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Siegmund had shaved and dressed, and come down to breakfast. Mrs Curtiss brought in the coffee. She was a fragile little woman, of delicate, gentle manner.
‘The water would be warm this morning,’ she said, addressing no one in particular.
Siegmund stood on the hearth-rug with his hands behind him, swaying from one leg to the other. He was embarrassed always by the presence of the amiable little woman; he could not feel at ease before strangers, in his capacity of accepted swain of Helena.
‘It was,’ assented Helena. ‘It was as warm as new milk.’
‘Ay, it would be,’ said the old lady, looking in admiration upon the experience of Siegmund and his beloved. ‘And did ye see the ships of war?’ she asked.
‘No, they had gone,’ replied Helena.
Siegmund swayed from foot to foot, rhythmically.
‘You’ll be coming in to dinner today?’ asked the old lady.
Helena arranged the matter.
‘I think ye both look better,’ Mrs. Curtiss said. She glanced at Siegmund.
He smiled constrainedly.
‘I thought ye looked so worn when you came,’ she said sympathetically.
‘He had been working hard,’ said Helena, also glancing at him.
He bent his head, and was whistling without making any sound.
‘Ay,’ sympathized the little woman. ‘And it’s a very short time for you. What a pity ye can’t stop for the fireworks at Cowes on Monday. They are grand, so they say.’
Helena raised her eyebrows in polite interest. ‘Have you never seen them?’ she asked.
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Curtiss. ‘I’ve never been able to get; but I hope to go yet.’
‘I hope you may,’ said Siegmund.
The little woman beamed on him. Having won a word from him, she was quite satisfied.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘the eggs must be done by now.’
She tripped out, to return directly.
‘I’ve brought you,’ she said, ‘some of the Island cream, and some white currants, if ye’ll have them. You must think well of the Island, and come back.’
‘How could we help?’ laughed Helena.
‘We will,’ smiled Siegmund.
When finally the door was closed on her, Siegmund sat down in relief. Helena looked in amusement at him. She was perfectly self-possessed in presence of the delightful little lady.
‘This is one of the few places that has ever felt like home to me,’ she said. She lifted a tangled bunch of fine white currants.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Siegmund, smiling at her.
‘One of the few places where everything is friendly,’ she said. ‘And everybody.’
‘You have made so many enemies?’ he asked, with gentle irony.
‘Strangers,’ she replied. ‘I seem to make strangers of all the people I meet.’
She laughed in amusement at this mot. Siegmund looked at her intently. He was thinking of her left alone amongst strangers.
‘Need we go — need we leave this place of friends?’ he said, as if ironically. He was very much afraid of tempting her.
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and counted: ‘One, two, three, four, five hours, thirty-five minutes. It is an age yet,’ she laughed.
Siegmund laughed too, as he accepted the particularly fine bunch of currants she had extricated for him.
Chapter 19
The air was warm and sweet in the little lane, remote from the sea, which led them along their last walk. On either side the white path was a grassy margin thickly woven with pink convolvuli. Some of the reckless little flowers, so gay and evanescent, had climbed the trunks of an old yew tree, and were looking up pertly at their rough host.
Helena walked along, watching the flowers, and making fancies out of them.
‘Who called them “fairies’ telephones”?’ she said to herself. ‘They are tiny children in pinafores. How gay they are! They are children dawdling along the pavement of a morning. How fortunate they are! See how they take a wind-thrill! See how wide they are set to the sunshine! And when they are tired, they will curl daintily to sleep, and some fairies in the dark will gather them away. They won’t be here in the morning, shrivelled and dowdy . . . If only we could curl up and be gone, after our day. . . . ’
She looked at Siegmund. He was walking moodily beside her.
‘It is good when life holds no anti-climax,’ she said.
‘Ay!’ he answered. Of course, he could not understand her meaning.
She strayed into the thick grass, a sturdy white figure that walked with bent head, abstract, but happy.
‘What is she thinking?’ he asked himself. ‘She is sufficient to herself — she doesn’t want me. She has her own private way of communing with things, and is friends with them.’
‘The dew has been very heavy,’ she said, turning, and looking up at him from under her brows, like a smiling witch.
‘I see it has,’ he answered. Then to himself he said: ‘She can’t translate herself into language. She is incommunicable; she can’t render herself to the intelligence. So she is alone and a law unto herself: she only wants me to explore me, like a rock-pool, and to bathe in me. After a while, when I am gone, she will see I was not indispensable. . . . ’
The lane led up to the eastern down. As they were emerging, they saw on the left hand an extraordinarily spick and span red bungalow. The low roof of dusky red sloped down towards the coolest green lawn, that was edged and ornamented with scarlet, and yellow, and white flowers brilliant with dew.
A stout man in an alpaca jacket and panama hat was seated on the bare lawn, his back to the sun, reading a newspaper. He tried in vain to avoid the glare of the sun on his reading. At last he closed the paper and looked angrily at the house — not at anything in particular.
He irritably read a few more lines, then jerked up his head in sudden decision, glared at the open door of the house, and called:
‘Amy! Amy!’
No answer was forthcoming. He flung down the paper and strode off indoors, his mien one of wrathful resolution. His voice was heard calling curtly from the dining-room. There was a jingle of crockery as he bumped the table leg in sitting down.
‘He is in a bad temper,’ laughed Siegmund.
‘Breakfast is late,’ said Helena with contempt.
‘Look!’ said Siegmund.
An elderly lady in black and white striped linen, a young lady in holland, both carrying some wild flowers, hastened towards the garden gate. Their faces were turned anxiously to the house. They were hot with hurrying, and had no breath for words. The girl pressed forward, opened the gate for the lady in striped linen, who hastened over the lawn. Then the daughter followed, and vanished also under the shady veranda.
There was a quick sound of women’s low, apologetic voices, overridden by the resentful abuse of the man.
The lovers moved out of hearing.
‘Imagine