CHAPTER IX
About ten o'clock on the night of the ball at Beechmark, a labourer wascrossing the park on his way home from his allotment. Thanks tosummertime and shortened hours of labour he had been able to get hiswinter greens in, and to earth up his potatoes, all in two strenuousevenings; and he was sauntering home dead-tired. But he had doubled hiswages since the outbreak of war and his fighting son had come back to himsafe, so that on the whole he was inclined to think that the old countrywas worth living in! The park he was traversing was mostly open pasturestudded with trees, except where at the beginning of the eighteenthcentury the Lord Buntingford of the day had planted a wood of oak andbeech about the small lake which he had made by the diversion of twostreamlets that had once found a sluggish course through the grassland.The trees in it were among the finest in the country, but like so much ofEnglish woodland before the war, they had been badly neglected for manyyears. The trees blown down by winter storms had lain year after yearwhere they fell; the dead undergrowth was choking the young saplings; andsome of the paths through the wood had practically disappeared.
The path from the allotments to the village passed at the back of thewood. Branching off from it, an old path leading through the trees andround the edge of the lake had once been frequently used as a short cutfrom the village to the house, but was now badly grown up and indeedsuperseded by the new drive from the western lodge, made some twentyyears before this date.
The labourer, Richard Stimson, was therefore vaguely surprised when heturned the corner of the wood and reached the fork of the path, to see afigure of a woman, on the old right-of-way, between him and the wood, forwhich she seemed to be making.
It was not the figure of anyone he knew. It was a lady, apparently, in adark gown, and a small hat with a veil. The light was still good, and hesaw her clearly. He stopped indeed to watch her, puzzled to know what astranger could be doing in the park, and on that path at ten o'clock atnight. He was aware indeed that there were gay doings at Beechmark. Hehad seen the illuminated garden and house from the upper park, and hadcaught occasional gusts of music from the band to which no doubt thequality were dancing. But the fact didn't seem to have much to do withthe person he was staring at.
And while he stared at her, she turned, and instantly perceived--hethought--that she was observed. She paused a moment, and then made anabrupt change of direction; running round the corner of the wood, shereached the path along which he himself had just come and disappearedfrom view.
The whole occurrence filliped the rustic mind; but before he reached hisown cottage, Stimson had hit on an explanation which satisfied him. Itwas of course a stranger who had lost her way across the park, mistakingthe two paths. On seeing him, she had realized that she was wrong and hadquickly set herself right. He told his wife the tale before he went tosleep, with this commentary; and they neither of them troubled to thinkabout it any more.
Perhaps the matter would not have appeared so simple to either of themhad they known that Stimson had no sooner passed completely out of sight,leaving the wide stretches of the park empty and untenanted under a skyalready alive with stars, than the same figure reappeared, and afterpausing a moment, apparently to reconnoitre, disappeared within the wood.
"A year ago to-day, where were you?" said one Brigadier to another, asthe two Generals stood against the wall in the Beechmark drawing-room towatch the dancing.
"Near Albert," said the man addressed. "The brigade was licking itswounds and training drafts."
The other smiled.
"Mine was doing the same thing--near Armentieres. We didn't think then,did we, that it would be all over in five months?"
"It isn't all over!" said the first speaker, a man with a refined andsharply cut face, still young under a shock of grey hair. "We are in theground swell of the war. The ship may go down yet."
"While the boys and girls dance? I hope not!" The soldier's eyes ransmiling over the dancing throng. Then he dropped his voice:
"Listen!"
For a very young boy and girl had come to stand in front of them. The boyhad just parted from a girl a good deal older than himself, who hadnodded to him a rather patronizing farewell, as she glided back into thedance with a much decorated Major.
"These pre-war girls are rather dusty, aren't they?" said the boy angrilyto his partner.
"You mean they give themselves airs? Well, what does it matter? It's _we_who have the good time now!" said the little creature beside him, a fairyin filmy white, dancing about him as she spoke, hardly able to keep herfeet still for a moment, life and pleasure in every limb.
The two soldiers--both fathers--smiled at each other. Then Helena camedown the room, a vision of spring, with pale green floating about her,and apple-blossoms in her brown hair. She was dancing with GeoffreyFrench, and both were dancing with remarkable stateliness and grace tosome Czech music, imposed upon the band by Helena, who had given herparticular friends instruction on the lawn that afternoon in some of thesteps that fitted it. They passed with the admiring or envious eyes ofthe room upon them, and disappeared through the window leading to thelawn. For on the smooth-shaven turf of the lawn there was supplementarydancing, while the band in the conservatory, with all barriers removed,was playing both for the inside and outside revellers.
