to her at thetelephone, instead--
Her blood boiled. How was she going to put up with this life? The ironyof the whole position was insufferable. Geoffrey's ejaculation forinstance when she had invited him to her sitting-room after breakfastthat he might look for a book he had lent her--"My word, Helena, what ajolly place!--Why, this was the old school-room--I remember itperfectly--the piggiest, shabbiest old den. And Philip has had it alldone up for you? Didn't know he had so much taste!" And then, Geoffrey'sroguish look at her, expressing the "chaff" he restrained for fear ofoffending her. Lucy Friend, too, Captain Lodge, Peter--everybody--no onehad any sympathy with her. And lastly, Donald himself--coward!--hadrefused to play up. Not that she cared one straw about him personally.She knew very well that he was a poor creature. It was the _principle_involved:--that a girl of nineteen is to be treated as a free andresponsible being, and not as though she were still a child in thenursery. "Cousin Philip may have had the right to say he wouldn't haveJim Donald in his house, if he felt that way--but he had no rightwhatever to prevent my meeting him in town, if I chose to meethim--that's _my_ affair!--that's the point! All these men here are inleague. It's _not_ Jim's character that's in question--I throw Jim'scharacter to the wolves--it's the freedom of women!"
So the tumult in her surged to and fro, mingled all through with acertain unwilling preoccupation. That semi-circular bow-window on thesouth side of the house, which she commanded from her seat under thecedar, was one of the windows of the library. Hidden from her by the oldbureau at which he was writing, sat Buntingford at work. She could seehis feet under the bureau, and sometimes the top of his head. Oh, ofcourse, he had a way with him--a certain magnetism--for the people wholiked him, and whom he liked. Lady Maud, for instance--how well they hadgot on at breakfast? Naturally, she thought him adorable. And Lady Maud'sgirl. To see Buntingford showing her the butterfly collections in thelibrary--devoting himself to her--and the little thing blushing andsmiling--it was simply idyllic! And then to contrast the scene with thatother scene, in the same room, the day before!
"Well, now, what am I going to do here--or in town?" she asked herself inexasperation. "If Cousin Philip and I liked each other it would bepleasant enough to ride together, to talk and read and argue--his brain'sall right!--with Lucy Friend to fall back upon between whiles--for justthese few weeks, at any rate, before we go to town--and with theweek-ends to help one out. But if we are to be at daggers-drawn--hedetermined to boss me--and I equally determined not to be bossed--why,the thing will be _intolerable_! Hullo!--is that Cynthia Welwyn? Sheseems to be making for me."
It was Lady Cynthia, very fresh and brilliant in airy black and white,with a purple sunshade. She came straight over the grass to Helena'sshady corner.
"You look so cool! May I share?"
Helena rather ungraciously pushed forward a chair as they shook hands.
"The rest of your party seem to be asleep," said Cynthia, glancing atvarious prostrate forms belonging to the male sex that were visible on adistant slope of the lawn. "But you've heard of the Dansworthdisturbances?--and that everybody here may have to go?"
"Yes. It's probably exaggerated--isn't it?"
"I don't know. Everybody coming out of church was talking of it. Therewas bad rioting last night--and a factory burnt down. They say it's begunagain. Buntingford will probably have to go. Where is he?"
Helena pointed to the library and to the feet under the bureau.
"He's waiting indoors, no doubt, in case there's a summons."
"No doubt," said Helena.
Cynthia found her task difficult. She had come determined to make friendswith this thorny young woman, and to smooth Philip's path for him if shecould. But now face to face with Helena she was conscious that neitherwas Philip's ward at all in a forthcoming mood, nor was her own effortspontaneous or congenial. They were both Buntingford's kinswomen, Hel
enaon his father's side, Cynthia on his mother's, and had been more or lessacquainted with each other since Helena left the nursery. But there wasnearly twenty years between them, and a critical spirit on both sides.
Conversation very soon languished. An instinctive antagonism that neithercould have explained intelligibly would have been evident to any shrewdlistener. Helena was not long in suspecting that Lady Cynthia was in someway Buntingford's envoy, and had been sent to make friends, with anulterior object; while Cynthia was repelled by the girl's ungraciousmanner, and by the gulf which it implied between the outlook of forty,and that of nineteen. "She means to make me feel that I might have beenher mother--and that we have nothing in common!"
The result was that Cynthia was driven into an intimate and possessivetone with regard to Buntingford, which was more than the facts warranted,and soon reduced Helena to monosyllables, and a sarcastic lip.
"You can't think," said Cynthia effusively--"how good he is to ustwo. It is so like him. He never forgets us. But indeed he neverforgets anybody."
Helena raised her eyebrows, as though the news astonished her, but shewas too polite to contradict.
