"I'm ashamed," said I. "I should have watched while you slept."
"Must we be on those terms?"
"Always," said I. "We should be on those terms if we were husband and wife."
Helena crossed her slim legs and set her chin in her palm.
"That's very interesting," she said. "You'll have to write and tell me when you get engaged. I should like to see you at work. It might come off, of course. But for your sake I hope it won't. If the girl allows you to serve her she'll make a rotten bad wife."
"It's a question of sex," said I.
"With strangers, yes. But a wife shares things with her husband— the rough as well as the smooth. It's her pleasure and pride, John. She doesn't want to suffer— she's not such a fool, but she'd rather suffer with you than let you suffer alone. Shut her out of that, and if she's a wife worth having you'd break her heart. Well, I'm not your wife, so next time we spend a night out you can watch, if you like, while I sleep; but we are no longer strangers, and when I ask for bread, don't give me a stone. And now come and see the path which your little sister found. It's only wide enough for one, so mind you let me go first."
"I'll always do that," said I, "but not out of courtesy."
"Why, then?" says Helena, rising.
"Because," said I, "I've no eyes in the back of my head."
Helena made no answer, but set her face to the forest with her chin in the air.
As she went, she glanced over her shoulder— with her eyebrows raised and the faintest of smiles on her mouth.
"You know, you're not trying," she said. "No brother would have said that."
NEARLY an hour had gone by when we saw before us no farm, but a little time-honoured cottage standing in a glade of the forest, with a garden of flowers about it and a hooded well to one side.
From ridge-pole to eaves its respectable roof of thatch was fully twice the height of the snow-white walls below, yet it did not overwhelm them, but only made me think of a hedgehog up on his feet. An open dormer window shone from this jolly pelt, and an old red chimney, pierced it, to send up a wisp of smoke. A second casement and a doorway were set in the wall that we faced, and the fireplace plainly belonged to that on our right, for there the chimney ran down to a sturdy penthouse with a doll's house window high up in its lime-washed side. The borders of the path to the doorway were gay with blooms, and the door itself standing open, the sunshine was bravely rendered by some pot or pan of copper that hung on the wall within.
WE were forty paces away when a young woman entered the doorway and stood looking into the garden alight with the sparkling flowers. For a moment she stared upon them. Then she leaned against the jamb, put her arm up to her eyes and began to weep. Helena and I stopped dead.
Then—
"You stay here," she said quietly, "and I'll go on and see what the trouble is. Perhaps we can straighten it out in return for a meal."
Twenty minutes went by before I saw her again, and then she came out of the garden with the lass that had stood at the door. The latter was smiling now, as she had been sad, and seemed as excited and eager as any child.
For a moment the two stood speaking.
Then the woman dropped a curtsy and started across the forest in evident haste.
Helena beckoned to me, and I got to my feet. As I came towards her:
"The trick," she said, "has been done. Our hostess has gone for petrol, and when she comes back, in two hours, she's going away for good— for three days at least to Salzburg. Our host, however, will remain. He's inside now, in the very best of humours and finding our use of his cottage an excellent joke."
"I hope he's getting your breakfast." "It's ready," said Helena, turning. "Bread and milk and honey, just as I said."
I followed her into the cleanest of tiny kitchens, all bright with old wood and copper, and smelling of sweet wood-smoke. Beneath the open window a table was laid. On the fair linen cloth was our breakfast— a truly scriptural meal, with bowls for cups and saucers, a knife for the bread like a hanger, and two jolly wooden spoons.
Sabre was lying on the flags in front of the hearth, and a pretty, fair-haired baby that might have been two years old was seated beside the Alsatian, trying to stuff a whistle into the great dog's mouth. Sabre suffered him gently,
moving his tail.
Helena sat down by the infant and drew him on to her lap.
"Max," she said, "this is my brother. He's rather nice."
Naturally the child ignored me. His eyes were on Helena's face.
I glanced at the steep stone stairway that led to the room above.
"And our host?" said I.
Helena looked up, laughing.
"This is our host," she said. "If you had any manners you'd come and give him a kiss."
I drank with some violence and set my bowl down on the cloth.
"All right," I said. "I can't help it. Do what you like. If the Countess Helena of Yorick is determined to dwell in a solitary two-roomed cottage with an imitation brother and infant- in-arms and a dog—"
"Till your cousin arrives, she is. Besides, he isn't in arms— he can walk beautifully. And now listen to me: Freda's man is in Salzburg; he's lying in hospital there and gradually getting better of a fever which nearly carried him off. Yesterday she got a letter saying that now she might visit him, but that on no account must she bring with her the child. I imagine there's a risk of infection which a grown-up can safely take. Well, that provision tore it, for she's no one to take the child. And that is why she was weeping. . . .
"I did the obvious deal. This place is just what we want. I offered to care for the baby and give her a present as well if my 'brother' and I might stay here until her return. She simply jumped at the bargain— could hardly believe her ears. As I told you, she's gone for petrol— I thought we'd better have that; and when she leaves for Salzburg she'll take a letter to your cousin, telling him what has happened and where we are. I need hardly say she's promised to hold her tongue."
