‘Hearts that are as one high heart,
Withholding nought from doom or bale,
Burningly offered up—to bleed,
To beat, to break, but not to fail.’
LAURENCE BINYON.
The dream of that coveted week at Mark’s war station came true about the
middle of September. More: it was a success—a blessed memory unspoiled by
any jarring note—and it brought the two women nearer to each other than
they had been yet.
They found Mark in charge of a double company, chiefly armed with
broomsticks, handling his Highlanders to some purpose; giving his spare
hours to revolver practice, with plump German targets in view. His
Colonel, who lost no time in making friends with Lady Forsyth, spoke
of him in glowing terms, and gave his womenfolk every facility for
seeing the coast defences prepared against the promised invasion. They
wandered, shivering inwardly, through a maze of genuine trenches, heavily
sandbagged, that, in the event of a landing, were to be held ‘at all
costs.’ They inspected cunning entanglements of barbed wire on the beach
and underground forts that looked more like heat bumps on the face of the
earth than strong defensive positions; and they heard amazing stories of
spies, though the Government had nominally demolished the system.
Everything conspired to make those few September days an untarnished
memory. The tide of retreat had turned. The miracle had happened, and
the Germans, flung back from the gates of Paris, had been brilliantly
defeated on the Marne. Hopeful souls dreamed again of a swift and
decisive issue. But the Great Brain piling up armies in Whitehall still
pinned his faith on England’s ‘last million men.’
In fact, there was only one flaw in the week of their content: it passed
too soon. Then the price must be paid in the renewed wrench of parting,
and for the first time Lady Forsyth saw tears in Bel’s eyes. They were
not allowed to fall, but they were unmistakably there.
Of course they must come again, Mark assured them at the last. ‘The C.O.
has fallen in love with Mums! He’d be heart-broken if I didn’t give him
another chance. And he’s a useful chap to please. So that settles it!’
* * * * *
But towards the end of September, before there was time even to think of
another chance, Mark had his orders. A decimated battalion was clamouring
for reinforcements; and a message flashed to Wynchcombe Friars that he
would be home next day on forty-eight hours’ leave, picking up Bel in
town.
That blunt announcement drove the blood from Lady Forsyth’s face. Sheila
was back with her again, and Keith had just returned from a week’s
absence on business connected with the Forsyth-Macnair car.
‘He’s got his wish,’ was all she said: and went quickly out of the room.
Next morning they arrived—the two of them—Mark rather defiantly cheerful,
Bel more than a little subdued. Lady Forsyth had never liked the girl
better than in those two days.
To the women it seemed hard that so many of his precious hours at home
must be squandered on business. But Mark had to face the fact that he
might never return, and to make his dispositions accordingly. It had
always been his wish to emulate his father and be practically his own
land agent. But four years of minority and the long absence in Europe
had obliged him to employ a trustworthy man of experience; and he was
thankful for it now. George Russell, happily well over forty, had proved
as capable as he was devoted, which is saying a good deal for his
capacity. He possessed, moreover, a shrewder business head than either
mother or son; and on occasion, to Mark’s huge delight, he would assume a
tenderly protective attitude, as of one whose mission in life was to save
them from themselves.
In the matter of Belgian refugees, he regretted to report that Lady
Forsyth was not sufficiently discriminating. They were proving, as was
natural, ‘a very mixed lot,’ and Russell had a positive flair for the
wrong sort. It was not fair on Sir Mark to crowd up his cottages with
‘foreign riff-raff’: the deserving would make a quite sufficient drain
on his limited resources. The good fellow learnt with unconcealed relief
that Lady Forsyth would soon be going to Boulogne with Miss Melrose and
that he would be left practically in charge of everything.
Mark himself was thankful for business details that relieved the
underlying strain. But he refused on this occasion to bid any official
‘good-byes.’ He had taken leave of his people when he joined the army.
This final wrench was his own most private and personal affair, as they
would doubtless understand.
Tea on the terrace was a creditably cheerful meal; and it was not till
near dinner-time that Mark managed to slip away by himself for an hour
of quiet communing with the land he loved—the woods, the river and the
lordly ruins that, for him, were written all over with the inner history
of his own brief twenty-seven years. Bel had asked him more than once
how he could bear to leave it all; and to-night, as he saw the red sun
tangled among his pine-tops, that question so shook his fortitude that
he challenged it with another. Could he bear to think of German troops
defiling the fair and stately face of it, terrorising with torture and
outrage the men and women whose welfare was his main concern in life?
Confronted with that challenge, the coward question fled ashamed.
