The heavens such grace did lend her
That she might admired be.
SHAKSPERE.
Next morning early, Mark drove Maurice to the main line station,
despatched him with a final volley of chaff, and proceeded patiently to
tramp the lane outside till the down train should bring him the desire of
his eyes. From the station-master he learnt that ‘she’ might be anything
from twenty minutes to two hours late. Yesterday five specials had run
through, packed with horses and men, and there would be more to-night.
‘Jolly for they Germans, sir!’ he added with a jovial wink. ‘They _do_
say now that the British Army will be keeping Christmas in Berlin!’
‘And on the other side they say the Kaiser will keep it in London,’ Mark
answered him. ‘Best leave fairy tales to the Germans. It’s their line!’
And he retired to commune with his own heart in the lane.
The train gave him ample time to lose patience and recapture it; and the
longer he waited, the brighter grew the halo round Bel’s golden head.
Idealist as he was, in art and life, he could not choose but idealise the
woman he loved: if, indeed, he were not rather in love with a phantom of
his own brain, who wore the appearance and spoke with the voice of Bel.
During the last ten days, while his conscious mind had been absorbed in
things practical, the subconscious, unoccupied artist in him had been
sedulously gilding her halo; and as for that bewildering jar in Scotland,
he had so completely credited her with his own sensitiveness on the
subject, that his one wish was to make her forget it had ever been. He
had shrank even from asking her to speak of it to his mother; and had
made the request in his last letter, rather than spring an unpleasantness
on her by way of greeting.
And now—all he craved was herself. Her letters were not the same thing
at all. Clever, affectionate and often amusing, they seemed just to
miss something that, for him, was the secret of her charm. In them
the slightly studied effect of her whole attitude to life seemed more
definitely artificial; and after reading them, a troubled uncertainty was
apt to pervade his mind. But sight and touch of her would cure all such
lover’s folly⸺
Ah—the whistle at last!
He reached the platform as the train drew up, and there emerged from
a distant carriage the tall, unmistakable figure in a bluish coat and
skirt and close-fitting hat. About midway down the platform they met and
clasped hands. She coloured a little when their eyes met; but they merely
talked of luggage and the lateness of the train.
It is a common experience, that first, faint shock of actual meeting
after keen anticipation; and in these two it waked the undersense that,
although they had taken the most hazardous step in life, they were still
comparative strangers. In some vague way they seemed to have lost touch;
to have become suddenly shy of each other—the man more so than the girl.
Shy or no, she was contented, utterly, to be sitting there beside him in
the August sunlight, speeding between stretches of ripe cornland; between
purple sweeps of heather, when they climbed a ridge; and on through
rolling open country where the earlier trees showed a yellow leaf or
two, and the oaks were still sunset-tinted with their second blossoming.
England, relying serenely upon her grey ghosts of the North Sea, lay
dozing in the high noon of the year, while little Belgium, like another
Kate Barlass, thrust her arm through the bolt that the murderers might be
stayed were it only for a moment. A Territorial Camp, an occasional motor
decked with flags, a group of khaki figures resting in the shade—these
were the sole reminders of that invisible horror across the Channel, that
for Bel was no more than the shadow of a shadow; though the cloud of it
overhung her own life and sat visibly upon her lover’s brow.
Every now and then she took stock of him under her eyelids, from
his rough motor-cap and his sensitive mouth, safe-guarded by that
uncompromising chin, to the lean, strong fingers controlling the
machine. A woman could safely entrust her destiny to that mouth and those
hands, though she might wish, incidentally, that he would take a less
exaggerated view of this singularly inopportune war. It was just her luck
that it should have been timed to spoil the most promising ‘phase’ of her
life. If only Mark’s admirable virility were tempered by a touch of Rex
Maitland’s intelligent common sense, matters would be so much easier and
pleasanter all round. And the coming interview with Lady Forsyth was a
nuisance, to put it mildly: but still⸺
‘Have I given you time to get through the worst of your troublesome
affairs?’ she asked after an interchange of commonplaces that led
nowhere. ‘I’m hoping for a clear field as the reward of my lost week.’
He gave her a contrite glance.
