CHAPTER XIX

AN UNMARKED FESTIVAL

"Day of days! Unmarked it rose, In whose hours we were to meet; And forgotten passed. Who knows, Was earth cold, or sunny, sweet, At the coming of your feet?" --MRS. MEYNELL.

As her visitor departed, Brenda Helston turned from the door and let herself sink into an easy-chair by the fire with a gratified laugh.

Five years had not changed her, except that her soft, abundant hair was whiter. No wrinkles marred her smooth pink cheeks, her eyes were still bright, though her forty-fifth birthday stared her in the face.

The room in which she sat--the drawing-room of her flat in Collis Square--was an unusual room. Harry Helston strongly held the theory that Londoners must live inside their walls. The pictures which hung on these were all originals and all good. A line of bookshelves encircled the room like a dado, the top forming a shelf for the reception of rare bits of pottery, brass, _cloisonné_ and curios. In one corner the line of books was broken for the admission of a large secretaire. With this exception, and that of a roomy writing-table near the fire, the room contained no furniture but chairs of every variety of comfort, and small solid tables, holding no ornaments, but convenient for the reception of cups, books or papers. There were flowers in every place where they could be put without risk of being knocked over.

The visitor who had just left the room had gone unwillingly, but gladdened by a cordial invitation to return later. His hostess thought of him with pleasure and satisfaction. He was immensely improved by his term of foreign service, and it was gratifying that his first visit on reaching London should have been to her. She had always liked Lance Burmester; and the fact of his having proved himself so emphatically all that a Special Correspondent ought to be--of his having chosen to have a profession, and to work hard at it, being, as he was, the eldest son of a wealthy man--had by no means lessened her good opinion.

She rang the bell, gave some orders to the maid who answered it, and was still in reverie--perhaps building castles in the air--when her husband came in, chuckling.

He held an evening paper in his hand.

"Brenda, here's something that will amuse you," he said, stooping to kiss her affectionately.

She looked up eagerly.

"I have news for you, Harry! Guess who has been here to-day!"

"I'll guess afterwards, but first I must read you this. It's about Melicent. Won't she be furious? She did think she had dodged the halfpenny interviewer." He unfolded his copy of the _Hauberk_ and read aloud:

"'THE LADY ARCHITECT

"'The decision of Miss Lutwyche, three years ago, to complete her course of architectural training by acquiring a practical knowledge of building, caused a considerable flutter of the dove-cotes at the Polytechnic when she applied personally to be enrolled. There was no rule, however, by which she could be excluded, and she has been ever since, the only lady among six hundred male students.

"'Having completed her course, she is now taking steps to set up for herself, and is to begin by superintending the erection of two labourers cottages from her own designs, upon the Cleveshire estates of Sir Joseph Burmester. Miss Lutwyche has an intimate knowledge of the tastes and requirements of the natives of the district in question, and it is understood that she is strongly of opinion that the question of the housing of the poor will ultimately be successfully tackled by women and not by men.

"'Simplicity, durability and convenience are the keynotes of her work. It is known that she had much to do with the erection of the wonderful house which her adopted father, Mr. Helston, F.R.I.B.A., has just completed in Fransdale, which has been described as the most imaginative specimen of domestic architecture produced by an Englishman during the last three hundred years. It has been seriously suggested that the house in question may revolutionise the idea of the English country house, and that the day of gables, barge-boards, rough-casting and timbering is over.'"

They looked at each other in mischievous amusement.

"She _will_ be angry," said Brenda; and, after a moment's silence, burst out laughing.

"Think I'd better not show it?"

"Oh, you must let her see it; because, if you don't, someone else will--inevitably."

Helston leaned back in his chair, with reminiscent eyes fixed on the glowing fire.

"You and I were right, Brenda, when we believed her to be above the average: she ought to go far."

"Never for a moment have I doubted it," his wife answered. "She has power! Her smallness, her silence, her strength--it is a wonderful combination. Many a time I have thanked God for her."

"I fancy," said Harry reflectively, "that Mrs. Cooper to this day believes that we shall repent, and that it was Melicent who corrupted her entire household, girls, maids, governess, all in the space of two or three weeks."

"If she does, the vicar knows better," returned his wife, "and is glad enough for Gwen and Theo to come to us whenever they can."

"I believe we made one mistake," thoughtfully pursued the man. "I have often wished that I had not complied with the vicar's written request that the Burmesters should be told nothing. I don't want them to think there is anything to conceal, as far as Millie is concerned. You see, Mayne doesn't like the circumstances of her leaving Africa talked about, and Cooper doesn't like the circumstances of her leaving the Vicarage talked about. At this rate, it seems to me that she may become a Woman with a Past, if we don't take care."

"Oh, pooh," said Brenda; "don't make a fuss about nothing. Everybody knows what the Coopers are."

As she spoke, a gay voice, a dog's bark, a scuffle, was heard without; and the girl they both loved whisked in, waving a roll of vellum in her hand.

"Behold," said she, "the result of my labours! A certificate about the size of an ordinary table-cloth, signed by about a dozen men whom nobody ever heard of. If that doesn't convince people of my competency nothing ever will!"

She tossed the document in Brenda's lap, and sat down on the fender-stool, a little out of breath.

She had not changed greatly since her early teens; but she had improved. She was still small, though not too small; still pale, but with the clear, rose pallor of a Malmaison carnation. Her soft, fair hair was becomingly arranged, her movements graceful, her manner decidedly good.

