"Wish I had half her pluck. She ought to have been the soldier. I

believe she'd give her eyes to take my place; and here am

I--wondering if they've lopped and chopped my precious hand enough to

keep me out of those unholy trenches for good."

Mark, scanning his friend's rueful profile, decided that mere

sympathy was not the tonic for his complaint.

"You can't shoot without your trigger finger," he remarked in

practical tones. "But that's no matter, now they've given you a

commission."

Maurice grimaced.

"You don't want to go back--in any capacity, eh?" Mark asked casually.

"No. I'm damned if I do. Honestly, d'you suppose any man does who

has a grain of sensibility in his composition?"

Mark was silent a moment, considering.

"I don't know. Hard to say. In either case, they wouldn't shout it

from the housetops. Personally, I was keen to get back. Sheer

perversity, perhaps: but it's true. God knows, killing and getting

killed, the way it's done now, is a pretty gruesome business. But

exterminating Prussianised Germans is a service to the civilised

world; not to mention a man's first duty to his country. And to me

there's beauty everywhere, Maurice, even on a battle-field. And, oh

Lord, it's big. It's _real_--overpoweringly real." He paused and

set his teeth hard. "I simply hate being out of it all--shelved.

Wish to God I was in your case! And you can't have the face to

pretend you'd sooner be--as I am."

Maurice was lighting a fresh cigarette.

"Honour bright," he said, "I was thinking out there, this afternoon,

what a lucky devil you were!"

Mark flashed round on him. "Lucky--_me_?"

"Yes: as things go these days. You're through with the worst of it.

You've done jolly well. Your people think no end of you and you'll

probably do thundering big things once you get started again. As for

me----"

"As for _you_," Mark's friendly tone had a touch of sternness,

"you're a graceless ingrate. Your hand's been saved. You've

everything before you and your spurs still to win. Strikes me, the

sooner I get on with your conversion, all round, the better!"

But later, when Maurice had gone, those astonishing words "lucky

devil" returned and walked to and fro in his brain and flashed light

into dark corners, where for weeks no light had been. His own

tragedy had seemed to him a thing so absolute that he had forgotten

in his misery, the relative nature of all sensation: and he frankly

admitted, now, that "as these times go" a worse fate might have

befallen him. On the wings of imagination, he had explored the long

unchanging road ahead of him--and had found it too hard to travel.

And again he had forgotten that the actual journey must be taken day

by day, mile by mile; that, imperceptibly, the face of that road

would change, in response to his own unconquered spirit and the

healing influence of time.

Life, that is more inexorable than death, cannot away with that

crowning mercy. The veiled hours come to us single file. Were it

not so, which of us would find courage to face them at all? In war,

and in the anguish of blows that shatter faith and courage, it is

perhaps this crowning mercy that withholds tortured humanity from

running headlong down a steep place into the sea----

Mark sat late that night over the red embers of his fire, smoking ...

pondering....

CHAPTER II

"Even the wise man's feet are turned astray

by tumult of the soul."

PINDAR.

On a certain afternoon of March, Lady Forsyth sat in a third-class

carriage of a certain casual train that loafed along the line, these

disorganised days, between Waterloo and Westover. She religiously

travelled third now, and as religiously put the difference into her

war-purse for prisoners. Mark was not told, lest he prove

unmanageable: and Keith's objections had been overruled with a high

hand.

This particular train was the slowest in the day. Helen never

patronised it except from force of circumstances; and she

irreverently christened it "the British Government"--not altogether

without provocation. For, as the War dragged inconclusively on, and

Germans continued to flourish in forbidden areas, in the City, and

even in harbours of the first importance, she found herself growing

more critical, more intolerant towards that sacrosanct institution.

If she could be said to dislike, whole-heartedly, anything in the

nature of a human being, it was certain supple, self-regarding

phrase-mongers who had been overlong predominant in the Mother of

Parliaments.

Hers was not the only heart, in those anxious times, that cried out

for a Triumvirate: a sailor, a soldier, and a genuine statesman to

organise all the resources of a great and willing Empire for the

salvation of the world. But the cry went up in vain. And still

politicians talked and soldiers prayed for the Great Offensive, and

the war of trenches and sectors went lumbering on. Constantinople

had not fallen within the given month. A feeling hovered in the air

that something had gone wrong with this very great adventure; that

arrangements had been sketchy; action premature. And there were

uncomfortable rumours about the King of Greece----

Then, suddenly, the West had leaped to life. "Victory at last!" sang

the posters and the headlines. And the journalists, given a freer

hand this time, vied with each other in chronicling Homeric feats and

"enormous enemy losses." ...

That was a week ago. And now it appeared there had been some mistake

about this "great and glorious victory." One indisputable fact stood

out--the casualty lists. It began to look as if, after all, they

were likely to prove the biggest thing about it. Helen Forsyth had

heard talk in London that she tried to dismiss as mere pessimism; but

her instinct told her it was probably true.

The train groaned and jolted to a standstill:--Little Franton. It

was far too courteous to overlook even the smallest thing in

stations. Another hour to Westover. Lady Forsyth leaned back and

closed her eyes. She had had two strenuous days in town. She was

very tired and longing to get home--to Mark. It was still a strange

and wonderful fact that home should also mean Mark. He was her

private reason for courting the present infliction. She had failed

to catch an earlier express and refused to wait for a later one. It

was sufficiently distracting being called away for a night so soon

after his return. How they would laugh at her when she got back!

And how good it was to be laughed at again: even if, in between,

there were still moods of gloomy silence or of irritability, that

kept her anxiety at stretch.

The first few days of their frank joy in each other had been

flawless. And for her, there was the secret satisfaction of having

him all to herself again, with no superfluous Bel to claim the lion's

share of his thoughts and heart: a forgivable form of selfishness

that perhaps only a mother can condone. But the necessary intrusion

of the world at large marked the beginning of trouble. It was plain

that he would not easily overcome a certain sensitive shrinking from

outside people; though, in his more normal moods, he spurned this

weakness and overrode it ruthlessly.

For this reason, visitors--with the exception of Dr. Warburton and

the Sinclairs--were not very welcome. Warburton was on the "sick

list" combating a severe bout of rheumatism and Sir Nevil, like Mark,

was knocked out of the actual fighting, with a frost-bitten foot and

his left forearm gone to save the spread of blood poisoning from a

septic wound. Wynchmere tenants and workers, eager to come and do

him homage, would not be denied; and Mark himself, touched to the

heart, was yet consumed with shyness at the prospect of facing the

music. A few days ago, with Keith's diplomatic help, Lady Forsyth

had persuaded him to summon an informal afternoon gathering--the

gamekeeper, the manager of their handicrafts colony, his better class

tenants and their wives. And he had been at his best: friendly,

sympathetic, full of humorous talk. She had only discovered the

effort it cost him by the reaction that followed: and had reproached

herself not a little for having pressed the point.

Keith, however, insisted rightly that the sooner Mark did violence to

his natural shrinking the sooner he would conquer it: and conquer it

he must. But his recurrent headaches troubled her. She had made a

point of seeing Dr. Norton while in town. Her faith in him was

implicit and his encouraging view of things had comforted her

considerably.

"Give him plenty of fresh air. A little gentle massage. And avoid

friction over trifles." That had been the great man's final

injunction, heartily endorsed by Helen.

Privately she had feared that the massage part of it might produce

friction straightaway: and at lunch, in Mrs. Laurence's war-work flat

(Colonel Laurence was serving in France) that fear had been

confirmed. Honor Lenox and Sheila, who had struck up a friendship,

were lunching there too; and Honor bore witness that, when massage

was prescribed at Mavins, Mark had proved intractable.

"I believe if I could have done it myself," she added, "I might have

persuaded him. But nothing would induce him to let 'a strange woman

maul his head.' And they thought it unadvisable to press the point.

But now--why not Sheila? The very person."

Naturally that had been Helen's first thought, and Sheila's also.

But the older woman--because of her secret hope--had felt a

scrupulous hesitancy about volunteering the suggestion; and the girl

had her own private qualms to overcome. Both were proportionately

grateful for Honor's blunt directness, and common-sense, professional

point of view. She saw only a man in need of healing and the one

acceptable healer happily on the spot: and on the whole, Lady Forsyth

felt justified in taking the same view. It had finally been decided

that she should sound Mark on the subject and let Sheila know the

result.

After all, his complete recovery was a matter of the first

importance. She had no sure knowledge of Sheila's heart; and, as

regards her own son, she was altogether in the dark. Since that day

at the Nursing Home, he had never mentioned Bel: and she devoutly

hoped he never gave a thought to that devastating young woman.

Only to-day, she had heard from Lyndsay Laurence that, in January,

Bel had deserted Harry O'Neill and gone upon a protracted visit to

friends in the west of England where Zeppelins were not. She wasn't

afraid of them, Mrs. Laurence had explained with a gleam in her

serious blue eyes, she merely objected to living in a Zeppelin area

when there were other areas available. Further, it appeared that

some casual word let fall by Harry had given Mr. Maitland an inkling

of Mark's generosity. Certainly he had spent his holidays in the

west of England; had duly proposed to a Bel no longer penniless--and

been rejected. Helen was exceedingly glad to hear it. She wondered

if Mark would appreciate the humour of it, but dared not risk telling

him--yet.

His uncertain moods put a severer strain upon her than she would

admit even to herself. Even her longing to get back to him was

secretly tinged with dread lest something should upset him and spoil

the whole evening. Lately, she had persuaded him to sing again; and

sometimes, with that or her own music, she could exorcise the fiends

that tormented him. But if any one could spirit them away

permanently it would be Sheila: and ... supposing things went farther

still--well, why not? The question had a touch of defiance, as

though some unseen mentor had ventured a rebuke. Mentor or no, she

could not, or would not see any cause or just impediment. For once

in a way, she--who set such store by truth in the inward parts, was

not altogether honest with herself: a pardonable lapse, in the

circumstances.

Could Mark once be made to realise that a woman loved him enough to

marry him, disabled as he was, all his uncertain moods and

irritations would vanish into air. In time, she felt convinced, this

cruel paralysis would loosen its hold on him; and if Sheila cared

sufficiently to take all risks, whose business was it to come between

them?

But as usual she was racing ahead miles too fast. Possibly neither

of them cared--in that way. Probably Mark would snub the massage

idea. More than probably he would now refuse to marry Sheila even if

he loved her to distraction. So she swung round again to those

jarring uncertainties that threatened, almost, to spoil the joy of

getting him back....

At this point her attention was distracted from personal worries by

women's voices opposite. One of them she recognised: Mrs. Beck,

proprietor of the Post Office and sweet shop at Wynchmere. It was

the War, of course. People of all grades and classes could still

talk of little else: and Helen, keeping her eyes shut, dismissed her

own anxieties and listened.

It was a compensation for the occasional discomforts of travelling

third that one caught glimpses of the War through the eyes of working

men and women who neither painted it all red nor garnished it with

false sentimentalities; but accepted it--cheerfully, sullenly or

doggedly--as one more item among the many bewildering puzzles of life.

Said the voice that was not Mrs. Beck's: "Your son 'as 'e gone back

yet to them trenches?"

"No. 'E's not near fit: never was," came Mrs. Beck's emphatic tones.

"But 'e'll be goin' sure 'nough before long."

"Frettin' to get back, is he? My word, it's no pantomime. I got a

brother been out since Christmas. Up to his blessed middle in water.

Matches an' fags too damp for strikin'. You do 'ear some tell they

want to go back. An' it makes yer wonder----"

"Want to go back? O' _course_ they don't: not my boy, nor any of

'em.' Mrs. Beck's voice was angry now as well as emphatic. "'Oo

could? Them that talks that way says it to hearten their woman

folks. But 'tis on'y fools as believes 'em. And most on 'em says

nothing. They knows it's _djuty_. So they shuts their teeth an'

goes, wonderin' if they'll ever see 'ome again. But they _says

nothing_--not they. It's 'ow they're made. There was jest one o'

mine did--once. Pore Alf! 'E come clean through Monsse, and all

them 'orrors without a scratch. An' when 'e was leavin' 'ome again,

I says to 'im, I says: '_You'll_ come back for sure. You've a

charmed life.' But 'e shook 'is 'ead. 'Their turn last time. Mine

next,' 'e said jokin'-like. 'E knew 'e'd be took--and 'e woz.'

