Chapter VII

"God's own gifts
Have a devil for the weak.
Yea the very force that lifts
Finds the vessel's secret leak."
MEREDITH.

Bel's maiden speech at Folkestone proved an unqualified success. Her sweet, well-modulated voice, hardly suitable for platform purposes, carried well enough in Mrs. Langton's double drawing-room where some sixty ardent feminists and pacifists, of both sexes, were gathered together mainly for the glorification of woman--as martyr in chief of man's recurrent lust for slaughter, and as the normal promoter of peace between nations, whose eyes were blinded with blood and wrath.

Characteristically, she had concealed from Mark the real nature of the meeting and the subject-matter of her own speech. This last, as may be supposed, emanated from Harry, though declaimed and decorated by Bel. The Utopian vision of universal peace had caught hold of her imagination. The fact that the world's harmony spelt comfort and material prosperity made a direct appeal to her practical brain: and now the shadow of her own private tragedy seemed more than ever to justify her leaning towards those who denounced as criminal the ruthless indefinite prolongation of war.

"Woman and War";--the antithesis lent itself to a rhetorical opening, a study in contrasts: and Bel made the most of it. War destroys life; woman creates and beautifies it. War is brutality and coarseness _in excelsis_; woman is all tenderness and grace. War stands for hate; woman for love. War degrades; woman lifts and inspires. The scope for contrast was infinite if not always exact. It would quite spoil the effect to admit that there were scores of women who had neither the will nor the power to lift and inspire: scores, like herself, for whom love was war, as fierce and unsparing as any conflict on earth. Her concern was not with awkward realities, but with the success of her speech; and from these lofty opening flourishes, she swung downward to more practical considerations. She reminded them that the patriotic spirit in which the women of England had worked and endured, through these first bewildering and terrible months of war, must assuredly win for them the all-round equality, economic and political, out of which they had been cheated for so long....

There spoke the soul of Harry through the voice of Bel, vitiating fine service rendered by a perpetual eye on the ballot-box of the future. But, for the moment, even the obsession of years paled before her consuming admiration of Bel in a new rôle. Her address had been reserved as the finishing touch to a great occasion, the inauguration of a movement that promised far-reaching results. For three quarters of an hour she held her audience--their eyes no less than their brains; and the culminating burst of applause was fully as much a tribute to the speaker as to the speech: of which fact Bel was radiantly aware.

A select company of the audience remained for tea and talk. Fads and theories flourished. Compliments rained. And Bel was never happier than in the limelight of uncritical praise. Between Harry's open adoration and the joy of achievement, she was swept for the time being, right away from the perplexities and tragic issues of her lover's return.

It needed only the unexpected appearance of Rex Maitland, and his discreet adulation, to complete her enjoyment. But his polite enquiries about Mark elicited brief and evasive answers. She had not yet found courage to tell any one the truth, only excepting Harry, whose honest sympathy for the man in no way affected her inevitable opinion as regards Bel.

Maitland was among the still further selected few whom Mrs. Langton entertained at dinner: and Bel--in an apricot-yellow gown and her leopard-skin cloak was admittedly the heroine of the evening. The whole affair was an experience after her own heart; marred only by that hovering shadow of tragedy that waited to engulf her when solitude and darkness left her at its mercy.

Alone at last in her bedroom, it engulfed her very thoroughly, blotting out her tinsel triumphs, thrusting her in upon herself, demanding decisions.

For nearly two weeks she had deliberately evaded the issue. Now the time for evasion was over.

Mark must already know his fate: and for the last few days she had been half hoping, half fearing that he would write, through his mother, offering to release her from their engagement. Not a word had come; and to-morrow....

Mechanically discarding her robe of triumpn, she slipped on a padded dressing-gown and sank into a comfortable chair by the fire to confront the situation. No comfort there; look whichever way she would, it was all cruel and horrible: fresh proof that the Fates were in league against her, as always. In her case, pity for the broken or imperfect creatures of earth was not akin to love, but to repulsion. It was one of the chief horrors of this horrible war that it would fill the world with hundreds of maimed and disfigured men; perpetual reminders of an event which all sane people must surely crave to forget.

And now--Mark would be one of them: Mark, her strong, splendid lover!

