CHAPTER X
It was a glorious June morning; and Beechmark, after the ball, was justbeginning to wake up. Into the June garden, full of sun but gently beatenby a fresh wind, the dancers of the night before emerged one by one.Peter Dale had come out early, having quarrelled with his bed almost forthe first time in his life. He was now, however, fast asleep in agarden-chair under a chestnut-tree. Buntingford, in flannels, and asfresh as though he had slept ten hours instead of three, strolled outthrough the library window, followed by French and Vivian Lodge.
"I say, what weather," said French, throwing himself down on the grass,his hands under his head. "Why can't Mother Nature provide us with thissort of thing a little more plentifully?"
"How much would any man jack of us do if it were always fine?" saidJulian Horne, settling himself luxuriously in a deep and comfortablechair under a red hawthorn in full bloom. "When the weather makes onewant to hang oneself, then's the moment for immortal works."
"For goodness' sake, don't prate, Julian!" said French, yawning, andflinging a rose-bud at Horne, which he had just gathered from agarden-bed at his elbow. "You've had so much more sleep than the rest ofus, it isn't fair."
"I saw him sup," said Buntingford. "Who saw him afterwards?"
"No one but his Maker," said Lodge, who had drawn his hat over his eyes,and was lying on the grass beside French:--"and _le bon Dieu_ alone knowswhat he was doing; for he wasn't asleep. I heard him tubbing at someunearthly hour in the room next to mine."
"I finished my article about seven a.m.," said Horne tranquilly--"whileyou fellows were sleeping off the effects of debauch."
"Brute!" said Geoffrey languidly. Then suddenly, as though he hadremembered something, he sat up.
"By the way, Buntingford, I had an adventure yesterday evening--Ah,here comes Helena! Half the story's mine--and half is hers. So we'llwait a moment."
The men sprang to their feet. Helena in the freshest of white gowns,white shoes and a white hat approached, looking preoccupied. Lady MaryChance, who was sitting at an open drawing-room window, with a newspapershe was far too tired to read on her lap, was annoyed to see the generaleagerness with which a girl who occasionally, and horribly said "D--mn!"and habitually smoked, was received by a group of infatuated males.Buntingford found the culprit a chair, and handed her a cigarette. Therest, after greeting her, subsided again on the grass.
"Poor Peter!" said Helena, in a tone of mock pity, turning her eyes tothe sleeping form under the chestnut. "Have I won, or haven't I? I bethim I would be down first."
"You've lost--of course," said Horne. "Peter was down an hour ago."
"That's not what I meant by 'down.' I meant 'awake.'"
"No woman ever pays a bet if she can help it," said Horne, "--though I'veknown exceptions. But now, please, silence. Geoffrey says he hassomething to tell us--an adventure--which was half his and half yours.Which of you will begin?"
Helena threw a quick glance at Geoffrey, who nodded to her, perceiving atthe same moment that she had in her hand the little embroidered bag ofthe night before.
"Geoffrey begins."
"Well, it'll thrill you," said Geoffrey slowly, "because there was a spyamong us last night--'takin' notes.'"
And with the heightening touches that every good story-teller bestowsupon a story, he described the vision of the lake--the strange woman'sface, as he had seen it in the twilight beside the yew trees.
Buntingford gradually dropped his cigarette to listen.
"Very curious--very interesting," he said ironically, as French paused,"and has lost nothing in the telling."
"Ah, but wait till you hear the end!" cried Helena. "Now, it's my turn."
And she completed the tale, holding up the bag at the close of it, sothat the tarnished gold of its embroidery caught the light.
Buntingford took it from her, and turned it over. Then he opened it, drewout the handkerchief, and looked at the initials, "'F. M.'" He shook hishead. "Conveys nothing. But you're quite right. That bag has nothing todo with a village woman--unless she picked it up."
"But the face I saw had nothing to do with a village woman, either," saidFrench, with conviction. "It was subtle--melancholy--intense--more thanthat!--_fierce_, fiercely miserable. I guess that the woman possessing itwould be a torment to her belongings if they happened not to suit her.And, my hat!--if you made her jealous!"
"Was she handsome?" asked Lodge.
Geoffrey shrugged his shoulders.
"Must have been--probably--when she was ten years younger."
"And she possessed this bag?" mused Buntingford--"which she or someone bought at Florence--for I've discovered the address of a shop init--Fratelli Cortis, Via Tornabuoni, Firenze. You didn't find thatout, Helena."
