Part 11

Geoffrey followed her into the small hall and through to a big room at the back whose long windows looked on to a paved garden. She put on the light, drew the curtains of some heavy, dark blue stuff, and knelt down by the fire with a pair of bellows which she used energetically till a small flame wavered up from the sullen coal.

"There," she said triumphantly. "That's all right. Now, please, talk to me about everything."

Geoffrey had stood looking at her as she coaxed the fire, but he was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. He sat down.

"I feel completely dull and stupid," he said heavily. "I can't explain myself at all. I'm sorry I offended you."

"You needn't be," Helen's voice was light. "It's all right. It didn't occur to me that a mere colour effect would unnerve you."

"I'm not temperamental as a rule," Geoffrey said sombrely. "But I'm conscious of a painful and lovely tie between us. It wasn't only the colour effect; it was dinner and the whole evening, and driving with you, a frightful strain the whole time. Listen, Helen," he leaned forward. "I've only known you for an hour or two, but do you think you could marry me sometime. It seems idiotic to say I love you, but I do. I want to marry you desperately, and do you realise that for all I know you may be engaged to someone else."

Geoffrey broke off abruptly. He no longer felt tired, a deep exhilaration was creeping over him, and he experienced an almost savage foretaste of triumph as he said urgently: "Helen, you will marry me, won't you?"

Helen shook her head. All the colour had drained slowly from her cheeks, and the little mark beside her mouth stood out hot and scarlet. She put a finger up to it and felt it gently.

"No," she answered, "I won't marry you, Geoffrey. There is a queer link between us. I felt it the first minute we met, but I won't marry you; at least not now. I might in ten years if my work fails me, but not now. You see it is important to me; I love it, and I feel I'm going to do something good, and whatever anyone may say I'm certain it's impossible to work decently and be married as well."

"I don't believe it is," said Geoffrey strongly. "Frankly I've never thought about it, but I'm perfectly sure we could do it."

"No we couldn't; no one can."

"Helen, you must marry me. It seems to me utterly impossible that you should refuse to. And that's not conceit, it's simply that I know we ought to be together, you and I."

Helen smiled a little wanly.

"I didn't think it was conceit, and if I could marry anyone it would be you, but I can't, don't you see. It would be like walking into a cage, and with my eyes open too. The minute I got in and heard the doors shut on me I'd go mad with terror till I got out again."

"You're wrong. It wouldn't be like that, not with us, Helen."

"It would. Look at us now, Geoffrey. A minute ago you were nearly dead with weariness and I was bursting with vitality and now I'm nearly dead, and you're alive again."

"My love, that only shows. Of course now as things are we fight each other and exhaust each other, but if we were married, it wouldn't be like this, we'd both be quite admirably stimulated all the time."

"No, we shouldn't," Helen shook her head again. "One of us would be completely on top, and the other would have to give up everything, and I might easily be the other!"

"That's not fair. I don't want you to give up anything; I only want you to marry me."

"That's just it, and it's no good," Helen looked at him levelly. "I'll be your mistress, Geoffrey, at least I think I will; not now I mean,"--she looked fearfully round the room as if the shadows might hear and bear witness against her--"but sometime I think I will be. Anyhow I won't marry anyone but you ever, and you must leave it at that."

"My sweet," Geoffrey knelt by her chair and held her against him, "I don't want a mistress, and certainly not you. I want you to marry me, and you will some day, won't you. I can wait."

Helen freed herself and sat bolt upright.

"I love you in a way, Geoffrey, but don't begin being good to me. I have people who are good to me. If you stop fighting me altogether, I'll simply trample on you. I'd hate you to try and bully me, but I'd hate you still more to be kind to me."

"I'm not a very kind person," said Geoffrey soberly. "At home I'm supposed to be moody and difficult--like you I suppose--and Hugh is much more charming and likeable."

"That'll do very well then. I like this feeling of half loving you and with the other half being antipathetic to you."

"I don't like it. It's hell unless you'll marry me. Listen Helen; if we made a treaty with conditions so that your work was protected, don't you think you could bring yourself to it then?"