To marry him would be to live with a perpetual reminder of the thing she abhorred: to spend her days either uncompanioned or tied to his chair. No seasons in Town: no social triumphs. She could not see Mark submitting to an invalid existence in London. He would cling more obstinately than ever to Wynchcombe Friars. So would the very position and affluence she craved be robbed of its chief attraction. She had enough imagination to foresee it all far too clearly; and the more she looked at the prospect the less she liked it. The hope of gradual improvement held out by Dr. Norton, was too distant, too uncertain to mitigate the tragic actuality that lay like a stone upon her heart. For the great man had told her plainly that if, in six months, there was no change of condition, the case would be hopeless. He considered improvement possible; but was too cautious to say more, or to, prophecy how far it might ultimately go. And vague possibilities were not enough for Bel. Suppose she did wait six months and then...?

With a shiver of misery she leaned forward, covering her face; and tears, that came so rarely, fell from between her fingers. Too well she knew that the compound of passion and sentiment which she called "love," would never stand the strain; and, genuinely though she sorrowed for Mark, she was many degrees more sorry for herself. The root of her own tragedy lay in the fact that now--for the first time in her varied dealings with men--her heart was seriously involved; and its promptings did not agree with the promptings of her brain.

Hitherto it had been an underling; obedient to the dictates of self-interest, more becomingly designated common-sense. It had played no leading part in her swift, dramatic conquest of Mark; in the keen pleasure, known only to her kind, of luring him from a girl lovelier and worthier than herself, and with hardly a grain of coquetry in her composition. Lady Forsyth's obvious disapproval had been but one stimulus the more: and, her head having guided her into a delectable harbour, she had felt, at last, sufficiently secure to let her heart have its way--with disastrous result.

For, in her own fashion, she loved Mark now, more deeply and genuinely than she would have believed possible that day at Inveraig, when she had rejoiced mainly in the capture of a strong man, against his mother's wish and probably against his own cooler judgment. Her triumph had been complete. She had done more than capture him; she had held him; and now--no denying it--he very certainly held her.

In his case, absence, and the letters that revealed unsuspected heights and depths in him, had served to strengthen that hold; while her own letters were having the opposite effect on him. Nor had Mark been mistaken in thinking that she might rise, momentarily to the heroic plane. For a few exalted days she had seen herself in the grand rôle; and had almost believed in her power to carry it through. But Nemesis pursued her: the Nemesis of her own nature. Invariably her high impulses had been short-lived; rootless things, like seeds dropped on stony ground: and this one had proved no exception to the rule.

Hovering to-night at the cross-roads, vowed to a decision before she slept, Bel discovered to her cost that this, the one great choice of her life, was decided already by the hundreds of minor, careless decisions that had gone before. Since she had never yet, in small matters, chosen the path of hardness or unselfishness, so she could not choose it now. The Greeks, as usual, were in the right of it: character is fate.

For years, unconsciously, and with keen enjoyment, Bel Alison had been building up her own tragedy. Now it turned and overwhelmed her.

But she did not long indulge in the futility of tears. Very soon her practical mind was at work again devising pleas that would throw a becoming light on her quite justifiable, if unheroic, refusal to face marriage with a husband who must either hamper her at every turn, or be a cipher in her life. The main points in her eyes were to do the thing gracefully, to preserve at least a semblance of being in the right, and, if possible, to avoid witnessing the pain she could not choose but inflict. For that reason, his silence troubled her. It implied either that he meant to do the thing personally or--not to do it at all. In which case, she would be driven to take the initiative. That unpleasant possibility swung her back to her original lament. It was all cruel and horrible: no escape any where from pain for herself or him. She felt helpless, like a squirrel in a revolving cage.

At least she must see him to-morrow and chance the result.

"Better write and be done with it, Mavourneen," was Harry's counsel next day, when Bel suggested a train that would allow time to "look up Mark." "It's a bitter business for the poor fellow losing everything at a stroke; and I can't believe he's the man to try and hold you in spite of all. But if he gets making love to you--well! there's no knowing what might happen. And there's only one end to the business that's fair on you. Short and sharp's the kindest way of it, Bel. It'll only be worse for the both of you if you let things drag on. Cruel hard enough as it is."

Bel admitted the hardship--and the risk: but she insisted on the earlier train; and wired to Mark her probable time of arrival at the Home. Marriage or no marriage, she wanted simply to feel his arms round her, his lips on hers again.

