It seemed to Helston kindest to say good-bye and leave the house hurriedly. His admiration for Gwendolen was great; after what Melicent had told him, he could partly guess the effort it needed to make her confession—a confession which must expose not only her own wrong-doing, but the whole working of a long system of deceit; for the matter could now hardly be allowed to rest where it stood.
Contact with Melicent's honesty and courage had stimulated this girl to show herself honest and courageous. He felt very hopeful of her future, though he himself winced at the ordeal now before her.
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.