"He sends you flowers, doesn't he?" she said carelessly.
"He sends us all kinds of things. But that's not what makes him socharming. He's always so considerate for everybody! The day you werecoming, for instance, he thought of nothing but how to get your roomfinished and your books in order. I hope you liked it?"
"Very much." The tone was noncommittal.
"I don't suppose he told you how he worked," said Cynthia, smiling. "Oh,he's a great dear, Philip! Only he takes a good deal of knowing."
"Did you ever see his wife?" said Helena abruptly.
Cynthia's movement showed her unpleasantly startled. She lookedinstinctively towards the library window, where Buntingford was nowstanding with his back to them. No, he couldn't have heard.
"No, never," she said hurriedly, in a low voice. "Nobody ever speaks tohim about her. She was of course not his equal socially."
"Is that the reason why nobody speaks of her?"
Cynthia flushed indignantly.
"Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"
"I thought you put the two things together," said Helena in her mostdetached tone. "And she was an artist?"
"A very good one, I believe. A man who had seen her in Paris before hermarriage told me long ago--oh, years ago--that she was extraordinarilyclever, and very ambitious."
"And beautiful?" said Helena eagerly.
"I don't know. I never saw a picture of her."
"I'll bet anything she was beautiful!"
"Most likely. Philip's very fastidious."
Helena meditated.
"I wonder if she had a good time?" she said at last.
"If she didn't, it couldn't have been Philip's fault!" said Cynthia, withsome vigour.
"No, really?"
The girl's note of interrogation was curiously provoking, and Cynthiacould have shaken her.
Suddenly through the open French windows of the library, a shrilltelephone call rang out. It came from the instrument on Buntingford'sdesk, and the two outside could see him take up the receiver.
"Hullo!"
"It's a message from Dansworth," said Cynthia, springing to her feet."They've sent for him."
"Yes--yes--" came to them in Buntingford's deep assenting voice, as hestood with the receiver to his ear. "All right--In an hour?--That's it.Less, if possible? Well, I think we can do it in less. Good-bye."
Helena had also risen. Buntingford emerged.
"Geoffrey!--Peter!--Horne!--all of you!"
From different parts of the lawn, men appeared running. Geoffrey French,Captain Lodge, Peter, and Julian Horne, were in a few instants groupedround their host, with Helena and Cynthia just behind.
"The Dansworth mob's out of hand," said Buntingford briefly. "They've setfire to another building, and the police are hard pressed. They wantspecials at once. Who'll come? I've just had a most annoying message frommy chauffeur. His wife's been in to say that he's got atemperature--since eight o'clock this morning--and has gone to bed. Shewon't hear of his coming."
"Funk?" said French quietly,--"or Bolshevism?"
Buntingford shrugged his shoulders. "We'll enquire into that later.There are two cars--a Vauxhall and a small Renault--a two-seater. Whocan drive?"
"I think I can drive the Renault," said Dale. "I'll go and get it atonce. Hope I shan't kill anybody."
He ran off. The other men looked at each other in perplexity. None ofthem knew enough about the business to drive a high-powered car withoutserious risk to their own lives and the car's.
"I'll go and telephone to a man I know near here," said Buntingford,turning towards the house. "He'll lend us his chauffeur."
"Why not let me drive?" said a girl's half-sarcastic voice. "I've drivena Vauxhall most of the winter."
Buntingford turned, smiling but uncertain.
"Of course! I had forgotten! But I don't like taking you into danger,Helena. It sounds like an ugly affair!"
"Lodge and I will go with her," said French, eagerly. "We can stop thecar outside the town. Horne can go with Dale."
The eyes of the men were on the girl in white--men half humiliated, halfadmiring. Helena, radiant, was looking at Buntingford, and at hisreluctant word of assent, she began joyously taking the hat-pins out ofher white lace hat.
"Give me five minutes to change. Lucky I've got my uniform here! ThenI'll go for the car."
Within the five minutes she was in the garage in full uniform, lookingover and tuning up the car, without an unnecessary word. She was theprofessional, alert, cheerful, efficient--and handsomer than ever,thought French, in her close-fitting khaki.
"One word, Helena," said Buntingford, laying a hand on her arm, when allwas ready, and she was about to climb into her seat. "Remember I am incommand of the expedition--and for all our sakes there must be no dividedauthority. You agree?"
She looked up quietly.
"I agree."
He made way for her, and she took her seat with him beside her. French,Lodge, Jones the butler, and Tomline the odd man, got in behind her. Mrs.Friend appeared with a food hamper that she and Mrs. Mawson had beenrapidly packing. Her delicate little face was very pale, and Buntingfordstooped to reassure her.