After dinner he had half an hour’s talk with Sheila, into whose hands he
solemnly commended his more mercurial mother. ‘She’s a jewel of price,’
he added frankly, ‘but in certain moods she takes some managing. And on
the whole you’re better at it than old Keith. Don’t let her crock up from
the strain of it all. And write to me. Promise.’
She promised—and his mind felt more at rest.
Later on he took Bel out on to the terrace, where they paced up and down
in the starlight, talking fitfully. Time was too short for all they had
to say; and for that very reason they could not say one half of it.
Interludes of silence increased. At last came one so prolonged that, by
a mutual impulse, they came to a standstill, near a low stone bench,
confronting each other and the inexorable fact.
‘Oh Mark—to-morrow!’ Bel breathed unsteadily, her dim face close to his.
‘It seems impossible.’
For answer he took hold of her, and sitting down, gathered her on to
his knees. Then, amazed, he heard her whisper at his ear: ‘Darling—I’m
horribly afraid. I keep feeling—I shall never get you back.’
It was spoken at last, the fear of perpetual parting that knocked at both
their hearts. But the man knew that spectre must be ignored.
‘I’ll come back with any luck, my Bel,’ he said, kissing her, ‘to claim
you for good, and worry your life out! I vote we marry the first leave I
get.’
He passed his hand slowly down her bare arm. ‘Darling, you’re cold,’
he said. ‘There’s a dew and a half falling. Come in at once. Are we
down-hearted?—No!’
The light of the hall showed her on the verge of tears. But she pulled
herself together and he dismissed her with a blessing that meant more to
him than to her.
In the drawing-room he found Keith alone, with a solitary electric light
switched on, smoking by the open window; a privilege Helen permitted him
for the sake of his company.
‘Hullo! Gone—both of ’em?’ Mark asked in surprise.
‘Yes. I ordered them off. They looked strained and tired. Couldn’t read.
Couldn’t talk. Your mother has some letters to write, I think. She left
word—would you look in?’
‘Bless her, she takes things beastly hard.’
‘She does,’ Keith assented briefly; and Mark proceeded to fill his pipe.
During the process Keith watched him, appraising his straight, clean
manhood and cursing the devilish nature of modern war.
Presently, when Mark had finished with his pipe, he spoke.
‘Keith, old chap, on the strength of peculiar circumstances and
the general uncertainty of things, I’m going to make an infernally
impertinent remark. To begin with, mother’s most distractingly on my
mind. I’ve fixed up most things, with a view to—possible contingencies.
But I don’t seem able to fix up her. If I’m knocked out—she’s simply done
for. Not even this precious work of hers for consolation. It all goes to
Uncle Everard, who’ll make an end of our colony straight away. She’ll
lose everything at a stroke, except Inveraig. And she—alone there⸺!’
He set his teeth hard, and Keith passed a long thin hand across his
eyes. ‘That’s the tragedy of it,’ he said, adding, with forced lightness.
‘Where does the impertinence come in?’
‘It’s jolly well coming in now. Don’t bite my head off. Truth is, I’m not
stone blind; and just lately—I’ve been wondering ... why the deuce don’t
you make a match of it? You and Mums!’
Macnair started, and his face looked rather a queer colour in the dim
light.
‘Great heavens, Mark! Talk of explosives!’
For the moment he could get no further, and Mark was puzzled. ‘You
mean—it’s never occurred to you?’
‘I mean nothing of the sort.’
‘Then I bet you _do_ want to bite my head off⸺’
‘I’m not ... so sure,’ he said slowly. His voice was more natural now. ‘I
always like your sledge-hammer directness. At the same time⸺’ He rose and
paced the length of the room, revolving that amazing proposition.
‘If I thought there was a ghost of a chance,’ Mark persisted, as Keith
turned in his stride, ‘it would take a ton weight off my mind.’
‘Not to mention mine,’ Keith answered smiling; and when he reached the
window he put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. ‘As it seems a case of plain
speaking to-night, I may as well admit the truth. She’s been the star of
my life for fifteen years—and I’d give all I possess to marry her.’
Mark’s eyebrows went up.
‘And she ten years a widow! Why not have a shot at it, old chap, and make
this Boulogne trip a sort of war honeymoon⸺’
‘My dear boy! The pace you young fellows travel! And you ignore ...
there’s Helen herself to be reckoned with⸺’
For the first time in his life Mark saw the blood mount into Keith’s face
and heard him hesitate over his mother’s name—phenomena that checked his
fluency a little but rather increased his zeal.
‘Well, if you don’t have a try,’ he said, ‘hanged if the C.O. won’t
forestall you. He’s dead smitten. Two lovers at fifty—she ought to be
ashamed of herself!’
But Keith seemed no way perturbed by the possibility of a rival.
