Helena

by Mrs. Humphry Ward

  CHAPTER VIII

  "Oh, what a jolly day! We've had a glorious ride," said Helena, throwingherself down on the grass beside Mrs. Friend. "And how are you? Have youbeen resting--or slaving--as you were _expressly_ forbidden to do?"

  For Mrs. Friend had been enjoying a particularly bad cold and had notlong emerged from her bedroom, looking such a pitiful little wreck, thatboth Lord Buntingford and Helena had been greatly concerned. In the fiveweeks that had now elapsed since her arrival at Beechmark she had stolenher quiet way into the liking of everybody in the house to such an extentthat, during the days she had been in bed with a high temperature, shehad been seriously missed in the daily life of the place, and the wholehousehold had actively combined to get her well again. Mrs. Mawson hadfed her; and Lucy Friend was aghast to think how much her convalescencemust be costing her employer in milk, eggs, butter, cream and chickens,when all such foods were still so frightfully, abominably dear. But theywere forced down her throat by Helena and the housekeeper; while LordBuntingford enquired after her every morning, and sent her a recklesssupply of illustrated papers and novels. To see her now in the library oron the lawn again, with her white shawl round her, and the usualneedlework on her knee, was a pleasant sight to everybody in the house.

  The little lady had not only won this place for herself by the sweet andselfless gift which was her natural endowment; she was becoming thepractical helper of everybody, of Mrs. Mawson in the house, of old Fennin the garden, even of Buntingford himself, who was gradually fallinginto the habit of letting her copy important letters for him, and keepsome order in the library. She was not in the least clever oraccomplished; but her small fingers seemed to have magic in them; and hergood will was inexhaustible.

  Helena had grown amazingly fond of her. She appealed to somethingmaternal and protecting in the girl's strong nature. Since her mother'sdeath, there had been a big streak of loneliness in Helena's heart,though she would have suffered tortures rather than confess it; andlittle Lucy Friend's companionship filled a void. She must needs respectLucy's conscience, Lucy's instincts had more than once shamed her own.

  "What are you going to wear to-night?" said Mrs. Friend, softly smoothingback the brown hair from the girl's hot brow.

  "Pale green and apple-blossom."

  Lucy Friend smiled, as though already she had a vision of thefull-dress result.

  "That'll be delicious," she said, with enthusiasm.

  "Lucy!--am I good-looking?"

  The girl spoke half wistfully, half defiantly, her eyes fixed on Lucy.

  Mrs. Friend laughed.

  "I asked that question before I had seen you."

  "Of whom?" said Helena eagerly. "You didn't see anybody but Cousin Philipbefore I arrived. Tell me, Lucy--tell me at once."

  Mrs. Friend kept a smiling silence for a minute. At last she said--"LordBuntingford showed me a portrait of you before you arrived."

  "A portrait of me? There isn't one in the house! Lucy, you deceiver, whatdo you mean?"

  "I was taken to see one in the hall."

  A sudden light dawned on Helena.

  "The Romney? No! And I've been showing it to everybody as the loveliestthing going!"

  "There--you see!"

  Helena's face composed itself.

  "I don't know why I should be flattered. She was a horrid minx. That nodoubt was what the likeness consisted in!"

  Mrs. Friend laughed, but said nothing. Helena rose from the grass,pausing to say as she turned towards the house:

  "We're going to dance in the drawing-room, Mawson says. They'vecleared it."

  "Doesn't it look nice?"

  Helena assented. "Let me see--" she added slowly--"this is the thirddance, isn't it, since I came?"

  "Yes--the third."

  "I don't think we need have another"--the tone was decided, almostimpatient--"at least when this party's over."

  Mrs. Friend opened her eyes.

  "I thought you liked to dance every week-end?"

  "Well--ye-es--amongst ourselves. I didn't mean to turn the houseupside-down every week."

  "Well, you see--the house-parties have been so large. And besides therehave been neighbours."

  "I didn't ask _them_," said Helena. "But--we won't have another--till wego to Town."

  "Very well. It might be wise. The servants are rather tired, and if theygive warning, we shall never get any more!"

  Mrs. Friend watched the retreating figure of Helena. There had indeedbeen a dizzy succession of week-end parties, and it seemed to her thatLord Buntingford's patience under the infliction had been simplymiraculous. For they rarely contained friends of his own; his lamenesscut him off from dancing; and it had been clear to Lucy Friend that inmany cases Helena's friends had been sharply distasteful to him. Hewas, in Mrs. Friend's eyes, a strange mixture as far as socialstandards were concerned. A boundless leniency in some cases; thesternest judgment in others.