Followed a sympathetic silence from the mere sister, and Helen--who

remembered Alf and all the circumstances--thought shame of herself

for allowing Mark's moods to blur the supreme fact that she had him

safe--permanently safe--from jagged bayonets, explosive bullets, and

all the scientific barbarities that still hurt her soul.

Her one remaining treasure had not been "took." It was enough.

The leisurely train was nearing home now. She sat up and greeted

Mrs. Beck; and they talked Neuve Chapelle till the name-board said

"Westover" at last.

And there was Keith on the platform and Mark awaiting her in the car,

brown and vigorous looking; quite himself again in motor-coat and

cap. And she felt more than ever ashamed of fitful repinings.

Mark evinced his joy at her return by keeping a hand on her knee

under the fur rug and ragging her mercilessly all the way home. At

dinner he was quieter, with the brooding look in his eyes that Helen

had learnt to dread. Afterwards Keith settled them in the

drawing-room and went off to the library leaving them together.

He had now definitely given up his ambulance work on the other side

and divided his time between local recruiting, a committee for the

welfare of prisoners, and a deeply thought-out treatise on the

psychological effects of war. Underlying all these obvious

activities, was the cherished conviction that Helen had need of him;

more especially in these first difficult days ... when Mark must

learn, slowly and painfully, the art of adapting himself to his

limited conditions of life. He had never said another word about her

to Mark; nor had he found the opportune moment for speaking to her

himself. He was hyper-fastidious in respect of that critical moment.

Life had, so far, given him no lovelier gift than her frank

confidence and comradeship; and he was in no hurry to risk putting

them out of gear, even for the sake of that greater gift for which

Mark had encouraged him to hope. Moreover, when a lover--and that

lover, a Scot--has kept silence for fifteen years, it is almost

easier to go on keeping silence than to speak: and Keith Macnair was

essentially of those who know how to wait.

The two he had left in the drawing-room fell silent after a little

desultory talk. Helen could think of nothing but Sheila. Mark's

reviving soul was shadowed by ominous signs of failure at Neuve

Chapelle. Names of officers in his own battalion had been painfully

prominent in the Roll of Honour: men he had lived with, fought with,

and loved. He was girding at his own inability to go out and replace

one of them: picturing the welcome they would give him:--Mackail,

Fordyce, the Colonel. _His_ name was not in the list, thank God.

Quite recently the battalion had been made up to strength and given a

well-earned rest--only to be decimated afresh. And no victory to

show for it: nothing but a costly failure. A bad omen for the Great

Offensive that was to sweep the Germans back to the Rhine.

It all hurt him so acutely that he could not manage to talk of it

even to his mother: so he fell back on silence.

His quietness was deceptive: his frown might merely mean headache.

Helen could not know that the devil within was making peculiarly

malignant remarks to him just then: and her very anxiety to choose

the right moment made her almost certain to stumble on the wrong one.

"Mums, will you play a little," he said at last, "if you're not too

tired?"

She was too tired and she wanted to talk about Sheila: but she did

not say so. If he was "brooding," music might be a wise prelude to

speech.

For a quarter of an hour or so, she played without her notes; slow

soft music. Preludes and Largoes. Then she came back to the fire

determined to hesitate no longer. She still remained standing, one

foot on the fender-stool.

"I saw Dr. Norton to-day," she remarked casually. "He wanted to hear

about you--and the headaches. Swears by two simple remedies; plenty

of fresh air--and massage:--the nerves of the head and neck. And

afterwards, at the flat, Honor suggested Sheila----"

Mark's frown deepened unpromisingly.

"My dear Mother, _I'm_ all right. For God's sake, don't fuss!"

"Darling, I'm not fussing. Dr. Norton prescribed it. And Sheila did

wonders for me--after Boulogne."

"I can well believe it. But I won't have her bothered on my account.

She's overworked as it is."

"But, Mark, she delights in it," Helen persisted fatally. "And for

you, of all people----"

"Yes--for _me_ of all people!" Mark flung out with a sudden

uncontrollable bitterness that effectually silenced her. Startled by

his vehemence, she could only stand gazing at him, pain and

bewilderment in her eyes. But his own pain blinded him to hers and

he sharply turned away his head.

"Oh--_don't_ look at me like that," he muttered. "You make too much

of things. All those poor chaps killed and wounded out there and

you're worrying over my twopenny headaches. Let Sheila come--if

she's willing and if it'll make you happy."

His mother compressed her lips. "Nothing will make me happy, Mark,"

she said quietly, "till I see you more nearly your old self again."

"Well, I'll _never_ be my old self again--if I live to be eighty:

which God forbid!"

The moment the words were out he realised their cruelty. He felt as

if he had struck her; and impulsively he put out his hand.

But she had turned from him swiftly to hide her tears--and she was

gone.

Helpless to follow her he sat there alone with his bitterness and his

shame and his desperate longing for Sheila, that had instinctively

prompted him to veto his mother's tempting plan....

Presently the door opened and Keith came in. He looked grave, almost

stern.

"What have you been saying to upset Helen?" he asked bluntly.

"Couldn't you see she was tired out?"

Beneath the reproof Mark detected the unconscious, possessive note of

the lover and responded to it straightway, incurable lover that he

was. His faint annoyance at being taken to task evaporated. If any

one had hurt Sheila as he had just hurt Mums he would have wanted to

commit murder.

"Where is she? What's she doing?" he asked, patently contrite yet

vouchsafing no explanation.

"In the library. She _thinks_ she's writing letters."

"Did she say anything?"

"Is it likely? What did _you_ say? That's the point."

Mark frowned. "Nothing would induce me to repeat it. It was

only--she got worrying over my confounded head. Massage and that

sort of rot. She's keen for Sheila to come and try her hand on me."

"Well--what's wrong with Sheila?"

"There's nothing wrong with Sheila," Mark answered; and this time the

lover's note was in his own voice. "But--at the moment, everything

was wrong with me. And, like a coward, I let fly at Mums."

Keith's eyes lightened strangely. "Well, no matter how bad things

are with you--and I don't belittle them--I can't have you hurting

_her_ like that. She's suffered more this winter than you, or any of

us, will ever know. Sheila's been no less than an angel of

consolation; and if Helen wants her here, let her come. She would

probably do you a deal of good. And anyway she'd be a healing

influence in the house, which is precisely what you're both needing

just now. Mark, old chap, I'm not down on you. But--_you_

understand?"

"Yes. I understand."

A pause. Mark felt suddenly tempted, by Keith's change of tone, to

break through his own reserve. It would be a vast relief to tell

Keith about Sheila and discover his unbiased view of things. But

Bel, though no longer loved, still left her trail over his life.

Three months ago she was presumably all the world to him: and now--to

make parade of his love for Sheila would seem but a poor compliment:

an insult, almost. Hard to make another understand that the two

emotions had as little in common as the girls themselves. Still

harder to explain that strange, spiritual awakening in France.

Obviously, the Fates had decreed that she should come. Let her come

then,--and chance the result. They could have devised no finer test

for his power of self-mastery.

Keith, who shrewdly suspected the truth, adjusted a blazing log with

his foot and said nothing.

"I say, go and tell Mums I want her," Mark said suddenly; and Keith,

with a nod of approval, went back to the library.

Mark had time to grow impatient before she reappeared. And, when she

did come, he was tongue-tied. He could only hold out his arms----

CHAPTER III

"Through such souls alone

God stooping shows sufficient of his light

For us i' the dark to rise by."

BROWNING.

So Sheila came again to Wynchcombe Friars--the real Wynchcombe

Friars; no longer an empty shrine lit by twin lamps of memory and

hope. How gladly, how thankfully she answered that summons no one

guessed, Mark least of all: and that fact alone made it possible to

come. Neither did she herself guess that Keith knew. Her secret was

as safe with him as in a tomb: and he it was who, three days later,

drove out to fetch her in Mark's two-seater car, in which he was just

beginning to reconnoitre his property and look up his tenants as of

old.

"If there was a third seat, for the inevitable attendant, I could

have fetched her myself," he remarked casually.

"We'll contrive a third seat--for these little emergencies," Keith

promised him. "Till then, the privilege must be mine."

Mark and his mother were in the studio when sounds of arrival whisked

Helen to her feet. Her natural instinct was to run downstairs and

greet them: but she was learning to restrain many such impulses that

Mark might not too acutely feel his minor disabilities.

Presently the door opened and Sheila appeared, glowing from her

drive, violet-gowned as on the day he had seen her last: a bunch of

violets in her squirrel cap, and distinctly dewy violets in her eyes.

The long low room with its restful blue tones and dark oak panelling

was flooded with March sunlight, fragrant with the scent of hyacinths

that stood about in bowls: and to Mark, the small gallant figure of

his first and last allegiance seemed in tune with it all, visibly and

vitally, as Bel had never been.

Sheila, for her part, would have summed up her own mixed emotions in

the one word "home": the home of her spirit and her heart.

After a swift survey of the room, her eyes rested smiling on Mark in

his wheeled chair by the window.

"The quartette complete again, at last, under one roof!" she said, a

thrill of gladness in her low voice. Then the underlying tragedy

caught at her heart and she took refuge in her Viking. "_He_ must be

glad to have you back again. Hasn't he told you so?"

"Yes--lately he has," Mark answered, looking at her, not at the

Viking, whom it pleased them to regard as a member of the family.

"He was a bit reticent at first. But the gladdest of all was Bobs,

here. No blooming reticence about him!"

"The darling!" And crouching down Sheila stroked the chestnut head.

The devoted creature lay close pressed against his master's legs,

using Mark's feet for a chin-rest; an endearing form of caress. But

Mark could not feel it any more. He sometimes wondered--did the

others realise? He hoped they did not.

"I thought the poor little chap would go crazy, the first day," he

said. "Kept flinging himself against me with his little shivering

squeals, tearing up and down the room, sending the rugs to blazes;

asking me, plain as speech, to get up and play the fool with him.

Now--he understands and he's just glued to my chair. Won't even go

for a walk with Keith. Yes, old man, I'm telling tales of you."

This last to Bobs, who glanced upward without shifting his position.

Sheila's eyes were so dewy by this time that she had to make the most

of Bobs, who wanted to go to sleep again and found her attentions

rather superfluous. He was a man's dog, first and last.

They lunched at the far end of the long room. It was a convenient

arrangement for Mark and it economised coal. Every penny that could

be saved at Wynchcombe Friars went to help Mark's poorest cottagers

and war-increasing colony of refugees, through that first hard winter

of war;--a prelude, merely, to the gigantic struggle ahead. Yet

there was still a certain amount of loose, comforting talk about the

worst being over by the autumn. A good deal of it emanated from

those who were resolved to avert conscription at any price--to

others. "Traitors' talk," Mark called it bluntly: and in essence it

was no less.

Lunch was a brief and cheerful meal: Keith for a wonder being the

principal talker. He had gleaned some inside information, from a

wounded officer at Winchester, of the dispositions at Neuve Chapelle,

and he proceeded to demonstrate them, for Mark's benefit, with the

toast rack, the muffineers, the cake, and several apples, blandly

ignoring murmurs from Helen about "the geography of the table."

The meal ended, he retired to the library and his treatise; and Helen

went down to interview a refugee dressmaker; a forlorn and pathetic

creature in whom she took a very special interest.

"I'll be back soon, my lambs," she said as she went.

There was a perceptible moment of embarrassment; but Sheila swiftly

conquered her shyness.

"I don't see anything new here yet," she remarked, glancing round his

sanctuary. "And you know I'm expecting--great things!"

