Helena

by Mrs. Humphry Ward

  CHAPTER XIV

  The Alcotts' unexpected guest lingered another forty-eight hours undertheir roof,--making a hopeless fight for life. But the influenza poison,recklessly defied from the beginning, had laid too deadly a grip on analready weakened heart. And the excitement of the means she had taken toinform herself as to the conditions of Buntingford's life andsurroundings, before breaking in upon them, together with the exhaustionof her night wandering, had finally destroyed her chance of recovery.Buntingford saw her whenever the doctors allowed. She claimed hispresence indeed, and would not be denied. But she talked little more; andin her latest hours it seemed to those beside her both that the desire tolive had passed, and that Buntingford's attitude towards her had, in theend, both melted and upheld her. On the second night after her arrival,towards dawn she sent for him. She then could not speak. But her righthand made a last motion towards his. He held it, till Ramsay who had hisfingers on the pulse of the left, looked up with that quiet gesture whichtold that all was over. Then he himself closed her eyes, and stooping, hekissed her brow--

  "_Pardonnons--nous! Adieu_!" he said, under his breath, in the languagefamiliar to their student youth together. Then he went straight out ofthe room, and through the dewy park, and misty woods already vocal withthe awakening birds; he walked back to Beechmark, and for some hours shuthimself into his library, where no one disturbed him.

  When he emerged it was with the air of a man turning to a new chapter inlife. Geoffrey French was still with him. Otherwise the big house wasempty and seemed specially to miss the sounds of Helena's voice, andtripping feet. Buntingford enquired about her at once, and Geoffrey wasable to produce a letter from Mrs. Friend describing the little WelshInn, near the pass of Aberglasslyn, where they had settled themselves;the delicious river, shrunken however by the long drought, which ran pasttheir windows, and the many virtues--qualified by too many children--ofthe primitive Welsh pair who ran the inn.

  "I am to say that Miss Pitstone likes it all very much, and has foundsome glorious things to draw. Also an elderly gentleman who is sketchingon the river has already promised her a lesson."

  "You'll be going down there sometime?" said Buntingford, turning anenquiring look on his nephew.

  "The week-end after next," said Geoffrey--"unless Helena forbids it. Imust inspect the inn, which I recommended--and take stock of the elderlygentleman!"

  The vision of Helena, in "fresh woods and pastures new" radiantlytransfixing the affections of the "elderly gentleman," put them both forthe moment in spirits. Buntingford smiled, and understanding thatGeoffrey was writing to his ward, he left some special messages for her.

  But in the days that followed he seldom thought of Helena. He buried hiswife in the village church-yard, and the wondering villagers mightpresently read on the headstone he placed over her grave, the shortinscription--"Anna Buntingford, wife of Philip, Lord Buntingford," withthe dates of her birth and death. The Alcotts, authorized by Philip, madepublic as much of the story as was necessary, and the presence of thepoor son and heir in the Welwyns' house, together with his tragiclikeness to his father, both completed and verified it. A wave ofunspoken but warm sympathy spread through the countryside. Buntingford'sown silence was unbroken. After the burial, he never spoke of what hadhappened, except on one or two rare occasions to John Alcott, who hadbecome his intimate friend. But unconsciously the attitude of hisneighbours towards him had the effect of quickening his liking forBeechmark, and increasing the probability of his ultimate settlementthere, at least for the greater part of the year.