  For instance, a woman he had known from childhood had lately left herhusband, carried off her children, and joined her lover. Lord Buntingfordwas standing, stoutly by her, helping her in her divorce proceedings,paying for the education of the children, and defending her whenever heheard her attacked. On the other hand, his will had been iron in thematter of Lord Donald, whose exposure as co-respondent in theparticularly disreputable case had been lately filling the newspapers.Mrs. Friend had seen Helena take up the _Times_ on one of the days onwhich the evidence in this case had appeared, and fling it down againwith a flush and a look of disgust. But since the day of the Dansworthriot, she had never mentioned Lord Donald's name.

  Certainly the relations between her and her guardian had curiouslychanged. In the first place, since her Dansworth adventure, Helena hadfound something to do to think about other than quarrelling with "CousinPhilip." Her curiosity as to how the two wounded police, whom she haddriven to the County Hospital that day, might be faring had led to hergoing over there two or three times a week, either to relieve anoverworked staff, or to drive convalescent soldiers, still undertreatment in the wards.

  The occupation had been a godsend to her, and everybody else. She stilltalked revolution, and she was always ready to spar with LordBuntingford, or other people. But all the same Lucy Friend was oftenaware of a much more tractable temper, a kind of hesitancy--andappeasement--which, even if it passed away, made her beauty, for themoment, doubly attractive.

  Was it, after all, the influence of Lord Buntingford--and was the eventjustifying her mother's strange provision for her? He had certainlytreated her with a wonderful kindness and indulgence. Of late he hadreturned to his work at the Admiralty, only coming down to Beechmark forlong week-ends from Friday to Monday. But in these later week-ends he hadgradually abandoned the detached and half-sarcastic attitude which he hadoriginally assumed towards Helena, and it seemed to Lucy Friend that hewas taking his function towards her with a new seriousness. If so, it hadaffected himself at least as much as the proud and difficult girl whoseguidance had been so hurriedly thrust upon him. His new role had broughtout in him unexpected resources, or revived old habits. For instance hehad not ridden for years; though, as a young man, and before hisaccident, he had been a fine horseman. But he now rode whenever he was atBeechmark, to show Helena the country; and they both looked so well onhorseback that it was a pleasure of which Lucy Friend never tired towatch them go and to welcome them home.

  Then the fact that he was a trained artist, which most of his friends hadforgotten, became significant again for Helena's benefit. She had someaptitude, and more ambition--would indeed, but for the war, have been aSouth Kensington student, and had long cherished yearnings for the Slade.He set her work to do during the week, and corrected it with professionalsharpness when he reappeared.

  And more important perhaps than either the riding or the drawing, was thepartial relaxation for her benefit of the reserve and taciturnity whichhad for years veiled the real man from those who liked and respected himmost. He never indeed talked of himself or his past; but he
would discussaffairs, opinions, books--especially on their long rides together--with afrankness, and a tone of gay and equal comradeship, which, or so Mrs.Friend imagined, had had a disarming and rather bewildering effect onHelena. The girl indeed seemed often surprised and excited. It wasevident that they had never got on during her mother's lifetime, and thathis habitual bantering or sarcastic tone towards her while she was stillin the school-room had roused an answering resentment in her. Hence theaggressive mood in which, after two or three months of that half-madwhirl of gaiety into which London had plunged after the Armistice, shehad come down to Beechmark.

  They still jarred, sometimes seriously; Helena was often provocative andaggressive; and Buntingford could make a remark sting without intendingit. But on the whole Lucy Friend felt that she was watching somethingwhich had in it possibilities of beauty; indeed of a rather touching andrare development. But not at all as the preliminary to a love-affair. InBuntingford's whole relation to his ward, Lucy Friend, at least, hadnever yet detected the smallest sign of male susceptibility. It suggestedsomething quite different. Julian Horne, who had taken a great fancy toHelena's chaperon, was now recommending books to her instead of toHelena, who always forgot or disobeyed his instructions. With a littlepreliminary lecture, he had put the "Greville Memoirs" in her hands byway of improving her mind; and she had been struck by a passage in whichGreville describes Lord Melbourne's training of the young Queen Victoria,whose Prime Minister he was. The man of middle-age, accomplished, cynicaland witty, suddenly confronted with a responsibility which challengedboth his heart and his conscience--and that a responsibility towards anattractive young girl whom he could neither court nor command, towardswhom his only instrument was the honesty and delicacy of his ownpurpose:--there was something in this famous, historical situation whichseemed to throw a light on the humbler situation at Beechmark.

