Читать книгу Five People - Bowen Marjorie - Страница 8

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DURING the return journey to London, Helen really wept, like someone shaken out of all control by the remembrance of a devastating dream; but she would not admit that Van Quellin had been right in advising her not to see her unknown relations.

Nor was this altogether feminine perversity on Helen's part, but a certain fineness of feeling, the same feeling that had made her endeavour to sacrifice the alabaster vase.

"But I ought to know about these things," she protested. "I've no right to be always saved from everything—if that had been going on all these years I ought to have known of it—"

"Why? No one could have helped people like that."

Helen would not agree.

"They are only like that because they have been neglected so long—you must expect people who have been pushed under to be bitter—"

"Mrs. Fermor had been pushed under, as you put it, Helen, before you were born."

M. de Montmorin's intuition had been right; Helen's fineness of feeling did not carry her to the extent of appreciating Van Quellin's sensations in this affair; her gentility was always the gentility of the middle classes, to whom all mischances are possible and she would have had to have it explained to her in words before she could have realized Van Quellin's instinctive ideal of an impregnable aristocracy to whom such incidents as the Fermors were utterly impossible.

Returned to Helen's flat, they had the matter out again, Helen seated mournfully by the window looking out on the autumn mists that veiled the park, Van Quellin walking up and down the low, pretty room with a look of impatience.

"I must do something for them," was always the conclusion of Helen's troubled considerations.

And at last Van Quellin was moved to try to defeat this tender foolishness, as he considered Helen's too lavish kindness.

"If you must, do it through your lawyer—pay that young woman a certain amount quarterly and never have anything to do with her—make that clearly understood from the first, that you will never even see her—"

"That is merely giving charity."

"That is all she wants."

"I thought she was rather remarkable, intelligent and handsome," protested Helen. "There was something grand and queer about her—she didn't seem to me a bit like someone who just wanted money."

"Quite a remarkable young woman," he agreed dryly. "She might have done much better than she has with herself. I judge her lazy, sullen and idle, and, Helen, I must tell you about her father—"

"Do you know anything of my Uncle Paul?" asked Helen, surprised both at his words and his manner.

"I felt I had to find out," he admitted, with a certain reluctance, yet firmly. "You must be protected—it wasn't difficult—there is an old clerk at the works knows the whole story. I went to your lawyers, too. Mr. Holt remembers both your father and your uncle."

"Mr. Holt? I often see him, but I didn't know he knew anything of Uncle Paul—"

"He wouldn't tell you; he was very devoted to your father, and to the firm—"

Helen was amazed, as she had been before, at this freemasonry between men; this old lawyer, this old clerk, both of whom she was so fond and who had both caressed her as a child, had evidently at once imparted to Van Quellin information which they had kept secret from her for a lifetime; did men distrust women's judgments or their emotions that they kept them so in the dark about important matters?

"I think I ought to have known," she remarked.

"My dear child, why ever should you be worried about it? I only mention it now as it is so difficult to put you on your guard. Paul Fermor was really a scoundrel, his father and his brother helped him again and again, and he only laughed at them. Your father bore with him for years, and had at last to turn him away because of the flagrant scandal of his behaviour—"

"But that wasn't the fault of these two—"

"His wife was hand in glove with him; she extorted large sums of money out of your father; she used to go to his house and his office and make scenes."

"What about?" frowned Helen. "About what she said to-day—about the Fermor brake system?"

"I'm afraid so at the end—but there had always been trouble of some kind—her husband had sent in some designs and a model, absolute rubbish, of course, for the man was lazy and hardly ever sober, and when your father's invention was put on the market, they made this preposterous claim—sheer blackmail."

"I suppose that was why father could never speak of them," murmured Helen.

"Yes, the climax was when the woman came round with some documents she wanted to sell, proofs, she called them, she threatened to send them to the newspapers, and your father had to have her turned out of the office."

There was something else in this interview that Van Quellin had learnt from Mr. Holt, but which he did not care to repeat to Helen, and that was that the blackmail of Mrs. Fermor (who was, according to the old clerk, a thoroughly unscrupulous and violent woman) had taken a double form; not only had she menaced Mark Fermor with the brand of thief, but she had threatened his peace with his young French wife, by declaring that she would reveal to her that Mr. Fermor had been her former suitor, and even, she swore, pursued her since his marriage; there were love letters of a compromising nature among the documents Maria Fermor had for sale.

"She spoke of that," replied Helen sadly. "She is still dwelling on it, after all these years. Louis, isn't it ghastly!"

"And even after that," continued Van Quellin, "your father sent them money—in answer to a last appeal for the fare to Australia from Paul—who died soon after, and the woman disappeared."

Helen strove to find something to redeem this sordid welter of lies and misery.

"Pauline had nothing to do with it," she urged. "You heard her repudiate the slander about my father."