Peter Dale was sitting out on the terrace over-looking the principal lawnwith the daughter of Lady Mary Chance, a rather pretty but stupid girl,with a genius for social blunders. Buntingford had committed him to adance with her, and he was not grateful.
"She is pretty, of course, but horribly fast!" said his partnercontemptuously, as Helena passed. "Everybody thinks her such bad style!"
"Then everybody is an ass!" said Peter violently, turning upon her. "Butit doesn't matter to Helena."
The girl flushed in surprise and anger.
"I didn't know you were such great friends. I only repeat what I hear,"she said stiffly.
"It depends on where you hear it," said Peter. "There isn't a man in thisball that isn't pining to dance with her."
"Has she given you a dance?" said the girl, with a touch of malice inher voice.
"Oh, I've come off as well as other people!" said Peter evasively.
Then, of a sudden, his chubby face lit up. For Helena, just as the musicwas slackening to the close of the dance, and a crowd of aspirants forsupper dances were converging on the spot where she stood, had turned andbeckoned to Peter.
"Do you mind?--I'll come back!" he said to his partner, and rushed off.
"Second supper dance!" "All right!"
He returned radiant, and in his recovered good humour proceeded to makehimself delightful even to Miss Chance, whom, five minutes before, hehad detested.
But when he had returned her to her mother, Peter wandered off alone. Hedid not want to dance with anybody, to talk to anybody. He wanted just toremember Helena's smile, her eager--"I've kept it for you, Peter, all theevening!"--and to hug the thought of his coming joy. Oh, he hadn't adog's chance, he knew, but as long as she was not actually married tosomebody else, he was not going to give up hope.
In a shrubbery walk, where a rising moon was just beginning to chequerthe path with light and shade, he ran into Julian Horne, who wasstrolling tranquilly up and down, book in hand.
"Hullo, what are you doing here?" said the invaded one.
"Getting cool. And you?"
Julian showed his book--_The Coming Revolution_, a Bolshevist pamphlet,then enjoying great vogue in manufacturing England.
"What are you reading such rot for?" said Peter, wondering.
"It gives a piquancy to this kind of thing!" was Horne's smiling reply,as they reached an open space in the walk, and he waved his hand towardsthe charming scene before them, the house with its lights, on its risingground above the lake, the dancing groups on the lawn, the illuminatedrose-garden; and below, the lake, under its screen of wood, with boats onthe smooth water, touched every now and then by the creeping fingers ofthe searchlight from the boathouse,
so that one group after another ofyoung men and maidens stood out in a white glare against the darkness ofthe trees.
"It will last our time," said Peter recklessly. "Have you seenBuntingford?"
"A little while ago, he was sitting out with Lady Cynthia. But when hepassed me just now, he told me he was going down to look after the lakeand the boats--in case of accidents. There is a current at one endapparently, and a weir; and the keeper who understands all about it is ina Canada regiment on the Rhine."
"Do you think Buntingford's going to marry Lady Cynthia?" askedPeter suddenly.
Horne laughed. "That's not my guess, at present," he said after a moment.
As he spoke, a boat on the lake came into the track of the searchlight,and the two persons in it were clearly visible--Buntingford rowing, andHelena, in the stern. The vision passed in a flash; and Horne turned apair of eyes alive with satirical meaning on his companion.
"Well!" said Peter, troubled, he scarcely knew why--"what do you mean?"
Horne seemed to hesitate. His loose-limbed ease of bearing in his shabbyclothes, his rugged head, and pile of reddish hair, above a thinker'sbrow, made him an impressive figure in the half light--gave him a kind ofseer's significance.
"Isn't it one of the stock situations?" he said at last--"thissituation of guardian and ward?--romantic situations, I mean? Of coursethe note of romance must be applicable. But it certainly is applicable,in this case."
Peter stared. Julian Horne caught the change in the boy's delicate faceand repented him--too late.
"What rubbish you talk, Julian! In the first place it would bedishonourable!"
"Why?"
"It would, I tell you,--damned dishonourable! And in the next, why, a fewweeks ago--Helena hated him!"
"Yes--she began with 'a little aversion'! One of the stock openings,"laughed Horne.
"Well, ta-ta. I'm not going to stay to listen to you talking bosh anymore," said Peter roughly. "There's the next dance beginning."