"I might; I don't want to; it's against my better judgment and I'd be a bad wife, but I might. Tell me what conditions you'd suggest. For one thing there's children."

"I don't see that that matters. Don't have them if you don't want them."

"Wouldn't you mind?"

"No, not a bit now anyhow. And if I wanted one in ten years or so perhaps you might consider it."

"Geoffrey, I almost think we might manage," Helen said eagerly. "I've always ruled out marriage, and I won't do it at once anyhow, but if we did really make a sort of treaty that would safeguard my painting, then perhaps in two or three years I'd marry you."

"I'll work out the clauses. You'll have to be protected against me, and against children, and against my relations, and heaps of other things."

"Then why do you want me at all?" Helen asked in a small voice.

"I do. I want you most painfully. I hate your work in a way because it comes between us, but it's part of you too, and I don't know you well enough to disassociate bits of you from other bits."

"Don't hate it, Geoffrey. It's the most important part of me. I've not done anything to matter yet, but I'll show you my last thing if you like. I had an idea that all this talk about schools and styles was nonsense and that one could paint in two distinct styles in one picture and still keep the unity."

She went over and lifted a canvas that was turned against the wall.

"It's not framed," she said. "So I'll hold it up against these curtains; they're a good background."

She held it at arm's length standing very straight and tall, the outstretched arm and hand trembling a little with its weight.

Two white ponies were coming through a wood, with a violent sun striking between the trees. Each tree was painted as a solemn dark column with four twisting branches on each of which hung four formal emerald leaves. But the ponies were round and fat, with flowing manes and tails and little hooves uplifted. There was a classical rotundity about their haunches; their necks were thick and curved.

Geoffrey looked at them and thought how much happier they would have been frolicking in some flowery glade, or prancing round a little copse with a white temple in the centre. Against these stark blue-brown trees they became fantastic: the wood seemed real and permanent, the ponies--ironically robust--were creatures of an hour, a fashion, a convention.

"It's unkind to the ponies," he said, turning to Helen. "They're wretched in that wood. They want to caper in a nice little meadow full of daisies and buttercups."

"Daisies and buttercups," repeated Helen broodingly. "Yes, I suppose they do. Anyhow, it's no good at all. I thought I had discovered something when I began, but half-way through I lost my idea. That's why I haven't finished it. Perhaps after all I'll marry you and have a red plush dining-room and hang that over the mantelpiece."

Her voice was sullen, her face pinched and plain. Geoffrey was conscious of a profound and weary melancholy settling on his spirits. He looked at Helen who returned his look suspiciously, like a stranger. Their marriage seemed remote and improbable.

Vaguely he contemplated kissing her, but the effort was too great in his dazed and empty state.

"I'll ring up," he said disjointedly. "I must go now. Or I'll come and see you; perhaps Sunday would do, would it? Anyhow I must go now; I'm so tired I don't know what I'm saying."

"Yes, come on Sunday. I'll give you some supper. And don't even mention my name to anyone. I don't know yet what I'm going to do about you."

Her tone was withdrawn and hostile; it matched her suspicious glance.

"Good-night, Helen," said Geoffrey wearily, and the blue door shut behind him as she said, "Good-night, Geoffrey Greene."

II

Six months of alternating ecstasy and despair with a persistent undercurrent of nervous fatigue, so wrought upon Geoffrey's healthy frame that when he caught influenza in the spring of 1924, he was seriously ill and convalescence was long and difficult.

The day before he took ill when he was feeling particularly low and inadequate, Helen had come to a serious and, she proclaimed, a final decision. It coincided with a change in her method of painting. She had abandoned the genre of conventional subjects placed in a futurist setting of which the two white ponies were the last example, and had turned instead to poster painting. After some months of very hard work she had succeeded with a design which momentarily at least, satisfied her exacting standards.

It was austere in line but richly heraldic in colouring and when she stepped back to look at the finished work, she decided in one and the same moment that it was good and that she would now have to eliminate Geoffrey from her scheme of life.

