"Are you asleep, Helena?" said Peter's voice at last.

"Not at all."

"Then sit up, please, and listen to me."

She obeyed. Peter was standing over her, his hands on his sides, looking very manly, and rather pale.

"Having disposed of me for the last six months--you may as well dispose of me altogether," he said slowly. "Very well--I will go--and propose to Jenny Dumbarton---the day after to-morrow. Her people asked me for the week-end. I gave a shuffling answer. I'll wire to her to-morrow that I'm coming--"

"Peter--you're a darling!" cried Helena in delight, clapping her hands.

"_Oh_!--I wish I could see Jenny's face when she opens the wire! You'll be very good to her, Peter?"

She looked at him searchingly, stirred by one of the sudden tremors that beset even the most well-intentioned match-maker.

Peter smiled, with a rather twisted lip, straightening his shoulders.

"I shouldn't ask any girl to marry me, that I couldn't love and honour, not even to please you, Helena! And she knows all about you!"

"She doesn't!" said Helena, in consternation.

"Yes, she does. I don't mean to say that I've told her the exact number of times you've refused me. But she knows quite enough. She'll take me--if she does take me--with her eyes open. Well, now that's settled!--But you interrupted me. There's one condition, Helena!"

"Name it." She eyed him nervously.

--"That in return for managing my life, you give me some indication of how you're going to manage your own!"

Helena fell back on the bilberry stalk, to gain time.

--"Because--" resumed Peter--"it's quite clear the Beechmark situation is all bust up. Philip's got an idiot-boy to look after--with Cynthia Welwyn in constant attendance. I don't see any room for you there, Helena!"

"Neither do I," said Helena, quietly. "You needn't tell me that."

"Well, then, what are you going to do?"

"You forget, Peter, that I possess the dearest and nicest little chaperon. I can roam the world where I please--without making any scandals."

"You'll always make scandals--"

"_Scandals_, Peter!" protested Helena.

"Well, victories, wherever you go--unless somebody has you pretty tightly in hand. But you and I--both know a man--that would be your match!"

He had moved, so as to stand firmly across the little path that ran from Helena's seat to the inn. She began to fidget--to drop one foot, that had been twisted under her, to the ground, as though "on tiptoe for a flight."

"It's time for supper, Peter. Mrs. Friend will think we're drowned. And I caught such a beautiful dish of trout yesterday,--all for your benefit!

There's a dear man here who puts on the worms."

"You don't go, till I get an answer, Helena."

"There's nothing to answer. I've no plans. I draw, and fish, and read poetry. I have some money in the bank; and Cousin Philip will let me do what I like with it. Lastly--I have another month in which to make up my mind."

"About what?"

"Goose!--where to go next, of course."

Peter shook his head. His mood was now as determined, as hot in pursuit, as hers had been, a little earlier.

"I bet you'll have to make up your mind about something much more important than that--before long. I happened to be--in the Gallery of the House of Commons yesterday--"

"Improving your mind?"

"Listening to a lot of wild men talking rot about the army. But there was one man who didn't talk rot, though I agreed with scarcely a thing he said. But then he's a Labour man--or thinks he is--and I know that I'm a Tory--as blue as you make 'em. Anyway I'm perfectly certain you'd have liked to be there, Miss Helena!"

"Geoffrey?" said Helena coolly.

"Right you are. Well, I can tell you he made a ripping success! The man next to me in the gallery, who seemed to have been born and bred there--knew everybody and everything--and got as much fun out of it as I do out of 'Chu-Chin-Chow'--he told me it was the first time Geoffrey had really got what he called the 'ear of the House'--it was pretty full too!--and that he was certain to get on--office, and all that kind of thing--if he stuck to it. He certainly did it jolly well. He made even an ignorant ass like me sit up. I'd go and hear him again--I vow I would!

And there was such a fuss in the lobby! I found Geoffrey there, shovelling out hand-shakes, and talking to press-men. An old uncle of mine--nice old boy--who's sat for a Yorkshire constituency for about a hundred years, caught hold of me. 'Know that fellow, Peter?' 'Rather!'

'Good for you! _He's_ got his foot on the ladder--he'll climb.'"

"Horrid word!" said Helena.

"Depends on what you mean by it. If you're to get to the top, I suppose you must climb. Now, then, Helena!--if you won't take a man like me whom you can run--take a man like Geoffrey who can run you--and make you jolly happy all the same! There--I can give advice too, you see--and you've no right to be offended!"

Helena could not keep her features still. Her eyes shot fire, though of what kind the fire might be Peter was not quite sure. The two young creatures faced each other. There was laughter in each face, but something else; something strenuous, tragic even; as though "Life at its grindstone set" had been at work on the radiant pair, evoking the Meredithian series of intellect from the senses,--"brain from blood"; with "spirit," or generous soul, for climax.