Mark shook his head. "I've not touched a bit of clay or plasticine

since I got back. But in that folio, there's a big rough crayon of a

charging Highlander on a bit of brown board, if you'd care to make

his acquaintance."

No need to answer that. She had him out instantly and propped him on

an antique table against the wall. Rough he certainly was, but of a

vigour and vitality that went far to justify her expectation of great

things. No artist by temperament, like Bel, Sheila could neither

appraise nor criticise technically: but she had an unerring eye for

motive, for the underlying spirit of art in all its manifestations.

Certain sketches she had seen at Mavins and this barbaric figure that

sprang yelling from the parapet--bayonet fixed, head back, kilt

flying--told her that Mark's idealism had gained rather than lost by

contact with the uglier, more staggering aspects of life and death.

And there can be no sharper test of its quality. Cruel things,

tragic things, seen and suffered, had drawn his Muse closer to earth;

had imparted a certain ruthlessness both to his manner and matter:

but exultingly she knew that he belonged, and would unfailingly

belong, to the great company for whom there is always a window that

looks to the sky.

"I saw him--just like that." Mark explained to her silence. "Five

minutes afterwards a shell came our way--" an expressive gesture

filled the hiatus. "And somehow he stuck in my brain."

"Yes--he would," she said, still dwelling upon him. "Why not make a

small statue of him? He is simply--Scotland for ever!"

Mark's eyes were on her face and her low tone thrilled through him.

"He shall be yours--if I ever get him into clay. At present ... that

side of things seems dead."

"Not dead--but sleeping," she said in her softest voice. "It will

all come back--bigger and more splendidly alive--when you've struck

root again in this dear deserted place."

He sighed. "Hope you're right. I'll need it more than ever I did,

once I'm ... renewed mentally. It isn't an altogether painless

process. And I'm no stoic----"

"I expect Mums would tell a different tale," she put in gently.

"Mums would glorify me--from sheer habit! Yet it's she who gets the

full benefit of my lapses from stoicism--bless her. It'll be a real

service to her if you succeed in exorcising the devil!"

The light in her eyes was enough to banish all the devils in

creation--for the moment, "_I_ don't believe in him," she said

softly. "I'm going to concentrate on waking up the other thing----"

At this point Lady Forsyth reappeared with her knitting and her

_National Review_. She knitted for her war orphans now that spring

had smiled upon the sodden trenches "out there."

"Very fine, isn't it?" she said indicating the Highlander, and Sheila

nodded.

"He's going to be my first own statue: a bronze."

Then they arranged Mark's invalid table and set a cushion on it.

"There," said his mother shaking it up.--"Bow your head upon your

arms and try not to feel heart-broken!"

"Try not to feel a fool would be more like it," he grumbled

ungratefully. As a matter of fact he found no difficulty in obeying

her last injunction. But Bobs, who had been taking stock of these

mysterious doings, had his own private opinion on the subject.

Springing up, paws on the table, he anxiously investigated Mark's

bowed head and tried to thrust a moist loving nose under his forehead.

"Down, old boy, lie down," Mark muttered; and for the minute he

obeyed. But no self-respecting dog could submit to see his master so

humiliated. The call for championship was obvious. With little

snarling sounds, he sprang up again, snapped at Sheila's hands and

nibbled at her ankles half playful, half vicious, and wholly

determined to rescue his helpless owner, till Mark flung up his head

and laughed. "Officious little beggar! Turn him out, please, Mums."

He glanced at Sheila. "I won't have you bullied. He tried to eat

Macgregor and Keith first time he saw them handle me."

"Macgregor--your sergeant----?"

"Yes. He's knocked out too, poor chap! Lost his foot, after all.

But he's a sturdy fellow, so I secured him for my bodyguard and he

was no end pleased."

It was a very chastened and reproachful Bobs who at last suffered

himself to be forcibly removed from the scene. Mark patted his head

by way of explanation: but the rank injustice of the whole proceeding

must have galled his faithful soul.

"Now," said Mark the ungrateful, as the door closed on his defender.

"Go ahead. It's not half bad!"

In his heart he found in her unerring discovery and manipulation of

each sensitive nerve little short of magic. But that sort of thing

could not be said. Since his mother's concern was entirely for

himself, his own concern must be entirely for Sheila. His will, too

long in abeyance, must stand between him and the temptation to

discover, by imperceptible means, whether his defection had killed

outright the shy response he was just beginning to discern when Bel

appeared on the scene. By some means he must contrive to keep the

lover's note out of their intercourse. He was glad at least that a

deeper expression of brotherly tenderness had crept into his letters

from France. It would make things a trifle easier now.

This renewal of intimacy would, he perceived, be no light ordeal; so

closely interwoven were the strands of joy and pain. But it was the

price of her sweet companionship; and he would pay it willingly, just

so long as it involved no risk for her.

To-day, while her fingers made magical passes across his forehead, or

fluttered over his head like soft, strong wings, he had need to

reaffirm his resolve: and his best chance of keeping it, though he

guessed it not, lay less in the strength of his own will than in

Sheila's simplicity and singleness of heart.

For nearly an hour he surrendered himself to the healing influence of

her spirit and her touch, till definite thought was stilled and peace

flowed through him, as in the days when Sœur Colette had kneeled

and prayed beside his bed....

Then it was over; and he was bidden to be quiet till tea-time, while

his mother and Sheila strolled on the terrace in the sun. Helen

tilted back his adjustable chair, rearranged his cushion and lightly

kissed his forehead.

"Didn't I do well to insist?" she asked smiling; and he smiled back

at her without a word.

Keith came in for tea; and before it was over, Dr. Warburton

appeared. The illusion of old times was strong upon them all.

Except for war-talk and Mark's wheeled chair, it was almost as if

their summer and winter of tragic memory had never been. But the

fact that Sheila must leave them broke the spell.

"Till Wednesday," Mark said at parting. "And one of these days I

swear I'll kick over the traces and come for you myself."

To that announcement she had no ready-made answer at command.

"It's lovely to be home again--and spoilt again," she remarked

irrelevantly to whom it might concern. "And remember,--_I_ expect to

find something begun if it's only a terra-cotta trifle."

On Wednesday she returned to find the terra-cotta trifle awaiting her

on his modelling table that had stood empty since the outbreak of

war. It was a rugged and very vital study of Bobs in a gamesome

mood; hindquarters in the air, shoulders down, head laid sideways

between outflung paws and an upward glance of appeal from his only

visible eye.

Beneath him, on the pedestal, Mark had scratched the words: "St.

Roberts the Blest. An invitation to play the fool!"

"Yours," he said as she stood before it, entranced.

"Mark! You don't mean it!" But she knew very well that he did, and

her heart sang for joy.

"Done to order," he explained gravely. "The first fruits of your

magic."

At that she took it up between her hands and held it for a moment

against her cheek.

"It's a lovesome thing.--And there'll be bigger fruits still in a few

weeks' time."

"I'm ... not so sure," he said slowly. "It was mostly my long tramps

that brought the big inspirations."

He was forcing himself, these days, to speak naturally and casually

of his tragic disability; but he had not yet been so frank with

Sheila and she winced in spite of herself. Too well she remembered

his boyish delight when he persuaded his father to lengthen the

studio by throwing two rooms into one, and how he had declared that

merely from the extra space for prowling there would spring a

masterpiece. And he had always worked standing. In absence she

instinctively pictured him on his feet. Even now----

Yet, if he could face things and speak of it all like this, she must

face them too....

"I believe when ... genius really comes alive again, it will override

everything," she said in a voice of subdued conviction. "I'm not

just prophesying smooth things. I'm confessing ... the faith that is

in me."

Mark was silent. He dared not speak. He dared hardly look at her,

lest she read the worship in his eyes.

Lady Forsyth, being in no wise hampered, impulsively held out her

hands.

"Darling, you and I are of one faith," she said: and Sheila swept to

her and kneeled beside her, glad to hide her face a moment against

the shoulder of Mark's mother.

After that, she came again and again, and the effect on Mark's temper

and spirits was obvious to all. She was not merely a healing

influence, but a source of inspiration; an incentive to renewed

effort, to a more purposeful grip on the far from futile activities

that still remained to him.

Inevitably he found himself contrasting the high felicity of this

girl's companionship with that other who had led him hopelessly

astray from the path of true happiness. On the one hand a spell, a

desire, a troubled unsatisfying charm: on the other, a real woman's

heart,--gracious, consoling, understanding, that rang true to every

testing touch, and would, he felt convinced, could he test her to the

uttermost. If, at times, Sheila seemed narrow where Bel was

diffused, she had the higher merit of being deep where Bel was

shallow. While there was scarcely a surface in life or art that Bel

had not skimmed, she had penetrated nowhere. Sheila--ignorant of

much that the modern girl deems essential to her equipment for

life--was yet profoundly versed in the eternal lore of the heart.

Bel could never let a man forget he was primarily a man and she

primarily a woman: whereas, some finer quality in Sheila enabled Mark

to rest content--almost--with the enchantment of her voice, her eyes

and the fellowship of her spirit. For all that, there were moments

when he wondered how much longer he could keep it up----

And again Sheila, though he did not guess it, was his best safeguard.

She had come, simply and gladly, without after-thought, convinced

that she could heal his hurt spirit, though his body was beyond her

help.

For the moment, it sufficed that she was privileged through her own

gift of healing, to revive his greater gift of creation: and to that

end she marshalled all the forces of her still, strong nature.

Self-dedicated to his service, the unspoken prayer of her spirit was

the prayer of Theodolind, the mystic: "Give me wings of great desire,

lest I look within and fail." And gradually, unconsciously, she

imparted something of her exalted mood to Mark. A growing conviction

that this blessed state of things involved no danger to her, gave him

fresh courage to control his own emotion lest he lose the best he had

any right to ask of her now.

So, for awhile, things went well at Wynchcombe Friars: and for Lady

Forsyth those last two weeks of March were the happiest, the most

hopeful, she had known since Mark's return from France.

He had reverted, by now, to his old keen interest in the management

of his property; and began to enjoy driving with Russell through his

woods and farmlands, and supervising his handicrafts colony, chiefly

given over to French and Flemish refugees. Since no son of his would

ever reign at Wynchcombe Friars, he was the more zealous to do his

utmost--while time and opportunity were given him--for the people and

the land he loved. In this way he grew to be aware that his tenants

and workers regarded him with a new and peculiar devotion, often

touchingly exhibited, inexpressive creatures though they were by

heritage and habit. He was even persuaded to put in an appearance at

a big recruiting demonstration at Winchester, where he called upon

Jevons, the bootmaker, to the old man's huge delight. He read

voraciously and played chess with his mother; though in their case,

it was apt to become a prolonged argument rather than a game. He

also started a bust of Keith, who quarrelled with his undiscerning

choice of a subject and in secret was mightily pleased at the

compliment.

Mark did not fail to note his mother's eager interest in this new

venture: or the pains she was at not to let it be suspected. It set

him wondering what on earth the dear good fellow was up to--he that

was free to go in and win the woman of his heart.

March departed lamblike; and April came in with primroses and violets

and dappled skies; with coral buds on the wild almond at the end of

the terrace, and the gleam of young leaves on black boughs.

April was Mark's own month and for him there was none like it in all

the year. He too felt the leap of new life and hope within him: and

Sheila began to talk of getting leave for her promised visit.

But, before her dream came true, that stir of new life, within and

without, precipitated a crisis--almost inevitable between unavowed

lovers, using the language of friendship and thinking the thoughts of

love. It came precisely when and precisely because increasing

confidence and intimacy had thrown them a little off their guard.

Upon the afternoon of Sheila's seventh visit they were left

practically alone. Keith had driven Lady Forsyth over to Bramleigh

Beeches to meet a distinguished Indian poetess, who had expressed

admiration of Helen's small volume of French and Belgian War poems.

These she had translated during the winter to keep her mind from

brooding on Mark and to raise extra money for their refugees. Helen

was eager to meet the little lady who had written so charmingly about

her work; and they left early that Keith might be back in time to

drive Sheila home.

