"Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailéd;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailéd?"
SHAKESPEARE.
That picnic on the farther shore of the loch marked a definite step
in the progress of their intimacy.
Bel, in a distinctly coming-on disposition, proved herself at once a
more enchanting and disturbing possession than Mark had found her
hitherto. First she must discover a hollow full of bracken for his
"arm-chair"; then she must take possession of the tea-basket and
proceed to "play at being married" with all the airy innocence of
nineteen. But nineteen never could have worked so simply yet
skilfully on a man's heartstrings that, before their idyllic meal was
over, the man in question found himself more than half regretting
that promise to his mother. It was almost as if Bel had guessed at
his defection and set out to punish him.
When tea was over he proffered his cigarette case. "More
demoralisation, I suppose?"
"No; the reward of virtue!" she said, deftly extracting one with each
hand.
"I say! Sheer greed! What about virtue being its own reward?"
She wrinkled her nose very prettily. "Can't say I've ever found it
so. But then--I'm not overburdened with virtue. So I'm entitled to
the reward!"
"Not in that form. You're my wife this afternoon!"
"So you can be as hectoring as you please? At that rate I vote we
remain engaged to the end of the chapter!"
"Bel--if you talk like that, I'll marry you to-morrow," he threatened
her, tempted beyond endurance; but she was gravely considering her
two cigarettes. Then, lifting her lashes, she regarded him with lazy
tenderness. "I'll be very good," she said, "and give up one of them
in exchange--for a kiss!"
Thus challenged he seized her and kissed her vehemently--lips, eyes,
and hair.
"Oh--oh!" she breathed, half in ecstasy, half in remonstrance; and he
desisted without releasing her.
"You brought it on yourself," he said huskily. "Bel--you're a witch.
You _do_ know how to make a man crazy for you."
Her sigh expressed contentment unabashed. But she seemed chiefly
concerned with the cigarette in her left hand. It was crumpled into
a limp wreck.
"There now, you've killed the poor thing," she said, holding it up
for his inspection. "And I might just as well have enjoyed it. Do
look at Bobs over there, disapproving visibly of your behaviour."
Mark looked; and the Irish terrier's stump of a tail moved to and fro
in small jerks. The rest of him remained motionless, watchful, nose
between paws, obviously prepared for active intervention, if need
arose.
"Good old Bobs!" murmured Mark; and two velvet ears, several shades
darker than the chestnut head, twitched in response, as who should
say: "I appreciate the attention, but we can't enjoy ourselves
properly till we're rid of her."
Bel snapped her fingers in friendly invitation. But he paid no heed.
"He's quite uncomfortably human, that dog, and he hasn't accepted me
yet. He's a jealous red-head, like his master--almost as jealous as
his master's mother!"
"Why do you think she's jealous?" Mark asked, instinctively on the
defensive at the mention of her name.
"I don't think. I know. It's quite natural. I should be horribly
jealous--of my son."
"You would--would you?" he asked in a changed voice; and she, resting
her head against him, answered nothing. Possibly she thought the
allusion might induce him to speak more definitely of their marriage;
but he merely continued to hold her, more gently now, and to stroke
her ruffled hair.
For several minutes they remained thus, thinking their own curiously
divergent thoughts. Then by degrees she drew herself away, laid the
crumpled cigarette on his knee and put the other between her lips.
"Light, please," she said, and as he held the match for her, she
looked searchingly into his eyes.
"Bel--" he began vehemently; but she checked him with a gesture.
"Pax! I want to enjoy my cigarette unmolested. Tell me more about
the Hampshire home. I've heard next to nothing about it yet."