He flung away. Horne resumed his pacing. He was very sorry for Peter,whose plight was plain to all the world. But it was better he should bewarned. As for himself, he too had been under the spell. But he had soonemerged. A philosopher and economist, holding on to Helena's skirts inher rush through the world, would cut too sorry a figure. Besides, couldshe ever have married him--which was of course impossible, in spite ofthe courses in Meredith and Modern Literature through which he had takenher--she would have tired of him in a year, by which time both theirfortunes would have been spent. For he knew himself to be a spendthrifton a small income, and suspected a similar propensity in Helena, on thegrand scale. He returned, therefore, more or less contentedly, to hismusings upon an article he was to contribute to _The Market Place_, on"The Influence of Temperament in Economics." The sounds of dance music inthe distance made an agreeable accompaniment.
Meanwhile a scene--indisputably sentimental--was passing on the lake.Helena and Geoffrey French going down to the water's edge to find a boat,had met halfway with Cynthia Welwyn, in some distress. She had just heardthat Lady Georgina had been taken suddenly ill, and must go home. Sheunderstood that Mawson was looking after her sister, who was liable toslight fainting attacks at inconvenient moments. But how to find theircarriage! She had looked for a servant in vain, and Buntingford wasnowhere to be seen. French could do no less than offer to assist; andHelena, biting her lip, despatched him. "I will wait for you at theboathouse."
He rushed off, with Cynthia toiling after him, and Helena descended tothe lake. As she neared the little landing stage, a boat approached it,containing Buntingford, and two or three of his guests.
"Hullo, Helena, what have you done with Geoffrey?"
She explained. "We were just coming down for a row."
"All right. I'll take you on till he comes. Jump in!"
She obeyed, and they were soon halfway towards the further side. Butabout the middle of the lake Buntingford was seized with belatedcompunction that he had not done his host's duty to his queer,inarticulate cousin, Lady Georgina. "I suppose I ought to have gone tolook after her?"
"Not at all," said Helena coolly. "I believe she does it often. She can'twant more than Lady Cynthia--_and_ Geoffrey--_and_ Mawson. Peopleshouldn't be pampered!"
Her impertinence was so alluring as she sat opposite to him, trailingboth hands in the water, that Buntingford submitted. There was amomentary silence. Then Helena said:
"Lady Cynthia came to see me the other day. Did you send her?"
"Of course. I wanted you to make friends."
"That we should never do! We were simply born to dislike each other."
"I never heard anything so unreasonable!" said Buntingford warmly."Cynthia is a very good creature, and can be excellent company."
Helena gave a shrug.
"What does all that matter?" she said slowly--"when one hasinstincts--and intuitions. No!--don't let's talk any more about LadyCynthia. But--there's something--please, Cousin Philip--I want to say--Imay as well say it now."
He looked at her rather astonished, and, dimly as he saw her inthe shadow they had just entered, it seemed to him that her aspecthad changed.
"What is it? I hope nothing serious."
"Yes--it is serious, to me. I hate apologizing!--I always have."
"My dear Helena!--why should you apologize? For goodness' sake, don't!Think better of it."
"I've got to do it," she said firmly, "Cousin Philip, you were quiteright about that man, Jim Donald, and I was quite wrong. He's a beast,and I loathe the thought of having danced with him--there!--I'm sorry!"She held out her hand.
Buntingford was supremely touched, and could not for the moment find ajest wherewith to disguise it.
"Thank you!" he said quietly, at last. "Thank you, Helena. That was verynice of you." And with a sudden movement he stooped and kissed the wetand rather quivering hand he held. At the same moment, the searchlightwhich had been travelling about the pond, lighting up one boat afteranother to the amusement of the persons in them, and of those watchingfrom the shore, again caught the boat in which sat Buntingford andHelena. Both figures stood sharply out. Then the light had travelled on,and Helena had hastily withdrawn her hand.
She fell back on the cushions of the stern seat, vexed with her ownagitation. She had described herself truly. She was proud, and it washard for her to "climb down." But there was much else in the mixedfeeling that possessed her. There seemed, for one thing, to be a curioushappiness in it; combined also with a renewed jealousy for anindependence she might have seemed to be giving away. She wanted tosay--"Don't misunderstand me!--I'm not really giving up anything vital--Imean all the same to manage my life in my own way." But it was difficultto say it in the face of the coatless man opposite, of whose house shehad become practically mistress, and who had changed all his personalmodes of life to suit hers. Her eyes wandered to the gay scene of thehouse and its gardens, with its Watteau-ish groups of young men andmaidens, under the night sky, its light and music. All that had beendone, to give her pleasure, by a man who had for years conspicuouslyshunned society, and whose life in the old country house, before heradvent, had been, as she had come to know, of the quietest. She bentforward again, impulsively:
"Cousin Philip!--I'm enjoying this party enormously--it's awfully,awfully good of you--but I don't want you to do it any more--"
"Do what, Helena?"
