r. What constant resentments, what frequent
furies! They centred, of course, about the figure of her mother, lovely,
vindictive, and stony-hearted, as she had been and was. Helen's life had
dawned in the consciousness of love for this beautiful mother, whom she
had worshipped with the ardent humility of a little dog. Afterwards,
with a vehemence as great, she had grown to hate her. All her girlhood
had been filled with struggles against her mother. Sometimes for weeks
they had not spoken to each other, epochs during which, completely
indifferent though she was, Mrs. Buchanan had given herself the
satisfaction of smartly boxing her daughter's ears when her mute,
hostile presence too much exasperated her. There had been no refuge for
Helen with her father, a gloomy man, immersed in sport and study, nor in
her brother Nigel, gay and pleasant though he was. When once Nigel got
away to school and college, he spent as little time at home as possible.
Helen was as solitary as a sea-bird, blown far inland and snared. Then
came the visits to Merriston House--the cheerful, chattering houseful of
happy girls, the kind father and mother, and Gerald. Gerald! From the
time that he came into her life all the pictures were full of him, so
full that she hardly saw herself any longer; she was only some one who
watched and felt.

Her violent nature, undisciplined except by its own pride, did not
submit easily to the taming processes of a wholesome family life; she
dominated the girl cousins, and they only counted as chorus in the drama
of her youth. It was Gerald who counted, at once, counted for everything
else. She cared so much for him that, feeling her independence slipping
from her, she at first quarrelled with him constantly, as far as he
would let her quarrel with him. Her brooding bitterness amazed and
amused him. While she stormed, he would laugh at her, gaily and
ironically, and tell her that she was an absurd little savage. And,
after she had burst into a frenzy of tears and fled from him, he would
seek her out, find her hidden in some corner of the garden or
shrubberies, and, grieved and alarmed, put his arms around her, kiss her
and say: 'Look here, I'm awfully sorry. I can't bear to have you take
things like this. Please make up.'

He could not bear to see her suffering, ludicrous though he thought her
suffering to be. And it was this sweetness, this comprehension and
tenderness, like sunlight flooding her gloomy and petrif