Chapter III

"She gave no vine of Love to rear,
Love's wine drank not; yet bent her ear
To themes of Love no less."
MEREDITH.

Next morning, in spite of her vigil, Sheila appeared earlier than usual in Lady Forsyth's room, to share tea and letters--especially letters. And there failed not the envelope with the Winchester postmark.

The bootmaker--respectfully amazed and delighted--begged to enclose a letter in French whose contents he had learnt from a Belgian refugee. It was written in Sœur Colette's fine clear hand; and beneath her modest signature a circle of sealing-wax bore the Forsyth crest.

At sight of it the mother's tears started. "Oh, I'm an idiot. Read it to me, darling," she said handing the letter to Sheila. And Sheila read in a low steady voice, the plain tale, simple yet astonishing, of Mark's threefold reprieve from death: of the mystery that surrounded him till Sœur Colette--who attributed every detail to the goodness of God and the Holy Virgin--discovered his name and regiment written inside his brogues; of the victorious French Army that returned at last, scattering and annihilating "les Boches" so that there was scant time for collecting sick prisoners or indeed for anything but a hurried retreat upon stronger positions.

"But already," continued the writer, "M. le docteur had of his wisdom made them to suppose that Monsieur was without hope of recovery. May the good God forgive him that deception so well-intended. Possessing no other address, I venture to report these matters to M. le cordonnier, trusting that they may yet arrive to the relations of Monsieur Sir Forsyth who is of a courage and patience unsurpassed. Having power to move his left hand he has pressed with his own ring the wax one has spilt upon this page for a message to Madame his mother. If one should come soon and take him to Paris, M. le docteur has great hope that in time he will walk and speak as before."

Thus Sœur Colette, in her saintly simplicity; and neither of the women, who read and read again the letter she had written, with tears and prayers, caught a glimpse of the idyll that had saddened and glorified her life. They had far too much, on their own account, to think of, to give thanks for, and to do.

"Oh, if I could only pack up and start this instant!" was the cry of Helen's impatient spirit. "And he, lying paralysed, all these weeks--my poor darling!"

The first obvious move was a telegram to Keith, care of Colonel Munro, whom he kept informed of his movements: more telegrams to relations and friends; and--a letter to Mark. Life was suddenly real again; purposeful, genuinely worth living.

Soon after breakfast came a wire from Bel. "Thanks for splendid news. Arriving Westover 4.15."

"I'll take the car out and meet her," Sheila announced with decision.

Something in her tone made Lady Forsyth look up from the letter she was writing. "Very sweet of you, my lamb," she said: but Sheila knew that sweetness had nothing whatever to do with it. "Crown your virtue by giving his Reverence a lift into Wynchmere as you go through. We shall scarcely escape tears at parting! The fleshpots and the title and the joy of casually airing it can be trusted to eclipse all my egregious remarks."

It seemed she was not far wrong. After lunch Wilton hovered about like a tame rook, murmuring plaintive platitudes, lamenting his inability to put into adequate words ... and so on and so forth. But at the last, spurred by inexorable sounds without, he found, in one breath, the adequate word and the courage to speak it.

"_Dear_ Lady Forsyth," he murmured bowing over her hand. "It has been such a privilege. Quite a liberal education. So hard to tear oneself away! At lunch I was wishing--forgive the audacity--that I had the luck to be your son. Then I need never go away."

"My son?" She started and changed colour: at that moment it was the last audacity she felt disposed to forgive. "If you were my son, Mr. Wilton, you'd have to go a good deal farther than Wynchmere. I should send you straight out to France--where you ought to be now."

The startled curate drew back as if from a blow. "But my cloth--my sacred calling----"

She gave him a direct look. "It may surprise you," she said. "But I have looked carefully through the ordering of priests and the Thirty-nine Articles and I can find there no admonition whatever that churchmen shall abstain from bearing arms in defence of their country. And look at the French priests. Hundreds of them in the ranks; lifting the Church, by their manliness and courage, to a position it has not occupied since the Revolution. I know several clergymen, Scottish and English, with the colours. And I am quite _sure_ their sacred calling has suffered no stain because they have bayoneted a few Germans and quitted themselves like men. They will preach sermons worth hearing, those brave fellows ... if they win through. It's men, real men, that we need if the Church is to regain her lost hold on us all."

"_Eg_-zactly," he agreed inadvertently, to her huge delight.

"Well then--why not go out and qualify----?"

"Impossible, dear lady, impossible." He reddened distressfully lifting one long hand as if to ward off the devil in person. "Others--I would not presume to judge. Every man is ultimately responsible to the Inner Light. And _my_ conscience would never permit----"

"That settles it," she interposed briskly, without a touch of flippancy. "We can't start a full-dress debate on the doorstep; Miss Melrose has a train to meet. I hope the hot water and the cooking and the curtains will leave nothing to be desired. I mean it," she added with her kindest smile, and handed him over to Sheila, who had found some difficulty in dispensing with the services of Ralph.