Mark's elation should have warned him that there was peculiar need

for caution and control. But the wine of spring sparkled in his

veins. The air was full of love-songs and Te Deums. Daffodil buds

were breaking and the first butterflies were out. All the morning he

had been scouring the country with Keith in the little car that was

now the joy of his life: and an afternoon alone with Sheila fittingly

crowned his content.

When massage was over, he voted for tea at the south-west corner of

the terrace where they would secure the last of the sun.

"A Japanese tea-party," said Sheila, "to worship the almond blossom!"

Mark privately added another object of worship, no less emblematic of

spring. For Sheila, happy in her devotion and in her power of

healing, was emerging from the shadow of her double loss; shyly

watching, at last, the dawning of her secret hope. Her eyes and skin

were clearer, her cheeks less pale, her beauty and her spirit seemed

visibly to blossom with the blossoming year. Her delight in the day

and the occasion was no less than Mark's, but it was of a stiller

quality.

They carried him down to the terrace, chair and all; and there,

established in the sunny corner, watched over by the almond tree, she

made tea for him and told stories of her other patients, whom she was

neglecting a little these days.

More by instinct than design, they kept their talk in a lighter vein

than usual; and Bobs, as gay as either of them, proved very

serviceable in this respect.

Suddenly there flashed on Mark a memory of that other picnic on the

shore of Loch Etive: the love-making, the conscious coquetry; the

first intimation of underlying rocks that would have wrecked their

ship of marriage. Summarily he dismissed the intrusive reminder,

that made him angry with himself, angrier still with Bel and her

shallow witchery. Yet the indelible shadow of what had been lay

right across his path. Painfully he was learning that "the whole

life is mixed; the mocking Past will stay."

But this afternoon he would have none of it----

Hester had come out to remove the tea-things and she brought a letter

for Mark from Colonel Munro. When he looked up from reading it,

Sheila sat lost in thought, one elbow on the empty tea-table, looking

away across the valley, where a gap in the pine woods revealed a

glimpse of blue distance clear against the evening sky.

For a space he watched her, till he dared watch no longer. Then:

"Mouse," he said very quietly, "what are you brooding on so deeply?"

And she answered him, as quietly, in one word. "Ralph."

Her tone in speaking of that very ordinary, very brave and beloved

brother gave Mark always a sense of standing on sacred ground. He

said nothing; and after a pause she sighed and sat upright in her low

straightbacked chair resting her arms on the table, her hands loosely

clasped.

On the middle finger of her left hand she wore a curious, antique

ring; a Christmas present from her absentee father.

"A day like this is double-edged, isn't it? It seems to stir all the

deeps--joy and pain. He was such a dear simple thing. So close to

earth, loving it all so. And yet--the other was what he wished.

Just when you spoke I was thinking of that wonderful Roumanian

ballad, the dead soldier who was content: the last lines--you know,

when he asks the passers-by are they remembering him?

'"Not so, my hero," the lovers said,

"We are those who remember not.

For the Spring has come and the Earth has smiled

And the dead must be forgot."

And the soldier spake from the deep dark grave--

"I am content!"'"

At the last, her voice shook so that there was a moment of silence

before she added: "I believe that's what most of them would say--our

'noble army of martyrs'--if only we could hear----"

"Yes: most of them," Mark answered slowly, with quiet conviction.

"And on the whole, I'm not sure ... they haven't the best of it."

She turned quickly and met his direct gaze. "You mustn't say that."

"I don't--to the others. But I feel it--pretty acutely ...

sometimes."

"Not so often--now."

It was a statement rather than a question.

"Not nearly so often. That's your doing."

Her deep blush so startled him that he promptly took refuge in

generalities:--the effect of the war on character, national and

individual: which tendency would prevail on the whole, the spiritual

exaltation of a high purpose and tragedy nobly borne; or

demoralisation from sheer horror and strain? Maurice Lenox, for

instance, how would he and his type eventually emerge from the war?

And even where there had been a genuine uplift, would it last? Or,

would the pendulum swing back farther than ever, if the struggle

dragged endlessly, sullenly on?

Sheila admitted reluctantly that the pendulum had to be reckoned

with. She was thinking of Seldon and of Bel: and some hidden channel

of communion conveyed her thought to Mark. He had heard of Seldon

from Ralph at Inveraig and again, lately, from his mother. But he

had no idea how far things had ever gone between them and he very

much wanted to know. He had no business whatever to be jealous of

the man; but he was fiercely jealous, none the less.

"How about that particular friend of yours, Seldon?" he asked

casually. "Mums told me you had him here. Quite regenerate. All

your achievement--what d'you think? Will it last?"'

She started and looked up. "How odd you should speak of him. He was

in my mind."

"_Why_ was he in your mind?"

Jealousy flashed out in spite of him: and she smiled.

"Isn't he allowed to be?"

"I'm not sure. Depends how he's going to behave himself!" The

chaffing tone was deliberately assumed. "As a patient----"

"Oh, he's not my patient any more," she put in quickly. "But I'm

bothered about him all the same."

"Why? _Isn't_ it going to last?"

"He'll go out again. At least, I believe he will," she answered

evasively. "Motor transport, he says. He can't do despatch riding

any more."

"Still writes to you, does he?"

"Not very often--now." She paused; longing to tell him everything;

yet doubtful, still, whether any shred of feeling remained for Bel.

"And ... he doesn't want to marry you?" Mark asked irrelevantly. He

simply had to know.

"He did. That was the beginning of it."

"Of what?--The drink? Because you wouldn't have him?"

"Mark--that's an insult!" But it was useless pretending to be angry.

The discovery that he could be jealous, even half in joke, sent her

spirits up with a run. "Someone else was responsible for that, thank

goodness. And unluckily, he's come across her again. I'm not at all

happy about it; and I don't think he is either."

"Wrong sort, is she?"

"M-yes. I don't believe she wants him. Yet--she's holding him in

spite of himself."

"Poor devil!" Mark was quite ready now to extend the hand of

sympathy. "_I_ know--all about that." He spoke slowly and with

emphasis. He had decided, on the spur of the moment, to break

through his misleading silence about Bel; to explain frankly the

process and the completeness of his disenchantment. She must know.

She had the right to know: she, whom he had so cavalierly deserted,

after their names had been coupled by relatives and friends. Though

power to make reparation was denied him, he felt imperatively that

she must know.

So, after a pause, he went on, with the same slow emphasis: "You

see--perhaps you did see--Miss Alison was that sort."

The formal name, so casually spoken, sounded very strange on his

lips; and her heart, that was now in a troublesome state of

commotion, rejoiced to hear it. "Yes: I did see--afterwards," she

said in her quietest voice. "Not at first."

"Nor did I--at first. In fact, not clearly, till I got out to

France. Machine-guns and high explosives play havoc with more than

the landscape and the human envelope. They smash up unrealities and

readjust all the values. Oh yes, out there one saw things

clear--horrid clear. Her letters too..." he paused. "And all those

weeks, when ... I was dead, when I seemed to have no real link with

anything, any one but that devoted little nun. Her saintliness, her

simplicity ... made things clearer than ever. I saw--" he paused,

looking down into the heart of the wood; tempted beyond measure to

defy Fate and iron decrees and tell her all he had seen in those

strange days, when his lips were closed and his eyes were dazzlingly

opened to the truth. The one thing he did not see at that moment,

fortunately perhaps, was Sheila's face, bright with the dawn of

realisation, of an almost incredible hope. "I saw," he repeated in a

low, impersonal tone, as if talking to himself, "how rootless our

whole relation was and always had been. She never reached the

depths. Didn't want to. She had no earthly use for them. Her

effect on me was an artificial stimulus all along. Mind, I'm not

excusing myself. It's no credit to me that she could and did take

such a hold. And I came very near marrying her before I went out.

Makes me shiver now to think of it: for her sake as much as my own.

Dangerous things, these war marriages. I've heard of some painful

cases.--Then, when I came back, there she was--irresistible as ever.

But the something in me that couldn't resist her had been burnt

away--out there. Then they told me I was a permanent crock.... No

choice--after that. Marrying days were over." A pause. "Perhaps,

after all, it's worth being smashed up, like this, to save one's soul

alive. There--now you know. I've been wanting to tell you ... all

that this long while."

"And I've been badly ... wanting to know," she admitted very softly;

but his quick ear caught a new vibration in her voice. Startled out

of his passing relief, he turned swiftly and was confronted by a

transfigured Sheila, gifts in her eyes, the colour rising in her

cheeks. For her there was no iron decree. Heart and soul she was

ready. And Mark, for one measureless moment, sat there tongue-tied,

realising what he had done, realising still more acutely what he

dared not do.... With a supreme effort he forced himself to look

away from her.

"I was _right_ when I said ... just now ... the dead have the best of

it," he muttered in a tone of concentrated bitterness.

Sheila sat silent, motionless. It was as if with one hand he had

lifted her to heaven and with the other had flung her back into the

dust--Her eyes were blinded so that she could not see the pain in his

face: and suddenly her ears caught the purr of the motor coming down

the drive.

"Ah--there they are!" It was Mark who spoke.

Sheila heard the note of relief in his voice and it cut her to the

heart.

Without a word she rose and went to meet them----

CHAPTER IV

"A seed of fire is in the human soul

That tears can quench not...."

F. W. B.

Helen, herself, had seen at a glance that something was wrong: very

wrong indeed. When the two were gone, she returned to Mark with a

flutter of trepidation at her heart.

Sheila cared. By this time she was convinced of it. And Mark? Once

already, in his blindness, he had flung aside this jewel of a girl.

Did he mean to do it a second time open-eyed, because his body had

suffered shipwreck in the service of his country? If he had got that

resolve in his brain, she foreknew the futility of argument.

Yet--given the chance and the facts--she was prepared to fight it out

with him, for Sheila's sake no less than his own.

But it was for him to speak first; and she feared his silence.

During her absence he had wheeled himself along the terrace and back

again to that fatal corner, where a ghostly Sheila still sat in the

empty chair, her arms resting on the table, a light of unearthly

beauty in her eyes. His face wore the hard closed-up look that his

mother had not seen for weeks. Casual talk about Bramleigh Beeches

was sheerly impossible.

"My darling, what _has_ gone wrong?" she made bold to ask.

He frowned and set his teeth. "Everything. Too perfect to last. I

might have known it." He looked about him uneasily. "We can't talk

out here. Let's get indoors."

They proceeded to get indoors accordingly; and there by the freshly

crackling drawing-room fire it was possible to talk. Mark lit a

cigarette to steady himself. Lady Forsyth sat in her favourite small

chair, warming her hands, that always went cold under stress of

emotion.

"Mark, did you speak to her?" she asked quietly.

"I came within an ace of it--God forgive me!"

Those three words confirmed her worst fears. But she could say

nothing yet. Her heart was beating fast. It was a distressing

symptom, greatly increased by months of anxiety and the ceaseless

strain of the war.

So she remained silent, awaiting further revelations. And after a

pause Mark went on:--"I deserve a thorough good kicking. Wish I'd a

father to give it me. Perhaps Keith will. I'm not blaming you,

Mums. This massage business has done me no end of good. But in

every other respect it's been the very devil. As for _her_--she's

the most perfect thing God ever made. And I'm afraid ... I'm

horribly afraid ... she cares. The look in her eyes dumbfounded me.

There was no choice between a clean cut ... and surrender...."

"And why _not_ surrender?" his mother ventured, fearful yet

undaunted. "Honestly I believe--it would be better and happier for

us all."

At that the stifled flame in him leaped out even as she had feared.

"Better for _me_ ... for you. That's the extent of your honest

belief. Mums, you're not facing this business straight: though you

think you are. You're just a dear devoted mother-woman. Whatever

your son cries for, from a Noah's ark to a wife, you'll move heaven

and earth to get it for him at any cost--to any one. And I love you

for it. But you can't expect me, always, to see it the same way.

