"Quand on vous voit, on vous aime; quand on vous aime, où vous
voit-on?"
For a while the two boats kept in touch, so that talk passed easily
between them. Miss Alison spoke little. Silence rather became the
fair pensive quality of her charm--and probably she knew it. The
uncharitable supposition was Lady Forsyth's: and she was fain to
confess that pensiveness and silence harmonised well with the fine,
straight nose, the mass of dull gold hair, and eyes of that
transparent blue which lacks warmth and depth, yet has a limpid
beauty of its own, especially where the pupils are large and the
lashes noticeably long.
Mark, too, had fallen silent: the worst possible sign. But Miss
O'Neill atoned for all deficiencies by discoursing vigorously to
Maurice's swaying shoulders, upon the latest developments of the
suffrage campaign. Maurice, equal to any emergency, had no
difficulty in airing his own views on the subject--as it were,
through the back of his head--to one who had hammered shop windows
with her own hand, though she graciously drew the line at firing
churches and wrecking trains. Yet she was a woman of generous and,
at times, noble impulses. The greater part of her small annuity was
lavished on a very personal form of rescue work--and on Bel.
"It's rank injustice, say what you please," she declared in her
strong vibrant tones, "to imprison and torture poor misguided girls
who have the courage of the faith that's in them. The real blame
lies on the heads of those who've driven us to extremes."
"That sounds very fine, Miss O'Neill, but I'm afraid it won't hold
water," Macnair put in quietly from the other boat. "It has been the
standing excuse of fanatics and--dare I add?--criminals all down the
ages. Your latest forms of argument will simply harden and justify
opposition to a cause that is not without certain elements of justice
and right."
His pleasant voice had the clear, leisured enunciation of the
scholar, a quality peculiarly exasperating to the red-hot enthusiast
whose thoughts are, in the main, emotions intellectually expressed.
"Justice and right indeed!" Miss O'Neill fairly hurled the words at
him. "That's all we're asking, isn't it? And precisely what we'll
never be getting under a man-made Government and man-made laws."
Macnair smiled and shrugged his shoulders. He had no mind to let
argument and recrimination desecrate the peace and glowing beauty of
a Highland summer evening; and with practised ease he slid into the
calmer waters of generalisation, as much in the hope of weaning Lady
Forsyth from troubled thoughts as for the pleasure of expressing his
own.
"The truth is," he said, resting on his oars, while the boats drifted
into a luminous bay, "every age, like every country, has its moral
microbe; and the microbe of this one is 'Down with everything';
'Can't; won't; shan't; don't; Pass it along the line,' that's about
the tune of it, in all ranks. Kipling may or may not be a classic
poet, but his Commissariat Camels puts the present-day spirit into a
nutshell. For nearly a hundred years the world has been fed on a
steady diet of revolt; and now we have the climax, distaste for
duties and clamour for rights. The fine, brave old wisdom of
acceptance is altogether out of court----"
Mark, withdrawing his gaze from Miss Alison's profile, treated him to
a smile of amused approval. "Why this sudden access of eloquence,
old man?" he asked; and Keith deliberately winked over his shoulder.
"Miss O'Neill there's to blame; and the modern world does seem rather
egregiously modern when one's been living for months in a backwater
with Pindar for company."
"Oh, Keith, have you really found time for your promised translation
of the Odes?" Lady Porsyth--herself a translator of some
distinction--leaned eagerly forward.
"I've been making time for a few of them," he answered, pleased with
the success of his diversion, "by neglecting my Bergson book."
"Have you got them here?"
"Yes. They're in type, awaiting your consideration."
"Well done. You'll publish them, of course?"
He shook his head. "Not even to please you! I've simply been
enjoying myself, exploring a little deeper into the heart of an old
friend; one who could look life in the face without feeling convinced
that he personally could have made a better job of it. One suspects
even our poets, these days, of being propagandists in disguise.
Pindar is as sublime and as useless as a snow-peak; and one can no
more convey the essence of him in English than one could convey the
scent of a rose in Parliamentary language! Yet one is fool enough to
try!"
Sheila, who had been listening with her quiet intentness, remarked
softly, "_Why_ don't we all learn Greek?"
"Because the humanities are out of court in an age of scientific
materialism. Wasn't there a promise, once, that I should teach
_you_?"
The girl flushed with pleasure. "I thought you'd forgotten."
"And _I_ thought Miss Videlle had persuaded you to give up everything
for this massage you're so keen about."