She settled herself to listen, hands lightly clasped round her knees,
her eyes gazing dreamily out over the water. Like all women who pose
habitually and instinctively, she had the art of seeming more natural
than genuine simplicity can ever appear. And she had touched the
right spring. If Mark loved any place in the world better than
Inveraig, it was Wynchcombe Friars. His feeling for both was too
personal, too deep-seated to be articulate; but he could at least
describe externals; and he did it well. He told her of the long,
rambling Elizabethan house, with its oak panelling and dark roof
beams; of the great flagged terrace, flanked by moss-covered urns,
overlooking a forest of Scotch firs that trooped down into the valley
and climbed the opposite ridge in massed battalions.
"Outside my bedroom and studio windows," he said, "there's a very sea
of pine tops, sinking into the hollow and rising again till they are
splashed like dark foam against the sky. Magnificent trees. Most of
'em hundreds of years old. And the charm of it is that, on the other
side of our ridge, behind the house, we drop down into typical
English country: meadows and park land, and the Wynch flowing lazily
through it; great lonely beeches and oaks, with all space to spread
themselves in, and the grand old ruins of Wynchcombe Abbey. You'll
simply love it. I'm longing to take you all over it."
"I'm longing too. It sounds very beautiful," she said with feeling;
then paused, as if picturing the scene. But her feminine brain was
revolving matters more practical than pine forests and ruined abbeys.
"Horses to ride?" she asked casually.
"Yes; and to drive. We're not motor-folk really. But mother
succumbed to one at last for long distances."
"I'm glad. I love motoring. Are you within reasonable distance of
town?"
"Seven miles from a branch line station and bad connections. We
usually motor to the main line thirteen miles off. But we're not
great Londoners, either of us. We've too much that's keenly
interesting on the spot."
"Rather narrowing, isn't it?"
"I haven't found it so."
Again she was silent, contemplating the blurred beauty of inverted
hills in the loch.
"And Wynchcombe Friars," she asked, "would be our main residence?"
"Well--where else?" he said, smiling at her pensive profile and
wondering what she was driving at. "There's only this, besides.
This is mother's little place--a legacy from a bachelor godfather. I
don't run to half a dozen establishments."
"But surely"--she turned to him now, half eager, half
anxious--"surely you have a house in town?"
"Rather not. Don't want it, and couldn't afford it. I'm not a cocoa
or a patent medicine millionaire. Keeping up two estates--though
Inveraig is not large--takes a fair amount of money. And I've put a
good deal into our arts and crafts centre."
Her face fell so noticeably that he slipped a consoling hand through
her arm. "Poor little girl! Is it a house in town she's after?"
"Well, naturally I"--she coloured a little--"I thought--you kind of
people always went the regular round--London, Scotland, and the
country."
"So we do; the social sort. Mother and I aren't the social sort. I
didn't suppose you were either."
"I haven't had half a chance. But I'd like to be. A flat wouldn't
ruin you, would it, Mark? Just for the season."
This time it was his face that fell. "Oh Lord! I could never stick
out a London season, Bel. The very best time in the country too."
"And _I_ could never exist all the year round out of town." She
stated the fact sweetly but with entire conviction.
"Hang it all! This is rather a serious state of affairs!" he said,
with a lightness he was far from feeling. "We must see if we can't
effect a compromise."
Suddenly he remembered his mother's words a fortnight ago; and
impulsively he spoke his thought. "Of course if you feel--you've
been let in; accepted a baronet under false pretences----"
"Oh be _quiet_!" she entreated, pain and passion in her low tone.
"It's _you_ I've accepted."
"And you'll take me as you find me? That's all right." His fingers
pressed her arm. "You do care--actively, Bel? It's not simply a
case of 'L'un qui baise...?'"
It was a question to rouse the incurable coquette in her; and she
flashed him a fugitive smile.
"In the course of my variegated life," she said, "I've mostly found
it more blessed to receive than to give. But in your case--isn't my
rather precipitate acceptance proof enough for you? And the fact
that you can reduce me--_me_, to asking for kisses?"
"Oh--kisses!" he dismissed them with a shrug.
"Well--if it's more practical proof you're wanting"--she hesitated,
then turned full upon him, her languor discarded like a garment. "I
simply can't bear this crazy talk about going to Ulster. It's no
earthly concern of yours. Mark--darling, _don't_ go, even if they
are fools enough to fight."