Her reasons were obscure. The thought of doing without him brought with it a faint shock of surprise and pain, but standing there in front of her own work it seemed to her impossible to reconcile anything so simple, so vigorous and so disciplined, with her passionate and confused love for Geoffrey. Her painting was clear and strenuous; it brought her a few moments of ease, followed always by dissatisfaction and renewed efforts, which in their turn brought her again to a period of content.

But there was no such rhythm in her emotional life. She loved Geoffrey; at moments she desired him, and was impatient of the scruples which constrained him to refuse her as a mistress; at moments she was conscious of a surge of tenderness for him which made the thought of marriage almost attractive. Often however, she felt a strong revulsion against him, not only as an individual, but as an interloper in her private life who interfered with her peace of mind and destroyed her powers of concentration. The only constant factor in their relationship was her savage determination to protect her work against him. This determination showed itself in a frank and laughing hostility when she was painting well, and in sullen resentment when she was painting badly.

As she looked at the completed poster Helen sighed. Geoffrey must go and the sooner the better. It could not fail to be painful to both of them, but she must feel free again. She must disentangle herself from emotional disruptions and reactions.

She rang him up at his office and left a message asking him to call in the evening, then flung herself down in a big chair, her hands folded idly in her lap and an expression of weary disenchantment on her face.

Her thoughts depressed her. She realised that apart from all sentimental pangs she would miss Geoffrey as an irritant. Already she felt listless and uninspired at the thought of doing without him. He stimulated her, she was goaded to work by the desire to justify herself for her refusal to marry him. Even in her painting she was beginning to rely on him; a state of dependence was almost established.

She got up impatiently and looked at her watch. It was only four o'clock and there was no possibility of Geoffrey being with her for at least two hours.

Tearing off her painting overall she went through to her bedroom where she slipped on a frock of red-brick crêpe-de-chine that stole the colour from her cheeks and dulled her hair to brown. She caught sight of herself in the mirror and told herself defiantly that at times Helen Guest could look very plain, but when she had put on a dark coat, and a small dark hat, she carefully arranged her hair in an exact semi-circle on either cheek and brushed a little rouge over her cheek bones.

The studio seemed unfriendly as she went through; the ashes were cold in the grate, the sun lit up a layer of soft dust over the furniture, a curtain had torn away from one of its rings and drooped a little.

Helen decided impatiently that when she had finally broken with Geoffrey it would probably be better to go home for a time, and shut up the studio. A few weeks in Lowndes Square would effectively drive her to work again.

In the meantime, I'll go and see Lavinia, she decided; she's a soothing little thing, and the sight of her house all so smug and correct will reinforce me against Geoffrey. It's the sort of house and life I'd fall into if I were such a fool as to marry him. She shrugged at her own weakness in needing reinforcements and set out briskly for Lavinia's house in Catherine Street.

It happened that Mrs. Rodney Greene was having tea with her daughter when Helen was announced.

Lavinia greeted Helen affectionately, and turned to her mother.

"I don't think you've met Helen, Mother dear," she said. "Unless perhaps for a moment at the wedding, but that hardly counts."

"No, I don't think I have," answered Mrs. Rodney. "But I know you're a relation of Martin's, Miss Guest. I've often heard both him and Lavinia talking of your work. You paint, don't you?"

Her voice was pleasant, but her eye raked Helen from her long legs to the jaunty little hat that covered her eyebrows and it registered unmistakable disapproval.

"I've just finished a thing to-day, but I feel I'll never paint again," said Helen, and though her voice was low there was a violence behind the words that struck unpleasantly on Mrs. Rodney's ears.

"Oh, but surely you won't give up like that," she began persuasively. "Of course I can understand artistic discouragement; the finished work falling so far short of the ideal"--she sketched a vague gesture in the air--"But still I'm sure you should persevere."

She looked brightly and expectantly at Helen but her glib words of consolation fell on a grim silence. Helen lay back wearily in her chair hardly seeming to hear what was said, and it was Lavinia who answered rather awkwardly: "Helen paints beautifully, Mother. She did a picture of some ponies a little while ago that you would simply love."

