Part 13 (1/2)

”You haven't a very warm coat, so you must take mine,” Helen said, and when she looked up she discovered in her stepmother the extraordinary stillness of a being whose soul has gone on a long journey. Her voice came, as before, from that great distance, yet with surprising clearness, as though she spoke through some instrument which reduced the volume and accentuated the peculiarities of her tones.

”One ought never to be afraid of anything,” the small voice said--”never.” Her lips tightened, and slowly she seemed to return to the body which sat on the sofa by the window. ”I don't know what to take,” she said again.

”I'm doing it,” Helen told her. ”You mustn't lose the train.”

”No.” She stood up, and, going to the dressing-table, she leaned on it as though she searched intently for something lying there. ”I expect he will be dead,” she said. ”It's a long way. All those frontiers--”

Helen looked at the bent back, and her pity shaped itself in eager words. ”Shall I come with you? Let me! I can get ready--”

Mildred Caniper straightened herself and turned, and Helen recognized the blue light in her eye.

”Your presence, Helen,” she said distinctly, ”will not reduce the number of the frontiers.” Her manner blamed Helen for her own lack of self-control; but to this her stepchildren were accustomed, and Helen felt no anger.

”Oh, no,” she answered pleasantly; ”it would not do that.”

She packed on methodically, and while she feigned absorption in that business her thoughts were swift and troubled, as they were when she was a little girl and, suffering for Notya's sake, wept in the heather. It was impossible to help this woman whose curling hair mocked her sternness, whose sternness so easily collapsed and as easily recovered at a word; it was, perhaps, intrusive to attempt it, yet the desire was as quick as Helen's blood.

”You are much too helpful, Helen,” Mildred Caniper went on, and softened that harshness quickly. ”You must learn that no one can help anybody else.” She smiled. ”You must deny yourself the luxury of trying!”

”I shall remember,” Helen said with her quiet acquiescence, ”but I must go now and see about your lunch. Would you mind writing the labels?

Uncle Alfred will want one for his bag. Oh, I know I'm irritating,” she added on a wave of feeling which had to break, ”but I can't help it.

I--I'm like that.” She reflected with humiliation that it was absurd to obtrude herself thus on a scene shadowed by tragedy, yet when she saw a glint of real amus.e.m.e.nt on Mildred Caniper's face, a new thought came to her. Perhaps reserve was not so great a virtue as she had believed. She must not forget; nor must she forget that Miriam considered her a prig, that Mildred Caniper found her too helpful. She pressed her hands against her forehead and concentrated her energies on the travellers'

food.

The minutes, busy as they were, dragged by like hours. Uncle Alfred ate his luncheon with the deliberation of a man who cannot expect to renew his digestive apparatus, and the road remained empty of George Halkett and his trap. Mildred Caniper, calm now, and dressed for her journey, had many instructions for Helen concerning food, the employment of Mrs.

Samson, bills to be paid, and other domestic details which at this moment lacked reality.

”And,” she ended, ”tell Rupert not to be late. The house should be locked up at ten o'clock.”

”Yes,” Helen answered, but when she looked at her stepmother she could see only the distressed figure which had sat on the sofa, with hands jerking on its knee. Did she love Philip Caniper? Had they quarrelled long ago, and did she now want to make amends? No, no! She shut her eyes. She must not pry. She felt as though she had caught herself reading a letter which belonged to some one else.

Not deterred by such squeamishness, Miriam watched the luncheon-party with an almost indecent eagerness. Her curiosity about Mildred Caniper was blurred by pleasure in her departure, and each mouthful unwillingly taken by that lady seemed to minister to Miriam's freedom. Now and then she went to the garden gate to look for George, yet with her hurry to drive out her stepmother there was that luckless necessity to let Uncle Alfred go. On him her dark gaze was fastened expectantly. Surely he had something to say to her; doubtless he waited for a fitting opportunity, and she was determined that he should have it, but she realized that he was past the age when he would leap from an unfinished meal to whisper with her. This put a disturbing limit to her power, and with an instinct for preserving her faith in herself she slightly s.h.i.+fted the view from which she looked at him. So she was rea.s.sured, and she waited like an affectionate grand-daughter in the dark corner of the pa.s.sage where his coat and hat were hanging.

”Let me help you on,” she said.

”Thank you. Thank you. This is a sad business.”

She handed him his hat. She found that, after all, she could say nothing, and though hope was dying in her, she made no effort to revive it.

”Well--good-bye,” Uncle Alfred was saying, and holding out his hand.

She gave hers limply. ”Good-bye.” She hardly looked at him. Uncle Alfred, who had loved her mother, was going without so much as a cheering word. He looked old and rather dull as he went on with his precise small steps into the hall and she walked listlessly behind him.

”He's like a little performing animal,” she thought.

Fumbling in his breast pocket, he turned to her. ”If you should need me,” he said, and produced his card. ”I'll write and tell you what happens--er--when we get there.”