"Right you are. They've thought of all that. You'll find everything at the market-hall,--where the two men are."

They drove away together, and into the outer streets of the town, where now scarcely a soul was to be seen, though as the car passed, the windows were crowded with heads. Police were everywhere, and the market-place--a sorry sight of smoky wreck and ruin--was held by a cordon of soldiers, behind which a crowd still looked on. French, sitting beside her, watched the erect girl-driver, the excellence of her driving, the brain and skill she was bringing to bear upon her "job." Here was the "new woman" indeed, in her best aspect. He could not but compare the Helena of this adventure--this competent and admirable Helena--with the girl of the night before. Had the war produced the same dual personality in thousands of English men and English women?--in the English nation itself?

They drew up at the steps of the market-hall, where a group of persons were standing, including a nurse in uniform. Buntingford came forward, and bending over the side of the car, said to Helena:

"Do you want to be relieved? There are several people here who could drive the car."

She flushed.

"I want to take these men to hospital."

He smiled at her.

"You shall."

He turned back to speak to the doctor who was to accompany the car.

Helena jumped out, and went to consult with the nurse. In a very short time, the car had been turned as far as possible into an ambulance, and the wounded men were brought out.

"As gently as you can," said the doctor to Helena. "Are your springs good?"

"The car's first-rate, and I'll do my best. I've been driving for nearly a year, up to the other day." She pointed to her badge. The doctor nodded approval, and he and the nurse took their places. Then Buntingford jumped into the car, beside Helena.

"I'll show you the way. It won't take long."

In a few minutes, the car was in country lanes, and all the smoking tumult of the town had vanished from sight and hearing. It had become already indeed almost incredible, in the glow of the May afternoon, and amid the hawthorn white of the hedges, the chattering birds that fled before them, the marvellous green of the fields. Helena drove with the deftness of a practised hand, avoiding ruts, going softly over rough places.

"Good!" said Buntingford to her more than once--"that was excellent!"

But the suffering of the men behind overshadowed everything else, and it was with a big breath of relief that Buntingford at last perceived the walls of the county hospital rising out of a group of trees in front of them. Helena brought the car gently to a standstill, and, jumping out, was ready to help as a V. A. D. in the moving of the men. The hospital had been warned by telephone, and all preparations had been made. When the two unconscious men were safely in bed, the Dansworth doctor turned warmly to Helena:

"I don't know what we should have done without you, Miss Pitstone! But you look awfully tired. I hope you'll go home at once, and rest."

"I'm going to take her home--at once," said Buntingford. "We can't do anything more, can we?"

"Nothing. And here's the matron with a message."

The message was from the mayor of Dansworth. "Situation well in hand. No more trouble feared. Best thanks."

"All right!" said Buntingford. He turned smiling to Helena. "Now we'll go home and get some dinner!"

The Dansworth doctor and nurse remained behind. Once more Buntingford got into the car beside his ward.

"What an ass I am!" he said, in disgust--"not to be able to drive the car. But I should probably kill you and myself."

Helena laughed at him, a new sweetness in the sound, and they started.

Presently Buntingford said gently:

"I want to thank you,--for one thing especially--for having waited so patiently--while we got the thing under."

"I wasn't patient at all! I wanted desperately to be in it!"

"All the more credit! It would have been a terrible anxiety if you had been there. A policeman was killed just beside us. There was a man with a revolver running amuck. He just missed French by a hair-breadth."

Helena exclaimed in horror.

"You see--one puts the best face on it--but it might have been a terrible business. But what I shall always remember most--is your part in it"

Their eyes met, hers half shy, half repentant, his full of a kindness she had never yet seen there.

CHAPTER VIII

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

For Mrs. Friend had been enjoying a particularly bad cold and had not long emerged from her bedroom, looking such a pitiful little wreck, that both Lord Buntingford and Helena had been greatly concerned. In the five weeks that had now elapsed since her arrival at Beechmark she had stolen her quiet way into the liking of everybody in the house to such an extent that, during the days she had been in bed with a high temperature, she had been seriously missed in the daily life of the place, and the whole household had actively combined to get her well again. Mrs. Mawson had fed her; and Lucy Friend was aghast to think how much her convalescence must be costing her employer in milk, eggs, butter, cream and chickens, when all such foods were still so frightfully, abominably dear. But they were forced down her throat by Helena and the housekeeper; while Lord Buntingford enquired after her every morning, and sent her a reckless supply of illustrated papers and novels. To see her now in the library or on the lawn again, with her white shawl round her, and the usual needlework 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 and selfless gift which was her natural endowment; she was becoming the practical helper of everybody, of Mrs. Mawson in the house, of old Fenn in the garden, even of Buntingford himself, who was gradually falling into the habit of letting her copy important letters for him, and keep some order in the library. She was not in the least clever or accomplished; but her small fingers seemed to have magic in them; and her good will was inexhaustible.

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

"What are you going to wear to-night?" said Mrs. Friend, softly smoothing back 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 the full-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 Philip before I arrived. Tell me, Lucy--tell me at once."

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

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

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