  Four o'clock! In another hour the Whitsuntide party for which the housestood ready would have arrived. Helena's particular "pals" were allcoming, and various friends and kinsfolk of Lord Buntingford's; includingLady Mary Chance, a general or two, some Admiralty officials, and one ortwo distinguished sailors with the halo of Zeebrugge about them. Thegathering was to last nearly a week. Mrs. Mawson had engaged two extraservants, and the master of the house had resigned himself. But he hadlaid it down that the fare was to be simple--and "no champagne." Andthough of course there would be plenty of bridge, he had given a hint toVivian Lodge, who, as his heir-apparent, was his natural aide-de-camp inthe management of the party, that anything like high play would beunwelcome. Some of Helena's friends during the latter week-ends of Mayhad carried things to extremes.

  Meanwhile the social and political sky was darkening in the June England.Peace was on the point of being signed in Paris; but the industrial warat home weighed on every thinking mind. London was dancing night afternight; money was being spent like water; and yet every man and woman ofsense knew that the only hope for Britain lay in work and saving.Buntingford's habitual frown--the frown not of temper but ofoppression--had grown deeper; and on their long rides together he hadshown a great deal of his mind to Helena--the mind of a patriot full offear for his country.

  A man came across the lawn. Lucy Friend was glad to recognize GeoffreyFrench, who was a great favourite with her.

  "You are early!" she said, as they greeted.

  "I came down by motor-bike. London is hateful, and I was in a hurry toget out of it. Where is Helena?"

  "Gone to change her dress. She has been riding."

  Frank mopped his brow in silence for a little. Then he said with thehalf-mischievous smile which in Lucy Friend's eyes was one of his chiefphysical "points."

  "How you and Philip have toned her down!"

  "Oh, not I!" said Lucy, her modesty distressed. "I've always admired herso! Of course--I was sometimes surprised--"

  Geoffrey laughed.

  "I daresay we shall all be surprised a good many times yet?" Then hemoved a little closer to the small person, who was becoming everybody'sconfidante. "Do you mind telling me something--if you know it?" he said,lowering his voice.

  "Ask me--but I can't promise!"

  "Do you think Helena has quite made up her mind not to marry Dale?"

  Mrs. Friend hesitated.

  "I don't know--"

  "But what do you think?"

  She lifted her gentle face, under his compulsion, and slowly, pitifullyshook her head.

  Geoffrey drew a long breath.

  "Then she oughtn't to ask him here! The poor little fellow is goingthrough the tortures of the damned!"

  "Oh, I'm so sorry. Isn't there anything we can do?" cried Mrs. Friend.

  "Nothing--but keep him away. After all he's only the first victim."

  Startled by the note in her companion's voice, Mrs. Friend turned to lookat him. He forced a smile, as their eyes met.

  "Oh, we must all take our chance! But Peter's not the boy he was--beforethe war. Things bowl him over easily."

  "She likes him so much," murmured Lucy. "I'm sure she never means tobe unkind."

  "She isn't unkind!" said Geoffrey with energy. "It's the natural fatedthing. We are all the slaves of her car and she knows it. When she was inthe stage of quarrelling with us all, it was just fun. But if Helenagrows as delicious--as she promised to be last week--" He shrugged hisshoulders, with a deep breath--"Well,--she'll have to marry somebody someday--and the rest of us may drown! Only, if you're to be umpire--and shelikes you so much that I expect you will be--play fair!"

  He held out his hand, and she put hers into it, astonished to realizethat her own eyes were full of tears.

  "I'm a mass of dust--I must go and change before tea," he said abruptly.

  He went into the house, and she was left to some agitated thinking.

  An hour later, the broad lawns of Beechmark, burnt yellow by the Maydrought, were alive with guests, men in khaki and red tabs, fresh fromtheir War Office work; two naval Commanders, and a resplendentFlag-Lieutenant; a youth in tennis flannels, just released from a cityoffice, who seven months earlier had been fighting in the last advance ofthe war, and a couple of cadets who had not been old enough to fight atall; girls who had been "out" before the war, and two others, Helena'sjuniors, who were just leaving the school-room and seemed to be all aglowwith the excitement and wonder of this peace-world; a formidablegrey-haired woman, who was Lady Mary Chance; Cynthia and Georgina Welwyn,and the ill-dressed, arresting figure of Mr. Alcott. Not all wereBuntingford's guests; some were staying at the Cottage, some in anotherneighbouring house; but Beechmark represented the headquarters of agathering of which Helena Pitstone and her guardian were in truth thecentral figures.