"Only because she was afraid of offending you," replied Van Quellin quickly. "Do you think that she has lived with that fell old woman all her life without absorbing her wickedness, her bitterness? You didn't really like her yourself; confess now, Helen."

"No, I felt ill at ease with her, from the first, but oh, Louis, I was so dreadfully sorry!"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I know—but you can't save anyone from such an environment as that; it is a case of the sins of the fathers, I'm afraid." He added imperiously: "Anyhow, Helen, you cannot possibly have anything to do with them while Mrs. Fermor is alive—it would be an outrage to your father's memory."

Helen acquiesced, but with a sigh; she did not dare tell Louis Van Quellin, but she felt that her days would never be quite as unclouded as they had been now that she knew of the existence of the Fermors. She sensed that her lover would say no more on this subject and that also his investigations had discovered to him a great deal more about her uncle Paul than he chose to admit, so she gave the matter up with one last protest.

"After all, Louis, the difference between Pauline and myself is only the money—I wish I could get you to see that—"

He smiled indulgently; very likely there was much in what she said; such a woman as Helen was only possible from an upbringing of luxury and wealth; but what did it matter to him what had produced this delicious creature?

He troubled about that as little as the purchaser of a unique bloom troubles about the soil in which it has been grown.

Seating himself beside her, he took her hand in his; in a few days he must go back to Marli, to Cornelia, and then take the sick girl to Madeira, where she commonly spent the winter with her retinue of attendants from doctor to maid; Helen, becoming more and more consecrated to the service of Cornelia, despite Madame de Montmorin's warning, would presently leave all her friends in London and Paris and join her, while Van Quellin returned to Paradys, where the three would go after the marriage in April.

So there were only these snatched moments for the lovers before another long separation, and half of these had been absorbed by the Fermor affair; that Helen did not perceive this, was a bitter little pang to Louis.

"Haven't you got anything to say about ourselves, Helen?" he begged. "With you it is always other people."

She started faintly at his approximity that always brought with it that sense of fear; she could not meet his fierce and lonely look.

"I suppose you spoil me," she answered with a trembling smile. "I am too sure of you."

"Don't be too sure," he said quickly. "I am not by nature so very faithful—" She did not look at him now.

"I wonder what you mean by that?"

"Oh, I would disdain to importune," he replied rising. He was smiling, yet impatient. "I couldn't beg for crumbs too long—"

Helen was uneasy; she hardly knew how to meet this mood which seemed to her unfair; couldn't he see that she had given him all she had to give? What did he really want?

"I didn't know I kept you begging," she answered gently, "nor for crumbs—perhaps some day someone will be more generous with you," she finished gaily.

And he surprised her by his confirmatory:

"Perhaps."

Helen, never so at ease with her own emotions as she was with those of other people, became confused, almost abashed, at this declaration (for so she read his speech) from Louis Van Quellin.

She had a bewildering sensation of groping after something unknown in the dark, and once more she was aware of missing in him her own essential candour.

"Louis, lam afraid I disappoint you in some way, at least that I don't quite please you—"

He was standing by the hearth where the first wood fire burnt, and Helen turned, in her low chair, towards him with an almost supplicating attitude.

"Please tell me," she insisted.

"As if one could analyse these things!" he answered with a light impatience.

"I don't see anything to analyse," said Helen simply, "You can tell me what you miss in me?"

"I can't," he smiled, "I can't."

"Well then you can tell me what you meant just now when you spoke of fidelity," and she was so little a coquette that she added gravely, "it would never occur to me to question my own fidelity to you."

"No," he replied quickly, "because it isn't of enough importance to you—you are faithful as a matter of course, and because there is nothing to tempt you, nothing likely ever to tempt you—"

"What could tempt you?" asked Helen.

He looked at her quizzically a second.

"Someone who cared for me as I care for you," he returned.

"Oh!" said Helen. "You think I don't care enough?"

He evaded.

"It is a terrific thing—caring tremendously. Of course it is very rare, and people discount it because they don't know, or are afraid. It upsets things rather, caring tremendously."

Helen was silenced; she did not know of any flaw in her feeling for Van Quellin, yet she would scarcely have applied the word "tremendous" to her love; she was so used to him, so sure of him, so intimate with him; he was more like her daily bread than any delicious draught of nectar; and Helen hardly believed in this "caring tremendously"; she had been so happy with the placid tender affection of Etienne St. Luc.

Distressed and puzzled she leant towards him, still with her supplicant's gesture of clasped hands over the back of the silk chair.

"I suppose I'm spoiled," she pleaded. "First there was my father, and then Etienne, and now you—all spoiling me. I've never been allowed to miss anything, I've had everything without asking."

Van Quellin smiled to hear how completely she had misunderstood him; he looked beyond her at the yellow shapes of the trees looming through the bluish mists of the northern autumn that showed behind the warm grace of her figure; useless for him to torment her, to torment himself. He had all of this childlike soul, this tranquil heart; his insatiable love must be satisfied with this serene, this evasive, this delicate return.