He passed the bag to her, pointing out a little printed silk label whichhad been sewn into the neck of it. Then Vivian Lodge asked for it andturned it over.
"Lovely work--and beautiful materials. Ah!--do you see what it is?"--heheld it up--"the Arms of Florence, embroidered in gold and silverthread. H'm. I suppose, Buntingford, you get some Whitsuntide visitorsin the village?"
"Oh, yes, a few. There's a little pub with one or two decent rooms, andseveral cottagers take lodgers. The lady, whoever she was, was scarcely aperson of delicacy."
"She was in that place for an object," said Geoffrey, interrupting himwith some decision. "Of that I feel certain. If she had just lost herway, and was trespassing--she must have known, I think, that she wastrespassing--why didn't she answer my call and let me put her over thelake? Of course I should never have seen her at all, but for thataccident of the searchlight."
"The question is," said Buntingford, "how long did she stay there? Shewas not under the yews when you saw her?"
"No--just outside."
"Well, then, supposing, to get out of the way of the searchlight, shefound her way in and discovered my seat--how long do you guess she wasthere?--and when the bag dropped?"
"Any time between then--and midnight--when Helena found it," said French."She may have gone very soon after I saw her, leaving the bag on theseat; or, if she stayed, on my supposition that she was there for thepurpose of spying, then she probably vanished when she heard our boatdrawn up, and knew that Helena and I were getting out."
"A long sitting!" said Buntingford with a laugh--"four hours. I reallycan't construct any reasonable explanation on those lines."
"Why not? Some people have a passion for spying and eavesdropping. If Iwere such a person, dumped in a country village with nothing to do, Ithink I could have amused myself a good deal last night, in thatobservation post. Through that hole I told you of, one could see thelights and the dancing on the lawn, and watch the boats on the lake. Shecould hear the music, and if anyone did happen to be talking secrets justunder the yews, she could have heard every word, quite easily."
Involuntarily he looked at Helena, Helena was looking at the grass. Wasit mere fancy, or was there a sudden pinkness in her cheeks? Buntingfordtoo seemed to have a slightly conscious air. But he rose to his feet,with a laugh.
"Well, I'll have a stroll to the village, some time to-day, and see whatI can discover about your _Incognita_, Helena. If she is a holidayvisitor, she'll be still on the spot. Geoffrey had better come with me,as he's the only person who's seen her."
"Right you are. After lunch."
Buntingford nodded assent and went into the house.
* * * * *
The day grew hotter. Lodge and Julian Horne went off for a swim in thecool end of the lake. Peter still slept, looking so innocent andinfantine in his sleep that no one had the heart to wake him. French andHelena were left together, and were soon driven by the advancing sun tothe deep shade of a lime-avenue, which, starting from the back of thehouse, ran for half a mile through the park. Here they were absolutelyalone. Lady Mary's prying eyes were defeated, and Helena incidentallyremarked that Mrs. Friend, being utterly "jacked up," had been bulliedinto staying in bed till luncheon.
So that in the green sunflecked shadow of the limes, Geoffrey had--ifHelena so pleased--a longer _tete-a-tete_ before him, and a more generousopportunity, even, than the gods had given him on the lake. His pulsesleapt; goaded, however, by alternate hope and fear. But at least he hadthe chance to probe the situation a little deeper; even if prudenceshould ultimately forbid him anything more.
Helena had chosen a wooden seat round one of the finest limes. Some booksbrought out for show rather than use, lay beside her. A piece ofknitting--a scarf of a bright greenish yellow--lay on the lap of herwhite dress. She had taken off her hat, and Geoffrey was passionatelyconscious of the beauty of the brown head resting, as she talked, againstthe furrowed trunk of the lime. Her brown-gold hair was dressed in thenew way, close to the head and face, and fastened by some sapphire pinsbehind the ear. From this dark frame, and in the half light of theavenue, the exquisite whiteness of the forehead and neck, the brown eyes,so marvellously large and brilliant, and yet so delicately finished inevery detail beneath their perfect brows, and the curve of the lips overthe small white teeth, stood out as if they had been painted on ivory bya miniature-painter of the Renaissance. Her white dress, according to theprevailing fashion, was almost low--as children's frocks used to be inthe days of our great-grandmothers. It was made with a childish fullbodice, and a childish sash of pale blue held up the rounded breast, thatrose and fell with her breathing, beneath the white muslin. Pale bluestockings, and a pair of white shoes, with preposterous heels and pointedtoes, completed the picture. The mingling, in the dress, of extremesimplicity with the cunningest artifice, and the greater daring and _joiede vivre_ which it expressed, as compared with the dress of pre-war days,made it characteristic and symbolic:--a dress of the New Time.