  Helena in white, playing tennis; Helena with a cigarette, resting betweenher sets, and chaffing with a ring of dazzled young men; Helena talkingwild nonsense with Geoffrey French, for the express purpose of shockingLady Mary Chance; and the next minute listening with a deference gracefulenough to turn even the seasoned head of a warrior to a grey-hairedgeneral describing the taking of the Vimy Ridge; and finally, Helena,holding a dancing class under the cedars on the yellow smoothness of thelawn, after tea, for such young men as panted to conquer the mysteries of"hesitation" or jazzing, and were ardently courting instruction in thedesperate hope of capturing their teacher for a dance that night:--it wason these various avatars of Helena that the whole party turned; and LadyMary indignantly felt that there was no escaping the young woman.

  "Why do you let her smoke--and paint--and _swear_--I declare I heard herswear!" she said in Buntingford's ear, as the dressing-bell rang, and hewas escorting her to the house. "And mark my words, Philip--men may beamused by that kind of girl, but they won't marry her."

  Buntingford laughed.

  "As Helena's guardian I'm not particularly anxious about that!"

  "Ah, no doubt, she tells you people propose to her--but is it true?"snapped Lady Mary.

  "You imagine that Helena tells me of her proposals?" said Buntingford,wondering.
>
  "My dear Philip, don't pose! Isn't that the special function of aguardian?"

  "It may be. But, if so, Helena has never given me the chance ofperforming it."

  "I told you so! Men will flirt with her, but they _don't_ propose toher!" said Lady Mary triumphantly.

  Buntingford, smiling, let her have the last word, as he asked Mrs. Friendto show her to her room.

  Meanwhile the gardens were deserted, save for a couple of gardeners andan electrician, who were laying some wires for the illumination of therose-garden in front of the drawing-room, and Geoffrey French, who was ina boat, lazily drifting across the pond, and reading a volume of poems bya friend which he had brought down with him. The evening was fastdeclining; and from the shadow of the deep wood which bordered thewestern edge of the pond he looked out on the sunset glow as it climbedthe eastern hill, transfiguring the ridge, and leaving a rich twilight inthe valley below. The tranquillity of the water, the silence of thewoods, the gentle swaying of the boat, finally wooed him from his book,which after all he had only taken up as a protection from tormentingthoughts. Had he--had he--any chance with Helena? A month before he wouldhave scornfully denied that he was in love with her. And now--he hadactually confessed his plight to Mrs. Friend!

  As he lay floating between the green vault above, and the green weedydepths below, his thoughts searched the five weeks that lay between himand that first week-end when he had scolded Helena for her offences. Itseemed to him that his love for her had first begun that day of theDansworth riot. She had provoked and interested him before that--butrather as a raw self-willed child--a "flapper" whose extraordinary beautygave her a distinction she had done nothing to earn. But every moment inthat Dansworth day was clear in memory:--the grave young face behind thesteering-wheel, the perfect lips compressed, the eyes intent upon theirtask, the girl's courage and self-command. Still more the patient Helenawho waited for him at the farm--the grateful exultant look when he said"Come"--and every detail of the scene in Dansworth:--Helena with her mostprofessional air, driving through soldiers and police, Helena helping tocarry and place the two wounded men, and that smiling "good-bye" she hadthrown him as she drove away with Buntingford beside her.

  The young man moved restlessly; and the light boat was set rocking. Itwas curious how he too, like Lucy Friend, only from another point ofview, was beginning to reflect on the new intimacy that seemed to bedeveloping between Buntingford and his ward. Philip of course was anawfully good fellow, and Helena was just finding it out; what else wasthere in it? But the jealous pang roused by the thought of Buntingford,once felt, persisted. Not for a moment did French doubt the honour or theintegrity of a man, who had done him personally many a kindness, and hadmoreover given him some reason to think---(he recalled the odd littlenote he had received from Buntingford before Helena's firstweek-end)--that if he were to fall in love with Helena, his suit would befavourably watched by Helena's guardian. He could recall moreover one ortwo quite recent indications on Buntingford's part--very slight andguarded--which seemed to point in the same direction.