"Poor Helen," he remarked. "So afraid of being too happy, eh?"

"So afraid of not being able to make you happy," she answered sincerely.

"You must not take that burden on you—my happiness depends on Cornelia."

"I know. But Cornelia cannot bear you to be so dependent on her—she told me so." Helen, now that the talk was no longer of herself, spoke with ease and vivacity. "Jeanne mentioned it too, Louis, and I do see how right they are—to try too hard to make up to Cornelia is to put a burden on her—"

"You are conscience free," replied Louis Van Quellin. "You don't know what remorse is, Helen."

"But just a child's carelessness," she argued gently. "And if she had been strong, it would have been nothing—Dr. Henriot says that the effects of the fall have long since disappeared."

"I pay Henriot," said Van Quellin bitterly. "It is part of his métier to be—civil."

"But anyone can see that Cornelia is delicate, Louis; you must think that if it had not been for you she would never have grown up at all—you know that."

But the young man rejected all these palliatives.

"I feel that spoiled life on my account," he said. "There it is, the sheer fact. I was responsible for the accident, and there she is—maimed, and what use to her is everything I can do? She wants to live."

Helen sighed deeply, thinking of what Cornelia had herself said—just that, about wanting to live.

"Perhaps this winter," she suggested timidly, glancing at the aquiline face that in repose was so cold and even formidable, at the pale grey eyes that looked so remote and lonely, "Cornelia will get stronger—" Van Quellin roused himself.

"I shouldn't be bothering you with this, Helen; it is something you can never understand, thank heaven."

Helen, thinking of Pauline Fermor, was not so sure; she could imagine as possible the stinging of remorse, the bitter workings of conscience, but she did not dare mention again that problem of her cousin. "Will you dine with me to-night?" asked Louis swiftly.

"Oh, lam so sorry, I promised the Mathisons—I have put them off twice—"

"Put them off again."

"Louis, I can't. Mrs. Mathison has been ill and I promised to see her the moment I came to London—"

"You've plenty of time yet—"

"But I promised for to-night—won't you come? They would be so flattered."

"No," he answered shortly. "They're dull bores; no one bothers with them."

"They're kind," protested Helen, "and so lonely. I think it must be terrible to be dull and have people avoiding you—I must go, please don't try to dissuade me."

"Helen, you are incorrigible, don't you know I've only a few more days in London and then perhaps I shan't see you for months."

Helen thought, though she would not say so, that she was giving the whole winter up to Cornelia and might have been allowed a little latitude now for her own friends.

She sat silent, with a downcast face.

"Put these people off and come with me," he commanded.

"I've done that twice," she answered. "They think it unkind that you don't come with me; they keep asking me to bring you."

"Oh, la, la," he cried with sudden impatience. "Will you come with me or not?"

Helen did not hesitate in her choice.

There were a hundred things that Van Quellin could do, a hundred places where he would be welcome, whereas the Mathisons were, as he had said, dull, boring—if Helen disappointed them they would be alone—and hurt.

She wished, wistfully, that Van Quellin could have sacrificed himself this one evening to give her and the old people a pleasure; but the young man, she knew, disdained these small and tender virtues.

"I'm afraid I must go," she denied him reluctantly. "I'm very sorry, Louis—and it is time that I went to dress."

She knew that he was deeply vexed and she half shivered, fearing an outburst of anger.

Not that she had ever known him angry with her, but she was aware of latent temper behind this even serenity and greatly feared one day to provoke it; a quarrel was unthinkable, of course; Helen would never quarrel, but she could imagine herself, on some fatal day, weeping before his wrath. But however near the edge of violence Louis had been now, he controlled himself, perhaps with the thought that he would soon have complete domination over this charming, soft foolishness.

"Very well," he said, "to-morrow then—I want to show you some new photographs of Pargdys—I'm very pleased with the work there—don't you want to see the plans of your Pavilion?"

Helen melted instantly at this surrender, a gracious surrender for Louis Van Quellin; she knew what he meant by this tender reference to the Pavilion he was building specially for her.

She would like to have kissed him, of her own free will, an offering that she knew would give him intense pleasure; but she hesitated and did not, half afraid of herself, half afraid of him.

"You see, you do spoil me," she smiled gaily. "The Mathisons will be so pleased, poor dears—"

"I suppose it doesn't matter if I am pleased or not?"

"Louis, you don't need pleasing," she assured him. "You've got everything."

"But not you."

She gave him her hands and he kissed them, foreign fashion.

"Don't say that;" she replied, gravely and sadly. "You have got me—only I'm not quite what you want me to be."

Still holding her hands, he looked straight into her soft, vivacious, flushing face.

"Aren't you? Aren't you, Helen?"

He dropped her hands at that, and left her abruptly; she heard the click of the front door of the flat.

Helen felt a touch of fright, almost of terror.

"I don't love him enough—there is something wrong. I am not capable of loving him enough."