"We'll take every care of her. Don't be alarmed. It's always a womancomes to the rescue, isn't it? We're all ashamed. I shall take somelessons next week!"
Helena, with her hand on the steering wheel, nodded and smiled to her,and in another minute the splendid car was gliding out of the garageyard, and flying through the park.
Cynthia, with Mrs. Friend, Lady Maud Luton, and Mrs. Mawson, were leftlooking after them. Cynthia's expression was hard to read; she seemed tobe rushing on with the car, watching the face beside Buntingford, theyoung hands on the wheel, the keen eyes looking ahead, the play of talkbetween them.
"What a splendid creature!" said Lady Maud half-unwillingly, as she andCynthia walked back to the lawn. "I'm afraid I don't at all approve ofher in ordinary life. But just now--she was in her element."
"Mother, you must let me learn motoring!" cried the girl of seventeen,hanging on her mother's arm. She was flushed with innocent envy. Helenadriving Lord Buntingford seemed to her at the top of creation.
"Goose! It wouldn't suit you at all," said the mother, smiling. "Pleasetake my prayer-book indoors."
The babe went obediently.
The miles ran past. Helena, on her mettle, was driving her best, andBuntingford had already paid her one or two brief compliments, which shehad taken in silence. Presently they topped a ridge, and there layDansworth in a hollow, a column of smoke gashed with occasional flamerising above the town.
"A big blaze," said Buntingford, examining it through a field-glass."It's the large brewery in the market-place. Hullo, you there!" He haileda country cart, full of excited occupants, which was being driven rapidlytowards them. The driver pulled up with difficult
y.
Buntingford jumped out and went to make enquiries.
"It's a bad business, Sir," said the man in charge of the cart, a smallfarmer whom Buntingford recognized. "The men in it are just mad--theydon't know what they've done, nor why they've done it. But the soldierswill be there directly. There's far too few police, and I'm afraidthere's some people hurt. I wouldn't take ladies into the town if I wasyou, Sir." He glanced at Helena.
Buntingford nodded, and returned to the car.
"You see that farm-house down there on the right?" he said to Helena asthey started again. "We'll stop there."
They ran down the long slope to the town, the smoke carried towards themby a westerly wind beginning to beat in their faces,--the roar of thegreat bonfire in their ears.
Helena drew up at the entrance of a short lane leading to a farm on theoutskirts of the small country town--the centre of an activefurniture-making industry, for which the material lay handy in the largebeechwoods which covered the districts round it. The people of the farmwere all standing outside the house-door, watching the fire and talking.
"You're going to leave me here?" said Helena wistfully, looking atBuntingford.
"Please. You've brought us splendidly! I'll send Geoffrey back to you assoon as possible, with instructions."
She drove the car up to the farm. An elderly man came forward with whomBuntingford made arrangements. The car was to be locked up. "And you'lltake care of the lady, till I send?"
"Aye, aye, Sir."
"I'll come back to you, as soon as I can," said French to Helena. "Don'tbe anxious about us. We shall get into the market-hall by a back way andfind out what's going on. They've probably got the hose on by now.Nothing like a hose-pipe for this kind of thing! Congratters on asplendid bit of driving!"
"Hear, hear," said Buntingford.
They went off, and Helena was left alone with the farm people, who mademuch of her, and poured into her ears more or less coherent accounts ofthe rioting and its causes. A few discontented soldiers, an unpopularfactory manager, and a badly-handled strike:--the tale was a common onethroughout England at the moment, and behind and beneath the surfaceevents lay the heaving of that "tide in the affairs of men," a tide ofchange, of restlessness, of revolt, set in motion by the great war.Helena paced up and down the orchard slope behind the house, watching theconflagration which was beginning to die down, startled every now andthen by what seemed to be the sound of shots, and once by the rush pastof a squadron of mounted police coming evidently from the big countrytown some ten miles away. Hunger asserted itself, and she made a raid onthe hamper in the car, sharing some of its contents with the black-eyedchildren of the farm. Every now and then news came from persons passingalong the road, and for a time things seemed to be mending. The policewere getting the upper hand; the Mayor had made a plucky speech to thecrowd in the market-place, with good results; the rioters were wavering;and the soldiers had been stopped by telephone. Then following hard onthe last rumour came a sudden rush of worse news. A policeman had beenkilled--two injured--the rioters had gained a footing in the market-hall,and driven out both the police and the specials--and after all, thesoldiers had been sent for.
Helena wandered down to the gate of the farm lane opening on the mainroad, consumed with restlessness and anxiety. If only they had let her gowith them! Buntingford's last look as he raised his hat to her beforedeparting, haunted her memory--the appeal in it, the unspoken message.Might they not, after all, be friends? There seemed to be an exquisiterelaxation in the thought.