I'm considering Sheila and no one but Sheila----"

"My dear boy, _I'm_ considering her too!" his mother cried out,

unable to endure that last reproach. "I've been doing so a good deal

longer than you have; and, believe it or not, my understanding of her

goes deeper than yours. I'm a woman. She's a woman----"

"_There_ you are!" Mark fairly took the word out of her mouth.

"It's because she's so divinely a woman that I refuse to let her in

for ... a travesty of a marriage. A girl like that was created for

better things than dancing attendance on a broken man. It would be a

sin. You know that as well as I do."

She was silent a moment, recognising that he spoke the truth: one

side of it. But even while she loved and honoured him for his

refusal, conviction remained that Sheila, if she really cared, would

recognise no obstacles.

"But, dear, after all, things aren't quite past mending," she urged

in a quieter tone. "Surely Sheila has the right to know you love

her, and to make her own choice."

Mark shook his head. "She wouldn't think things out. And she'd be

too tender-hearted to refuse.--As for me, there probably will be

improvement, of sorts. But, so far as I can see, the chances are

I'll never be a whole man again: and I don't see myself marrying

Sheila, on the off chance----"

"Oh--you're hopeless! And _she's_ helpless, poor darling! Why must

we wretched women always be dumb on this matter that concerns us

above everything else? She ought to be allowed to take the

initiative in a case like this."

"Just as well for me that she isn't," Mark muttered grimly. But she

detected in his voice the mere ghost of a vibration, and a wild hope

leaped in her heart. Sheila might move him, or Keith----

At this point Mark leaned forward suddenly and flung away his

cigarette.

"Don't let's talk of this again, Mums," he said, more gently than he

had spoken yet. "It hurts us both too much. Also it's futile.

Nothing on earth would induce me to offer Sheila--damaged goods:

damaged in every sense. I'm the sinner first and last. When I ought

to have been at her feet, I was wasting my substance on ... Miss

Alison. Oh yes ... you knew ... you're welcome to your private

triumph.'

"My son--it's no triumph," she broke out bitterly. "It's torment. I

would sooner have been entirely wrong and that Bel should have turned

out worthy of your chivalrous love----"

"Well, _I_ wouldn't," he contradicted her inevitably. "I wouldn't

sooner anything that might have robbed me of discovering Sheila as

I've been discovering her these few weeks; even though it's made

things in general ten times harder to bear. She's a perpetual

inspiration. A light of earth. If she were only that--! But she's

more. And so ... she's not for me. Possibly I was mistaken this

afternoon. It might have been ... just her heavenly sympathy. I

hope to God it was! We'll run no more risks, anyway. If she gets

this leave of hers, I'd better go off on some sort of tour with

Keith:--doctor's orders! If he's too busy, the Sinclairs might put

up with me for a bit, or Uncle John down at Weymouth. The farther

the better. We must furbish up some sort of presentable excuse.

It's pretty detestable, just when things in general seemed to be

taking a real lift all round."

And his mother sat listening to it all, mute and miserable,

envisaging the spring and summer--that had seemed to promise

resurrection--darkened by this fresh tragedy. She knew, now, just

how high hope had risen of late.

"And is this sort of thing ... to be permanent?" she asked, with a

sigh of utter weariness.

He turned and regarded her reproachfully, the faintest flicker of

humour in his grave eyes. "My dear Mums, I sometimes wonder if you

really have walked this earth for fifty years! Is anything ever

permanent--except change? I suppose ... we shall both shake down in

time and accept the horrid fact. But at present, as things stand,

the less she sees of me the better. She ought--to marry. And she

probably will. Oh _God_!"

The last words were no more than a fierce whisper, and his hand

closed sharply on the arm of his chair.

His mother neither moved nor spoke. She leaned forward over the

fire, her face half turned away from him, thankful the lights were

not switched on.

But although no sob escaped her, Mark knew very well that she was

crying. In other circumstances he would have been on his knees

beside her. As it was, he sat there dumb; chained to the accursed

chair, raging at his helplessness; raging still more at his very

belated readiness to fulfil her heart's desire.

Soon she rose hurriedly, murmured something about coming back soon,

and left him....

They were alone that evening. Keith was dining at Wynchmere and

speaking afterwards at the Working Man's Club on ambulance driving in

France. They missed him badly, both of them. It is often the way

with such quiet, unobtrusive natures. Keith and Sheila were alike in

that respect: and all through dinner, both were vividly present to

the minds of mother and son. But their talk in the main was of

Bramleigh Beeches, Indian genius, and the poetry of Tagore.

After dinner Mark asked for _Sadhāna_ and music. He wanted

to escape from talk that could not, just then, be anything but a mere

makeshift between them: a state of things unnatural and intolerable

to both. While his mother played Grieg and Beethoven, he opened his

book haphazard at the poet's exquisite clear-eyed discourse on

"Realisation in Love."

"Our individual soul," he read, "has been separated from the Supreme

Soul not from alienation, but from fulness of love. It is for this

reason that untruths, sufferings, and evil are not at a standstill:

the human soul can defy them, can overcome them; nay, can altogether

transform them into new power and beauty...."

Mark pondered that sentence a long while. It was like a light

flashed upon the dark path before him; like the voice of God in his

own soul, saying, "This do and thou shalt live." His faith in the

Unseen was, like that of most Britons, an inarticulate and very

hidden thing. But his brief, strenuous spell of service, followed by

weeks of intimate, yet unspoken communion with the passionate soul of

one small French nun, had intensified his inner vision and deepened

the measure of faith that was in him. To-night he recognised and

accepted the task assigned him; recognised also that, just in so far

as he fulfilled it, he would be still able to serve his country and

his own people, in defiance of his handicap. The struggle between

spirit and matter, that had hitherto been the keynote of his art,

must now become the keynote of his life.... "Unconquering, yet

unconquered...." Stevenson knew.

Yet still his desolate, rebellious heart cried out that _with Sheila_

any achievement were possible: without her the future loomed dark and

formless, a night devoid of stars....

Punctually at ten he asked to be taken up to bed. When he was gone,

the house felt so silent and empty that Helen fled for refuge to her

own room and her own fire. Anxious and disheartened by this fresh

trouble, she clung to the thought of Keith as a shipwrecked man to a

spar. Her own pleading was vitiated--no denying it--by the mere fact

of her motherhood. Keith could speak more impartially, more frankly,

as one man to another. She wanted to see him, and unburden her heart

to him before she slept. But he expected to be late and had begged

her not to sit up. Besides, he would be tired and it would not be

fair on him. She must have patience till the morning. Her rebel

spirit was being drilled into patience these days.

The door into Mark's room was shut. It most often had to be, now.

But she heard no sound of footsteps. The men had evidently left him.

Should she go in and say good night? Her heart yearned over him; and

it was hateful to feel unsure of her welcome. Did he guess how

acutely she missed his casual wanderings in and out; the arguments,

the "ragging," and the dear delights of their ancient comradeship,

that almost seemed to belong to another life?

Latterly, under Sheila's reviving influence, the old happy relation

had been renewed with a difference. It was she who now went in to

him for early tea, when he did not peremptorily order her back lest

she catch cold; and the "hair-brush interview" often took place

beside his bed. Being dependent on the men, he could not sit up till

all hours. Now, to-day--just as hope was sending green shoots into

the sunshine--she felt jerked back into the miseries and

uncertainties of a winter that she would fain wipe clean out of her

memory.

Finally, she decided to go in to him and chance the result.

The comfort of finding she was welcome would be worth the risk.

His room was in darkness: curtains drawn back, windows flung open,

revealing a strip of starry sky and black pine branches blotting out

a constellation or two. The light from her own room guided her to

his bed.

He said not a word. But his arms came out to greet her; and he drew

her down, clinging to her, as he had never done in the days before

War had crippled his strong, shapely body and shaken his nerves.

"I thought--you had forgotten," he said at last.

"And _I_ thought perhaps--you would rather not."

He tightened his hold. "I forbid you to think that, ever. No matter

what the devil inside me may say or do. A nice sort of curse I am to

you, little Mums."

"You're the dearest blessing of my life," she answered, her cheek

against his.

It was some time before he let her go: but neither of them spoke the

word uppermost in their minds.

She left him at last, with his fervent "God bless you" in her ears

and hope renewed in her heart. Sheila--if she loved him

sufficiently--must win in the end.

CHAPTER V

"Yea, there shall be a time that shall lay hold on a man unaware and

shall give him one thing beyond his hope."--PINDAR.

She woke late, after a restless night, to find letters already on her

tray and the housemaid at her washing-stand.

In her room, as in Mark's, there was never any need for drawing back

curtains or opening windows to let in the morning. Winter and summer

she performed both offices herself before going to sleep. For her,

boxed-up bedrooms, stuffily curtained, were anathema. Nature's night

was a thing of brooding beauty; and the stars were her friends. If

she woke in the small hours, a frequent event, she liked to find them

looking in on her, to see them glimmering like Christmas candles

through the blackness of her sentinel pines.

Now the birds were making music in their branches, and the stars had

long since been blown out by the sun.

"Has Sir Mark had his tea?" she asked, as the maid went out.

"No, my lady: he's still asleep."

"Tell Macgregor not to disturb him."

That meant--a bad night: for he was an early waker. And, for all her

devotion, she could do practically nothing to ease his misery. It is

one of the hardest though perhaps not the least salutary laws of life.

She lit her spirit lamp and took up her letters. One of them was

from Mrs. Melrose: an unusual event. In spite of the link between

their children, and the natural inference that some day Sheila would

marry Mark, these two were not friends. They were merely life-long

acquaintances. But Mrs. Melrose, like many of her kind, could slip

on the cloak of friendship when it happened to serve her purpose.

And it served her purpose now.

"My dear Lady Forsyth," she wrote--"I've been feeling rather

concerned lately about our Sheila and her future prospects. I say

'our,' because, by her own choice, she seems to belong almost as much

to you as to her father and me. But--after all--she is mine. I am

responsible for her welfare. And as we are such very old friends, I

am going to write to you quite frankly on the subject of her possible

marriage. Of course I know how you discourage gossip in every shape

and form, but you are, no doubt, aware that for a long time Sheila's

name was coupled with Mark's all over the neighbourhood. Quite

natural--you must admit. And if Mark had not suddenly gone off at a

tangent in another direction, I wouldn't have given the matter a

thought. I am far too busy to worry over trifles."

("Too busy to win your daughter's confidence or her heart!" was

Helen's mental interjection.)

"But even in these casual days, it does not improve a girl's chances

if her name is bandied about, coupled with this man and that. Last

autumn there was that Mr. Seldon. Now I hear _he_ is running after

Miss Alison. She seems a dangerous young woman.

"But what chiefly worries me is this. I discovered the other day

that people round here are again speculating about Sheila and Mark.

And I am sure, dear Lady Forsyth, you will agree with me that this

won't do at all. Mind, I am not saying a word against Mark. But I

do think that, for Sheila's sake, he should be careful not to set

people talking again in that way, as he would not, I feel sure, think

of asking her to marry him, now. To be quite frank, neither her

father nor I would wish it. And I feel sure you would not wish it

either----"

At this point Helen flushed furiously. Those velvety phrases barely

concealed the direct hit at herself: but the next few sentences so

startled her that she almost forgot to be angry.

"Personally, in strict confidence, I am convinced that Mr. Macnair is

seriously _épris_ with our little girl. Surely you must have noticed

it yourself? And nothing would delight me more. He is clever,

charming, eligible in every way. I thought of it first when he began

teaching her to drive. And it has been very marked since his return

from France. I have said nothing yet, to Sheila herself. She is

difficult about such things; so shut in. Her Melrose grandmother all

over. And Mr. Macnair is so modest. The sort of man who needs a

certain amount of _discreet_ encouragement. But darling Sheila is

rather a little fool in that way. I've told her more than once her

pride will be her ruin! Now she talks about spending her leave at

Wynchcombe Friars. This would be _such_ a good chance to complete

matters and put an end to all this gossip, that I hope I am not

presuming on our friendship, if I ask you to give them both a

_little_ push in the right direction--quite unobtrusively, as only an

older woman can. It's all they need, dear foolish creatures, and I

may add you would earn my eternal gratitude. Forgive me if I have

written too frankly. But being a mother yourself, I am _sure_ you

will understand. So glad to hear from Sheila that Mark is really

better in every way.

