Produced by Andrew Templeton, Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and theOnline Distributed Proofreading Team.
HELENA
BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
AUTHOR OF LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER, MISSING, ELIZABETH'S CAMPAIGN, ETC.
1919
CHAPTER I
"I don't care a hang about the Middle Classes!" said Lord Buntingford,resting his head on his hand, and slowly drawing a pen over a printedsheet that lay before him. The sheet was headed "Middle Class DefenceLeague," and was an appeal to whom it might concern to join the foundersof the League in an attempt to curb the growing rapacity of theworking-classes. "Why should we be snuffed out without a struggle?" saidthe circular. "We are fewer, no doubt, but we are better educated. Ourhome traditions are infinitely superior. It is on the Middle Classes thatthe greatness of England depends."
"Does it?" thought Lord Buntingford irritably. "I wonder."
He rose and began to pace his library, a shabby comfortable room which heloved. The room however had distinction like its master. The distinctioncame, perhaps, from its few pictures, of no great value, but witnessingto a certain taste and knowledge on the part of the persons, long sincedead, who hung them there; from one or two cases of old Nankin; from itsold books; and from a faded but enchanting piece of tapestry behind thecases of china, which seemed to represent a forest. The tapestry, whichcovered the whole of the end wall of the room, was faded and out ofrepair, but Lord Buntingford, who was a person of artistic sensibilities,was very fond of it, and had never been able to make up his mind to spareit long enough to have it sent to the School of Art Needlework formending. His cousin, Lady Cynthia Welwyn, scolded him periodically forhis negligence in the matter. But after all it was he, and not Cynthia,who had to live in the room. She had something to do with the School, andof course wanted jobs for her workers.
"I hope that good woman's train will be punctual," he thought to himself,presently, as he went to a window and drew up a blind. "Otherwise I shallhave no time to look at her before Helena arrives."
He stood awhile absently surveying the prospect outside. There was firstof all a garden with some pleasant terraces, and flights of stone steps,planned originally in the grand style, but now rather dilapidated andill-kept, suggesting either a general shortage of pelf on the part of theowner--or perhaps mere neglect and indifference.
Beyond the garden stretched a green rim of park, with a gleam of water inthe middle distance which seemed to mean either a river or a pond, manyfine scattered trees, and, girdling the whole, a line of wooded hill.Just such a view as any county--almost--in this beautiful England canproduce. It was one of the first warm days of a belated spring. Afortnight before, park and hills and garden had been deep in snow. NowNature, eager, and one might think ashamed, was rushing at her neglectedwork, determined to set the full spring going in a minimum of hours. Thegrass seemed to be growing, and the trees leafing under the spectator'seyes. There was already a din of cuckoos in the park, and the nestingbirds were busy.
The scene was both familiar and unfamiliar to Lord Buntingford. He hadbeen brought up in it as a child. But he had only inherited the Beechmarkproperty from his uncle just before the war, and during almost the wholeof the war he had been so hard at work, as a volunteer in the Admiralty,that he had never been able to do more than run down once or twice a yearto see his agent, go over his home farm, and settle what timber was to becut before the Government commandeered it. He was not yet demobilized, ashis naval uniform showed. There was a good deal of work still to do inhis particular office, and he was more than willing to do it. But in afew months' time at any rate--he was just now taking a fortnight'sleave--he would be once more at a loose end. That condition of thingsmust be altered as soon as possible. When he looked back over the yearsof driving work through which he had just passed to the years ofsemi-occupation before them, he shrank from those old conditions indisgust. Something must be found to which he could enslave himself again.Liberty was the great delusion--at least for him.
Politics?--Well, there was the House of Lords, and the possibility ofsome minor office, when his Admiralty work was done. And the wholepost-war situation was only too breathless. But for a man who, as soon ashe had said Yes, was immediately seized with an insensate desire to lookonce more at all the reasons which might have induced him to say No,there was no great temptation in politics. Work was what the nationwanted--not talk.
Agriculture and the Simple Life?--Hardly! Five years of life in London,four of them under war conditions, had spoilt any taste for the countryhe had ever possessed. He meant to do his duty by his estate, and by themiscellaneous crowd of people, returned soldiers and others, who seemedto wish to settle upon it. But to take the plunge seriously, to go inheart and soul for intensive culture or scientific dairy-farming, tospend lonely winters in the country with his bailiffs and tenants forcompany--it was no good talking about it--he knew it could not be done.
And--finally--what was the good of making plans at all?--with these newresponsibilities which friendship and pity and weakness of will hadlately led him to take upon himself?--For two years at least he would notbe able to plan his life in complete freedom.