Wilton was abnormally silent all the way to Wynchmere; and Sheila was absorbed in her driving and her own thoughts. At intervals the pensive curate glanced at her under his eyelids; appraised her charming profile--a shade too resolute for his taste--and her capable handling of the machine. Yet his thoughts were practical rather than sentimental. Thanks to a natural genius for gleaning personal items, he already knew that Sheila Melrose possessed advantages which distinctly enhanced her charming profile. In the common phrase of parish gossips there was "plenty of money going" at Westover Court. Mrs. Melrose, he learnt, was a Burlton, daughter of a great steel magnate in the North; married, by some queer freak of fate, to George Melrose, the distinguished antiquarian. Melrose, himself,--shy and clever, drowned fathoms deep in his researches--appeared to spend most of his time in Egypt, where Sheila had stayed with him on her way from India. Not even the War, nor a very real affection for his youngest daughter, had power to lure him back to the uncongenial atmosphere of the old home he had once so loved that, in order to save it, he had married money. Then, too late, a lucky speculation had considerably increased his own private means; and, as Westover Court had become a stronghold of the entire Burlton family, he had found it expedient to spend a good deal of his time elsewhere.

Wynchmere had duly given the new curate its garbled history of the Melrose _ménage_; but for Wilton the chief point of interest lay in the assurance that all three daughters would be well dowered; and this one was an open favourite at Wynchcombe Friars. Decidedly, if it came to business, the youngest Miss Melrose would do very well.

The glow of this secret decision made his limp handshake at parting a degree less limp than usual: but Sheila wore thick driving gloves and was visibly in a hurry to be gone.

At Westover station she annexed Bel--radiant, friendly, and eager for further news.

"Sheila--is it stark true?" she asked as they spun along between bare hedges. "Have you got the mysterious letter? Who wrote it? Please tell everything."

And Sheila told--keeping her eyes on the wheel.

At the word "paralysis" Bel started.

"Oh, how horrible! So disfiguring.--I suppose Lady Forsyth will go out to him. And she believed it all the time. Isn't she a wonder? _I_ can't, even now. Not till I see him and feel him----"

There flashed a vivid memory of her first drive along this familiar road, when Mark had sat beside her in the August sunlight: and she fell silent, thinking her own thoughts.

Sheila had just braced herself to a casual mention of Seldon, when Bel spoke again.

"Any wounded at Wynchcombe Friars just now?"

"Yes, three of them. Ralph--almost well. Mona's brother, Mr. Laurence. Such a delightful boy; and Mr. Seldon, an Indian civilian. Came over as a despatch-rider----"

"Seldon? From India?" It was enough. Sheila knew now that the wild possibility was true. "A thin dark man, is he? Clever and rather good-looking?"

"Yes. Have you been in India?"

Sheila looked round now, curious to see if Bel were the least put out by the reappearance of a lover she had cruelly hurt and deceived. On the contrary she seemed interested and rather amused. "No. I met him on leave in Cornwall, some years ago. Odd he should turn up again here!"

"Not so very," Sheila said with her small smile. "You see, he's a friend of mine. I met him in India and we've corresponded ever since. Then he came over to France: and I found him one day among the wounded at Boulogne."

"Oh, _you_ know him too!" Bel's amusement increased visibly. "D'you like him? I thought him rather a poor specimen."

"The war has brought out all the best in him," Sheila remarked. Every moment she grew angrier with Bel; angrier, and more resolute to get at the truth--in good time. For months she had been sitting down severely on her own deep-seated jealousy and pain; and this final proof of Bel's utter unworthiness, coming at such a moment, seemed to shake the foundations of things.

Some women, it appeared, were privileged to go about the world sowing pain and reaping adulation: and Sheila, whose creed was acceptance, was still young enough to be badly tripped up, on occasion, by the bewildering injustices of life. It was her private opinion that Bel deserved to be hurt, and probably never would be. Not that she consciously sat in judgment. There was nothing of the prig in her composition. But, because her heart was the biggest thing about her, she held peculiarly sacred the hearts of men, that, for Bel and her kind, are so many counters on the gaming-tables of life. Small, contained creature though she was, sins of passion or emotion were the sins she could most readily understand and condone. It was Bel's smiling, unassailable selfishness that alienated and enraged her. And Mark, with his fiery sensitive spirit, at the mercy of such an one for life! The thought of it was almost more than she could bear.

For Bel, herself, Sheila was simply a rather sweet person who did not count in the least. Nothing counted much, at the moment, except Mark and his unbelievable resurrection. Yet she had no intention of going out with Lady Forsyth. That was not her way. Certain of his coming, she could wait. Meantime her resurgent spirit, hungry for enjoyment, saw possibilities in the Seldon coincidence that might serve to pass the time.

She turned smilingly to the suppressed volcano at her side.

"I say, Sheila, does Mr. Seldon know I'm coming? Does he know ... I'm engaged to Mark?"

"Yes. We spoke of it last night."

"Did he say anything about meeting me before?"

"He seemed to remember the name," Sheila answered casually. It was the truth, if not the whole truth; and she could not resist the chance of administering a flick to Bel's omnivorous vanity. The flick told. It also goaded Bel into further revelations than she had intended.