So I sat down and wrote to Geoffrey, telling him what had happened and where we were. Retired though it was, the cottage was easy to find, for the path which Freda had taken led straight to cross roads in the forest some two miles off. The spot was known as Witchcraft, and was marked on the map.
It was nearer ten than nine when Freda returned; she was heavily laden, for she bore two gallons of petrol which she had begged of the farmer that sold her milk; and as well she had brought two chickens and a basket of new-laid eggs. What tale she had told I know not, but I think that it served her turn, for we were not once molested by curious eyes. Very fine she looked when she was ready to go, in her fair white linen embroidered with blue and gold and a scarlet kerchief binding her pretty, fair hair.
When she held the baby close she bowed her head. Then she set him down in his pen and wiped a tear from her cheek.
"The half of my heart," she said simply, "I leave with you. And I am content, my lady, because of the look in your eyes."
Two minutes later her kerchief was out of sight.
I took my ease for the most of that day, but while I am sure the repose did much for my back, it was Helena's use of the lotion that actually healed the strain. What the liniment was, I know not, and I do not think Freda knew, but I think it came out of the country and that some wise woman had made it that knew no pharmacopoeia. Be that as it may, by that evening I felt no pain when I stooped, and as far as I know from that time my back was well, for it never hurt me again.
Now Freda had advised us that a lad brought her milk every evening at six o'clock, but that he was well accustomed to finding no one at home; we therefore put out our pitcher at half-past five and, taking the baby with us, made our way into the forest and sat ourselves down out of view.
As I lighted my lady's cigarette:
"Tonight," I said, "I am going to get the Rolls. I'll fill her up at some pump and then find some place near Witchcraft and park her there. Her value apart, we simply must have that car. Without her
we're tied by the leg."
"I shall come, too," said Helena. "Sabre can mind the baby and keep the house."
"I think," said I, "that you've done enough today. You've fetched and carried and nursed me and played with Max."
"It's been one of the laziest days that I've spent for years. I've idled and dreamed over everything that I've done. But you'll only have eggs tonight. I'll have to think over those chickens before I start upon them."
"I'm more than content," said I. "I never felt so fit in my life. That bread. . . ."
"It is good, isn't it?" said Helena. "And it is so easy to make. I thought it was terribly hard, but Freda's shown me the trick, and I don't think I can go wrong. Of course I can cook a little: Mother was awfully good and she made me learn." She lay back and looked at the sky. "Oh. John, why wasn't I born to a life like this? The life I lead is a duty— and that's the truth."
"We're not born to idylls," said I. "We've no such luck."
Helena crossed her ankles and laced her delicate fingers behind her head.
"D'you find it idyllic, too?"
"I tried to say so this morning."
Helena knitted her brows.
"Then you said it very badly," she said. "I thought you were jibbing at being alone with me."
"For me, that's the idyll," said I.
Helena turned her head and gave me a dazzling smile.
"John," says she, "that's very prettily put."
It was when we had eaten our supper and the infant was fast asleep that Sabre was given his orders and we set out with the petrol to seek the Rolls. The dusk would come in, I judged, by the time we had crossed the clearing and gained the track, and that was just what we wanted, for so we could use the daylight, yet be wrapped in the cloak of darkness by the time we came to the road. For all that, I was none too easy, for if, by some evil chance, friend Pharaoh had found the Rolls, his instinct might well have suggested that we should return at nightfall to try to recover the car. And if he was lying there, waiting ... The nearer we drew to the road the more I wished for Sabre, for he at least would have saved us from walking into a trap.
At length I could bear it no more.
"Helena," said I, "when we see the road before us, I want you to let me go on. It isn't very likely, but someone may be in the bushes, keeping an eye on the Rolls. And if they are, I must draw them, for touch that car I will not till I know that the coast is clear. It isn't as if we could start her and let her go. I've got to open the bonnet and fill up the vacuum tank."
"When you say 'draw them,' John, just what do you mean?"
"Make them declare their presence. I won't let them see me or hear me I promise you that."
"You won't fill up without me?"
"No," said I. "I'll leave the petrol with you."
Five minutes later, perhaps, the darkness ahead was lightened, and I knew we were approaching the road.
Gently I set down the cans.
"Will you wait here, Helena?" I whispered.
"Tell me exactly what you are proposing to do."
"It may be half an hour before I come back. I'm going to stand still and listen most of the time. When I move, I shall move in the shadows, always this side of the road. If I hear and see nothing at all, an acorn is going to fall from the oak tree above the car. It's going to fall on to the bonnet and it's going to make quite a noise. If anyone's there, that'll fetch them ... Acorns don't fall in June, but I'll bet Pharaoh doesn't know that."
Helena sighed.
"I wish we'd got Sabre. Never mind. I don't mind how long you're gone, if you'll only take care."
With my right hand upon my pistol, I moved like any shadow along the side of the track ...
Arrived at its mouth. I waited, straining my ears. So for perhaps three minutes. Then I stole round the corner and on to the edge of the road,
Since my eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness which reigned in the track, when I looked down the road I could see very well, for the trees stood back from its sides and the starlit heaven above was shedding a definite light.