Another hour passed. Geoffrey French at last! He came on a motor bicycle,and threw himself off beside her, breathless.
"Please get the car, Helena, and I'll go on with you. The town's safe.The troops have arrived, and the rioters are scattering. The police havemade some arrests, and Philip believes the thing is over--or I shouldn'thave been allowed to come for you!"
"Why not?" said Helena half-indignantly, as they hurried towards thebarn in which the car had been driven. "Perhaps I might have been ofsome use!"
"No--you helped us best by staying here. The last hour's been pretty bad.And now Philip wants you to take two wounded police to the SmeatonHospital--five miles. He'll go with you. They're badly hurt, I'mafraid--there was some vicious stone-throwing."
"All right! Perhaps you don't know that's my job!"
French helped her get out the car.
"We shall want mattresses and stretcher boards," said Helena, surveyingit thoughtfully. "A doctor too and a nurse."
"Right you are. They've thought of all that. You'll find everything atthe market-hall,--where the two men are."
They drove away together, and into the outer streets of the town, wherenow scarcely a soul was to be seen, though as the car passed, the windowswere crowded with heads. Police were everywhere, and the market-place--asorry sight of smoky wreck and ruin--was held by a cordon of soldiers,behind which a crowd still looked on. French, sitting beside her, watchedthe erect girl-driver, the excellence of her driving, the brain and skillshe was bringing to bear upon her "job." Here was the "new woman" indeed,in her best aspect. He could not but compare the Helena of thisadventure--this competent and admirable Helena--with the girl of thenight before. Had the war produced the same dual personality in thousandsof English men and English women?--in the English nation itself?
They drew up at the steps of the market-hall, where a group of personswere standing, including a nurse in uniform. Buntingford came forward,and bending over the side of the car, said to Helena:
"Do you want to be relieved? There are several people here who coulddrive the car."
She flushed.
"I want to take these men to hospital."
He smiled at her.
"You shall."
He turned back to speak to the doctor who was to accompany the car.Helena jumped out, and went to consult with the nurse. In a very shorttime, the car had been turned as far as possible into an ambulance, andthe wounded men were brought out.
"As gently as you can," said the doctor to Helena. "Are yoursprings good?"
"The car's first-rate, and I'll do my best. I've been driving for nearlya year, up to the other day." She pointed to her badge. The doctor noddedapproval, and he and the nurse took their places. Then Buntingford jumpedinto the car, beside Helena.
"I'll show you the way. It won't take long."
In a few minutes, the car was in country lanes, and all the smokingtumult of the town had vanished from sight and hearing. It had becomealready indeed almost incredible, in the glow of the May afternoon,and amid the hawthorn white of the hedges, the chattering birds thatfled before them, the marvellous green of the fields. Helena drovewith the deftness of a practised hand, avoiding ruts, going softlyover rough places.
"Good!" said Buntingford to her more than once--"that was excellent!"
But the suffering of the men behind overshadowed everything else, and itwas with a big breath of relief that Buntingford at last perceived thewalls of the county hospital rising out of a group of trees in front ofthem. Helena brought the car gently to a standstill, and, jumping out,was ready to help as a V. A. D. in the moving of the men. The hospitalhad been warned by telephone, and all preparations had been made. Whenthe two unconscious men were safely in bed, the Dansworth doctor turnedwarmly to Helena:
"I don't know what we should have done without you, Miss Pitstone! Butyou look awfully tired. I hope you'll go home at once, and rest."
"I'm going to take her home--at once," said Buntingford. "We can't doanything more, can we?"
"Nothing. And here's the matron with a message."
The message was from the mayor of Dansworth. "Situation well in hand. Nomore trouble feared. Best thanks."
"All right!" said Buntingford. He turned smiling to Helena. "Now we'll gohome and get some dinner!"
The Dansworth doctor and nurse remained behind. Once more Buntingford gotinto the car beside his ward.
"What an ass I am!" he said, in disgust--"not to be able t
o drive thecar. But I should probably kill you and myself."
Helena laughed at him, a new sweetness in the sound, and they started.
Presently Buntingford said gently:
"I want to thank you,--for one thing especially--for having waited sopatiently--while we got the thing under."
"I wasn't patient at all! I wanted desperately to be in it!"
"All the more credit! It would have been a terrible anxiety if you hadbeen there. A policeman was killed just beside us. There was a man with arevolver running amuck. He just missed French by a hair-breadth."
Helena exclaimed in horror.
"You see--one puts the best face on it--but it might have been a terriblebusiness. But what I shall always remember most--is your part in it"
Their eyes met, hers half shy, half repentant, his full of a kindness shehad never yet seen there.