‘I wish it were clearer. Russell, my land-agent, has played up like a
Trojan. But the wood seems to thicken as one goes on. And to-day I’m
booked for a recruiting show at Bramleigh. No getting out of it. Sir
Nevil Sinclair—the artist, you know—said I _must_ manage to placate you
somehow. So please _be_ placated and save me the managing!’
Down went the corners of her mouth. ‘Our first day! And not even Mr.
Lenox to play with.’
‘Won’t Sheila do?’
‘As a substitute for _you_? Mark, your modesty is incredible! Is she with
you still?’
‘She came back yesterday.’
‘And Mr. Macnair?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they part of your permanent family, those two?’
‘More or less. People just accrue to Mums. Are you placated now—Queen of
Wynchcombe Friars?’
She laid gloved finger-tips on his knee.
‘I’m trying to be. I vowed a vow to be heavenly good this time, to make
up for....’
His hand closed on hers.
‘That’s over and done with,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry—even about Mother. But
it seemed only fair. I’ll take you to her straight—’
‘I’d prefer half an hour first with her son—_not_ in a motor on the open
road! Darling, give me time to feel more at home.’
His eyes sought hers. ‘I’m agreeable. We’ll stop at the gate and go
up through the wood. I can fetch the car afterwards. No superfluous
attendants these days!’
On a cushion of moss in the cool of the pine-wood, they recaptured the
atmosphere of Scotland and the little cloud of estrangement melted away.
Mark, who had keenly felt the momentary jar, was the more relieved.
‘Now, my darling girl, time’s up,’ he said; reluctant, but inflexible,
‘Mother will be picturing us wrecked on the road, and sending poor old
Keith to pick up the pieces! Come.’
At that, she knelt upright, and, with a charmingly tender air of
proprietorship, passed her hands over his head, bringing them to rest on
his shoulders. ‘I’m glad I’ve found you again,’ she said. ‘That strange
man at the station rather alarmed me.’
‘_You_ knew how to conjure him away, you witch!’ he answered, stopping
her lips with a kiss.
She accepted the kiss, but not his tacit dismissal of the subject. For
her, a new sensation not analysed was a sensation wasted.
‘I suppose it was that things hadn’t time to crystallise properly after
the break,’ she went on, twisting a button between her finger and thumb.
‘I hope the War Office will be merciful and allow us a good spell this
time. Separations are rather uncanny things. You never quite know⸺’
‘Well, if you don’t know me when I get back this evening,’ he said, with
perfect gravity, ‘the marriage that has been arranged, etc., had better
not take place.’
‘Mark!’ Her voice had a sharp, startled note.
‘That’ll learn you!’ he retorted, smiling. ‘We’ll make out our “para”
to-morrow.’
And he heard no more of the subject.
They found Lady Forsyth alone in the drawing-room reading her midday post.
‘My dears!’ She sprang up to greet them. ‘We’ve been wondering what had
come to you.’
Mark explained, asked a few questions, backed casually towards the
door—and vanished, leaving the women alone.
Bel had resolved that there should be neither awkwardness nor hesitation.
Already she had rehearsed the little scene half a dozen times; and as the
door closed, she turned to the small, upright figure near the piano, both
hands flung out.
‘Dear Lady Forsyth, you _are_ going to forgive me, aren’t you? I know I
don’t deserve it. But Mark has been so beautifully generous⸺’
‘That is easier for him than for his mother,’ Lady Forsyth rejoined with
her disconcerting frankness: but her smile made partial atonement and she
took the proffered hands. ‘Not that I’m belittling Mark’s generosity. It
takes a just man to be generous even in exasperating circumstances; and
Mark possesses that rare quality in a high degree. He particularly wants
us all to make light of the whole matter; and—to please him, Bel, I can
at least condone what I can’t pretend to understand.’
This—as may be supposed—was not precisely the cue Bel had prepared for
herself. But she had the adaptability of the born actress; and she
recognised that Lady Forsyth had paid her the embarrassing compliment of
speaking her mind as to a daughter.
‘That’s rather a crushing form of forgiveness!’ she said, with the
pretty droop of her lips. ‘And I don’t suppose it’s much use trying to
explain....’