  All very well: Buntingford himself might be quite heart-whole and mightremain so. French, who knew him well, though there was fourteen yearsbetween them, was tolerably certain--without being able to give any veryclear reason for the conviction--that Buntingford would never haveundertaken the guardianship of Helena, had the merest possibility ofmarrying her crossed his mind. French did not believe that it had everyet crossed his mind. There was nothing in his manner towards her tosuggest anything more than friendship, deepening interest, affectionateresponsibility--all feelings which would have shown themselves plainlyfrom the beginning had she allowed it.

  But Helena herself? It was clear that however much they might stilldisagree, Buntingford had conquered her original dislike of him, and wasin process of becoming the guide, philosopher, and friend her mother hadmeant him to be. And Buntingford had charm and character, andimagination. He could force a girl like Helena to respect himintellectually; with such a nature that was half the battle. He would beher master in time. Besides, there were all Philip's endlessopportunities of making life agreeable and delightful to her. When theywent to London, for instance, he would come out of the shell he had livedin so long, and Helena would see him as his few intimate friends hadalways seen him:--as one of the most accomplished and attractive ofmortals, with just that touch of something ironic and mysterious in hispersonality and history, which appeals specially to a girl's fancy.

  And what would be the end of it? Tragedy for Helena?--as well as bitterdisappointment and heartache for himself, Geoffrey French? He wasconfident that Helena had in her the capacity for passion; that theflowering-time of such a nature would be one of no ordinary intensity.She would love, and be miserable--and beat herself to pieces--poor,brilliant Helena!--against her own pain.

  What could he do? Might there not be some chance forhimself--_now_--while the situation was still so uncertain andundeveloped? Helena was still unconscious, unpledged. Why not cut in atonce? "She likes me--she has been a perfect dear to me these last fewtimes of meeting! Philip backs me. He would take my part. Perhaps, afterall, my fears are nonsense, and she would no more dream of marryingPhilip, than he would dream, under cover of his guardianship, of makinglove to her."

  He raised himself in the boat, filled with a new inrush of will andhope, and took up the drifting oars. Across the water, on the whiteslopes of lawn, and in some of the windows of the house, lights wereappearing. The electricians were testing the red and blue lamps they hadbeen stringing among the rose-beds, and from the gabled boathouse on thefurther side, a bright shaft from a small searchlight which had beenfixed there, was striking across the water. Geoffrey watched itwandering over the dark wood on his right, lighting up the tall stems ofthe beeches, and sending a tricky gleam or two among the tangledunderwood. It seemed to him a symbol of the sudden illumination of mindand purpose which had come to him, there, on the shadowed water--and heturned to look at a window which he knew was Helena's. There were lightswithin it, and he pictured Helena at her glass, about to slip into somebright dress or other, which would make her doubly fair. Meanwhile fromthe rose of the sunset, rosy lights were stealing over the water andfaintly glorifying the old house and its spreading gardens. Anoverpowering sense of youth--of the beauty of the world--of the mysteryof the future, beat through his pulses. The coming dance became a riteof Aphrodite, towards which all his being strained.

  Suddenly, there was a loud snapping noise, as of breaking branches in thewood beside him. It was so startling that his hands paused on the oars,as he looked quickly round to see what could have produced it. And at thesame moment the searchlight on the boathouse reached the spot to whichhis eyes were drawn, and he saw for an instant--sharply distinct andghostly white--a woman's face and hands--amid the blackness of the wood.He had only a moment in which to see them, in which to catch a glimpse ofa figure among the trees, before the light was gone, leaving a doublegloom behind it.

  Mysterious! Who could it be? Was it some one who wanted to be put acrossthe pond? He shouted. "Who is that?"

  Then he rowed in to the shore, straining his eyes to see. It occurred tohim that it might be a lady's maid brought by a guest, who had been outfor a walk, and missed her way home in a strange park. "Do you want toget to the house? I can put you across to it if you wish," he said in aloud voice, addressing the unknown--"otherwise you'll have to go a longway round."

  No answer--only an intensity of silence, through which he heard from agreat distance a church clock striking. The wood and all its detail hadvanished in profound shadow.

  Conscious of a curious excitement he rowed still further in to the bank,and again spoke to the invisible woman. In vain. He began then to doubthis own eyes. Had it been a mere illusion produced by some caprice of thesearchlight opposite? But the face!--the features of it were stamped onhis memory, the gaunt bitterness of them, the brooding misery.

  How could he have imagined such a thing?

  Much
perplexed and rather shaken in nerve, he rowed back across thepond--to hear the band tuning in the flower-filled drawing-room, as heapproached the house.