His thoughts went dismally off in the new direction. As he turned awayfrom the window, a long Venetian mirror close by reflected the image of atall man in naval uniform, with a head and face that were striking ratherthan handsome--black curly hair just dusted with grey, a slight chronicfrown, remarkable blue eyes and a short silky beard. His legs wereslender in proportion to the breadth of his shoulders, and inadequate inrelation to the dignity of the head. One of them also was slightly--veryslightly--lame.
He wandered restlessly round the room again, stopping every now and thenwith his hands in his pockets, to look at the books on the shelves.Generally, he did not take in what he was looking at, but in a momentless absent-minded than others, he happened to notice the name of astately octavo volume just opposite his eyes--
"Davison, on Prophecy."
"Damn Davison!"--he said to himself, with sudden temper. The outburstseemed to clear his mind. He went to the bell and rang it. A thin womanin a black dress appeared, a woman with a depressed and deprecatingexpression which was often annoying to Lord Buntingford. It representedsomehow an appeal to the sentiment of the spectator for which there wasreally no sufficient ground. Mrs. Mawson was not a widow, in spite of theMrs. She was a well-paid and perfectly healthy person; and there was noreason, in Lord Buntingford's view, why she should not enjoy life. Allthe same, she was very efficient and made him comfortable. He would haveraised her wages to preposterous heights to keep her.
"Is everything ready for the two ladies, Mrs. Mawson?"
"Everything, my Lord. We are expecting the pony-cart directly."
"And the car has been ordered for Miss Pitstone?"
"Oh, yes, my Lord, long ago."
"Gracious! Isn't that the cart!"
There was certainly a sound of wheels outside. Lord Buntingford hurriedto a window which commanded the drive.
"That's her! I must go and meet her."
He went into the hall, reaching the front door just as the pony-cart drewup with a lady in black sitting beside the driver. Mrs. Mawson lookedafter him. She wondered why his lordship was in such a flurry. "It's thisliving alone. He isn't used to have women about. And it's a pity hedidn't stay on as he was."
Meanwhile the lady in the pony-cart, as she alighted, saw a tall man, ofsomewhat remarkable appearance, standing on the steps of the porch. Herexpectations had been modest; and that she would be welcomed by heremployer in person on the doorstep of Beechmark had not been among them.Her face flushed, and a pair of timid eyes met those of Lord Buntingfordas they shook hands.
"The train was very late," she explained in a voice of apology.
"They always are," said Lord Buntingford. "Never mind. You are in quitegood time. Miss Pitstone hasn't arrived. Norris, take Mrs. Friend'sluggage upstairs."
An ancient man-servant appeared. The small and delicately built lady onthe step looked at him appealingly.
"I am afraid there is a box besides," she said, like one confessing acrime. "Not a big one--" she added hurriedly. "We had to leave it at thestation. The groom left word for it to be brought later."
"Of course. The car will bring it," said Lord Buntingford. "Only onebox and those bags?" he asked, smiling. "Why, that's most moderate.Please come in."
And he led the way to the drawing-room. Reassured by his kind voiceand manner, Mrs. Friend tripped after him. "What a charming man!"she thought.
It was a common generalization about Lord Buntingford. Mrs. Friend hadstill--like others--to discover that it did not take one very far.
In the drawing-room, which was hung with French engravings mostly afterWatteau, and boasted a faded Aubusson carpet, a tea-table was set out.Lord Buntingford, having pushed forward a seat for his guest, wenttowards the tea-table, and then thought better of it.
"Perhaps you'll pour out tea--" he said pleasantly. "It'll be yourfunction, I think--and I always forget something."
Mrs. Friend took her seat obediently in front of the tea-table and theGeorgian silver upon it, which had a look of age and frailty as thoughgenerations of butlers had rubbed it to the bone, and did her best notto show the nervousness she felt. She was very anxious to please hernew employer.
"I suppose Miss Pitstone will be here before long?" she ventured, whenshe had supplied both the master of the house and herself.
"Twenty minutes--" said Lord Buntingford, looking at his watch."Time enough for me to tell you a little more about her than Iexpect you know."
And again his smile put her at ease.
She bent forward, clasping her small hands.
"Please do! It would be a great help."
He noticed the delicacy of the hands, and of her slender body. The faceattracted him--its small neat features, and brown eyes. Clearly alady--that was something.
"Well, I shouldn't wonder--if you found her a handful," he saiddeliberately.
Mrs. Friend laughed--a little nervous laugh.
"Is she--is she very advanced?"