‘Not the slightest, my dear.’ Lady Forsyth’s tone was brisk but kindly.
‘Facts, like beauty, are best left unadorned. I take it for granted you
must have been very much upset to hurt a brave man so unnecessarily. Had
your refusal been final, I could have better understood.’
The girl flinched at that and bit her lip. ‘You don’t sound much like
forgiving me. And I don’t think,’ she made bold to add, ‘that Mark would
be quite pleased if he heard you.’
‘He would probably bite my head off,’ Lady Forsyth answered, taking the
wind out of her sails. ‘And if you want to make him angry with me, you
can tell him what I have said. I should say just the same if he were
present. Mark and I are in complete accord, however much we squabble.
He knows my bark is worse than my bite: and you’ll soon know it too,
Bel. So don’t let’s write in brass what is meant to be writ in water. We
shall gain nothing by making Mark our apple of discord. He’s a very large
apple, big enough for two! Now, after that, let me “behave” and show you
to your room. Later on, you must see over the dear old house.’
‘Yes. It’s a dream of a place.’ Bel swerved thankfully to a more
congenial subject and the still more congenial reflection that all this
stately, soft-toned beauty would some day be her own.
Once this wretched war was over, everything would go swimmingly. He
would settle down and shed some of his troublesome ideals. That flat in
town—which she had already chosen and furnished mentally—would be the
best possible antidote for what she vaguely styled ‘that sort of thing.’
She washed her hands and tidied her smooth hair in a frame of mind too
serene even to be clouded by the prospect of a whole afternoon without
Mark.
And downstairs, alone in the drawing-room, Lady Forsyth was playing
Grieg’s Temple dance with a fire and fury that brought Keith in from the
terrace, startled concern in his eyes.
‘Bless my soul, Helen! Who are you wanting to murder now? The Crown
Prince or one of our own super-Solomons?’
‘Neither,’ she answered, crashing out the last double chord. Then,
swinging round on the stool she faced him with heightened colour, head in
air. ‘It’s Mark’s future wife. And I’m in terror that he’ll want to marry
before he goes out. Keith—it’s not only wicked prejudice. I distrust her
more than ever. She came to me with a pretty, ready-made apology which I
am afraid I dislocated by my incurable candour. Then, having let fly for
my own satisfaction, I proceeded to smooth things over for love of Mark.
Told her my bark was worse than my bite.’
‘That I can swear to,’ Keith struck in smiling.
‘Still—by every oath I mustn’t use, if I was a natural savage instead
of a Christian woman, who adores her son, I’d _bite_ her with all my
teeth.—There! Between that and Grieg, I feel a little better. But oh, you
sagacious bachelor, you have your divine compensations. At times it’s a
positive curse to love any human thing better than your own soul.’
‘It is that,’ Macnair agreed with quiet emphasis, as the door opened to
admit Mark himself.
The air seemed still to vibrate with Helen’s impassioned outburst, and he
glanced quickly from one to the other.
‘What have you two been plotting—eh?’
‘The wholesale reconstruction of the universe!’ Keith answered lightly;
but Mark went straight to his mother and laid his hand on her.
‘She’s been working herself up about nothing,’ he said. ‘I can feel her
quivering all through. Keith, you oughtn’t to encourage her. She’ll be
needing all her reserves of strength, if she’s to pull through this.
Would the drive to Bramleigh calm you down, Motherling? Or would it churn
you up again, hearing me speak?’
‘No: I should love it,’ she answered in a low voice. The invitation and
the touch of his hand had soothed her already, as nothing else could have
done. It was as if, by some telepathic process, he had divined the cause
of her emotional stress; and when the two girls came in he said casually,
without removing his hand: ‘I’m carrying Mums off with me to Bramleigh.
You’ve had your drive, Bel, and the outing will do her a power of good.’
The announcement faintly ruffled Bel’s conviction that all was for the
best in this best of all possible worlds. But later in the evening, when
her own turn came, when she wandered with Mark through the terraced
gardens down to the river, he found her apparently satisfied, if not
communicative, as regards her interview of the morning. Convinced of her
own supreme sovereignty, instinct told her that she would gain nothing by
‘giving the woman away.’
(_To be continued._)