She leaned urgently towards him. Her whole sweet face looked
younger, tenderer, more appealing than he had seen it since that
momentous afternoon in the glen. So swift, so surprising was her
change of front, that he looked openly dismayed.
"You don't seem very keen on practical proofs after all," she said,
bringing her face a shade nearer to his. "I did think your mother
would have the sense to discourage you."
He shook his head. "Mother understands."
"That really means she gives in to your every whim. It's the way
mothers are made. Specially when they own a son with a chin like
yours! But the modern wife isn't quite so accommodating. And I
suppose my feeling about it counts for something?"
"Of course it does--tremendously."
"Then say you won't go; and there'll be no more bother."
He thrust out his formidable chin and looked across the loch with
troubled eyes.
"Darling," she persisted, "where's the _point_ of mixing yourself up
with a purely Irish quarrel?"
He shrugged his shoulders, still keeping his eyes away from her face.
"I suppose--a natural prompting of the blood. Mother's a Stuart, of
these parts, with a strain of North Ireland in her; and there's a
link between Ulster and the south-west of Scotland that only those
who belong there quite understand. In very old days, the two coasts
were so close, at points, that men could row to and fro in ordinary
sea-boats. And it's not a purely Irish quarrel, Bel. It's of the
first importance that the United Kingdom should remain
united--especially just now. Nothing would suit Germany better than
Home Rule and 'Ireland-a-nation' before she throws off her mask.
Personally, I admit I'm keen for a share in the scrap, if it comes to
scrapping. I've the blood of fighters in my veins. But of
course--if you're dead against it----"
"I _am_ dead against it," she said, softly implacable, edging closer
still. "And _you're_ too strong to be obstinate. Mark--you're not
going to refuse the first thing I seriously ask you to do for me?"
Her low-toned tenderness disarmed him utterly. "No, I'm _not_," he
said, with sudden vehemence, drawing her to him. "I won't go to
Ireland, Bel. No need to worry any more."
With a sigh of relief, she put her free arm round his shoulder,
lifted her head, and kissed him on the lips. It was the first time
she had done so spontaneously; and, at the moment, it eased
considerably his bitter sense of disappointment. He said nothing,
however, and for the rest of the evening Bel was all tenderness and
simplicity; not a shadow of coquetry to mar the effect.
"I think my concession deserves a special reward," he said later on,
as he grounded the boat under Inveraig, and handed her ashore. "You
might chuck your Harry for once and come on up to dinner."
But she demurred at that. Honestly she couldn't chuck Harry
to-night. Considering Harry's views and her devotion and her
resentment, she was taking it all beautifully--in the intervals.
"She's done more for me in three years," Bel concluded, "than my own
people have in the rest of my life. So you oughtn't to grudge her
the crumbs that fall from your table! You've monopolised me all day;
and she hates being alone in the evening."
"Bring her along then. _I_ don't mind."
"Perhaps not, Mr. Egoist. But she would. She wants me to herself,
just as you do. Don't you see?"
Mark grimaced. "No, I don't see. A couple of women. Morbid rot!
Mother says the Suffrage business is increasing that sort of thing.
I'll be glad to get you out of the atmosphere and away from all that
rescue work of hers."
"But, Mark, it's splendid work----"
"Of course it is, for her. Quite unsuitable, though, for you. If
you really won't come up, I'll see you home."
No, she really wouldn't. She was resolute on that point.
"Your people up there have had enough of me to-day," she added,
smiling into his dissatisfied face. "They're like Bobs. They
haven't quite accepted me yet. And--honestly, I don't seem to catch
on, somehow, except with Mr. Lenox----"
"Not Sheila?" he asked, a little anxiously. "I'm very keen you two
should be good friends."
"She evidently knows that, and she's doing her best. She's sweetness
itself to me. But still----"
"Well? What's wrong with her?" He was on the defensive again.