But unconsciously Peter had moved aside. In a flash Helena had slipped past him, and was flying through the wood, homeward, looking back to mock him, as he sped after her in vain.

CHAPTER XVI

A week had passed. Mrs. Friend at ten o'clock in the morning had just been having a heart to heart talk with the landlady of the inn on the subject of a decent luncheon for three persons, and a passable dinner for four. Food at the inn was neither good nor well-cooked, and as criticism, even the mildest, generally led to tears, Mrs. Friend's morning lot, when any guest was expected, was not a happy one. It was a difficult thing indeed to get anything said or settled at all; since the five-year old Bobby was generally scrimmaging round, capturing his mother's broom and threatening to "sweep out" Mrs. Friend, or brandishing the meat-chopper, as a still more drastic means of dislodging her. The little villain, having failed to drown himself, was now inclined to play tricks with his small sister, aged eight weeks; and had only that morning, while his mother's back was turned, taken the baby out of her cradle, run down a steep staircase with her in his arms, and laid her on a kitchen chair, forgetting all about her a minute afterwards. Even a fond mother had been provoked to smacking, and the inn had been filled with howls and roarings, which deadened even the thunder of the swollen stream outside.

Then Helena, her fingers in her ears, had made a violent descent upon the kitchen, and carried off the "limb" to the river, where, being given something to do in the shape of damming up a brook that ran into the main stream, he had suddenly developed angelic qualities, and tied himself to Helena's skirts.

There they both were, on the river's pebbly bank, within hail, Helena in a short white skirt with a green jersey and cap. She was alternately helping Bobby to build the dam, and lying with her hands beneath her head, under the shelter of the bank. Moderately fine weather had returned, and the Welsh farmer had once more begun to hope that after all he might get in his oats. The morning sun sparkled on the river, on the freshly washed oak-woods, and on Bobby's bare curly head, as he sat busily playing beside Helena.

What was Helena thinking of? Lucy Friend would have given a good deal to know. On the little table before Lucy lay two telegrams: one signed "Geoffrey" announced that he would reach Bettws station by twelve, and the "Fisherman's Rest" about half an hour later. The other announced the arrival of Lord Buntingford by the evening train. Lord Buntingford's visit had been arranged two or three days before; and Mrs. Friend wished it well over. He was of course coming to talk about plans with his ward, who had now wasted the greater part of the London season in this primitive corner of Wales. And both he and Geoffrey were leaving historic scenes behind them in order to spend these few hours with Helena. For this was Peace Day, when the victorious generals and troops of the Empire, and the Empire's allies, were to salute England's king amid the multitudes of London, in solemn and visible proof that the long nightmare of the war had found its end. Buntingford had naturally no heart for pageants; but Helena had been astonished by Geoffrey's telegram, which had arrived the night before from the Lancashire town he represented in Parliament. As an M.P. he ought surely to have been playing his part in the great show. Moreover, she had not expected him so soon, and she had done nothing to hurry his coming. His telegram had brought a great flush of colour into her face. But she made no other sign.

"Oh, well, we can take them out to see bonfires!" she had said, putting on her most careless air, and had then dismissed the subject. For that night the hills of the north were to run their fiery message through the land, blazoning a greater victory than Drake's; and Helena, who had by now made close friends with the mountains, had long since decided on the best points of view.

Since then Lucy had received no confidences, and asked no questions. A letter had reached her, however; by the morning's post, from Miss Alcott, giving an account of the situation at Beechmark, of the removal of the boy to his father's house, and of the progress that had been made in awakening his intelligence and fortifying his bodily health.

"It is wonderful to see the progress he has made--so far, entirely through imitation and handwork. He begins to have some notion of counting and numbers--he has learnt to crochet and thread beads---poor little lad of fifteen!--he has built not only a tower but something like a house, of bricks--and now his enthusiastic teacher is attempting to teach him the first rudiments of speech, in this wonderful modern way--lip-reading and the like. He has been under training for about six weeks, and certainly the results are most promising. I believe his mother protested to Lord Buntingford that he had not been neglected. Nobody can believe her, who sees now what has been done. Apparently a brain-surgeon in Naples was consulted as to the possibility of an operation. But when that was dropped, nothing else was ever tried, no training was attempted, and the child would have fared very badly, if it had not been for the old _bonne_--Zelie--who was and is devoted to him. His mother was ashamed of him, and came positively to hate the sight of him.

"But the tragic thing is that as his mind develops, his body seems to weaken. Food, special exercise, massage--poor Lord Buntingford has been trying everything--but with small result. It is pitiful to see him watching the child, and hanging on the doctors. 'Shall we stop all the teaching?' he said to John the other day in despair--'my first object is that he should _live_,' But it would be cruel to stop the teaching now.

The child would not allow it. He himself has caught the passion of it.