Geoffrey lay on the grass beside her, feasting his eyes uponher--discreetly. Since when had English women grown so beautiful? At allthe weddings and most of the dances he had lately attended, the bridesand the _debutantes_ had seemed to him of a loveliness out of allproportion to that of their fore-runners in those far-off days before thewar. And when a War Office mission, just before the Armistice, had takenhim to some munition factories in the north, he had been scarcely lessseized by the comeliness of the girl-workers:--the long lines of them intheir blue overalls, and the blue caps that could scarcely restrain thebeauty and wealth of pale yellow or red-gold hair beneath. Is theresomething in the rush and flame of war that quickens old powers anddormant virtues in a race? Better feeding and better wages among theworking-classes--one may mark them down perhaps as factors in thisproduct of a heightened beauty. But for these exquisite women of theupper class, is it the pace at which they have lived, unconsciously, forthese five years, that has brought out this bloom and splendour?--andwill it pass as it has come?
Questions of this kind floated through his mind as he lay looking atHelena, melting rapidly into others much more peremptory and personal.
"Are you soon going up to Town?" he asked her presently. His voice seemedto startle her. She returned evidently with difficulty from thoughts ofher own. He would have given his head to read them.
"No," she said hesitatingly. "Why should we? It is so jolly down here.Everything's getting lovely."
"I thought you wanted a bit of season! I thought that was part of yourbargain with Philip?"
"Yes--but"--she laughed--"I didn't know how nice Beechmark was."
His sore sense winced.
"Doesn't Philip want you to go?"
"Not at all. He says he gets much more work done in Town, without Mrs.Friend and me to bother him--"
"He puts it that way?"
"Politely! And it rests him to come down here for Sundays. He lovesthe riding."
"I shouldn't have thought the Sundays were much rest?"
"Ah, but they're going to be!" she said eagerly. "We're not going to haveanother party for a whole month. Cousin Philip has been treating me likea spoiled child--stuffing me with treats--and I've put an end to it!"
And this was the Helena that had stipulated so fiercely for her week-endsand her pals! The smart deepened.
"And you won't be tired of the country?"
"In the winter, perhaps," she said carelessly. "Philip and I have allsorts of plans for the things we want to do in London in the winter. Butnot now--when every hour's delicious!"
"_Philip and I_!"--a new combination indeed!
She threw her head back again, drinking in the warm light and shade, thegolden intensity of the fresh leaf above her.
"And next week there'll be frost, and you'll be shivering over the fire,"he threw at her, in a sarcastic voice.
"Well, even that--would be nicer--than London," she said slowly. "I neverimagined I should like the country so much. Of course I wish there wasmore to do. I told Philip so last night."
"And what did he say?"
But she suddenly flushed and evaded the question.
"Oh, well, he hadn't much to say," said Helena, looking a littleconscious. "Anyway, I'm getting a little education. Mrs. Friend'sbrushing up my French--which is vile. And I do some reading every weekfor Philip--and some drawing. By the way"--she turned upon hercompanion--"do you know his drawings?--they're just ripping! He must havebeen an awfully good artist. But I've only just got him to show me histhings. He never talks of them himself."
"I've never seen one. His oldest friends can hardly remember that time inhis life. He seems to want to forget it."
"Well, naturally!" said Helena, with an energy that astonished herlistener; but before he could probe what she meant, she stooped over him:
"Geoffrey!"
"Yes!"
He saw that she had coloured brightly.
"Do you remember all that nonsense I talked to you a month ago?"
"I can remember it if you want me to. Something about old Philip being abully and a tyrant, wasn't it?"
"Some rubbish like that. Well--I don't want to be maudlin--but I wish toput it on record that Philip _isn't_ a bully and he _isn't_ a tyrant. Hecan be a jolly good friend!"
"With some old-fashioned opinions?" put in Geoffrey mockingly.
"Old-fashioned opinions?--yes, of course. And you needn't imagine that Ishall agree with them all. Oh, you may laugh, Geoffrey, but it's quitetrue. I'm not a bit crushed. That's the delightful part of it. It'sbecause he has a genius--yes, a genius--for friendship. I didn't know himwhen I came down here--I didn't know him a bit--and I was an idiot. Butone could trust him to the very last."
