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Updated: May 19, 2025
Helena, on her mettle, was driving her best, and Buntingford had already paid her one or two brief compliments, which she had taken in silence. Presently they topped a ridge, and there lay Dansworth in a hollow, a column of smoke gashed with occasional flame rising above the town. "A big blaze," said Buntingford, examining it through a field-glass. "It's the large brewery in the market-place.
Friend had seen Helena take up the Times on one of the days on which the evidence in this case had appeared, and fling it down again with a flush and a look of disgust. But since the day of the Dansworth riot, she had never mentioned Lord Donald's name. Certainly the relations between her and her guardian had curiously changed.
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.
The hospital had been warned by telephone, and all preparations had been made. When the two unconscious men were safely in bed, the Dansworth doctor turned warmly to Helena: "I don't know what we should have done without you, Miss Pitstone! But you look awfully tired. I hope you'll go home at once, and rest." "I'm going to take her home at once," said Buntingford.
Helena rather ungraciously pushed forward a chair as they shook hands. "The rest of your party seem to be asleep," said Cynthia, glancing at various prostrate forms belonging to the male sex that were visible on a distant slope of the lawn. "But you've heard of the Dansworth disturbances? and that everybody here may have to go?" "Yes. It's probably exaggerated isn't it?" "I don't know.
As he lay floating between the green vault above, and the green weedy depths below, his thoughts searched the five weeks that lay between him and that first week-end when he had scolded Helena for her offences. It seemed to him that his love for her had first begun that day of the Dansworth riot.
Every evening he would ride over from Dansworth station to the cottage, put up his horse, and spend the long summer twilights in carrying his son about the garden or the park, or watching Miss Denison at her work. The boy was physically very frail, and soon tired.
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