"Please, I can get along without any more week-ends, or parties. You--youspoil me!"
"Well--we're going up to London, aren't we, soon? But I daresay you'reright"--his tone grew suddenly grave. "While we dance, there is aterrible amount of suffering going on in the world."
"You mean--after the war?"
He nodded. "Famine everywhere--women and children dying--half a dozenbloody little wars. And here at home we seem to be on the brink ofcivil war."
"We oughtn't to be amusing ourselves at all!--that's the real truth ofit," said Helena with gloomy decision. "But what are we to do--women, Imean? They told me at t
he hospital yesterday they get rid of their lastconvalescents next week. What _is_ there for me to do? If I were afactory girl, I should be getting unemployment benefit. My occupation'sgone--such as it was--it's not my fault!"
"Marry, my dear child,--and bring up children," said Buntingford bluntly."That's the chief duty of Englishwomen just now."
Helena flushed and said nothing. They drifted nearer to the bank, andHelena perceived, at the end of a little creek, a magnificent group ofyew trees, of which the lower branches were almost in the water. Behindthem, and to the side of them, through a gap in the wood, the moonlightfound its way, but they themselves stood against the faint light,superbly dark, and impenetrable, black water at their feet. Buntingfordpointed to them.
"They're fine, aren't they? This lake of course is artificial, and thepark was only made out of arable land a hundred years ago. I alwaysimagine these trees mark some dwelling-house, which has disappeared. Theyused to be my chief haunt when I was a boy. There are four of them,extraordinarily interwoven. I made a seat in one of them. I could seeeverything and everybody on the lake, or in the garden; and nobody couldsee me. I once overheard a proposal!"
"Eavesdropper!" laughed Helena. "Shall we land?--and go and look atthem?"
She gave a touch to the rudder. Then a shout rang out from thelanding-stage on the other side of the water.
"Ah, that's Geoffrey," said Buntingford. "And I must really get back tothe house--to see people off."
With a little vigorous rowing they were soon across the lake. Helena satsilent. She did not want Geoffrey--she did not want to reach theland--she had been happy on the water--why should things end?
* * * * *
Geoffrey reported that all was well with Lady Georgina, she had gonehome, and then stepping into the boat as Buntingford stepped out, hebegan to push off.
"Isn't it rather late?" began Helena in a hesitating voice, half risingfrom her seat. "I promised Peter a supper dance."
Geoffrey turned to look at her.
"Nobody's gone in to supper yet. Shall I take you back?"
There was something in his voice which meant that this _tete-a-tete_ hadbeen promised him. Helena resigned herself. But that she would ratherhave landed was very evident to her companion, who had been balked ofhalf his chance already by Lady Georgina. Why did elderly persons liableto faint come to dances?--that was what he fiercely wanted to know as hepulled out into the lake.
Helena was very quiet. She seemed tired, or dreamy. InstinctivelyGeoffrey lost hold on his own purpose. Something warned him to go warily.By way of starting conversation he began to tell her of his own adventureon the lake--of the dumb woman among the trees, whom he had seen andspoken to, without reply. Helena was only moderately interested. It wassome village woman passing through the wood, she supposed. Very likelythe searchlight frightened her, and she knew she had no business there inJune when there were young pheasants about--
"Nobody's started preserving again yet--" put in Geoffrey.
"Old Fenn told me yesterday that there were lots of wild ones," saidHelena languidly. "So there'll be something to eat next winter."
"Are you tired, Helena?"
"Not at all," she said, sitting up suddenly. "What were we talkingabout?--oh, pheasants. Do you think we really shall starve next winter,Geoffrey, as the Food Controller says?"
"I don't much care!" said French.
Helena bent forward.
"Now, you're cross with me, Geoffrey! Don't be cross! I think I really amtired. I seem to have danced for hours." The tone was childishlyplaintive, and French was instantly appeased. The joy of being withher--alone--returned upon him in a flood.
"Well, then, rest a little. Why should you go back just yet? Isn't itjolly out here?"
"Lovely," she said absently--"but I promised Peter."
"That'll be all right. We'll just go across and back."
There was a short silence--long enough to hear the music from the house,and the distant voices of the dancers. A little northwest wind wascreeping over the lake, and stirring the scents of the grasses andsedge-plants on its banks. Helena looked round to see in what directionthey were going.
"Ah!--you see that black patch, Geoffrey?"