Her hands lay idly on the bright-coloured knitting, and Geoffrey couldwatch the emotion on her face.
"And one is so glad to be his friend!" she went on softly, "because hehas suffered so!"
"You mean in his marriage? What do you know about it?"
"Can't one guess?" she went on in the same low voice. "He never speaks ofher! There isn't a picture of her, of any sort, in the house. He used tospeak of her sometimes, I believe, to mother--of course she never said aword--but never, never, to anyone else. It's quite clear that he wants toforget it altogether. Well, you don't want to forget what made you happy.And he says such bitter things often. Oh, I'm sure it was a tragedy!"
"Well--why doesn't he marry again?" Geoffrey had turned over on hiselbows, and seemed to be examining the performances of an ant who wastrying to carry off a dead fly four times his size.
Helena did not answer immediately, and Geoffrey, looking up from the ant,was aware of conflicting expressions passing across her face. At last shesaid, drawing a deep breath:
"Well, at least, I'm glad he's come to like this dear old place--He neverused to care about it in the least."
"That's because you've made it so bright for him," said Geoffrey, findinga seat on a tree-stump near her, and fumbling for a cigarette. Thepraises of Philip were becoming monotonous and a reckless wish to testhis own fate was taking possession of him.
"I haven't!"--said Helena vehemently. "I have asked all sorts of peopledown he didn't like--and I've made him live in one perpetual racket. I'vebeen an odiou
s little beast. But now--perhaps--I shall know better whathe wants."
"Excellent sentiments!" A scoffer looked down upon her through curlingrings of smoke. "Shall I tell you what Philip wants?"
"What?"
"He wants a wife."
The attentive eyes fixed on him withdrew themselves.
"Well--suppose he does?"
"Are you going to supply him with one? Lady Cynthia, I think, wouldaccommodate you."
Helena flushed angrily.
"He hasn't the smallest intention of proposing to Cynthia. Nobody witheyes in their head would suggest it."
"No--but if you and he are such great friends--couldn't you pull it off?It would be very suitable," said Geoffrey coolly.
Helena broke out--the quick breath beating against her white bodice:
"Of course I understand you perfectly, Geoffrey--perfectly! You're notvery subtle--are you? What you're thinking is that when I call Philip myfriend I'm meaning something else--that I'm plotting--intriguing--"
Her words choked her. Geoffrey put out a soothing hand--and touched hers.
"My dear child:--how could I suggest anything of the kind? I'm only alittle sorry--for Philip,"
"Philip can take care of himself," she said passionately. "Only a_stupid--conventional_--mind could want to spoil what is really so--so--"
"So charming?" suggested Geoffrey, springing to his feet. "Very well,Helena!--then if Philip is really nothing more to you than your guardian,and your very good friend--why not give some one else a chance?"
He bent over her, his kind, clever face aglow with the feeling he couldno longer conceal. Their eyes met--Helena's at first resentful, scornfuleven--then soft. She too stood up, and put out a pair of protestinghands--"Please--please, Geoffrey,--_don't_."
"Why not--you angel!" He possessed himself of one of the hands and madeher move with him along the avenue, looking closely into her eyes. "Youmust know what I feel! I wanted to speak to you last night, but youtricked me. I just adore you, Helena! I've got quite goodprospects--I'm getting on in the House of Commons--and I would work foryou day and night!"
"You didn't adore me a month ago!" said Helena, a triumphant little smileplaying about her mouth. "How you lectured me!"
"For you highest good," he said, laughing; though his heart beat tosuffocation. "Just give me a word of hope, Helena! Don't turn medown, at once."
"Then you mustn't talk nonsense," she said vehemently, withdrawing herhand. "I don't want to be engaged! I don't want to be married! Why can'tI be let alone?"
Geoffrey had turned a little pale. In the pause that followed he fellback on a cigarette for consolation. "Why can't you be let alone?" hesaid at last. "Why?--because--you're Helena!"
"What a stupid answer!" she said contemptuously. Then, with one of herquick changes, she came near to him again. "Geoffrey!--it's no goodpressing me--but don't be angry with me, there's a dear. Just be myfriend and help me!"
She put a hand on his arm, and the face that looked into his would havebewitched a stone.
"That's a very old game, Helena. 'Marry you? Rather not! but you may jointhe queue of rejected ones if you like.'"