"Oh Lavinia, that thing's no good at all," said Helen impatiently. "It's absolutely wrong; the idea was wrong to begin with, and then I didn't even carry it out properly. What I'm doing now is quite different," she leaned forward, eager and unselfconscious, "I think I've discovered at last what I want to do; not impressionistic at all, purely decorative and very severe and simple. I really believe it's a style I can express myself in."

She caught Mrs. Rodney's blank expression and relapsed into silence.

"Well, I'm glad to know you're not really giving it up," said Mrs. Rodney, kindly. "But now I must be going, Lavinia, dear; I've got some shopping to do on the way home." Mrs. Greene stood up. "Good-bye, Miss Guest," she said. "Perhaps Lavinia will bring you to tea with me one day. I should enjoy a little talk about art."

Helen winced visibly, but her voice was polite and non-committal as she said: "Thank you, Mrs. Greene, it's very good of you. Good-bye."

"Do you mind if I go down with Mother; I won't be a minute?" asked Lavinia.

She left the room, forgetting to close the door, and presently Mrs. Rodney's clear voice floated up from the hall.

"Well, come and see us soon, darling, won't you? And tell me, do you see much of that Miss Guest? I think she's a very exaggerated young woman, and her manner struck me as most unfortunate."

"We like her very much," Lavinia answered simply. "And she's awfully clever."

"I must say I don't think mere cleverness is enough to excuse such brusque behaviour. Good-bye, dear; take care of yourself."

The front door closed, and Lavinia came upstairs and into the drawing-room.

Helen looked at her and laughed.

"I'm glad you like me," she said. "But your Mother's perfectly right. I'm not nearly clever enough to justify my brusque behaviour, and from her point of view my manner is undoubtedly unfortunate."

Lavinia flushed. "I'm sorry you heard," she said. "Mother is very critical, but she would like you if she knew you properly."

"No she wouldn't. It's inconceivable that she could ever like me. Not in a thousand years. But I'm sorry I burst in on you and her like that. I was in a bad mood and thought I'd come and look at you and your house and profit by its example."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't mean anything at all nice, so let's leave it at that. You're looking very pretty Lavinia; the baby hasn't even begun to spoil your looks yet."

"It will soon, I'm afraid. I look horribly black under the eyes in the morning. I only begin to get human about midday."

"You really are extremely like Geoffrey." Helen spoke abruptly. "Lavinia, do you know I've been treating him abominably."

"No, I didn't know that. I'm sorry. Geoffrey is a dear really; I'm awfully fond of him."

"So am I. I love him in a way but I can't marry him. I can't face being stuck down in a little house and having to run it and be amiable at breakfast and welcome my husband's friends and be polite to his relations. I simply can't do it."

"Can't you really, Helen? Geoffrey hasn't told me anything about it, but I know he's been miserable about something for months, and I did just think once from something he said, that it might be because of you."

"Well, it's no good anyhow. I'm not going to see him any more after this evening. I do think anything's better than dragging on like this."

"You know, Helen, I honestly think you wouldn't find it so very difficult to be married. You'd be quite rich. You've got some money of your own, and Geoffrey isn't doing so badly; he went into the business very young, so you could have decent maids, who would run the house for you. It makes all the difference if you have enough money not to have to bother."

"Lavinia, your cynical outlook surprises me. But you see it isn't only things like that. It's Geoffrey. Loving him would get so frightfully in the way of my work. I don't believe it's possible to reconcile everything satisfactorily."

She shut her mouth obstinately and Lavinia sighed.

"I really am sorry," she said. "I think you could be perfectly happy, you two; and of course I'd love it from my own point of view, so perhaps I'm prejudiced, but still I do think it's possible."

"It isn't, Lavinia; don't let's talk about it any more. I must go now; I'm going to shut up the studio for a bit; come and see me at home. Mother would love you. She thinks my friends are apt to be a little erratic, and you'd be a welcome change. Goodbye and thanks; don't come down."

As Helen walked home she was racked with uncertainty. Lavinia had shaken instead of strengthening her decision. Nothing of this showed in her manner as she greeted Geoffrey a little later. He looked pale and ill, and when she said, "Sit down and be a little comfortable," he only shook his head, looked at her dumbly, and remained leaning against the mantelpiece.