  Always supposing that it suited the boy--Arthur Philip--the names underwhich, according to Zelie, he had been christened in the church of thehill village near Lucca where he was born. For the care of this innocent,suffering creature became, from the moment of his mother's death, thedominating thought of Buntingford's life. The specialist, who came downbefore her death, gave the father however little hope of any favourableresult from operation. But he gave a confident opinion that much could bedone by that wonderful system of training which modern science andpsychology combined have developed for the mentally deficient or idiotchild. For the impression left by the boy on the spectator was never thatof genuine idiocy. It was rather that of an imprisoned soul. The normalsoul seemed somehow to be there; but the barrier between it and the worldaround it could not be broken through. By the specialist's advice,Buntingford's next step was to appeal to a woman, one of those remarkablewomen, who, unknown perhaps to more than local or professional fame, areevery year bringing the results of an ardent moral and mental research tobear upon the practical tasks of parent and teacher. This woman, whom wewill call Mrs. Delane, combined the brain of a man of science with thepassion of motherhood. She had spent her life in the educational serviceof a great municipality, varied by constant travel and investigation; andshe was now pensioned and retired. But all over England those who neededher still appealed to her; and she failed no one. She came down to seehis son at Buntingford's request, and spent some days in watching thechild, with Cynthia as an eager learner beside her.

  The problem was a rare one. The boy was a deaf-mute, but not blind. Hisvery beautiful eyes--; his father's eyes--seemed to be perpetuallyinterrogating the world about him, and perpetually baffled. He cried--amonotonous wailing sound--but he never smiled. He was capable of throwingall his small possessions into a large basket, and of taking them outagain; an operation which he performed endlessly hour after hour; but ofpurpose, or any action that showed it, he seemed incapable. He could notplace one brick upon another, or slip one Japanese box inside its fellow.His temper seemed to be always gentle; and in simple matters of dailyconduct and habit Zelie had her own ways of getting from him an automaticobedience. But he heard nothing; and in his pathetic look, howeverclearly his eyes might seem to be meeting those of a companion, there wasno answering intelligence.

  Mrs. Delane set patiently to work, trying this, and testing that; and atthe end of the first week, she and Cynthia were sitting on the floorbeside the boy, who had a heap of bricks before him. For more than anhour Mrs. Delane had been guiding his thin fingers in making a tower ofbricks one upon another, and then knocking them down. Then, at onemoment, it began to seem to her that each time his hand enclosed in hersknocked the bricks down, there was a certain faint flash in the blueeyes, as though the sudden movement of the bricks gave the child a thrillof pleasure. But to fall they must be built up. And his absorbed teacherlaboured vainly, through sitting after sitting, to communicate to thechild some sense of the connection between the two sets of movements.

  Time after time the small waxen hand lay inert in hers as she put a brickbetween its listless fingers, and guided it towards the brick waiting forit. Gradually the column of bricks mounted--built by her action, herfingers enclosing his passive ones--and, finally, came the expectedcrash, followed by the strange slight thrill in the child's features. Butfor long there was no sign of spontaneous action of any kind on his part.The ingenuity of his teacher attempted all the modes of approach to theobstructed brain that were known to her, through the two senses lefthim--sight and touch. But for many days in vain.

  At last, one evening towards the end of June, when his mother had beendead little more than a fortnight, Cynthia, Mrs. Delane's indefatigablepupil, was all at once conscious of a certain spring in the child's hand,as though it became--faintly--self-moved, a living thing. She cried out.Buntingford was there looking on; and all three hung over the child.Cynthia again placed the brick in his hand, and withdrew her own. Slowlythe child moved it forward--dropped it--then, with help, raised itagain--and, finally, with only the very slight guidance from Cynthia, putit on top of the other. Another followed, and another, his hand growingsteadier with each attempt. Then breathing deeply,--flushed, and with apuckered forehead--the boy looked up at his father. Tears ofindescribable joy had rushed to Buntingford's eyes. Cynthia's were hiddenin her handkerchief.

  The child's nurse peremptorily intervened and carried him off to bed.Mrs. Delane f
irst arranged with Buntingford for the engagement of aspecial teacher, taught originally by herself, and then asked forsomething to take her to the station. She had set things in train, andhad no time to lose. There were too many who wanted her.