At first sight of him, her heart contracted so sharply that she had need of Harry's warning and vehement conviction to fortify her own resolve. They had dressed him and moved him into an arm-chair by the fire. A fur rug covered his legs. The bandage had given place to a velvet football cap that hid the shaven patch on his head. Altogether, he looked more normal than she had seen him yet. But the change that smote her was in his face; the look of his eyes as if some inner light had gone out.

Those first few days of awful realisation as regards himself and bewildering uncertainty as regards Bel had told upon him visibly. The strong outline of his chin and jaw seemed sharper. When he was not talking or smiling the strained expression of his lips was pitiful to see. And his greeting, for the moment, unnerved her utterly.

"Bel,--at last!" he cried, a queer ring in his voice, and held out his hand.

She came to him swiftly and half flung herself on him kneeling beside his chair. Very seldom in her life had she felt tongue-tied: but just then speech seemed the last impossibility. And when she closed her eyes the feel of his rough Norfolk coat against her cheek carried her sharply back to days of cool, assured conquest at Inveraig. If _only_ she had known!----

Very sorely she began to wish that she had followed Harry's advice. For, though head governed heart, she was, like most egoists, a sentimentalist at the core. Evenly balanced on the knife-edge between pain and pleasure, she leaned against her lover, expecting, yet half dreading the word that he, poor man, was doing his utmost to speak.

So far he had said nothing to any one of the facts wrung from Keith a few days ago. With his mother there had been no need. Neither could have borne it: and their understanding was complete. The mute sympathy of his Nurse no longer jarred: and his few recent visitors had continued to maintain a tactful silence. Detailed talk on the subject would hurt like salt on an open wound. It would also involve the inevitable scene, so distressful to his shaken nerves; and still, at critical moments, there lurked the dread of making ludicrous mistakes.

But the main stumbling-block was Bel herself. Her flight to Folkestone--he did not believe in the importance of that meeting--had convinced him that retreat was simply a prelude to graceful acceptance of her freedom. Yet here she was, incalculable as ever, making passionate love to him: her lips mutely attesting, "I am yours, in spite of all!"

Every minute of silence, every fresh kiss, made things harder for Mark. The mere glamour of her most strangely out-lasted his own clearer vision. After four of the worst days he had ever lived through, it was undeniably refreshing, if only because it made no demands on the higher centres of his brain and soul. But it engendered neither true emotion nor response. It was a pure anodyne; and as such he frankly recognised it.

Conversely, Bel's emotion had so genuine a ring that it set him wondering had he after all, misjudged her? Were there hidden deeps in her that this sharp test might reach and bring to light? In that case it were hard to put her aside in the hour of his own greatest need for the best that woman can give; harder still to resist her in an appealing vein.

He was mentally unstrung--and he knew it. Not otherwise could her mere genius for love-making override his deep and real conviction that in freedom from her spell lay his sole chance of salvation. That very conviction made resistance seem unchivalrous; and he felt utterly unfit for the emotional strain of a dramatic scene, such as she would instinctively make out of a noble resolve to devote herself to a crippled husband. By one of life's ironic twists their positions appeared to be reversed.

It was not in him to conceive that she was merely indulging herself to the full because this must be the end; because, with the innate perversity of her kind she had never loved him better than now, when her will was set to give him up.

Mark himself, with the deeper, ingrained perversity of human nature, felt a sudden distaste for this exuberance of sentiment, which thwarted his fixed intent and seemed tacitly to rebuke the secret defection of his heart. He began to think the thing would have to be written after all. In any case he needed time to readjust his mind in view of her possible refusal to be set free.

To-morrow--perhaps. Any idea of speaking to-day was "off." ...

She released him at last, and sat back in his mother's low chair; her ringed hand resting close to his arm.

"Well, fire away," he said in his natural manner. "I want to know--all that--" a gesture filled the gap. "Is the latest thing in ... vocations going to be a thundering success?"

She smiled at the recollection.

"It started well anyway. Compliments were flying."

"What subject?"

"Harry's pet subject, of course! Chiefly glorification of ourselves. But we women _do_ get the kicks in war time and precious few of the ha'pence!" Though she spoke lightly, a shade of bitterness crept into her tone. "What harm if we make little tinsel crowns for ourselves just to keep up our spirits!"

Then, sheering away as from the edge of a precipice she entertained him with thumb-nail sketches of Mrs. Langton and her friends and with a judicious selection of their flying compliments to herself. The longer she stayed, the harder it became to get up and leave him--for the last time. She felt convinced now, that he would not speak; and she did not mean to see him again.