"Geoffrey dear," she said. "I've been thinking and worrying about us, and I've come to the conclusion that we simply mustn't see each other any more. I'm sorry; I'm sorry for myself, and I'm sorry for you, but it's no good."

"You can't suddenly decide a thing like that; it isn't fair," said Geoffrey, but he spoke without conviction.

"I have decided," she answered. "There's no use going over the same old ground; don't let's discuss it again. I'm going home for a bit, and I don't know whether I'll come back to this studio or not, so there's no reason why we should meet ever if we're reasonably careful to avoid each other. Goodbye, Geoffrey; I'd like you to go now."

She spoke coldly, her plans seemed to be cut and dried, and there was a finality about her words that rang in Geoffrey's aching head.

"All right," he said. "I'll go now; goodbye."

Left alone, Helen began to pack a suitcase. As she threw in coats, shoes, and frocks, tears streamed steadily down her cheeks. Mechanically, she powdered her nose, locked the studio, got out her car and drove to Lowndes Square where she learned that her father and mother were away for the week-end and her sister out to dinner.

"I can easily get you something to eat, Miss Helen, and your room will be ready in a moment," said the parlourmaid pleasantly, accustomed to Helen's sudden arrivals and equally sudden departures.

"I don't want any dinner, thanks. I'll have a hot bath and go straight to bed, and I'd like a bowl of bread and milk in bed, lots of sugar and no crusts."

"Very well, Miss Helen."

The maid disappeared with her case, as Helen went into the library to find a book before following her upstairs. She slept heavily for twelve hours and wakened to a mood of discouragement and lethargy. Life seemed meaningless. The thought of painting did not attract her, she had no particular engagements, there was nothing to do.

Mr. and Mrs. Guest, returning in the evening, were pleased to find her in the library sitting with her hands idle in her lap, but her depression persisted and she answered her Mother's questions with curt monosyllables.

"Yes, I'm all right thanks. No, nothing's wrong. Really, Mother, I'm all right. I know I look tired. I've been working very hard, but please just leave me alone."

In the weeks that followed she was forced to repeat very often her plea to be left alone. Her family were used to the sight of Helen working, but Helen idle and empty-handed was so unusual that they made unceasing efforts to interest her in their varying occupations which she as unceasingly spurned.

A month went past during which she had not lifted a brush and she was in her sitting-room one afternoon wondering dismally if she would ever again be caught by the desire to paint, when Lavinia was announced.

Helen jumped to her feet.

"Do come in, Lavinia. I'm nearly mad with mooning about doing nothing."

"But haven't you been painting?" Lavinia asked a little maliciously. "I thought you'd given up Geoffrey so as to be able to paint."

Helen spread out her hands.

"I haven't done a thing," she said. "Not a single thing and what's more I don't know whether I ever will or not. Sit down and talk to me, Lavinia."

"I can't," said Lavinia. "I'm on my way to Geoffrey now and I thought it just possible that you would like to come with me. You know he's been ill?'

"I haven't heard a thing about him. Tell me, is he really ill? What's wrong with him? I'll come with you at once."

"He's had influenza very badly. He was starting it that day you came to tea with me when Mother was there; he went home that night very seedy and he's really been pretty bad. He's much better now, but he's still in bed, and Mother's going to be out this afternoon so she rang me up to go and amuse him and I thought perhaps you'd come too."

"He may not want to see me," said Helen.

"He does, I asked him," answered Lavinia coolly.

Helen's cheeks were glowing, her eyes shining.

"I'll go and change. Wait here for me, I won't be long," she said imperiously.

"No, I think I'll go on now and you can follow when you're ready," suggested Lavinia.

Helen caught her hand.

"Please no," she said. "Please wait. I don't want to go alone. I'd rather go with you."

"You're shy," said Lavinia accusingly.

Helen was defiant and happy.

"And what if I am?" she said. "I'm going to ask Geoffrey to marry me, and I'd rather have a chaperon there to make it more seemly. Wait here for me."