"Uncommonly--I believe. I may as well tell you candidly she didn't wantto come here at all. She wanted to go to college. But her mother, who wasa favourite cousin of mine, wished it. She died last autumn; and Helenapromised her that she would allow me to house her and look after her fortwo years. But she regards it as a dreadful waste of time."
"I think--in your letter--you said I was to help her--in modernlanguages--" murmured Mrs. Friend.
Lord Buntingford shrugged his shoulders--
"I have no doubt you could help her in a great many things. Young people,who know her better than I do, say she's very clever. But her mother andshe were always wandering about--before the war--for her mother's health.I don't believe she's been properly educated in anything. Of course onecan't expect a girl of nineteen to behave like a schoolgirl. If you caninduce her to take up some serious reading--Oh, I don't mean anythingtremendous!--and to keep up her music---I expect that's all her poormother would have wanted. When we go up to town you must take her toconcerts--the opera--that kind of thing. I dare say it will go allright!" But the tone was one of resignation, rather than certainty.
"I'll do my best--" began Mrs. Friend.
"I'm sure you will. But--well, we'd better be frank with each other.Helena's very handsome--very self-willed--and a good bit of an heiress.The difficulty will be--quite candidly--_lovers_!"
They both laughed. Lord Buntingford took out his cigarette case.
"You don't mind if I smoke?"
"Not at all."
"Won't you have one yourself?" He held out the case. Mrs. Friend did notsmoke. But she inwardly compared the gesture and the man with theforbidding figure of the old woman in Lancaster Gate with whom she hadjust completed two years of solitary imprisonment, and some much-baffledvitality in her began to revive.
Lord Buntingford threw himself back in his arm-chair, and watched thecurls of smoke for a short space--apparently in meditation.
"Of course it's no good trying the old kind of thing--strict chaperonageand that sort of business," he said at last. "The modern girl won'tstand it."
"No, indeed she won't!" said Mrs. Friend fervently. "I should like totell you--I've just come from ----" She named a university. "I went tosee a cousin of mine, who's in one of the colleges there. She's going toteach. She went up just before the war. Then she left to do some warwork, and now she's back again. She says nobody knows what to do with thegirls. All the old rules have just--_gone_!" The gesture of the smallhand was expressive. "Authority--means nothing. The girls are enteringfor the sports--just like the men. They want to run the colleges--as theyplease--and make all the rules themselves."
"Oh, I know--" broke in her companion. "They'll just allow the wretchedteachers and professors to teach--what their majesties choose to learn.Otherwise--they run the show."
"Of course, they're awfully _nice_ girls--most of them," said Mrs.Friend, with a little, puzzled wrinkling of the brow.
"Ripping! Done splendid war work and all that. But the older generation,now that things have begun again, are jolly well up a tree--how to fitthe new to the old. I have some elderly relations at Oxbridge--a nice oldprofessor and his wife. Not stick-in-the-muds at all. But they tell methe world there--where the young women are concerned--seems to bestanding on its head. Well!--as far as I can gather--I really know hervery slightly--my little cousin Helena's in just the same sort of stage.All we people over forty might as well make our wills and have done withit. They'll soon discover some kind device for putting us out of the way.They've no use for us. And yet at the same time"--he flung his cigaretteinto the wood-fire beside him--"the fathers and mothers who brought theminto the world will insist on clucking after them, or if they can't cluckthemselves, making other people cluck. I shall have to try and cluckafter Helena. It's absurd, and I shan't succeed, of course--how could I?But as I told you, her mother was a dear woman--and--"
His sentence stopped abruptly. Mrs. Friend thought--"he was in love withher." However, she got no further light on the matter. Lord Buntingfordrose, and lit another cigarette.
"I must go and write a letter before post. Well, you see, you and I havegot to do our best. Of course, you mustn't try and run her on a tightrein--you'd be thrown before you were out of the first field--" His blueeyes smiled down upon the little stranger lady. "And you mustn't spy uponher. But if you're really in difficulties, come to me. We'll make out,somehow. And now, she'll be here in a few minutes. Would you like to stayhere--or shall I ring for the housemaid to show you your room?"
"Thank you--I--think I'll stay here. Can I find a book?"
She looked round shyly.
"Scores. There are some new books"--he pointed to a side-table wherethe obvious contents of a Mudie box, with some magazines, were laidout--"and if you want old ones, that door"--he waved towards one atthe far end of the room--"will take you into the library. Mygreat-grandfather's collection--not mine! And then one has ridiculousscruples about burning them! However, you'll find a few nice ones. Pleasemake yourself at home!" And with a slight bow to her, the first sign inhim of those manners of the _grand seigneur_ she had vaguely expected, hewas moving away, when she said hurriedly, pursuing her own thought:
"You said Miss Pitstone was very good-looking?"