A mischievous smile danced in Helena's eyes.
"None of them can say I don't treat them nicely!"
"I daresay. But I warn you I shan't accept the position for long. I shallbegin again."
"Well, but not yet!--not for a long time," she pleaded. Then she gave alittle impatient stamp, as she walked beside him.
"I tell you--I don't want to be bound. I won't be bound! I want to befree."
"So you said--_a propos_ of Philip," he retorted drily.
He saw the shaft strike home--the involuntary dropping of the eyelids,the soft catch in the breath. But she rallied quickly.
"That was altogether different! You had no business to say that,Geoffrey."
"Well, then, forgive me--and keep me quiet--just--just one kiss, Helena!"
The last passionate words were hardly audible. They had passed into thedeepest shadow of the avenue. No one was visible in all its green length.They stood ensiled by summer; the great trees mounting guard. Helenathrew a glance to right and left.
"Well, then--to keep you quiet--_sans prejudice_!"
She demurely offered her cheek. But his lips were scarcely allowed totouch it, she drew away so quickly.
"Now, then, that's quite settled!" she said in her most matter-of-factvoice. "Such a comfort! Let's go back."
They turned back along the avenue, a rather flushed pair, enjoying eachother's society, and discussing the dance, and their respective partners.
It happened, however, that this little scene--at its most criticalpoint--had only just escaped a spectator. Philip Buntingford passedacross the further end of the avenue on his way to the Horne Farm, at themoment when Helena and Geoffrey turned their backs to him, walkingtowards the house. They were not aware of him; but he stopped a moment towatch the young figures disappearing under the green shade. A look ofpleasure was in his blue eyes. It seemed to him that things were goingwell in that direction. And he wished them to go well. He had knownGeoffrey since he was a little chap in his first breeches; had watchedhim through Winchester and Oxford, had taken as semi-paternal pride inthe young man's distinguished war record, and had helped him with hiselection expenses. He himself was intimate with very few of the youngergeneration. His companions in the Admiralty work, and certain seniornaval officers with whom that work had made him acquainted:--a certainintimacy, a certain real friendship had indeed grown up between him andsome of them. But something old and tired in him made the effort ofbridging the gulf between himself and men in their twenties--generallyspeaking--too difficult. Or he thought so. The truth was, perhaps, asGeoffrey had expressed it to Helena, that many of the younger men who hadbeen brought into close official or business contact with him felt a realaffection for him. Buntingford would have thought it strange that theyshould do so, and never for one moment assumed it.
After its languid morning, Beechmark revived with the afternoon. Itsyoung men guests, whom the Dansworth rioters would probably have classedas parasites and idlers battening on the toil of the people, had in factearned their holiday by a good many months of hard work, whether in thewinding up of the war, or the re-starting of suspended businesses, or therenewed activities of the bar; and they were taking it whole-heartedly.Golf, tennis, swimming, and sleep had filled the day, and it was a crowdin high spirits that gathered round Mrs. Friend for tea on the lawn,somewhere about five o'clock. Lucy, who had reached that stage of fatiguethe night before when--like Peter Dale, only for different reasons--herbed became her worst enemy, had scarcely slept a wink, but wasnevertheless presiding gaily over the tea-table. She looked particularlysmall and slight in a little dress of thin grey stuff that Helena hadcoaxed her to wear in lieu of her perennial black, but there was thatexpression in her pretty eyes as of a lifted burden, and a new friendshipwith life, which persons in Philip Buntingford's neighbourhood, when theybelonged to the race of the meek and gentle, were apt to put on. PeterDale hung about her, distributing tea and cake, and obedient to all herwishes. More than once in these later weeks he had found, in the dumbsympathy and understanding of the little widow, something that had beento him like shadow in the desert. He was known to fame as one of thesmartest young aide-de-camps in the army, and fabulously rich besides.His invitation cards, carelessly stacked in his Curzon Street rooms, werea sight to see. But Helena had crushed his manly spirit. Sitting underthe shadow of Mrs. Friend, he liked to watch from a distance thebeautiful and dazzling creature who would have none of him. He was verysorry for himself; but, all the same, he had had some rattling games oftennis; the weather was divine, and he could still gaze at Helena; sothat although the world was evil, "the thrushes still sang in it."
Buntingford and Geoffrey were seen walking up from the lake when tea wasnearly over.
All eyes were turned to them.