Their talk took a more personal tone, and Lady Forsyth's attention
strayed again towards the other boat. It had drifted a little
farther off, and a change of seats was in progress between Mark and
Miss Videlle. One moment his tall figure loomed against the dying
splendour; the next, he sank cautiously down beside Miss Alison, who
vouchsafed him a sidelong glance of welcome.
"We're moving on a bit, Mother," he sang out, seeing her face turned
in their direction.
They moved on accordingly: and it did not occur to Lady Forsyth that
Miss O'Neill, sitting alone in the bows, obscured from vision of the
disturbing pair, was in much the same mood as herself. Lonely,
passionate, and emotional, her thwarted womanhood had found in Bel
Alison an object on which she could lavish at once the protective
tenderness of a mother and the devoted service of a man. Unhappily,
this last included a consuming jealousy of those who had a better
natural right to the girl than herself. Diligently and skilfully,
therefore, she had scattered seeds of prejudice against the unjust
half of creation--which, by the way, she very much appreciated in
units, while denouncing it in the mass. By way of a more positive
deterrent, her slender means were taxed to the utmost that Bel might
have cushions and flowers and curtains to suit her fastidious taste.
No one, least of all Miss Alison, suspected the extent of her secret
shifts and sacrifices. And, intermittently she had her reward. But
no skill in self-deception could blind her to the fact that her
lavish devotion was as dust in the balance against the passing
attentions of a baronet, lord of two estates, and a fine-looking
fellow to boot. To-night the conviction rankled with peculiar
keenness by reason of her suppressed irritation with Macnair.
"Shirking the issue. Just like a man!" she soliloquised wrathfully.
"And dragging in his own trumpery translations by the heels. The
conceit of the creatures! And the folly of them. Wasting good
abilities over the vapourings of a musty old Greek poet. Blind as a
bat, or simply not caring a snap that the world's crammed with evils
crying out to be reformed. Let them cry, so long as he can scribble
in peace...."
At this point her somewhat chaotic thoughts were interrupted by music
from the other end of the boat. Mark was singing Wallace's lullaby,
_Son of Mine_; half crooning it, at first, for the benefit of Miss
Alison, who did not know it. But as the strong swing of the melody
took hold of him, he let out his voice to the full--a true, clear
baritone; music in its every cadence; and something more than music,
for those who had ears to hear.
Harry, raging inwardly, heard, and understood very well that the days
of her own dominion were numbered. Lady Forsyth understood equally
well; but she had passed beyond the raging mood. The song was an old
favourite; every note of it laden with associations; and in spite of
herself tears started to her eyes.
As for Mark, others might understand or not as they pleased. He was
singing to an audience of one; to the girl who sat beside him, her
uncovered head lifted and half turned away toward the dark sweeping
curves of the hills.
When the murmur of applause died down she turned to him with the slow
lift of her lashes that, conscious or no, thrilled him afresh at each
repetition. "I didn't know you could sing like that," she said
softly.
"I can't always," he answered, flushing under her implied praise.
"Sometimes--it just takes hold of me. Don't you sing yourself? I'm
sure you've got music in you."
She suppressed a small sigh. "Oh yes. It's one of my poor little
half-fledged talents; useless for want of proper development. My
elder sister's the clever one, and she got all the chances. She
found me convenient sometimes for duets."
"Duets? Good. I know plenty. Let's have a try. What was her line?"
"Classical. Mostly German."
Mark was silent a moment raking his memory. Then he had an
inspiration. "Mendelssohn's 'I would that the love'...? Wasn't that
the sort of thing?"
"Yes. Very much so."
"Right! We'll give them a treat. You take the air."
She shook her head. "You're going much too fast. I never said I'd
sing; and--I've rather forgotten the words."
"You won't slip out of it that way!" he told her; and leaning close
he crooned under his breath: "I would that the love I bear thee, My
lips in one word could say; That soft word----"
"Oh yes, I remember now," she cut him short rather abruptly; but a
faint colour showed in her cheeks and this time she did not lift her
lashes. "Very pretty, but drenched with sentiment. That's the worst
of German songs."
"Well, you can't beat the music of 'em," he persisted, rebuffed a
little by her tone, and hoping it was assumed for the benefit of Miss
Videlle, who was most vexatiously in the way. "I'm set on it anyhow.
Are you ready?"
Taking her smile for consent he moved one hand, beating time in the
air; then, without preliminary, their united voices took up the song.