"It's going to snow," cried she. "March is going out like a lion! Pater, I hope the wind won't nip our crocuses."

"A Cleveshire crocus laughs at frost," said Helston. "But will a Cleveshire maiden laugh at an impertinent newspaper paragraph?"

"Paragraph! You don't tell me! Where? After all my trouble!" She stopped short, indignant, her cheeks suddenly rose-colour. "Well, I don't care," she concluded defiantly. "Ne'er a reporter of them all shall flout me out of my humour."

"Shall I read it?"

"Certainly!"

Helston did so, not without relish. When he had done, the girl made a sound of disdain.

"Charming!" she said. "But what does it matter? Does anybody whose opinion I value form that opinion upon the _Hauberk_?"

"If you will start doing what nobody has done before,--"

"Well, somebody must start," said Melicent composedly, "or nobody would ever get anywhere. After all, these things matter so little. People very soon forget; and one is not nearly so important as one believes."

"Your common-sense and self-possession are getting quite odious, miss," said Brenda languidly.

Melicent was thoughtful.

"Very likely it is true what they say--that a business woman has got to sacrifice something. But I always was practical, you know."

"So little do we know ourselves," gasped Helston.

"Why? Am I not practical?"

"Dreamer, idealist, dweller in Utopia, believer in the Fourth dimension and in the sum of the really important things that nobody can classify--go to!" said he gravely. "Tell that to the reporters, but not to the unfortunate pater who had to hold you in when designing a house! 'Bridling the Tweed with a curb o' stane' would have just been an interval for light refreshment."

Melicent, her arms about her knees, laughed blithely.

"For sheer power of vituperation, you are hard to beat," she said. "Well, mater, what have you been doing all day?"

"When you have done railing at each other, you shall hear. I have news of a really exciting character, but I shall not tell it until there is a suitable demand."

Melicent whirled round and clutched her.

"What has happened? Speak instantly! Something nice? Something to take out the taste of that par.?"

"I have heard news and received a visitor: who but Lance Burmester?"

She had no reason to complain of lack of interest in her hearers. They rained questions upon her.

"He is in town for one night only," said she. "Goes down to Ilbersdale to-morrow; so I implored him to come back and dine. He demurred, on the ground that he had two friends with him, whom he could not desert One is a Captain Brooke, a friend picked up in Africa. The other is--guess, Melicent!"

There was a peculiar intonation in her voice.

Melicent looked up quickly, and met a mischievous look; and suddenly colour flooded the girl's face. Quite unexpectedly to herself, she did what she was never wont to do--she blushed; and she felt as though the blush covered her like a garment to the very feet.

The sensation made her furious. Why should she blush? At the memory of a period of her life now so incredibly remote that it seemed like a previous incarnation? She sometimes felt, in the infrequent moments when she recalled her amatory experiences, as though she had merely dreamed the savagery, the bestiality, of her African days; as though she had first awakened to life when her uncle drove her out upon the high heathery Nab that overlooked the moorlands.

Brenda's hint evoked a rushing stream of unpleasant, importunate memories. Was it possible that Bert had bridged the five years' silence? That he was still in pursuit--still claiming the promise made in a half-delirious moment?

Her inmost being sickened. It could not be! Not now, on the very threshold of her career--now that she had grown used to happiness and love and England. Disgust was so acute that she grew actually faint.

With a craving for air she sprang from her low seat by the fire, stood up, drew a long breath, flung back her head. What useless panic! She was free: no promise could be said to bind her! Why should she fear?

The shock, the overwhelming spasm of apprehension, passed away so quickly that the Helstons had barely time to wonder what was amiss when she took calmly on her lips the name that haunted her.

"Do you really mean that it is Bert Mestaer?"

Brenda laughed.

"Bert Mestaer! What a notion! You would hardly expect Mr. Burmester to make friends with him! Oh, no; it is someone whom you will really like to see--surely you can guess!"

"Mr. Mayne?"

"Of course!"

The relief, the reaction, were extraordinary. Melicent's head swam. With more demonstration of feeling than was usual to her, she clapped her hands.

"Oh, that is good! I am pleased! What a pity he did not get back in time for my twenty-first birthday last spring! I wonder whether he will think that I have changed!"

"Your wonder will be speedily set at rest. As it appeared that Lance was inseparable from his friends, and that this was his only night, I told him to bring them both back to dinner at eight. I sent Elizabeth for fish and cream, and I wish you would go into the dining-room on your way upstairs, and see that the flowers on the table are all right."

"Well!" cried Melicent, and heaved a sigh. "Things are happening to-night in the bosom of this peaceful family. Pater, just put away that odious newspaper in the table drawer, so that nobody can see it. To think of Mr. Mayne being in England! Why didn't he write and say he was coming?"

"I fancy he only quite suddenly found that he could get away. You see, all his plans are changed. He is to be Bishop of Pretoria."

"Bishop! Oh, lucky Pretoria!"

Melicent paused again, her eyes full of memories. She saw an open grave, a long black procession of uncouth people winding down the rough fields, past the Kaffir huts--the sun blazing down on Carol Mayne's sharp-cut, ascetic face.

"_I am the Resurrection and the Life. He that believeth on Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live._"

The thought of what her heart had been then, torn with hatred, racked with grief, savage, sullen, lonely, arose in sharp contrast with the thought of all that had been since, all that she had come to understand, believe and hope, in these full years of growth that lay between.

Moved by a rare impulse, she stooped and tenderly kissed Brenda's forehead, before going to inspect the flowers upon the dinner-table.