"Yours most sincerely,

"ADELA MELROSE.

It is hardly too much to say that before Helen Forsyth reached the

end of that amazing burst of confidence, she had a sudden dizzying

sensation of seeing the world, her familiar home-world, the wrong

side up. Keith and Sheila--whom she had always regarded as belonging

respectively to herself and Mark! And she--with her tragic knowledge

of her son's belated awakening--was to give those two the "little

push" that would send them into each other's arms!

Once or twice, at Boulogne, she remembered, this very idea had dimly

occurred to her. But now--coming from Mrs. Melrose of all

people--she found it intolerable. She resented it vehemently; and

not on Mark's account alone. Yet the disconcerting fact remained

that Keith might hold other views on the subject. She had always

been sceptical over Mark's nonsense about herself. At least--until

this bewildering moment--she had honestly believed in her own

scepticism. She had put the idea away from her and thanked God for

the treasure of Keith's devoted friendship. But this morning she

perceived, for the first time, that she was not at all prepared for

his falling in love elsewhere.

Was she fundamentally given to self-deception, without knowing

it--she who set such store by sincerity of soul? Only last night

Mark had turned another of her "honest beliefs" inside out. What

would he say to this?

And Sheila herself? Incredible!

Distracted by conflicting emotions and utterly perplexed, she leaned

back among her pillows. There could be no peace, on her own account

or Mark's, till she had got at the truth. But--a gleam of humour

flashed through her dismay--how was it to be done? Wire to Sheila:

"Are you in love with Keith?"? Ask Keith over his coffee and

newspaper: "Are you in love with Sheila?"? Confront each with the

other on Wednesday, and say point-blank: "Look here, if you two want

to marry, Mark and I have no objections to make"?

Perhaps they were hesitating on that score. It would be just like

them. And as to Keith, there was no denying that Mrs. Melrose had a

case. He had never disguised his admiration for Sheila. Words and

incidents, unnoticed at the time, came crowding back to her memory----

It was mainly to Sheila that Helen looked for reprieve, especially

after last night. Yet, if she went to Mark now, with this Melrose

fantasy, he would simply say: "What did I tell you? The real mother

has a natural eye to Sheila's real interests. If there's a ghost of

a chance for Keith, let the whole man win her if he can."

Yes. Mark would say that: and he would be right.

Of a sudden, she felt heartily ashamed of herself. What was it she

had said to Sheila at Inveraig?--"Be as kind as you please to your

poor things so long as you stop short of marrying them." Yet when it

came to her own son, she was ready to eat her counsel without

compunction. But then--Mark was Mark. And if Sheila loved him--if

she preferred mothering her one disabled hero----?

If--if! She was simply back again at her argument of last night.

Till she knew the facts, speculation was futile. And until she did

know, she would certainly say nothing to Mark. Keith, as usual, was

her city of refuge. After breakfast she would get him away alone and

tell him everything. If necessary, she would even show him that

detestable letter.....

At breakfast in the study they talked war news and Government delays

and the Great Offensive, that appeared to have been slain either by

bad Staff work, or by lack of ammunition and shells. And while they

talked, Helen was surreptitiously watching Keith's lean, thoughtful

face, with awakened eyes; listening to the even quiet of his voice

with new ears. And all the time she was telling herself sternly that

perhaps this very Keith, her own peculiar property, was in love with

Sheila.

When at last he went down to the library, she followed him at a

casual distance. He had just grasped the door-handle when she

reached the last of the stairs.

"Keith," she called; and he turned quickly. "I've had a letter that

puzzles me rather. Can you spare me a few minutes?"

"The whole morning if you like."

There was no fervour in his tone. He simply stated an obvious fact.

"Well, come out on the terrace and bask in this lovely day. When the

sun is kind enough to take notice of England we ought to give him

every encouragement!"

She talked on rather rapidly for the sake of saying something and

keeping nervousness at bay. She had a deep respect for the reserves

of her men-folk: and now, too late, she shrank from laying a finger

on the curtain that hid the real Keith from her. Outside on the

terrace she fell silent till they reached the far corner, where Mark

and Sheila had parted so abruptly the day before.

"Well--what about your letter?" he asked, an amused note in his

voice. It was so like Helen to ask for an urgent few minutes and

then talk about April sunshine. It was the sort of thing that made

her at once so aggravating and so lovable.

No escape now; and she plunged headlong.

"It's from Mrs. Melrose. She has an idea ... she says ... you and

Sheila...." Quite useless. She could get no further. "I think,"

she added, handing him that innocuous-looking bombshell, "you'd

better read it for yourself."

Mystified by her manner and mildly curious, he obeyed: and she,

feeling uncomfortably shaky, half sat on the edge of the stone

balustrade, watching his face for some sign of confirmation or

reprieve. She saw his eyebrows go up, then draw together in a sharp

frown. Then there leaped a flame in his grey eyes such as she had

seen once or twice at Boulogne when he came into collision with

immobile Authority. Finally she saw a dull flush creep into his

face:--anger or emotion? It was hard to tell. The curtain was not

lifted--yet.

Quite suddenly, he looked up and caught her eyes on him.

"Has the woman taken leave of her senses?" he asked, in a dazed

voice. "Sheer insolence--all that twaddle about Mark. As for the

rest--" He paused, and his flush deepened. "Sheila and I are quite

capable of managing our own affairs without her inspired assistance."

"Precisely what I thought," Helen murmured. That "Sheila and I"

produced a horrid sinking at her heart.

"_You_? What have you been thinking?"

"A good deal ... since I read that letter." And the pang she had no

business to feel gave her courage to go on: "Keith, if it's true ...

what Mrs. Melrose says, I want to say ... on my own account, that you

need have no hesitation in this matter, because of Mark. He ... he

only spoke of it yesterday. He feels ... he has no right. I confess

I had hoped--but ... we both care so immensely for you two...."

"That you are graciously willing to fling us at each other's heads,"

Keith broke out angrily, "at the instigation of this impertinent

woman. Upon my word, Helen, I stand confounded----!"

She also stood confounded. Anger from Keith was more than she had

bargained for: and she was further inconvenienced by an ignominious

impulse to weep.

This gave Keith a distinct advantage: and he went on speaking with

the same phenomenal vehemence. "I gave you credit for a better

understanding of us both. Sheila and I, let me tell you, know our

own minds very thoroughly, and have done so for years. You say Mark

spoke of this yesterday? I'll warrant _he_ never coupled Sheila's

name with mine."

"No. He was speaking of himself. He feels ... it isn't fair on

her...."

"A good deal fairer, in my opinion, than sending her home crumpled up

as she was last night. Something happened, while we were out, that

broke her all to pieces. Obviously, from the way you are both

behaving, neither of you have a glimmering notion of what that girl

feels for Mark. It's my belief that, through long repression, her

love has reached a height of almost sacrificial devotion; and that's

not the sort of thing a man can afford to fling aside for a

scruple--even an honourable scruple."

"Would you say the same," she ventured--secretly overjoyed that he

shared her opinion--"if you ... were in Mark's position?"

Keith smiled. His anger had spent itself.

"Most likely I should be as cruelly considerate as he is being now.

But standing outside, I can get a clearer view of things. Helen, if

he persists in holding back, it's she that will suffer most: and I

wouldn't mind telling him so in very plain English. But it would be

infinitely better, for her own chances, if Sheila could be induced to

speak for herself."

"Keith! By whom?"

"By me."

"Would you do it--really?"

"I would, if only to refute that woman's fairy tale...."

"But--when?"

"To-day, if possible."

Helen's eyebrows were eloquent. It was not the first time, since war

awakened him, that she had been taken aback by his quiet swiftness of

thought and decision.

Before she had recovered from her surprise, he was speaking again.

"So much for Mark and Sheila--good luck to them! As for yourself--"

He paused, gazing at her steadfastly. "You ... blessed woman, has

the truth never once dawned on you ... in all these years...?"

It was visibly dawning on her now, half blinding her with its

brightness. She had thought to lift a corner of the curtain, and

here he was flinging back the whole of it that she might see and know

the depth of her misunderstanding. Confronted thus by the real,

hidden Keith, she found it amazingly difficult to say even a word in

reply.

"Mark did write something once," she admitted lamely, "in his last

letter from the trenches."

He could smile now at the tragic memory.

"That accounts for the missing sheet?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't believe him?"

"No. Somehow it seemed ... preposterous."

"_Why_ preposterous?"

His laconic bluntness told her how deeply he was moved.

"Keith, I'm eight years older than you. And ... I felt as if it

ought to be Sheila. And--" A still longer pause. Her heart was

beating in jerks. "I wasn't altogether sure ... of myself. Then

when you came back, you gave no sign----"

"'He either fears his fate too much, or his deserts are small,'"

Keith quoted, still watching her sunlit face. "A little of both--in

this case. My dear ... it's more than fifteen years now that I've

loved you. I've never given a thought to any other woman. And I've

never entertained a shred of hope----"

She tried to speak. It was useless: but the quiver of her lips

emboldened him.

"Helen--was I wrong?"

"Partly wrong."

"Does that mean ... would you--could you marry me?"

"I think it's rather ... could _you_," she said very low; and if her

words were faintly discouraging, he had the tender assurance of her

eyes. "I must be frank with you, Keith. What I have to give--though

I give it with all my heart--is not the same thing ... quite. I

can't be--you understand?"

"Of course I understand....'

"But that's only half," she interposed, smiling. "And I had to say

it. The other half is ... I love you dearly. I need you ... at

every turn. We seem to belong in a very special way to each other.

And this morning I wanted to murder Mrs. Melrose. If that's

confession enough...?"

"_If_?" he echoed: and she had never heard his expressive voice

condense so much feeling into a single word.

She had risen in speaking, and now she stood before him in the clear

sunlight, that made her eyes look bluer than ever, and discovered

gleams of silver in her red-brown hair. But Keith had no concern for

these, or for the lines pencilled by sorrow and strain. He looked

beyond them to the springs of eternal youth within her. Frankly, and

in a manner delightfully her own, she had confessed her need of him;

yet he made no move towards her. They simply stood there, a foot of

space between them, their spirits linked in closest

communion--satisfied.

Even had they been indoors it is doubtful whether Keith would have

done otherwise. The truth penetrated slowly; and for him that moment

had a sacredness, an exaltation----

A touch, a word, would have brought them down to earth.

Yet it was he who first became aware of the "scarlet spider" skimming

down the drive. "Sheila," he said quietly. "I'm certain of it."

And he was right. The telegram was addressed to Helen, and it ran:

"Cannot come Wednesday. Please forgive.--SHEILA."

She handed it to Keith. He read it without comment and put out his

hand for a form.

Helen stood close to him, almost touching his elbow, while he wrote:

"Arrange to be free to-day. I am coming this morning.

Urgent.--MACNAIR."

"Be off with that double quick," he said to the boy. Then, as the

red wheels vanished, he turned to Helen. "Just a chance it may get

there before me and pave the way. I've business first in Wynchmere

that can't wait."

He spoke so completely in his ordinary manner that Helen felt almost

as if their wonderful moment must have been a dream. But it was no

dream. He was talking of it now in the same calm fashion.

"We won't tell Mark--yet," he said.

"No. It would be cruel. I may not even go up till you come back.

He said he might work this morning and wanted to be alone. Afraid, I

suspect, of my returning to the attack! Oh, Keith, I _hope_ you

succeed."

"I mean to. I hope she will. That's more to the point."

Helen sighed. "He simply adores her. One sees the difference--after

Bel. But he's hopelessly obstinate about it. I was quite angry with

him last night."