"My dear, there's nothing wrong. If there was, she'd probably be
twice as charming. She's the kind of tranquil angel who would show
up beautifully against a tragic background. But, in ordinary life,
she seems almost too good to be true."
"She's nothing of the kind," he retorted hotly, which did not improve
matters. But for the life of him, he could not keep cool. "She's
the right sort all through."
"Well, if she's such a living wonder, why on earth don't you marry
her instead of me?" Bel countered with perfect good temper.
"For a very obvious reason, which you don't deserve to be told in so
many words."
"Mark, you're horrid!" she pushed him lightly with her shoulder.
"Don't let's spoil our beautiful afternoon squabbling over a side
issue. No doubt we shall shake down together in the end. Only give
us time."
Her sweet reasonableness disarmed him--for the moment. But he was a
long while falling off to sleep that night. Things did not easily
worry him; but within the last twelve hours several events of more
than minor importance had conspired to that end.
First, Bel's frankness made it clear that at Inveraig she found no
atmosphere of genuine welcome or of home. He must give them time, as
she had said; but it was an unpropitious start. Second, he had, in
effect, saddled himself with two promises that would be far from easy
to keep. Third, there was the unwelcome prospect of that possible
flat in town. If Bel seriously set her heart on it, he did not see
himself refusing her; though goodness knew where the money was coming
from, or how he was going to survive large doses of London society.
Son of a mother who treated life as an art, he lacked the
herd-instinct of the social type. But for all her indulgence, and
his own imperious ways, he was not radically selfish; and beneath his
blunt, Scottish exterior there dwelt a deep, natural tenderness for
woman, as woman, common to the essentially masculine man.
Marriage, he supposed, meant compromise; and he began to see that,
with Bel for wife, he would have to do his full share of it. Looking
back over their "beautiful afternoon," he was uncomfortably aware of
certain fundamental discords; still more aware that his mother had
been right in several respects. It was an annoying trick of hers.
She had been right about Ulster; about Bel's eye to worldly
advantage; even about the minor matter of her age. For Mark had
discovered, incidentally, that she was twenty-nine in June, two years
older than himself. Not that a year or so mattered this way or that.
But it was an additional score for his mother; and gave greater
weight to her curious antipathy to the girl of his choice.
His disappointment about Ulster was keener even than he cared to
admit; and here again--as his acutely wide-awake brain recalled words
and looks and tones--a sudden vexatious doubt assailed him. Had her
tenderly urgent request been as spontaneous as it seemed: a genuine
response to his question about active caring? Or had she been
skilfully leading him towards it all along? Her pretty coquetting
with the tea-things, her pretence at being married, and her casual
mention of a son--had it all been cleverly designed to stir him to
the depths and so make victory secure? He hated himself for the
suspicion. It persisted none the less. Yet he knew quite well that
it would evaporate at the sight of her face and the touch of her
lips. Only when the spell of her presence was removed was he capable
of doubting her for an instant; and even so, he saw those doubts as a
reflection on himself rather than on her. He was tired, simply;
and--yes, more than a little disappointed. That was all; and the
sooner he got to sleep the better.
Springing out of bed he stood a few minutes at the window looking out
upon a world of stars in the heavens above and the waters below.
Fitfully, through the silence, came the clear night note of the
curlew; and the sound of the ebbing tide was like hushed voices
talking secrets the stars must not overhear. As a small boy, lying
wakeful in the summer twilight, Mark had woven entrancing tales about
those mysterious confidences between the retreating waters and the
shore: tales that had become part of the fabric of his inner life.
A few deep breaths filled his lungs with clean cool air and quieted
his brain. Metaphorically, he wrung the serpent's neck and flung him
into the loch. Then he went quietly back to bed. Happen what might
Bel was Bel: a bewildering wonder of womanhood, neither to be
analysed nor criticised; but simply to be loved and cherished and--so
far as possible--obeyed.