"Oh, very!" He laughed. "She's exactly like Romney's Lady Hamilton. Youknow the type?"
"Ye-es," said Mrs. Friend. "I think I remember--before the war--atAgnew's? My husband took me there once." The tone was hesitating. Thelittle lady was clearly not learned in English art. But Lord Buntingfordliked her the better for not pretending.
"Of course. Th
ere's always an Emma, when Old Masters are on show. Romneypainted her forty or fifty times. We've got one ourselves--a sketch mygrandfather bought. If you'll come into the hall I'll show it you."
She followed obediently and, in a rather dark corner of the hall, LordBuntingford pointed out an unfinished sketch of Lady Hamilton--one of themany Bacchante variants--the brown head bent a little under the ivyleaves in the hair, the glorious laughing eyes challenging the spectator.
"Is she like that?" asked Mrs. Friend, wondering.
"Who?--my ward?" laughed Lord Buntingford. "Well, you'll see."
He walked away, and Mrs. Friend stayed a few minutes more in front of thepicture--thinking--and with half an ear listening for the sound of amotor. She was full of tremors and depression. "I was a fool to come--afool to accept!" she thought. The astonishing force of the sketch--of thecreature sketched--intimidated her. If Helena Pitstone were really likethat--"How can she ever put up with me? She'll just despise me. It willbe only natural. And then if things go wrong, Lord Buntingford will findout I'm no good--and I shall have to go!"
She gave a long sigh, lifting her eyes a little--against her will--to thereflection of herself in an old mirror hanging beside the Romney. What apoor little insignificant figure--beside the other! No, she had noconfidence in herself--none at all--she never had had. The people she hadlived with had indeed generally been fond of her. It was because she madeherself useful to them. Old Mrs. Browne had professed affection forher,--till she gave notice. She turned with a shiver from therecollection of an odious scene.
She went bade to the drawing-room and thence to the library, lookingwistfully, as she passed through it, at the pleasant hall, with its oldfurniture, and its mellowed comfort. She would like to find a home here,if only they would put up with her. For she was very homeless.
As compared with the drawing-room, the library had been evidently livedin. Its books and shabby chairs seemed to welcome her, and the oldtapestry delighted her. She stood some minutes before it in a quietpleasure, dreaming herself into the forest, and discovering an old castlein its depths. Then she noticed a portrait of an old man, labelled as by"Frank Holl, R. A.," hanging over the mantelpiece. She supposed it wasthe grandfather who had collected the books. The face and hair of the oldman had blanched indeed to a singular whiteness; but the eyes, blue understrong eyebrows, with their concentrated look, were the eyes of the LordBuntingford with whom she had just been talking.
The hoot of a motor startled her, and she ran to a window which commandedthe drive. An open car was rapidly approaching. A girl was driving it,with a man in chauffeur's uniform sitting behind her. She brought the carsmartly up to the door, then instantly jumped out, lifted the bonnet, andstood with the chauffeur at her side, eagerly talking to him and pointingto something in the chassis. Mrs. Friend saw Lord Buntingford run downthe steps to greet his ward. She gave him a smile and a left hand, andwent on talking. Lord Buntingford stood by, twisting his moustache, tillshe had finished. Then the chauffeur, looking flushed and sulky, got intothe car, and the girl with Lord Buntingford ascended the steps. Mrs.Friend left the window, and hurriedly went back to the drawing-room,where tea was still spread. Through the drawing-room door she heard avoice from the hall full of indignant energy.
"You ought to sack that man, Cousin Philip. He's spoiling that beautifulcar of yours."
"Is he? He suits me. Have you been scolding him all the way?"
"Well, I told him a few things--in your interest." Lord Buntingfordlaughed. A few words followed in lowered tones.
"He is telling her about me," thought Mrs. Friend, and presently caught achuckle, very merry and musical, which brought an involuntary smile toher own eyes. Then the door was thrown back, and Lord Buntingford usheredin his ward.
"This is Mrs. Friend, Helena. She arrived just before you did."
The girl advanced with sudden gravity and offered her hand. Mrs. Friendwas conscious that the eyes behind the hand were looking her all over.
Certainly a dazzling creature!--with the ripe red and white, theastonishing eyes, and brown hair, touched with auburn, of the Romneysketch. The beautiful head was set off by a khaki close cap, carrying abadge, and the khaki uniform, tunic, short skirt, and leggings, mighthave been specially designed to show the health and symmetry of thegirl's young form. She seemed to walk on air, and her presencetransformed the quiet old room.