"I fancy he'll remember more than my name when we meet," she remarked, looking out over the sodden December landscape. "Not so very long ago I was accused of having spoilt his life and broken his heart: a tougher organism than sentimental people care to admit!"

Sheila betrayed no surprise. She would not condescend to feign ignorance. "You could hardly expect him to parade a broken heart in the circumstances," was all she said.

Bel laughed. "Well hit! What a practical person you are. I merely thought he might have told you, as you correspond and are evidently great friends."

Sheila did not answer. She was skilfully manipulating a sharp turn into the town. Bel watched her in frank admiration.

"How awfully well you drive! Who taught you?"

"Mr. Macnair."

"Oh! _I_ always feel that man being horribly critical underneath. But you're evidently privileged! Is _he_--another great friend?"

"Yes."

"Mark, too! You've quite a talent in that line."

Sheila felt the light scratch under the velvet tone, and turned her clear eyes full on Bel.

"You mean--they don't fall in love with me? Well, sometimes friendship is the higher compliment."

"Sour grapes!" reflected Bel. Aloud she said sweetly: "It's a compliment no man has ever paid me yet. And I can do very well with ... the other thing. Even if it results in only seeming to remember my name!"

That was all for the moment. But it set Sheila thoroughly on edge; nor were matters improved by Bel's behaviour throughout the evening.

Seldon she greeted without a shadow of embarrassment; asked after mutual acquaintances in Cornwall; smilingly held his gaze a moment; then, as it were, consigned him to Sheila, who missed no item of the by-play between them.

Later on, though ostensibly devoting herself to Lady Forsyth and young Laurence, Bel never for a moment allowed Seldon to be unaware of her. It was a situation that appealed to all the actress in her; and the whole performance was a piece of finished coquetry, perfect of its kind.

As for Seldon, he clung to Sheila with nervous tenacity, as a man might cling to a talisman against witchcraft; but his eyes and ears and the back of his mind were intent on Bel. He talked in spasms and his self-consciousness was more pronounced than ever. Painfully he recalled the Seldon of Indian days: and before the evening was over Sheila had arrived at wondering could he, with open eyes, revert to the girl who had used him so ill? Were his love and friendship for herself such mere card-houses that they could tumble to earth at a flicker of Bel's long eyelashes, a careless word from her lips?

The bare supposition was unflattering to say the least. More; it was a shock to her young, ardent faith in human nature. She had seen this man rise--in a measure through love of her--above his lesser self. She had been proud of him and for him. Though he could marry neither of them, he was hers in a very special sense; and Bel had no right to him whatever. But the heart, like the tongue, can no man tame; and Seldon's whole manner to Sheila that evening conveyed the mute attestation: "I am yours. Yet, if she beckons, I follow in spite of myself."

It was not a heroic confession. It angered Sheila, even while it moved her to pity. She hated the whole distracting affair: and felt thankful that Lady Forsyth was incapable of perceiving anything but the one supreme fact: thankful, even, that she would soon be gone.

Next day came a telegram from Keith bidding her get a passport to Boulogne whither he would bring Mark--Authority permitting--in the Forsyth-Macnair ambulance car. And for the time being, all lesser matters were in abeyance.

Bel decided not to go; and Lady Forsyth was too relieved to press the point. Sheila did most of the packing and dropped a few secret, rebellious tears into Mark's valise. It hurt her bitterly that she could not go too and complete the old happy quartet that had seemed linked indissolubly till Bel stepped into the picture and upset everything. She had a knack of unsettling things whenever she appeared; and that without seeming to lift a finger. In a minor way, she was doing it again; doing it admirably; while Sheila anointed Mark's familiar ties and shirts with her tears.

Quite incidentally it occurred to Lady Forsyth that five young people could not, without scandalising the proprieties, be left entirely to themselves.

"It's ridiculous nonsense," she declared with a touch of impatience. "And everyone's far too busy to be bothered. Bel, how about your Harry? Not married, of course, but still----"

Bel smiled. "The more the safer, I suppose? It's quite a pretty problem in arithmetic: how many women, unmarried, equal one woman, married? Harry could come to-morrow, I think, for a few days."

"Good. And Mrs. Laurence might manage the week end. Wire at once, dear, will you? Say I leave this afternoon. I can't put off going for any Propriety-bogey in creation."

So that afternoon she set out on her glad errand, armed with letters and messages of welcome to him who, for five weeks, had been counted dead by all except two brave women in England and the two men who sought him in France.

Harry wired that she would come next day, and throughout that evening, Propriety--even in the person of Mrs. Clutterbuck--could have found nothing to cavil at in the behaviour of the five young people left temporarily unshepherded at Wynchcombe Friars.

Only Sheila became increasingly aware of the effect wrought upon Seldon by Bel's discreetly veiled coquetry. Beneath his restlessness and his half-defiant flippancy, she discerned the man's inner flutterings that affected her like the sight of a live butterfly impaled by a pin. She herself was quieter than usual; but under the still surface her anger was rising steadily; and before dinner was over, she knew that she could not sleep to-night, till she had spoken her mind to Bel.