"Yes--it was near there I saw my ghost--or village woman--or lady'smaid--whatever you like to call it."
"It was a lady's maid, I think," said Helena decidedly. "They have a wayof getting lost. Do you mind going there?"--she pointed--"I want toexplore it."
He pulled a stroke which sent the boat towards the yews; while sherepeated Buntingford's story of the seat.
"Perhaps we shall find her there," said Geoffrey with a laugh.
"Your woman? No! That would be rather creepy! To think we had a spy on usall the time! I should hate that!"
She spoke with animation; and a sudden question shot across French'smind. She and Buntingford had been alone there under the darkness of theyews. If a listener had been lurking in that old hiding-place, what wouldhe--or she--have heard? Then he shook the thought from him, and rowedvigorously for the creek.
He tied the boat to a willow-stump, and helped Helena to land.
"I warn you--" he said, laughing. "You'll tear your dress, and wetyour shoes."
But with her skirts gathered tight round her she was alreadyhalfway through the branches, and Geoffrey heard her voice from thefurther side--
"Oh I--such a wonderful place!"
He followed her quickly, and was no less astonished than she. They stoodin a kind of natural hall, like that "pillared shade" under the yews ofBorrowdale, which Wordsworth has made immortal:
beneath whose sable roofOf boughs, as if for festal purpose, deckedWith unrejoicing berries, Ghostly shapesMay meet at noon-tide; Fear and trembling Hope,Silence and Foresight; Death the SkeletonAnd Time the Shadow:--
For three yew trees of great age had grown together, forming a domed tentof close, perennial leaf, beneath which all other vegetation haddisappeared. The floor, carpeted with "the pining members" of the yews,was dry and smooth; Helena's light slippers scarcely sank in it. Theygroped their way; and Helena's hand had slipped unconsciously intoGeoffrey's. In the velvety darkness, indeed, they would have seennothing, but for the fact that the moon stood just above the wood, andthrough a small gap in the dome, where a rotten branch had fallen, alittle light came down.
"I've found the seat!" said Helena joyously, disengaging herself from hercompanion. And presently a dim ray from overhead showed her to him seateddryad-like in the very centre of the black interwoven trunks. Or, rather,he saw the sparkle of some bright stones on her neck, and the whitenessof her brow; but for the rest, only a suggestion of lovely lines; as itwere, a Spirit of the Wood, almost bodiless.
He stood before her, in an ecstasy of pleasure.
"Helena!--you are a vision--a dream: Don't fade away! I wish we couldstay here for ever."
"Am I a vision?" She put out a mischievous hand, and pinched him. "Butcome here, Geoffrey--come up beside me--look! Anybody sitting here couldsee a good deal of the lake!"
He squeezed in beside her, and true enough, through a natural parting inthe branches, which no one could have noticed from outside, the littlecreek, with their boat in it, was plainly visible, and beyond it thelights on the lawn.
"A jolly good observation post for a sniper!" said Geoffrey,recollections of the Somme returning upon him; so far as he was able tothink of anything but Helena's warm loveliness beside him. Mad thoughtsbegan to surge up in him.
But an exclamation from Helena checked them:
"I say!--there's something here--in the seat."
Her hand groped near his. She withdrew it excitedly.
"It's a scarf, or a bag, or something. Let's take it to the light. Yourwoman, Geoffrey!"
She scrambled down, and he followed her unwillingly, the blood racingthrough his veins. But he must needs help her again through theclose-grown branches, and into the boat.
She peered at the soft thing s
he held in her hand.
"It's a bag, a little silk bag. And there's something in it! Light amatch, Geoffrey."
He fumbled in his waistcoat pocket, and obeyed her. Their two headsstooped together over the bag. Helena drew out a handkerchief--torn, witha lace edging.
"That's not a village woman's handkerchief!" she said, wondering. "Andthere are initials!"
He struck another match, and they distinguished something like F.M. veryfinely embroidered in the corner of the handkerchief. The match went out,and Helena put the handkerchief back into the bag, which she examined inthe now full moonlight, as they drifted out of the shadow.
"And the bag itself is a most beautiful little thing! It's shabby andold, but it cost a great deal when it was new. What a strange, strangething! We must tell Cousin Philip. Somebody, perhaps, was watching us allthe time!"
She sat with her chin on her hands, gazing thoughtfully at French, thebag on her knees. Now that the little adventure was over, and she wasbegging him to take her back quickly to the house, Geoffrey was onlyconscious of disappointment and chagrin. What did the silly mystery initself matter to him or her? But it had drawn a red herring across histrack. Would the opportunity it had spoilt ever return?