"I want some tea badly," said Miss Pitstone, throwing herself into achair, "and so would you, Cousin Philip, if you had been battling withfour grubby children and an idiot mother all the way from London. Theymade me play 'beasts' with them. I didn't mind that, because my roaringfrightened them. But then they turned me into a fish, and fished for mewith the family umbrellas. I had distinctly the worst of it." And shetook off her cap, turning it round on her hand, and looking at the dintsin it with amusement.
"Oh, no, you never get the worst of it!" said Lord Buntingford, laughing,as he handed her the cake. "You couldn't if you tried."
She looked up sharply. Then she turned to Mrs. Friend.
"That's the way my guardian treats me, Mrs. Friend. How can I take himseriously?"
"I think Lord Buntingford meant it as a compliment--didn't he?" said Mrs.Friend shyly. She knew, alack, that she had no gift for repartee.
"Oh, no, he never pays compliments--least of all to me. He has a mostcritical, fault-finding mind. Haven't you, Cousin Philip?"
"What a charge!" said Lord Buntingford, lighting another cigarette. "Itwon't take Mrs. Friend long to find out its absurdity."
"It will take her just twenty-four hours," said the girl stoutly. "Heused to terrify me, Mrs. Friend, when I was a little thing ... May I havesome tea, please? When he came to see us, I always knew before he hadbeen ten minutes in the room that my hair was coming down, or my shoeswere untied, or something dreadful was the matter with me. I can'timagine how we shall get on, now that he is my guardian. I shall put himin a temper twenty times a day."
"Ah, but the satisfactory thing now is that you will have to put up withmy remarks. I have a legal right now to say what I like."
"H'm," said Helena, demurring, "if there are legal rights nowadays."
"There, Mrs. Friend--you hear?" said Lord Buntingford, toying with hiscigarette, in the depths of a big chair, and watching his ward with eyesof evident enjoyment. "You've got a Bolshevist to look after--a realanarchist. I'm sorry for you."
"That's another of his peculiarities!" said the girl coolly, "queeringthe pitch before one begins. You know you _might_ like me!--some peopledo--but he'll never let you." And, bending forward, with her cup in bothhands, and her radiant eyes peering over the edge of it, she threw a mostseductive look at her new chaperon. The look seemed to say, "I've beentaking stock of you, and--well!--I think I shan't mind you."
Anyway, Mrs. Friend took it as a feeler and a friendly one. She stammeredsomething in reply, and then sat silent while guardian and ward plungedinto a war of chaff in which first the ward, but ultimately the guardian,got the better. Lord Buntingford had more resource and could hold outlonger, so that at last Helena rose impatiently:
"I don't feel that I have been at all prettily welcomed--have I, Mrs.Friend? Lord Buntingford never allows one a single good mark. He says Ihave been idle all the winter since the Armistice. I haven't. I've workedlike a nigger!"
"How many dances a week, Helena?--and how many boys?" Helena first made aface, and then laughed out.
"As many dances--of course--as one could stuff in--without taxis. Icould walk down most of the boys. But Hampstead, Chelsea, and CurzonStreet, all in one night, and only one bus between them--that didsometimes do for me."
"When did you set up this craze?"
"Just about Christmas--I hadn't been to a dance for a year. I had beenslaving at canteen work all day"--she turned to Mrs. Friend--"and doingchauffeur by night--you know--fetching wounded soldiers from railwaystations. And then somebody asked me to a dance, and I went. And nextmorning I just made up my mind that everything els
e in the world wasrot, and I would go to a dance every night. So I chucked the canteen andI chucked a good deal of the driving--except by day--and I justdance--and dance!"
Suddenly she began to whistle a popular waltz--and the next minute thetwo elder people found themselves watching open-mouthed the whirlingfigure of Miss Helena Pitstone, as, singing to herself, and absorbedapparently in some new and complicated steps, she danced down the wholelength of the drawing-room and back again. Then out of breath, with acurtsey and a laugh, she laid a sudden hand on Mrs. Friend's arm.
"Will you come and talk to me--before dinner? I can't talk--before _him_.Guardians are impossible people!" And with another mock curtsey to LordBuntingford, she hurried Mrs. Friend to the door, and then disappeared.
Her guardian, with a shrug of the shoulders, walked to his writing-table,and wrote a hurried note.
"My dear Geoffrey--I will send to meet you at Dansworth to-morrow by thetrain you name. Helena is here--very mad and very beautiful. I hope youwill stay over Sunday. Yours ever, Buntingford."
"He shall have his chance anyway," he thought, "with the others. A fairfield, and no pulling."
Helena Page 1