  Buntingford and Cynthia walked across the park to Beechmark. From theextreme despondency they were lifted to an extreme of hope. Buntingfordhad felt, as it were, the spirit of his son strain towards his own; thehidden soul had looked out. And in his deep emotion, he was verynaturally conscious of a new rush of affection and gratitude towards hisold playfellow and friend. The thought of her would be for ever connectedin his mind with the efforts and discoveries of the agitating daysthrough which--with such intensity--they had both been living. When heremembered that wonder-look in his son's, eyes, he would always seeCynthia bending over the child, no longer the mere agreeable andwell-dressed woman of the world, but, to him, the embodiment of aheavenly pity, "making all things new."

  Cynthia's spirits danced as she walked beside him. There was in her ajoyous, if still wavering certainty that through the child, her hold uponPhilip, whether he spoke sooner or later, was now secure. But she wasstill jealous of Helena. It had needed the moral and practical upheavalcaused by the reappearance and death of Anna, to drive Helena from Philipand Beechmark; and if Helena--enchanting and incalculable as ever, evenin her tamer mood--were presently to resume her life in Philip's house,no one could expect the Fates to intervene again so kindly. Georginamight be certain that in Buntingford's case the woman of forty hadnothing to fear from the girl of nineteen. Cynthia was by no means socertain; and she shivered at the risks to come.

  For it was soon evident that the question of his ward's immediate futurewas now much on Philip's mind. He complained that Helena wrote so little,and that he had not yet heard from Geoffrey since the week-end he was tospend in Wales. Mrs. Friend reported indeed in good spirits. Butobviously, whatever the quarters might be, Helena could not stay thereindefinitely.

  "Of course I suggested the London house to her at once--with Mrs.Friend for chaperon. But she didn't take to it. This week I must goback to my Admiralty work. But we can't take the boy to London, and Iintended to come back here every night. We mustn't put upon you muchlonger, my dear Cynthia!"

  The colour rushed to Cynthia's face.

  "You are going to take him away?" she said, with a look of consternation.

  "Mustn't I bring him home, some time?" was his half-embarrassed reply.

  "But not yet! And how would it suit--with week-ends and dances forHelena?"

  "It wouldn't suit at all," he said, perplexed--"though Helena seems tohave thrown over dancing for the present."

  "That won't last long!"

  He laughed. "I am afraid you never took to her!" he said lightly.

  "She never took to me!"

  "I wonder if that was my fault? She suspected that I had called you in tohelp me to keep her in order!"

  "What was it brought her to reason--so suddenly?" said Cynthia, seekinglight at last on a problem that had long puzzled her.

  "Two things, I imagine. First that she was the better man of us all, thatday of the Dansworth riot. She could drive my big car, and none of therest of us could! That seemed to put her right with us all. Andsecondly--the reports of that abominable trial. She told me so. I onlyhope she didn't read much of it!"

  They had just passed the corner of the house, and come out on the slopinglawn of Beechmark, with the lake, and the wood beyond it. All that hadhappened behind that dark screen of yew, on the distant edge of thewater, came rushing back on Philip's imagination, so that he fell silent.Cynthia on her side was thinking of the moment when she came down to theedge of the lake to carry off Geoffrey French, and saw Buntingford andHelena push off into the puckish rays of the searchlight. She tastedagain the jealous bitterness of it--and the sense of defeat by somethingbeyond her fighting--the arrogance of Helena's young beauty. Philip wasnot in love with Helena; that she now knew. So far she, Cynthia, hadmarvellously escaped the many chances that might have undone her. But ifHelena came back?

  Meanwhile there were some uneasy thoughts at the back of Philip's mind;and some touching and tender recollections which he kept sacred tohimself. Helena's confession and penitence--there, on that stillwater--how pretty they were, how gracious! Nor could he ever forget hersweetness, her pity on that first tragic evening. Geoffrey's alarms wereabsurd. Yet when he thought of merely reproducing the situation as it hadexisted before the night of the ball, something made him hesitate. Andbesides, how could he reproduce it? All his real mind was now absorbed inthis overwhelming problem of his son; of the helpless, appealing creatureto whose aid the whole energies of his nature had been summoned.

  He walked back some way with Cynthia, talking of the boy, with anintensity of hope that frightened her.