Bel's, though sweet and true within its range, proved too slight an
organ to stand the open-air test, and Mark had need to moderate his
full-toned alto accordingly, thereby giving an added effect of
tenderness to words and music already sufficiently expressive.
And again Lady Forsyth--a most unwilling listener--understood
everything far too well. Deliberately she hardened herself against
the appeal of the music. For this time she was simply angry--angry
as she had never yet been with her son; though, needless to say, she
attributed his egregious behaviour entirely to Miss Alison.
"How can he? How dare he!" was the cry of her pained heart. "So
unlike him. An insult to Sheila. Flinging his folly in her face."
But Sheila was drawing her finger-tips lightly through the water,
watching the effect with that shadowy smile of hers, and to all
appearances simply enjoying the song. Almost Lady Forsyth found
herself hoping that it was so. In any case, she was thankful when
the "exhibition" ended, and Maurice's cheerful voice was heard
calling out: "Your turn, Miss Videlle! Can't you give us a
music-hall masterpiece by way of diversion?"
But Miss Videlle disowned all knowledge of masterpieces, music-hall
or otherwise, and Maurice himself came nobly to the rescue.
"I'm not up to Mark's style; but I'm top-hole at genuine Harry
Lauders," he volunteered with becoming modesty. "And as you're all
so pressing, it would be ungracious to hide my light under a bushel."
"Good egg!" sang out Ralph from the second boat. "Give us 'Roamin'
in the Gloamin'.'"
And Maurice, with a deliberate wink at Mark over Miss Videlle's
shoulder, proceeded to give it for all he was worth, in the broadest
of broad Scotch. But Mark was in no mood to see the joke of a
performance that sounded far too like a travesty of his own chosen
love-song.
"I kissed her-r twice and I asked her-r once if she would be my
br-ride," sang Maurice with insolent gusto, burring his r's like a
policeman's rattle; and Mark simply wanted to kick him into the loch.
Lady Forsyth, on the other hand, was privately blessing the boy's
foolery, that seemed to clear the air and sent the boats skimming
homeward to the swing of chorus on chorus; only her son's voice being
conspicuous by its absence. Keith's boat was leading now; and
without turning round deliberately she could see nothing of the two
who haunted her mind.
This was perhaps fortunate; for Mark's arm lay along the back of the
seat, his shoulder was within three inches of Bel's; and under cover
of the music they had picked up the dropped thread of their talk in
lowered tones that imparted tender significance to the simplest
remark.
"I don't call your singing a half-fledged talent," he said with a
faint stress on the pronoun. "You've the gift, anyway. Why not make
more of it--study, practise?"
She smiled and lifted her shoulders. "I've tried, but I couldn't
keep it up. Laziness, perhaps; I don't know. Vanity, perhaps, a
little. I either want to do things splendidly or else--I can't be
bothered. I need someone to spur me, to encourage me."
"Well, I should have thought Miss O'Neill----"
"Harry? Oh yes, she'd lie down and let me walk over her if I wanted
to. But she's swamped in 'the Cause' and philanthropic work. As for
my talents, when I wanted the helping hand it wasn't there; and
now--it's too late. I've dabbled first in one thing and then in
another, and frittered away what little ambition I ever had."
The emotionless quiet of her tone suggested a noble resignation to
the general obstructiveness of life; a resignation that, to the man's
strenuous spirit, seemed alike pathetic and premature.
"Why, you're only on the threshold of things," he rebuked her gently.
"What are the talents you've dabbled in? Do tell me."
"Oh, I've written a little and acted a little. I wanted badly to
take that up in earnest. Heavens! Wasn't there a row! So I fell
back on the writing. Verses, chiefly."
"Have they appeared, any of them?"
"A few. Here and there. I was vain enough once to have a booklet
printed out of my allowance. Then there was a worse row than ever."
"But why?"
"Well--they weren't exactly of the pretty-pretty order. And my
father's a clergyman: that kind of clergyman."
"I see."
He saw her, in fact, a creature of fine sensibilities, striving for
self-expression, thwarted, discouraged, and misprized by those who
should have been her natural helpers, and his heart went out to her
the more.
"May I--" he hesitated. "Miss Alison, won't you let me see some of
your verses?"
"No. Not for the world." She flushed suddenly and her voice had a
tremor in it. It was the first time he had seen her really perturbed.
"I'm sorry," he began; but she was mistress of herself in a moment
and turned the matter off with a laugh.
"We're both making mountains out of molehills! The verses were
wretched poor stuff, most of them. Father was quite right to condemn
them; but he went the wrong way about it. He usually does. They
were just the outcome of--an influence; a passing phase. I hated
them myself--afterwards. One does go through phases, doesn't one?