"Now, then," said Julian Horne--"for the mystery, and its key. What api
ty mysteries are generally such frauds! They can't keep it up. They letyou down when you least expect it."
"Well, what news?" cried Helena, as the two men approached. Buntingfordshook his head.
"Not much to tell--very little, indeed."
It appeared to Horne that both men looked puzzled and vaguely excited.But their story was soon told. They had seen Richard Stimson, a labourer,who reported having noticed a strange lady crossing the park in thedirection of the wood, which, however, she had not entered, havingfinally changed her course so as to bear towards the Western Lodge andthe allotments.
"That, you will observe, was about ten o'clock," interjected French, "andI saw my lady about eight." Buntingford found a chair, lit a cigarette,and resumed:
"She appeared in the village some time yesterday morning and went intothe church. She told the woman who was cleaning there that she had cometo look at an old window which was mentioned in her guide-book. The womannoticed that she stayed some time looking at the monuments in the church,and the tombs in the Buntingford chantry, which all the visitors go tosee. She ordered some sandwiches at the Rose-and-Crown and got into talkwith the landlord. He says she asked the questions strangers generally doask--'Who lived in the neighbourhood?'--If she took a lodging in thevillage for August were there many nice places to go and see?--and so on.She said she had visited the Buntingford tombs in the chantry, and askedsome questions about the family, and myself--Was I married?--Who was theheir? etc. Then when she had paid her bill, she enquired the way acrossthe park to Feetham Station, and said she would have a walk and catch asix o'clock train back to London. She loved the country, she said--andliked walking. And that really is--all!"
"Except about her appearance," put in Geoffrey. "The landlord said hethought she must be an actress, or 'summat o' that sort.' She had such astrange way of looking at you. But when we asked what that meant, hescratched his head and couldn't tell us. All that we got out of him washe wouldn't like to have her for a lodger--'she'd frighten his missus.'Oh, and he did say that she looked dead-tired, and that he advised hernot to walk to Feetham, but to wait for the five o'clock bus that goesfrom the village to the station. But she said she liked walking, andwould find some cool place in the park to sit in--till it was time tocatch the train."
"She was well-dressed, he said," added Buntingford, addressing himself toCynthia Welwyn, who sat beside him; "and his description of her hat andveil, etc., quite agreed with old Stimson's account."
There was a silence, in which everybody seemed to be trying to piece theevidence together as to the mysterious onlooker of the night, and make acollected whole of it. Buntingford and Geoffrey were especiallythoughtful and preoccupied. At last the former, after smoking a whilewithout speaking, got up with the remark that he must see to some lettersbefore post.
"Oh, no!"--pleaded Helena, intercepting him, and speaking so that he onlyshould hear. "To-morrow's Whitsunday, and Monday's Bank Holiday. What'sthe use of writing letters? Don't you remember--you promised to show methose drawings before dinner--and may Geoffrey come, too?"
A sudden look of reluctance and impatience crossed Buntingford's face.Helena perceived it at once, and drew back. But Buntingford saidimmediately:
"Oh, certainly. In half an hour, I'll have the portfolios ready."
He walked away. Helena sat flushed and silent, her eyes on the ground,twisting and untwisting the handkerchief on her lap. And, presently, shetoo disappeared. The rest of the party were left to discuss with GeoffreyFrench the ins and outs of the evidence, and to put up various theoriesas to the motives of the woman of the yew trees; an occupation thatlasted them till dressing-time.
Cynthia Welwyn took but little share in it. She was sitting rather apartfrom the rest, under a blue parasol which made an attractive combinationwith her semi-transparent black dress and the bright gold of her hair. Inreality, her thoughts were busy with quite other matters than the lady ofthe yews. It did not seem to her of any real importance that a half-crazystranger, attracted by the sounds and sights of the ball, on such abeautiful night, should have tried to watch it from the lake. The wholetale was curious, but--to her--irrelevant. The mystery she burned to findout was nearer home. Was Helena Pitstone falling in love with Philip? Andif so, what was the effect on Philip? Cynthia had not much enjoyed herdance. The dazzling, the unfair ascendency of youth, as embodied inHelena, had been rather more galling than usual; and the "sittings out"she had arranged with Philip during the supper dances had been allcancelled by her sister's tiresome attack. Julian Horne, who generallygot on with her, chivalrously moved his seat near to her, and tried totalk. But he found her in a rather dry and caustic mood. The ball hadseemed to her "badly managed"; and the guests, outside the house-party,"an odd set."