  "Don't, or don't be too certain--yet!" she pleaded. "We have only justseen the first sign--the first flicker. If it were all to vanish again!"

  "Could I bear it?" he said, under his breath--"Could I?"

  "Anyway, you'll let me keep him--a little longer?"

  She spoke very softly and sweetly.

  "If your kindness really wishes it," he said, rather reluctantly. "Butwhat does Georgina say?"

  "Georgina is just as keen as I am," said Cynthia boldly. "Don't you seehow fond she is of him already?"

  Buntingford could not truthfully say that he had seen any signs onGeorgina's part, so far, of more than a decent neutrality in the matter.Georgina was a precisian; devoted to order, and in love with rules. Thepresence of the invalid boy, his nurse, and his teacher, must upset everyrule and custom of the little house. Could she really put up with it? Ingeneral, she made the impression upon Philip of a very wary cat, oftenapparently asleep, but with her claws ready. He felt uncomfortable; butCynthia had her way.

  A specially trained teacher, sent down by Mrs. Delane, arrived a few dayslater, and a process began of absorbing and fascinating interest to allthe spectators, except Georgina, who more than kept her head.

  Every morning Buntingford would motor up to town, spend some strenuoushours in demobilization work at the Admiralty, returning in the eveningto receive Cynthia's report of the day. Miss Denison, the boy's teacher,who had been trained in one of the London Special Schools, was a littleround-faced lady with spectacles, apparently without any emotions, butreally filled with that educator's passion which in so many women of ourday fills the place of motherhood. From the beginning she formed theconclusion that the pitiable little fellow entrusted to her was to agreat extent educable; but that he would not live to maturity. Thislatter conclusion was carefully hidden from Buntingford, though it wasknown to Cynthia; and Philip knew, for a time, all the happiness, theexcitement even of each day's slight advance, combined with a boundlesshope for the future. He spent his evenings absorbed in the voluminousliterature dealing with the deaf-mute, which has grown up since the daysof Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller. But Laura Bridgman and HelenKeller--as he eagerly reminded himself--were both of them blind; only onesense--that of touch--was left to them. Arthur's blue eyes, the copy ofhis own, already missed his father when he left home in the morning, andgreeted him when he came home at night. They contained for Philip amystery and a promise that he was never tired of studying. Every eveninghe would ride over from Dansworth station to the cottage, put up hishorse, and spend the long summer twilights in carrying his son about thegarden or the park, or watching Miss Denison at her work. The boy wasphysically very frail, and soon tired. But his look was now placid; thefurrows in the white brow were smoothed away; his general nutrition wasmuch better; his delicate cheeks had filled out a little; and his ghostlybeauty fascinated Philip's artistic sense, while his helplessnessappealed to the tenderest instinct of a strong man. Buntingford haddiscovered a new and potent reason for living; and for living happily.

  And meanwhile with all this slowly growing joy, Cynthia was more and moreclosely connected. She and Buntingford had a common topic, which wasendlessly interesting and del
ightful to them both. Philip was no longerconscious of her conventionalities and limitations, as he had beenconscious of them on his first renewed acquaintance with her after thepreoccupations of the war. He saw her now as Arthur's fairy godmother,and as his own daily companion and helper in an exquisite task.

  But Georgina was growing impatient. One evening she came home tired andout of temper. She had been collecting the rents of some cottagesbelonging to her, and the periodical operation was always trying toeverybody concerned. Georgina's secret conviction that "the poor in aloomp is bad" was stoutly met by her tenants' firm belief that alllandlords are extortionate thieves. She came home, irritated by a numberof petty annoyances, to find the immaculate little drawing-room, whereevery book and paper-knife knew its own place and kept it, given up toArthur and Miss Denison, with coloured blocks, pictures and models usedin that lady's teaching, strewn all over the floor, while the furniturehad been pushed unceremoniously aside.

  "I won't have this house made a bear-garden!" she said, angrily, to thedismayed teacher; and she went off straightway to find her sister.