"Poor old chap!" His eyes dwelt upon her tenderly. "Sometimes I

wonder which of your two children you love best."

"And I've sometimes wondered which of them _you_ loved best!" was her

counter-thrust to that impermissible remark. "Go soon. And ... come

back soon. Mrs. Melrose will never forgive me!"

"We'll survive that. And she'll have me to reckon with now...."

Before leaving, he came to her in the drawing-room, where she was

filling a bowl with daffodils. Silently he held out his hands, and

she gave him both her own.

"Rather wet!" she said, to cover a troublesome feeling of confusion.

He smiled and drew her nearer. Then, very quietly, as if it were an

act of consecration, he stooped and kissed her.

Afterwards she came out and waved to him from the doorstep as he

drove away: the same Keith to whom she had played elder sister for

years; and yet so strange a Keith that it was as if she had barely

known him till to-day.

Putting on her garden hat, she wandered out into the pinewood,

dappled with sun and shadow, jewelled with patches of moss. Letters

were waiting to be written. Let them wait. She had a consuming need

to be alone with her amazing knowledge and her so strangely

reawakened heart.

Fifteen years! What was she, to deserve such love from two such men

as Richard and Keith? Deliberately she linked their names in her

mind. Deliberately she stood still with uplifted face and closed

eyes.

"Richard, _do_ you understand?" she whispered just above her breath.

Only the pine branches rustled overhead.

CHAPTER VI

"You yourself know not how beautiful is your gift."

SIR RABINDRANATH TAGORE.

It was Mrs. Melrose who opened Keith's telegram, and her elation may

be conceived. Sheila was engaged, at the moment, on a new arrival;

but directly she was free, her mother beckoned her mysteriously into

the passage and handed her the envelope.

"I opened it, just to see if there was any answer," she explained

with repressed eagerness, while Sheila stood frowning at the cryptic

message that might mean ... anything, everything.

"I _wish_ you wouldn't open telegrams addressed to me, Mother," she

said, none too graciously. It was the second time lately that Mrs.

Melrose had been guilty of that dire offence; and she was one of the

very few people who knew that Sheila could snap on provocation: a

sufficiently illuminating comment on their relation.

"Well, really, dear, one doesn't _expect_ a wire to be a love-letter

in disguise!" Sheila, who could be dense at times, missed the

delicate implication that Keith's message amounted to a proposal of

marriage. "Of course you must be free. I'll arrange it with Sister

Nelson."

"Oh, please don't trouble. _I_ can arrange things all right."

And she did.

Some twenty minutes later, Mark's car drew up before the spacious,

flat-fronted Georgian house; and Keith sprang out of it. To-day all

his movements had a new alertness. He looked and felt five years

younger.

Three shallow steps led up to the front door; and just as he reached

these, Sheila came out in hat and coat, plainly prepared to join him.

She looked paler than usual, but entirely mistress of herself.

"You got my wire?" he asked superfluously.

"Yes. Very mysterious! So I thought ... better be prepared for

emergencies. Nothing wrong with Mums?"

"No. Mums is particularly well this morning. It's not on _her_

account I'm here."

The emphasised word brought a faint glow to her cheeks.

"Mark?" she asked, almost under her breath.

"Yes--Mark."

"You mean--he sent you?"

"No. The impulse was altogether my own. I am here because I believe

in you, Sheila. Come for a stroll down the garden before we start

back."

She came--bewildered, palpitating; prepared for almost anything but

the actual event.

From the house of many windows, park-like grounds sloped gently down

to the Wynch, broader and lazier here than at Wynchcombe Friars. The

grass was bright with crocuses and early daffodils; and on the bare

boughs overhead, half-opened leaf-buds gleamed like jewels in the sun.

Keith, as he turned, caught sight of Mrs. Melrose at an upper window,

watching them go.

"Your mother has her eye on us," he remarked casually. "I believe

she thinks I've come tearing over to make you an offer of marriage!"

"_You_!" Sheila confronted him in blank surprise.

"Don't be alarmed," Keith reassured her, with his whimsical smile.

"I've already been guilty of it once this morning."

At that her eyes opened wider than ever, and he saw light dawn in

their depths.

"Mums?"

He nodded.

"How simply splendid! It's been my pet, private dream for ages. But

I was afraid...."

"So was I. Horribly afraid. Without reason, I am thankful to say."

A pause.

"I want ... to congratulate you," she said softly. "There's no one

on earth like Mums. She's the youngest of us all. And ... Mark?

Isn't he glad?"

"Mark's in no mood to be glad about anything," Keith answered, with a

straight look. "That's why I am here. We haven't told him. We

can't tell him ... yet. And we can't help him, either of us. Only

you can do that."

She flushed hotly and looked down at the crocuses.

"I'm afraid you overestimate my powers. I've done all ... I can.'

"No, you've _not_ done all," he corrected her gently. "Or I should

not be standing here. I take it that you ... care for Mark: that you

have always cared."

She drew in her lips and answered nothing. Then she looked up at

him, her secret unveiled. Strangely, it did not hurt her that he

should know.

"I thought so," he remarked to her silence. "And on the strength of

that conviction, I've come over to put the whole truth before you.

It's no easy thing I'm going to ask of you, Sheila. But I believe in

you--as I said."

He moved on in speaking, and she moved on beside him--wondering,

fearing, yet longing to know all.

Plainly and straightforwardly he told of her mother's letter;

quieting, with a tactful hand, her incidental burst of indignation.

Personally, he assured her, he felt quite grateful to Mrs. Melrose,

who, in trying to do him one good turn, had inadvertently done him

another. That consideration calmed her a little and touched up her

sense of humour.

"If she's been any help to you and Mums, I forgive her ... for that

part of it," she said in a voice that quivered between a laugh and a

sob. "But I won't forgive her ... about Mark ... _ever_."

And when Sheila said that, she meant it. She had never forgiven Bel.

It was the streak of Northern granite in her disposition. Keith had

purposely included those remarks that had roused his own anger. He

had reckoned them his strongest cards. He now perceived them to be

stronger than he had supposed, and he suffered a passing twinge of

conscience. But the matter at stake was too vital to be tripped up

by side issues: and he went on to tell her, in quiet forcible

phrases, of Helen's distress, of Mark's devotion that appeared to

confirm rather than weaken his flat refusal to sacrifice her on the

altar of his own supreme need.

And Sheila heard him out in an unbroken silence. He could only gauge

the effect of his revelation by her uneven breathing and an

occasional movement of her lips.

When he had told all, he stood still and confronted her. "There, my

dear," he said, a deep note of feeling in his voice. "It's a tragic

tangle. And, for love of Mark and you ... and Helen, I'd go almost

any length to unravel it. But there's only one who can do that. And

now perhaps you can guess what it is I came to say."

She still remained silent, studying a patch of crocuses, realising

acutely all that his request implied; shrinking, yet passionately

longing to go in and win that which was her own. She had gone very

pale again. But as realisation deepened, her face became one burning

blush.

"Do you mean ... that I must offer ... myself?" she asked at length,

addressing her question to the crocuses. "I--I almost did it

yesterday. At least ... I'm sure he saw it in my eyes. And ... he

slipped away."

"Yes. He would. I am afraid--if you really want to convince him,

you must put aside all the conventionalities, all your natural

reluctance, and ... show him your heart. _Make_ him believe. He

only hesitates, remember, from the highest motives and because he has

no conception how deeply you care.--Now, will you come along with me

and put everything right for the four of us?"

There fell another tremendous silence. Keith knew well that he could

scarcely have asked a harder thing of her. Second after second she

stood there, her hands clenched, wrestling with her pride, her

dumbness....

Then she said slowly, as if speaking to herself: "I can't ... I

_can't_. It's against my whole nature. The words would never come.

Oh _why_ ... won't he understand?"

"Because he is a very chivalrous gentleman," Keith answered with

significant emphasis. "And if you really can't bring yourself to

make a move, well ... I must go back alone and confess I was

mistaken. Of course, _I_ can speak to him myself. But if I failed,

I should fail fatally.--It is strange. I felt absolutely certain of

you, Sheila.--Is that your final, considered answer? Am I to go?"

By a wise intuition he refrained from pleading or further argument,

and his stern quietness stung her as no reproach would have done.

Suddenly she felt Mark himself tugging at her heart. She saw the

look in his eyes, heard again those terrible words that haunted her

brain. And was this to be the end? Were they all to be made

miserable because there were bounds that her pride could not pass, a

limit beyond which she could not or would not go?

Against that arbitrary decree all her deeper, truer nature rose up in

revolt. There were no bounds ... no limits. In that critical moment

of decision her childhood's creed of courage came timely to her aid.

She looked up at last: and Keith saw that he had prevailed.

"No. You are _not_ going back alone," she said, steadfastly meeting

his gaze. "I was a coward to say ... I couldn't speak to him. I

can. And I will."

"Ah--that's more like it!" There was vast relief in Keith's tone.

"You've saved my reputation for omniscience. Now, come and save Mark

from himself."

"_If_ I can," she murmured, with a catch in her breath; and they

hurried back up the slope towards the house.

There on the steps they descried, afar off, the severely repressed

figure of Mrs. Melrose radiating congratulations. Keith, the

resourceful, felt suddenly nonplussed.

"Sheila, look there! We're done for."

"Not a bit of it," Sheila replied in her most matter-of-fact tone.

"We're in a mortal hurry and we don't happen to notice her till we're

in the car."

"Capital! Lucky I backed it well away from the entrance."

It was done--and neatly done. Keith was just turning the car when he

ostentatiously caught sight of his would-be mother-in-law.

"Good morning, Mrs. Melrose," he called out cheerfully. "I'm sorry I

can't stop. So good of you to spare her. She's badly wanted over

there."

Mrs. Melrose, completely mystified and very much annoyed, fluttered a

perfunctory hand and went back into the house wondering irritably

what on earth had happened to Mr. Macnair.

That Lady Forsyth could have happened to him never so much as entered

her head. There had been a good deal of talk at one time; but it had

fizzled out for want of fuel. Her chief concern at the moment was to

prevent Sheila from becoming entangled again with Mark. When he

would have been a really suitable match, she had muddled things.

Just like her! But now--position or no position--it wouldn't do at

all----

And Sheila, with never a word of her intent, was speeding through the

April sunshine, bent upon a permanent entanglement with Mark: one

that no mother in creation could undo.

As the little car lightly tossed the miles aside, he? courage and

purpose rose steadily.

Keith, for all his own eagerness, drove at a low speed. He knew

well, from experience, how rushing through the air scatters and

paralyses thought. They had but seven miles to cover; and he guessed

rightly that Sheila needed a quiet breathing space to mobilise her

spiritual forces for the brave adventure in hand. So they drove

leisurely between woods and fields and uplands, quick with new life

and young desires. And throughout that most companionable drive they

scarcely exchanged a word.

Only when Keith handed Sheila out of the car, he retained her hand a

moment in his own.

"Luck follows pluck," he said, smiling. "_I_ have no fear. But

first we must find Helen."

They found her basking on the terrace with an open book in her lap.

As a matter of fact, she had not read two pages. She had done

literally nothing but await their arrival.

"Well, here she is," Keith said, as Helen sprang up to greet them.

"My private trophy. How's Mark?"

"I haven't been near him. I began to think you would never come."

"Ungrateful!" he reproached her gravely. "We've done it all in

record time. We deserve congratulation. Now--give her your blessing

and don't keep her long."

While the blessing was in progress he left them. His own turn would

come in time.

"Dearest one," Sheila murmured between her kisses, "I _do_

congratulate you with all my soul. He's a treasure. This

morning.... But you shall hear all that ... afterwards." Then she

stood back a little, blushing and smiling. "Mums, tell me true. Am

I being very unspeakable ... after yesterday?"

"Very unspeakable!" The older woman slipped an arm round her and

drew her through the open French window into the house. "God bless

you, child," she added gravely, kissing her again. "You're being

angelically a woman. But, darling ... are you quite, _quite_

sure...?" Her eyes completed the question. "I've had pricks of

conscience, waiting here. Have you realised ... _every_thing?"