Meanwhile, exactly at the hour named by Buntingford, he heard a knock atthe library door. Helena appeared.
She stood just inside the door, looking absurdly young and childish inher white frock. But her face was grave.
"I thought just now"--she said, almost timidly,--"that you were bored bymy asking you to show us those things. Are you? Please tell me. I didn'tmean to get in the way of anything you were doing."
"Bored! Not in the least. Here they are, all ready for you. Come in."
She saw two or three large portfolios distributed on chairs, and one ortwo drawings already on exhibition. Her face cleared.
"Oh, what a heavenly thing!"
She made straight for a large drawing of the Val d'Arno in spring, andthe gap in the mountains that leads to Lucca, taken from some high pointabove Fiesole. She knelt down before it in an ecstasy of pleasure.
"Mummy and I were there two years before the war. I do believe you cametoo?" She looked up, smiling, at the face above her.
It was the first time she had ever appealed to her childish recollectionsof him in any other than a provocative or half-resentful tone. He couldremember a good many tussles with her in her frail mother's interest,when she was a long-legged, insubordinate child of twelve. And whenHelena first arrived at Beechmark, it had hurt him to realize howbitterly she remembered such things, how grossly she had exaggeratedthem. The change indicated in her present manner, soothed his tired,nervous mood. His smile answered her.
"Yes, I was there with you two or three days. Do you remember the wildtulips we gathered at Settignano?"
"And the wild cherries--and the pear-blossoms! Italy in the spring is_Heaven_!" she said, under her breath, as she dropped to a sittingposture on the floor while he put the drawings before her.
"Well!--shall we go there next spring?"
"Don't tempt me--and then back out!"
"If I did," he said, laughing, "you could still go with Mrs. Friend."
She made no answer. Another knock at the door.
"There's Geoffrey. Come in, old boy. We've only just begun."
Half an hour's exhibition followed. Both Helena and French wereintelligent spectators, and their amazement at the quality and variety ofthe work shown them seemed half-welcome, half-embarrassing to their host.
"Why don't you go on with it? Why don't you exhibit?" cried Helena.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"It doesn't interest me now. It's a past phase."
She longed to ask questions. But his manner didn't encourage it. And whenthe half-hour was done he looked at his watch.
"Dressing-time," he said, smiling, holding it out to Helena. She rose atonce. Philip was a delightful artist, but the operations of dressingwere not to be trifled with. Her thanks, however, for "a lovely time!"and her pleading for a second show on the morrow, were so graceful, sosweet, that French, as he silently put the drawings back, felt hisspirits drop to zero. What could have so changed the thorny, insolentgirl of six weeks before--but the one thing? He stole a glance atBuntingford. Surely he must realize what was happening--and his hugeresponsibility--he _must_.
Helena disappeared. Geoffrey volunteered to tie up a portfolio they hadonly half examined, while Buntingford finished a letter. While he
washandling it, the portfolio slipped, and a number of drawings fell outpell-mell upon the floor.
Geoffrey stooped to pick them up. A vehement exclamation startledBuntingford at his desk.
"What's the matter, Geoffrey?"
"Philip! _That's_ the woman I saw!--that's her face!--I could swear to itanywhere!"
He pointed with excitement to the drawing of a woman's head andshoulders, which had fallen out from the very back of the portfolio,whereof the rotting straps and fastenings showed that it had not beenopened for many years.
Buntingford came to his side. He looked at the drawing--then at French.His face seemed suddenly to turn grey and old.
"My God!" he said under his breath, and again, still lower--"_My God_! Ofcourse. I knew it!"
He dropped into a chair beside Geoffrey, and buried his face inhis hands.
Geoffrey stared at him in silence, a bewildering tumult of ideas andconjectures rushing through his brain.
Another knock at the door. Buntingford rose automatically, went to thedoor, spoke to the servant who had knocked, and came back with a note inhis hand, which he took to the window to read. Then with steps whichseemed to French to waver like those of a man half drunk he went to hiswriting-desk, and wrote a reply which he gave to the servant who waswaiting in the passage. He stood a moment thinking, his hand over hiseyes, before he approached his nephew.
"Geoffrey, will you please take my place at dinner to-night? I am goingout. Make any excuse you like." He moved away--but turned back again,speaking with much difficulty--"The woman you saw--is at the Rectory.Alcott took her in last night. He writes to me. I am going there."
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