  Cynthia was in her own little den on the first floor happily engaged intrimming a new hat. Georgina swept in upon her, shut the door, and stoodwith her back to it.

  "Cynthia--is this house yours or mine?"

  As a matter of fact the house was Buntingford's. But Georgina wasformally the tenant of it, while the furniture was partly hers and partlyCynthia's. In fact, however, Georgina had been always tacitly held to bethe mistress.

  Cynthia looked up in astonishment, and at once saw that Georgina wasseriously roused. She put down her work and faced her sister.

  "I thought it belonged to both of us," she said mildly. "What is thematter, Georgie?"

  "I beg you to remember that I am the tenant. And I never consented tomake it an institution for the training of imbeciles!"

  "Georgie!--Arthur is not an imbecile!"

  "Of course I know he is an interesting one," said Georgina, curtly. "Butall the same, from my point of view--However, I won't repeat the word, ifit annoys you. But what I want to know is, when are we to have the houseto ourselves again? Because, if this is to go on indefinitely, I depart!"

  Cynthia came nearer to her sister. Her colour fluttered a little.

  "Don't interfere just at present, Georgie," she said imploringly, in alow voice.

  The two sisters looked at each other--Georgina covered with the dust andcobwebs of her own cottages, her battered hat a little on one side, andher coat and skirt betraying at every seam its venerable antiquity; andCynthia, in pale grey, her rose-pink complexion answering to the gold ofher hair, with every detail of her summer dress as fresh and dainty asthe toil of her maid could make it.

  "Well, I suppose--I understand," said Georgina, at last, in her gruffestvoice. "All the same, I warn you, I can't stand it much longer. I shallbe saying something rude to Buntingford."

  "No, no--don't do that!"

  "I haven't your motive--you see."

  Cynthia coloured indignantly.

  "If you think I'm only pretending to care for the child, Georgie, you'revery much mistaken!"

  "I don't think so. You needn't put words into my mouth, or thoughts intomy head. All the same, Cynthia,--cut it short!"

  And with that she released the door and departed, leaving an anxious andmeditative Cynthia behind her.

  A little later, Buntingford's voice was heard below. Cynthia, descending,found him with Arthur in his arms. The day had been hot and rainy--anoppressive scirocco day--and the boy was languid and out of sorts. Thenurse advised his being carried up early to bed, and Buntingford hadarrived just in time.

  When he came downstairs again, he found Cynthia in a garden hat, and theystrolled out to look at the water-garden which was the common hobby ofboth the sisters. There, sitting among the rushes by the side of thelittle dammed-up stream, he produced a letter from Mrs. Friend, with thelatest news of his ward.

  "Evidently we shan't get Helena back just yet. I shall run up next weekto see her, I think, Cynthia, if you will let me. I really will takeArthur to Beechmark this week. Mrs. Mawson has arranged everything. Hisrooms are all ready for him. Will you come and look at them to-morrow?"

  Cynthia did not reply at once, and he watched her a little anxiously. Hewas well aware what giving up the boy would mean to her. Her devotion hadbeen amazing. But the wrench must come some time.

  "Yes, of course--you must take him," said Cynthia, at last. "If only--Ihadn't come to love him so!"

  She didn't cry. She was perfectly self-possessed. But there was somethingin her pensive, sorrowful look that affected Philip more than anyvehement emotion could have done. The thought of all her devotion--theirlong friendship--her womanly ways--came upon him overwhelmingly.

  But another thought checked it--Helena!--and his promise to her deadmother. If he now made Cynthia the mistress of Beechmark, Helena wouldnever return to it. For they were incompatible. He saw it plainly. And toHelena he was bound; while she needed the shelter of his roof.

  So that the words that were actually on Philip's lips remained unspoken.They walked back rather silently to the cottage.

  At supper Cynthia told her sister that the boy, with Zelie and histeacher, would soon trouble her no more. Georgina expressed an ungracioussatisfaction, adding abruptly--"You'll be able to see him there, Cynthy,just as well as here."

  Cynthia made no reply.