I could see the lovely indenture of the treetops against the sky; I could see the bulwarks of foliage, still as hangings of tapestry, walling the smooth highway; I could see the grey road, fading from substance to shadow and leading, it seemed, to the very realm of darkness, where even the stars were quenched.
And that was all I could see. The Rolls was gone!
Chapter 11
I WAS up betimes the next morning and had shaved and bathed and dressed before Helena called to me to know if I was awake.
"I'm dressed," said I, "and I'm just going to do my room."
"And your back?" "Is well," said I.
"Can you carry Max into the garden?"
"I could carry you to Witchcraft," said I.
"Well, wait a minute. I'll call you." Two minutes later I climbed the little staircase and carried the cradle down.
I had warm water ready, but Helena wished for the brook, so I took a sheet from the settle, filled a pail with the water which I had made hot and led the way to the miniature pool I had used. I spread the sheet on the bank, which now was alight with sunshine, and set the pail by its side; and there I left my lady to do what she could with a tube of my shaving-cream, for Freda's soap was not fit for delicate skin.
I had swept the stairs and the kitchen, had set our breakfast in the garden and was staring uneasily at Max, who had thrown his bedding out of his cradle and had twice removed his nightshirt in my despite, when I heard a step behind me, and there was Helena dressed as a country girl.
I cannot attempt to describe the picture she made.
I can only say that her skirt was of pure white linen and her beautiful legs were bare; that her shirt was short sleeved, embroidered very richly, cut low and round at the neck; that the flame of her kerchief was dulled by the lights in her hair.
"I had to change," she said simply. "I shall wash my own things this morning and press them this afternoon."
"I'm glad you did." I said feebly. "You— you look very nice."
"More in the picture, John?" I shook my head.
"All you've done," I said, "is to alter the picture's frame." I turned to the child. "And now about this infant. What's biting him I don't know. I've let him out twice, but that isn't what he wants. And he's fed right up with that shirt. It seems all right to me, but he won't keep it on. And look at his bedclothes!"
Helena crowed with laughter.
"You are stupid, John! Of course he wants to get up. If you'll go and get some warm water, we'll sluice him down on the grass."
Before I was back with a bucket she had fetched some things from the bedroom, and among them a tiny smock. With Sabre in close attendance I carried the naked urchin on to the neighbouring sward, and there we performed his ablutions— because, I think, the water was warm, to his great delight. He was a fine little boy, and stood up straight and smiling with Helena's hands in his while I let the water trickle over his face and head. His drying was a great business, with which, of course, Sabre must help, and we were all three laughing before it was done. Then he stood up again to be dressed, and when that was done I held him while Helena brushed his hair with her own pretty brush. By the time he had had his breakfast and was ready to enter his pen, I must confess that I could have eaten three meals, and poor Sabre was more than thankful for his portion of eggs and milk; but that such impatience was shameful I frankly admit, for few children, I think, that were not yet three years old would have suffered two strangers so gladly— and one of the strangers a fool— or have found any lack of understanding but matter for mirth. I would say that Helena had charmed him, for her way with the child was that of a laughing angel; and his eyes lit up at her coming, as though each time she appeared she made him some gift, yet to me he was very civil from first to last; if I overruled his intentions he never cried, and when later that day I made him a chair and a table for the wooden monkey to use, he inspected them very gravely and then put his arms r
ound my neck.
AT half-past four Max awoke and was given his tea, and after a little while we sat down and ate our own; but since at half-past five my cousin had not appeared, we put out our pitcher and made ourselves scarce.
From the covert which we selected we could see the way to Witchcraft, yet could not be seen, for the ground rose up a little, to make a knoll, yet the bracken made us a breastwork through which we could see when we pleased, which no eye looking up from the path could ever have pierced.
As I turned to peer through the fronds :
"You are very impatient," said Helena.
"That's the wrong word," said I. "I can't tell you what's the right one, but it's rather like standing on a platform seeing somebody off by train."
Helena knitted her brows.
"I know the feeling," she said, "but I don't see how it applies."
"You wouldn't," said I. "Never mind. The train will leave when Geoffrey and Barley arrive."
"Perhaps he's coming tomorrow, instead of tonight."
"So much the better," said I, and pulled at the grass.
"And what of my name?" I sat up sharply.
With her head on one side, my lady was gravely regarding a beautiful palm.
"What's another twelve hours?" said I. "Your name stands or falls by last night."
Helena raised her eyebrows.
"You're getting quite reasonable."
"Don't you believe it,' said I.
"But—"
"I know. I take back what I said. As long as we're here alone, we're risking your name."
"Then you do hope he'll come?"
said Helena.
"For your sake— yes," I said shortly, and turned again to the path.
There was a little silence, broken at last by some woodpecker's careless mirth.
Max was playing quietly, loading his table with viands for the monkey to eat. Helena's dainty handkerchief made a fine cloth. Sabre was watching him gravely, monkey in mouth.
"You are not yourself," said Helena. "You've not been yourself the whole of this afternoon."
"I know," said I. "I've been standing on the platform ever since lunch."
Storm Music (1934) Page 8