At least I do. It's rather interesting. Saves one from the
bottomless pit of boredom, the only thing we're really afraid of
nowadays." She made the statement in all seriousness. "But--looking
back--one sometimes wonders how much that other girl was really me?"
He did not answer at once; partly because he was trying not to be
aware that while she spoke there had blown through him a chill breeze
of doubt: an unwelcome reminder that after all he knew nothing as yet
of her life, her antecedents, or--if it came to that--of herself. He
only knew that almost from the first moment of contact she had put a
spell upon him that he had neither the power nor the will to resist.
"Do I seem to be talking utter nonsense?" she asked suddenly in a
changed voice; and doubt fled like a wraith at sunrise.
"Rather not. I was only hoping--that this _is_ the real you. I'm
not simply a phase--am I?--like all the rest?"
At that she turned to him with the lazy uplift of her lashes, and the
astonishing blue of her eyes flashed on him like a light.
"Isn't it--rather too soon to tell?"
"_Is_ it?" he challenged her boldly, and exulted to see the blood
rise in her cheeks. More than that he could not achieve. For
another Lauder chorus had just died down and they were nearing the
shore.
"Look here," he said, low and rapidly. "I am off up the loch
to-morrow in my little steam yacht--fishing. Come along too--will
you?"
She gave him a reproachful look. "I can't. You know I can't."
"Oh, well, bring your police dog along if you must; and I'll get
Lenox to make a square. Will that do?"
"Yes. I'll ask Harry. If it is like to-day--it'll be lovely."
"Better than to-day, I hope," he muttered, wondering very much if he
could wait till then, and cursing the wire entanglements of
convention.
"I'm going to see you home," he announced as he handed her out of the
boat, and repeated his intention when all the party was ashore.
"Good night, Mums," he added, laying a hand on his mother's shoulder.
"Lenox is coming along with me. Leave things open for us, will you?"
"Very well, dear; don't be too late," she said, looking up at him;
but between the gathering dusk and his own preoccupation he missed
the mute appeal of her eyes.
During the short walk back to the village, Miss O'Neill took complete
command of affairs. Having at last recovered her treasure, she
slipped a retaining hand through Bel's arm, and never a chance had
Mark of another intimate word.
She graciously fell in with the morrow's plan, however; and
afterwards, as the men strolled back, smoking, to Inveraig, Maurice
was frankly informed what would be expected of him on the occasion.
Mark betrayed his repressed excitability by speaking rather more
rapidly and abruptly than usual.
"I'm running this show altogether--you understand? We're not going
off on a blooming picnic to play consequences. No nonsense, mind.
And no Harry Lauder--confound you! All you and Miss O'Neill are
required to do is to make yourselves scarce. Fact is, you're only
there because I couldn't get--Miss Alison to come alone."
Maurice smiled broadly. "I gathered as much. But I say, Forsyth,"
he hesitated and took a pull at his pipe, "do you really mean
business?"
"Rather so. What kind of a cad d'you take me for?" snapped Mark,
whose temper was quick at the best of times. "Think I'd play the
fool with a girl like that?"
"Sorry, old chap. Didn't intend to rile you. Only to a mere
outsider, it seems just a trifle precipitate. Besides--one naturally
thought----"
"Oh, dry up. Nobody asked you to think."
There was pain as well as anger in Mark's tone. He knew very well
what Maurice thought--what others were likely to think; and although
Lady Forsyth did not guess it, his sensitiveness on Sheila's account
almost equalled her own. It hurt him horribly that by any act of his
he should seem to cast even the slightest slur on her. And he saw no
reason. For years they had been like brother and sister. Certainly,
since her return from India he had caught himself wondering--But
before wonder could crystallise into belief, Bel had arisen in her
moonlight beauty and all the stars of heaven had suffered eclipse.
Come to think of it, he owed young Lenox a debt he could never repay;
and for the rest of the way he made royal atonement for his flash of
temper.
"Good night, old chap," he said when they reached the house. "I'm
not turning in just yet."
And for more than half an hour he paced the terrace, wondering,
hoping, dreaming; while his mother lay awake in her bedroom above,
both windows flung wide, listening to the restless sound of his
footsteps; wondering also; and scarcely daring to hope that he had
already spoken and been refused.
Not until she heard him come in, at last, and shut the door of his
room, did she let her tired body have its way and fall into a
troubled sleep.