CHAPTER II

The woman who paused for a moment upon the threshold of the library,

looking in upon the little company, was undeniably beautiful. She

had masses of red-gold hair, a little disordered by her long railway

journey, deep-set hazel eyes, a delicate, almost porcelain-like

complexion, and a sensitive, delightfully shaped mouth. Her figure

was small and dainty, and just at that moment she had an appearance of

helplessness which was almost childlike. Nora, after a vigorous embrace,

led her stepmother towards a chair.

“Come and sit by the fire, Mummy,” she begged. “You look tired and

cold.”

Philippa exchanged a general salutation with her guests. She was still

wearing her travelling coat, and her air of fatigue was unmistakable.

Griffiths, who had not taken his eyes off her since her entrance,

wheeled an easy-chair towards the hearth-rug, into which she sank with a

murmured word of thanks.

“You'll have some tea, won't you, dear?” Helen enquired.

Philippa shook her head. Her eyes met her friend's for a moment--it was

only a very brief glance, but the tragedy of some mutual sorrow seemed

curiously revealed in that unspoken question and answer. The two young

subalterns prepared to take their leave. Nora, kneeling down, stroked

her stepmother's hand.

“No news at all, then?” Helen faltered.

“None,” was the weary reply.

“Any amount of news here, Mummy,” Nora intervened cheerfully, “and heaps

of excitement. We had a Zeppelin over Dutchman's Common last night,

and she lost her observation car. Mr. Somerfield took me up there this

afternoon, and I found a German hat. No one else got a thing, and, would

you believe it, those children over there tried to take it away from

me.”

Her stepmother smiled faintly.

“I expect you are keeping the hat, dear,” she observed.

“I should say so!” Nora assented.

Philippa held out her hand to the two young men who had been waiting to

take their leave.

“You must come and dine one night this week, both of you,” she said. “My

husband will be home by the later train this evening, and I'm sure he

will be glad to have you.”

“Very kind of you, Lady Cranston, we shall be delighted,” Harrison

declared.

“Rather!” his companion echoed.

Nora led them away, and Helen, with a word of excuse, followed them.

Griffiths, who had also risen to his feet, came a little nearer to

Philippa's chair.

“And you, too, of course, Captain Griffiths,” she said, smiling

pleasantly up at him. “Must you hurry away?”

“I will stay, if I may, until Miss Fairclough returns,” he answered,

resuming his seat.

“Do!” Philippa begged him. “I have had such a miserable time in town.

You can't think how restful it is to be back here.”

“I am afraid,” he observed, “that your journey has not been successful.”

Philippa shook her head.

“It has been completely unsuccessful,” she sighed. “I have not been able

to hear a word about my brother. I am so sorry for poor Helen, too. They

were only engaged, you know, a few days before he left for the front

this last time.”

Captain Griffiths nodded sympathetically.

“I never met Major Felstead,” he remarked, “but every one who has

seems to like him very much. He was doing so well, too, up to that last

unfortunate affair, wasn't he?”

“Dick is a dear,” Philippa declared. “I never knew any one with so many

friends. He would have been commanding his battalion now, if only he

were free. His colonel wrote and told me so himself.”

“I wish there were something I could do,” Griffiths murmured, a little

awkwardly. “It hurts me, Lady Cranston, to see you so upset.”

She looked at him for a moment in faint surprise.

“Nobody can do anything,” she bemoaned. “That is the unfortunate part of

it all.”

He rose to his feet and was immediately conscious, as he always was when

he stood up, that there was a foot or two of his figure which he had no

idea what to do with.

“You wouldn't feel like a ride to-morrow morning, Lady Cranston?” he

asked, with a wistfulness which seemed somehow stifled in his rather

unpleasant voice. She shook her head.

“Perhaps one morning later,” she replied, a little vaguely. “I haven't

any heart for anything just now.”

He took a sombre but agitated leave of his hostess, and went out into

the twilight, cursing his lack of ease, remembering the things which

he had meant to say, and hating himself for having forgotten them.

Philippa, to whom his departure had been, as it always was, a relief,

was already leaning forward in her chair with her arm around Helen's

neck.

“I thought that extraordinary man would never go,” she exclaimed, “and

I was longing to send for you, Helen. London has been such a dreary

chapter of disappointments.”

“What a sickening time you must have had, dear!”