‘_If_ she ever marries again,’ he said quietly, ‘it will be myself. But,
Mark, is it possible you’ve never realised that, for her, your father
is still as much alive as when he walked this earth? There’s a modest
percentage of human beings so made, and a good few of them are Scots.
For them there is actually neither death, nor separation. I believe your
father still bars my way, as much as he did when—I first loved her. Of
course ... I may exaggerate!’
‘Hope you do!’ Mark was deeply moved. ‘She doesn’t often speak of him to
me.’
‘Nor to me. But—when she does, it’s quite clear.’
‘’M. Rough luck. All the same, if the worst happens, give me your word
you’ll have a try ... for her sake and mine as well as your own. No one
would dream there’s ten years between you.’
Keith simply held out his hand and Mark’s closed on it hard. The good
understanding that had always existed between them was complete.
Mark found his mother writing letters in bed. He had accused her more
than once of writing them in her bath. She looked strained and tired, as
Keith said; but in her blue dressing-jacket, with hair demurely parted
and a thick plait over her shoulder, she appeared younger, if anything,
than the man he had left downstairs.
‘Incurable woman!’ he said lightly. ‘Who’s your victim this time?’
She told him; and while she read out snatches of her letter,
Mark—watching her with new eyes—wondered, had she the least inkling?
Would a word from him be of any service to Keith?
Curiosity impelled him to talk of the Boulogne trip, to enlarge on his
confidence in Keith, and even to touch on the unconventional character
of the whole plan. Neither in look nor tone could he detect a glimmer
of after-thought or shadow of self-consciousness. The causes of her
satisfaction were clear as daylight: longing to be in the same country as
himself, candid pleasure in Keith’s and Sheila’s company, and her innate
love of getting off the beaten track.
‘It’s just one of the many beautiful things that a genuine, understanding
friendship makes possible,’ she concluded, stamping and sealing her
letter: and Mark began to feel rather sorry for Keith. But he wisely
refrained from any hint of his own knowledge. It would probably do no
good and would certainly spoil her pleasure in going.
Instead, he commandeered her writing-board, an act of tyranny that would
normally have involved a fight. Her unnatural meekness hurt him more
sharply than any words of love, could she have brought herself to speak
them. When he came back to the bed, she indicated a little pile of Active
Service Compendiums and a pocket Red-letter Testament on the table beside
her. She had already given him his wrist-watch and a silver flask.
‘That _from_ me,’ she said, touching the Book, ‘and those _for_ me. I
shall be hungry for news, remember, and out of touch with Bel, who will
get it all.’
‘Not quite all—faithless and unbelieving!’ he answered, echoing her
lightness. Then he added with decision: ‘You’re not coming up to town,
Mums; not even to the station—understand? It’ll be bad enough having Bel.
But she’s cooler all through. No matter how brave you are, I can always
feel you quivering inside. And I couldn’t stand it. Nor could you.’
She shook her head. ‘It was only—a temptation. Not to miss....’
A spasm crossed her face, and he went down on his knees beside her.
‘Darling, if we are going to make fools of ourselves,’ he said huskily,
‘I’d better be off. It’s near midnight. Time you were asleep.’ No answer;
and he spoke still lower. ‘Give me your blessing, Mums—like when I went
to school.’
Still without speaking, she laid her hands on his bowed head; and from
his heart he echoed her passionate silent plea for his safe return.
Then he stood up and kissed her good-night.
* * * * *
For sheer misery and discomfort nothing could exceed the actual hour
or two before departure. Bel could be with him in his room while he
‘completed his mobilisation.’ The rest could only hang about aimlessly,
making futile talk or inventing futile occupations to keep thought at
bay. In the background several maids and a grey-haired butler hovered
fitfully; and Bobs, a picture of abject misery, lay awaiting his master
at the foot of the stairs.
He came at last, in a violent hurry, shouting an order to Keith and
springing clean over the prostrate Bobs.
Bel followed more leisurely, flushed a little, but controlled. Then
the hovering servants came forward and Helen slipped quietly into her
husband’s study.
There, at last, Mark came to her—followed by an apparently tailless Bobs.
Somehow she contrived to smile. Then his arms were round her, crushing
her to him.
‘God bless you,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t fret. It’s going to be all right.
And—if it isn’t ... it’ll _still_ be all right.’
Then he kissed her again and let her go.
From the threshold he waved to her, smiling resolutely, though tears
stood in his eyes. She waved back to him. The door shut between them. He
was gone.
As she stood motionless, fighting back her grief, she was startled by
that sharp, familiar pang in the region of her heart, and a momentary
darkness as if a raven’s wing had brushed across her eyes. She shivered
and kneeled hastily down to comfort the desolate Bobs, while her tears
fell, unchecked now, upon his rough brown head.