Buntingford and Cynthia walked across the park to Beechmark.  From the extreme despondency they were lifted to an extreme of hope.  Buntingford had felt, as it were, the spirit of his son strain towards his own; the hidden soul had looked out.  And in his deep emotion, he was very naturally conscious of a new rush of affection and gratitude towards his old playfellow and friend.  The thought of her would be for ever connected in his mind with the efforts and discoveries of the agitating days through which—­with such intensity—­they had both been living.  When he remembered that wonder-look in his son’s, eyes, he would always see Cynthia bending over the child, no longer the mere agreeable and well-dressed woman of the world, but, to him, the embodiment of a heavenly pity, “making all things new.”

Cynthia’s spirits danced as she walked beside him.  There was in her a joyous, if still wavering certainty that through the child, her hold upon Philip, whether he spoke sooner or later, was now secure.  But she was still jealous of Helena.  It had needed the moral and practical upheaval caused by the reappearance and death of Anna, to drive Helena from Philip and Beechmark; and if Helena—­enchanting and incalculable as ever, even in her tamer mood—­were presently to resume her life in Philip’s house, no one could expect the Fates to intervene again so kindly.  Georgina might be certain that in Buntingford’s case the woman of forty had nothing to fear from the girl of nineteen.  Cynthia was by no means so certain; and she shivered at the risks to come.

For it was soon evident that the question of his ward’s immediate future was now much on Philip’s mind.  He complained that Helena wrote so little, and that he had not yet heard from Geoffrey since the week-end he was to spend in Wales.  Mrs. Friend reported indeed in good spirits.  But obviously, whatever the quarters might be, Helena could not stay there indefinitely.

“Of course I suggested the London house to her at once—­with Mrs. Friend for chaperon.  But she didn’t take to it.  This week I must go back to my Admiralty work.  But we can’t take the boy to London, and I intended to come back here every night.  We mustn’t put upon you much longer, my dear Cynthia!”

The colour rushed to Cynthia’s face.

“You are going to take him away?” she said, with a look of consternation.

“Mustn’t I bring him home, some time?” was his half-embarrassed reply.

“But not yet!  And how would it suit—­with week-ends and dances for Helena?”

“It wouldn’t suit at all,” he said, perplexed—­“though Helena seems to have thrown over dancing for the present.”

“That won’t last long!”

He laughed.  “I am afraid you never took to her!” he said lightly.

“She never took to me!”

“I wonder if that was my fault?  She suspected that I had called you in to help me to keep her in order!”

“What was it brought her to reason—­so suddenly?” said Cynthia, seeking light at last on a problem that had long puzzled her.