“It was horrid,” Philippa assented sadly, “but you know Henry is no use

at all, and I should have felt miserable unless I had gone. I have been

to every friend at the War Office, and every friend who has friends

there. I have made every sort of enquiry, and I know just as much now

as I did when I left here--that Richard was a prisoner at Wittenberg

the last time they heard, and that they have received no notification

whatever concerning him for the last two months.”

Helen glanced at the calendar.

“It is just two months to-day,” she said mournfully, “since we heard.”

“And then,” Philippa sighed, “he hadn't received a single one of our

parcels.”

Helen rose suddenly to her feet. She was a tall, fair girl of the best

Saxon type, slim but not in the least angular, with every promise,

indeed, of a fuller and more gracious development in the years to come.

She was barely twenty-two years old, and, as is common with girls of her

complexion, seemed younger. Her bright, intelligent face was, above

all, good-humoured. Just at that moment, however, there was a flush of

passionate anger in her cheeks.

“It makes me feel almost beside myself,” she exclaimed, “this hideous

incapacity for doing anything! Here we are living in luxury, without a

single privation, whilst Dick, the dearest thing on earth to both of us,

is being starved and goaded to death in a foul German prison!”

“We mustn't believe that it's quite so bad as that, dear,” Philippa

remonstrated. “What is it, Mills?”

The elderly man-servant who had entered with a tray in his band, bowed

as he arranged it upon a side table.

“I have taken the liberty of bringing in a little fresh tea, your

ladyship,” he announced, “and some hot buttered toast. Cook has sent

some of the sandwiches, too, which your ladyship generally fancies.”

“It is very kind of you, Mills,” Philippa said, with rather a wan little

smile. “I had some tea at South Lynn, but it was very bad. You might

take my coat, please.”

She stood up, and the heavy fur coat slipped easily away from her slim,

elegant little body.

“Shall I light up, your ladyship?” Mills enquired.

“You might light a lamp,” Philippa directed, “but don't draw the blinds

until lighting-up time. After the noise of London,” she went on,

turning to Helen, “I always think that the faint sound of the sea is so

restful.”

The man moved noiselessly about the room and returned once more to his

mistress.

“We should be glad to hear, your ladyship,” he said, “if there is any

news of Major Felstead?” Philippa shook her head.

“None at all, I am sorry to say, Mills! Still, we must hope for the

best. I dare say that some of these camps are not so bad as we imagine.”

“We must hope not, your ladyship,” was the somewhat dismal reply. “Shall

I fasten the windows?”

“You can leave them until you draw the blinds, Mills,” Philippa

directed. “I am not at home, if any one should call. See that we are

undisturbed for a little time.”

“Very good, your ladyship.”

The door was closed, and the two women were once more alone. Philippa

held out her arms.

“Helen, darling, come and be nice to me,” she begged. “Let us both

pretend that no news is good news. Oh, I know what you are suffering,

but remember that even if Dick is your lover, he is my dear, only

brother--my twin brother, too. We have been so much to each other all

our lives. He'll stick it out, dear, if any human being can. We shall

have him back with us some day.”

“But he is hungry,” Helen sobbed. “I can't bear to think of his being

hungry. Every time I sit down to eat, it almost chokes me.”

“I suppose he has forgotten what a whisky and soda is like,” Philippa

murmured, with a little catch in her own throat.

“He always used to love one about this time,” Helen faltered, glancing

at the clock.

“And cigarettes!” Philippa exclaimed. “I wonder whether they give him

anything to smoke.”

“Nasty German tobacco, if they do,” Helen rejoined indignantly. “And

to think that I have sent him at least six hundred of his favourite

Egyptians!”

She fell once more on her knees by her friend's side. Their arms were

intertwined, their cheeks touching. One of those strange, feminine

silences of acute sympathy seemed to hold them for a while under its

thrall. Then, almost at the same moment, a queer awakening came for both

of them. Helen's arm was stiffened. Philippa turned her head, but her

eyes were filled with incredulous fear. A little current of cool air was

blowing through the room. The French windows stood half open, and with

his back to them, a man who had apparently entered the room from the

gardens and passed noiselessly across the soft carpet, was standing

by the door, listening. They heard him turn the key. Then, in a

businesslike manner, he returned to the windows and closed them, the

eyes of the two women following him all the time. Satisfied, apparently,

with his precautions, he turned towards them just as an expression of

indignant enquiry broke from Philippa's lips. Helen sprang to her feet,

and Philippa gripped the sides of her chair. The newcomer advanced a few

steps nearer to them.