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In London, white satin slippers are the fashion. But Buston and Buntingford combined could not afford enough of such missiles; and from the hands of the boys black shoes, and boots too, were thrown freely. "There go my best pair," said one of the boys, as the chariot was driven off, "and I don't mean to let them lie there." Then the boots were recovered and taken up to the bedroom.
"The men in it are just mad they don't know what they've done, nor why they've done it. But the soldiers will be there directly. There's far too few police, and I'm afraid there's some people hurt. I wouldn't take ladies into the town if I was you, Sir." He glanced at Helena. Buntingford nodded, and returned to the car.
Between five and six that afternoon a party of four descended at a station some fifteen miles from Beechmark, where Buntingford was not very likely to be recognized. It consisted of Buntingford, the doctor, a wrinkled French bonne, in a black stuff dress, and black bonnet, and a frail little boy whom a spectator would have guessed to be eleven or twelve years old.
She looked instinctively towards the library window, where Buntingford was now standing with his back to them. No, he couldn't have heard. "No, never," she said hurriedly, in a low voice. "Nobody ever speaks to him about her. She was of course not his equal socially." "Is that the reason why nobody speaks of her?" Cynthia flushed indignantly. "Not that I know of. Why do you ask?"
Then Buntingford got up to open the door for Georgina, who, without deigning to make any conventional excuse for her departure, nevertheless departed. Buntingford returned to his seat, picked up Cynthia's ball of wool, and sat holding it, his eyes on the down-dropped head of his cousin, and on the beautiful hands holding the knitting-needles.
But he found her in a rather dry and caustic mood. The ball had seemed to her "badly managed"; and the guests, outside the house-party, "an odd set." Meanwhile, exactly at the hour named by Buntingford, he heard a knock at the library door. Helena appeared. She stood just inside the door, looking absurdly young and childish in her white frock. But her face was grave.
Andrew's, Holborn, in the county of Middlesex, oilman, for the consideration of £20., all that messuage or tenement, with the orchard, gardens, yards, barns, edifices, and buildings, and all and singular the appurtenances therewithal used or occupied, situate, lying, and being at West Mill Green in the parish of Buntingford West Mill in the said county of Hertford, etc.
Alas! alas! though he smiled and resolved to accept his brother-in-law with a good heart, this did not in the least salve the wound. His own county was to him less than other counties, and his own neighborhood less than other neighborhoods. Buntingford was full of Thoroughbungs, the best people in the world, but not quite up to what he believed to be his mark. Mr.
Alcott and his sister would keep the sick woman in their house as long as might be necessary, and Buntingford once more expressed his gratitude. Then, under the darkness of the trees, and in reaction from the experience he had just passed through, an unhappy man's hitherto impenetrable reserve, to some extent, broke down.
Still more the patient Helena who waited for him at the farm the grateful exultant look when he said "Come" and every detail of the scene in Dansworth: Helena with her most professional air, driving through soldiers and police, Helena helping to carry and place the two wounded men, and that smiling "good-bye" she had thrown him as she drove away with Buntingford beside her.
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