"Yes. Everything. Long ago," Sheila answered steadily, a hot wave

of colour in her cheeks. "It simply doesn't count. Nothing counts

... except him."

"In that case I'm satisfied. But I couldn't forget what you said

once at Inveraig."

"Oh, that! Fancy your remembering. But now--it's Mark. He's my

share of the War. And ... gospel truth, Mums--I'd sooner 'mother'

him than anything else on earth."

"Oh--if you can only make him understand _that_!" Tears stood in

Helen's eyes. "It was not for nothing I christened you 'Queen of the

Poor Things.'"

"Mums, how _dare_ you!" For a moment Sheila was really angry. "He's

_not_ a poor thing. He's the most glorious thing that was ever

made.--Now, let me fly upstairs. 'Valour will come and go!'"

Her low laugh had a break in it, and she hurried from the room.

Outside the studio, she paused to steady herself. No sound came from

within; and she opened the door an inch or two.

"Mark," she called softly. "It's Sheila. Can I come in?"

"_Sheila!_" Amazement and smothered passion sounded in his voice.

But there was fear in it also.

"Come in, of course," he added hastily, as if to cover both.

She found him by the open window, sitting at his easel, crayon in

hand: and on the easel stood a delicate pastel study of herself. If

courage had wavered a moment, it revived at that. She looked from

him to the picture with lifted brows.

"Quite good," she said, slipping past the awkward explanation of her

presence.

"It isn't. It's a wretched travesty!'" he answered bluntly. "But

one must do something ... to keep going." He paused and scanned her

face searchingly. She did not attempt to avoid his gaze. Her eyes

were radiant, as if the windows of her soul were flung open to the

sunrise.

Sudden fear came upon him and sudden remembrance of his mother's

words. He had not fortified himself to resist this. Yet resist it

he must.

"_Why_ have you come again so soon ... like this?" he asked, going

straight to the point in his usual fashion.

"Because ... after yesterday..." She hesitated and drew in her lips.

"There could be only one way to put things straight between us and

make you unsay that bitter thing about the dead having the best of

it. Mark, it haunted me. But ... I couldn't have brought myself to

come, like this, so soon, except for Mr. Macnair and Mother's

extraordinary letter to Mums."

"What letter? Has Mums anything to do with this?" Mark flashed out.

And Sheila was thankful she could answer truthfully: "No. It was all

Mr. Macnair. He came over because of that letter--I'll tell you

afterwards--and I found he knew ... about my caring. He was

splendid. He made me see ... there was only this one way. He

said--'Come!' And he encouraged me...."

"Keith encouraged you? It was no business of his." Mark had found

his voice at last. He had forgotten the mysterious letter. There

was only room in him for one hope, one fear. "Sheila ... what does

it all mean? Are you----?"

"Yes, Mark"--her voice took its deepest, tenderest tone--"I am ...

asking you to marry me, because I know, now, that you will never do

it yourself. And I know, now, that you do ... care...."

"'_Care_?' ... I simply worship you. And, for that very reason, I

will not take advantage of your heavenly impulse of devotion; though

God knows I honour you for it. Broken things appeal so strongly to

your heart. You have to make allowance for that."

"I have to make allowance for nothing."

Her tone was repressed now and her eyes veiled. Was she to repeat

yesterday's ordeal, with aggravations?

"You don't understand," he forced himself to say. "You can't

understand all it would mean. Sheila ... a man in my case has no

right to offer, or to accept, marriage: and I ... I refuse to snatch

happiness at your expense. Keith ought to have known me better by

now.... You, of all people, tied to a cripple ... a sort of

glorified hospital nurse! If I shrank from sacrificing a worthless

woman like Miss Alison, is it likely I would sacrifice you...?"

But Sheila had endured enough.

"Oh, Mark, can't you see? Are you determined not to see?" she cried,

her low voice tremulous with passion, her twilight blue eyes full of

pain. "For her, it would have been a sacrifice. For me ... I--I

can't find the word that's big enough. It's not that I don't

understand--and admire your reluctance. But you have to understand

too. Mark ... must I say all? Must I tell you that from the very

beginning, since I was sixteen, there's been no one ... but you.

There will never be. You are all I want on earth. You say ... you

have no right. But remember, there's every hope.... Dr. Norton says

so. And even if there was ... no hope, if you were three times as

helpless as you are, I would still rather be _your_ hospital nurse

than any other man's ... wife."

At that, with an abrupt movement, he turned away and hid his face in

his hands.

"Oh, leave me ... leave me," he murmured desperately. "How _can_ I

see clear, think clear, when you stand there ... tempting me----"

His voice broke. Silence fell--and lasted.

Sheila continued to stand there. Her hands were cold, her limbs

shaking. If she left him now, his strong will would reassert itself.

She could not go through this again. And there an end.

Pride argued: "In the face of flat refusal, you can go no further."

But she saw Mark's shoulders heave ... once; and there could be no

more argument; no more pride----

Without a word she went close up to him, slipped a hand round his

head and drew it against her breast.

In that fashion she gave him her answer. Yet he made no sign, till

two tears fell upon his hands that hid him from her. Then he

uncovered his face and looked up into hers, as an earth-bound soul

may look into heaven.

"Beloved," he whispered, "it's a desperate risk. You've no right ...

I've no right...." But his arms were round her; and his head, that

still leaned against her, felt the glad leap of her heart.

"We have the right, if we choose," she whispered, and stooped her

face to his....

At last he drew her down on to his knee and set her a little away to

reassure himself that the impossible had actually come to pass.

And she sat there smiling at him: too purely exultant to do anything

but smile.

"You little thing--you little lovely thing!" he said in a low voice

of rapture. "You're the first person that's ever cut right across my

will and bowled me over. I swore to poor Mums last night that

nothing would induce me----"

"And you were conquered by a little thing!"

Very tenderly she laid her cheek against his. "Most wholesome for

you--and a triumph for me!" She paused, dwelling on him ...

realising in her turn. "Mark, I wish I wasn't quite so small, then I

could help you more, my own self. Lifting you--and that."

"Lifting me!" His eyes were misty with tenderness. "You've lifted

me clean out of the nethermost hell. Isn't that enough in the way of

assistance?"

"Yes--if I could believe----!"

"Well, you may believe. I'm not given to high-flown talk. You've

saved me from being a curse to myself and every one belonging to me.

That's the way Sheila-people are made!"

Then his face grew grave and the arm that was round her tightened its

hold. "Mouse, it's difficult to speak of ... the hidden things. But

I do want you to know what it means to me that you should have come,

like this, refusing to let convention or my own limitations stand in

the way of our great reality. It's readjusted the whole perspective

of things, that was in great danger of getting out of gear

altogether."

"Yes, I saw that," she answered, her eyes filling.

"Of course you did, angel of wisdom. And you've made me see--no end

of things. There'll be some talk, no doubt, among the kind of people

who must talk--or perish. But, when all's said, if you and I choose

not to regard this irksome disability, no one else has any call to

make a howl about it. After all it's nothing--less than nothing--in

to-day's vast sum of tragedy. And there remains the great

outstanding fact that it has saved me, so as by fire, from a woman

whose love would have wrecked my life. Also--it has given me you,

which is a long sight more than I deserve."

"No--_no_," she protested low and passionately.

"I say 'Yes!' And I mean it. But--there's one thing I wanted to

tell you yesterday and couldn't, for fear of telling ... all the

rest."

"You were very cruel yesterday." A quiver crossed her face, and he

held her closer still.

"My darling, how could I dream you cared--like that! It knocked me

to pieces. And now--I can only thank God all my days for Keith's

insight and your courage. But ... what I'm trying to tell you is

this. The deepest and best in me, that was yours in the beginning,

_has been_ yours all along--buried under rubbish, but alive and

untarnished by any contact with _her_. That's what I meant when I

said she never touched the depths. Mouse--are you glad to know that?"

She only sat there gazing at him, mute homage in her eyes. "It's too

much. I can't say it," she murmured at last. "And now--there's poor

Mr. Seldon torn in two. Perhaps ... it's the same with him----"

"Seldon! Was it _her_ you were talking of? Poor devil! Is she

going to marry him?"

"I don't even know if he's asked her. They seem to have talked round

it all. She says ... you raised her standard. He implies ... I've

done the same for him. That seems to make complications. So there

they are----"

"And here _we_ are--God be praised!" Mark broke in, a note of triumph

in his deep voice. "And we're going to achieve something between us,

you and I, now you've made a live man of me again. There's a deal of

work I can still do with a Sheila-wife to help me. How about

dedicating the arts and crafts colony entirely to our own fellows

disabled in this war. And those who are fit for it shall be put on

to the land. My own disablement won't hamper me there. It's a

mustard-seed of a notion. It may grow into a tree. There's a

programme for you. All your doing! You've been my real source of

inspiration from the first. And you always will be.--Don't cry about

it, Beloved. It's too splendid for anything."

"Yes--that's why," she answered lucidly--and could no more. The

great wave of joy that swelled up within her broke softly in a shower

of tears. It was the pent-up emotion of months. And Mark drew her

head against his shoulder, comforted and caressed her; kissed away

her tears and held her to him without a word till she had regained

her lost control.

Then: "You're not going back to-night; don't you think it!" he said

in her ear.

"I don't think it," she answered, with a small shiver of happiness.

"Mother would bite me to pieces."

"Well, that settles it. You're under my orders now: and you take

your leave from to-day. You must write a note to explain. Macgregor

can handle the little car. She almost drives herself, and he can

bring any scrap of luggage you're wanting."

"Listen to the autocrat!" She sat upright now, beaming on him. "And

I've got to write a note of explanation. And _you_ don't realise yet

what that means."

"Why? Where's the mystery? That letter?"

"Yes. Interfering people are quite useful sometimes--by accident!"

"Well--let's hear. What's she been up to now?"

Thus invited, Sheila gave him a revised version of the letter that

had achieved precisely what it set out to prevent. She omitted the

most egregious remarks and skimmed lightly over the talk about

herself and him; but before she had finished her recital, Mark's

quick brain perceived whither it led.

"Of course, Mums took it straight to Keith," he broke in, exultantly,

"and of course the good fellow had to blurt out the truth in

self-defence. Well played, Mrs. Melrose! But why the dickens didn't

they come straight up and tell me. Here I've been left in the dark

for hours: and I'm supposed to be master of this house!"

"Well, you see," Sheila explained, dimpling, "Mr. Macnair was too

busy rushing off to fetch me. And Mums couldn't bear to tell you

when you were so unhappy."

Mark's eyes softened at that. "Just like her. How the woman spoils

me! And I'm afraid you'll be as bad."

"I'm not so sure. I can be sterner than Mums. Mr. Macnair could

tell you that...."

"Could he? I'll ask him. And he carried you off, like an elderly

Lochinvar, under your mother's very eyes! Splendid chap, Keith!"

"Yes. But he ought to know you better by now," she reminded him

gravely. "And he had no business to encourage me! But with Mother

flinging me at his head, you can't blame the poor man if he was in a

hurry to account for me by foisting me on to you.--And I'm going to

tell Mother the whole truth," she concluded, colouring a little at

thought of the ordeal. "That I knew you wanted me and wouldn't ask,

so I came over and proposed to you ... and I'm not ashamed of the

fact!--Oh, look, there they are on the terrace, too pleased with each

other to bother about us."

For a few minutes Mark sat watching them with a very full heart.

Keith was talking in his grave quiet fashion, and Helen walked close

beside him, listening--absorbed.

"Seems a shame to interrupt them," Mark said softly. "But I want

her. She's had worry enough on my account, bless her! And this is

going to atone for it all."

Then at the top of his voice, he called out: "Hullo, Mother! Mums!

Come along and report yourself at headquarters."

She stopped, turned, and stood a moment smiling up at him. His

voice, his face told her all she needed to know.

"Come on--quick!" he repeated; and she came, as always, obedient to

his summons.

THE END