At last, somehow, she was on her feet, saying she must go; and when she stooped to kiss him, he looked searchingly into her eyes.

"Badly bored--are you?--by your invalid lover?" he asked, probing her on impulse; but she managed to laugh it off.

"Boring people is not one of his talents!" she said lightly, and leaned her head against him.

"To-morrow?" he said in her ear. And she, humanly inconsistent--could not bear that her last word to him should be a lie. So, for answer, she kissed him lingeringly, and made haste to be gone.

On the threshold she turned, for a last look. But sudden tears blinded her; and, with a flutter of her hand she left him.

Arrived at the flat, she found supper ready and Harry impatient, more from anxiety than anything else. Even now she did not feel quite secure about Bel. No one ever did. It was perhaps half the secret of her power.

"Well?" she asked abruptly. Bel shook her head.

"He never said a word."

Crouching on the hearth-rug she drew off her gloves and held her chilled hands to the blaze.

Harry's eyes scrutinised her fire-lit face. "Perhaps he doesn't mean to."

"Oh--I don't know. But--I _can't_ go on----"

"Of course you can't. It's horribly unfair on you. You must write yourself, Mavourneen. Do it to-night; and get it over."

Bel shivered. "I suppose--I must. But it seems so ungracious coming from me. And ... it's not only him. It's the whole thing----"

Her voice broke suddenly and she sank on to the floor, sobbing passionately, her face hidden in the empty arm-chair.

Quick as thought Harry was beside her, removing her hat, clinging to her, murmuring endearments; to all of which Bel submitted without response.

"You're tired, my precious, and the strain of it all has upset your nerves. It won't feel half so bad once you've got it over. You shall have this room to yourself after supper and I'll post it the minute it's written. Cheer up and eat something before it all gets cold. Your poor old Harry will be ever so good to you----"

Bel raised her head suddenly and shook off the clinging hands. "Oh, let me alone! You're not a bit sorry really. You only want me for yourself. But I'm bound to marry--I _must_ marry. You know that. Yet you always try to prevent me. If you hadn't made such an unholy fuss about Geoffrey, we might have been quite happy together now in Australia. He was a good fellow anyway; and I would have been spared--_all this_. Now I've tasted the best and I'll have to swallow the second best, with my eyes open and my heart locked up. It's evidently not safe, even to fall in love with one's affianced husband. God knows I've had enough of tragedy----"

With a superbly dramatic gesture she swept to her feet and left the discomfited Harry kneeling ignominiously by an empty chair.

But if Harry's devotion was deep, her temper was short. "And sometimes I think I've had enough of you, Bel," she flung out, scrambling ungainly from her knees. "I, that have loved you and slaved for you--goodness knows why. For all your sweetness, you're selfish, heartless, ungrateful----"

She broke off, for Bel had vanished into her room and locked the door.

In her own time, she reappeared--dignified, unapproachable and polite. But before their half-cold meal was over, dignity had thawed; Harry's temper had evaporated and Bel had talked herself into the belief that her latest evasion was mainly prompted by consideration for Mark. Since she could not rise to his level, it were kinder to leave him than to drag him down. It was a singularly sustaining belief and it made her ungracious letter much easier to write.

Harry, as good as her word, took a bundle of pamphlets to read by the kitchen fire, leaving her alone.

After a little preliminary pacing and framing of sentences, Bel sat down to her task, steeled outwardly and composed. Harry was right. Once the thing was done, past undoing, the worst wrench would be over.

"My darling Mark," she began in her firm, clear hand. "I can write that truthfully, in spite of what I am going to say. It's not lack of love that forces me to do this hateful thing. It's lack of something much bigger, which you possess and I most certainly don't. I knew, the minute I saw your face, that they had told you. It's the cruelest, bitterest blow that could have fallen on a man like you. To say I'm sorry would be simply a travesty of what I feel about it. And you'll understand now what sort of a purgatory _I've_ been going through this last two weeks. Let that be my excuse--if you admit any.

"Mark--I didn't properly love you at Inveraig, but I do now. And yet--I _can't_ marry you. No use pretending. I couldn't go through the pain and strain of it even for the finest man I've ever known.

"I told you, when first this Inferno began, that you were too big for a mere Bel; that in spite of it I couldn't let you go. Now, _because_ of it, I must. This war has shrivelled up all I ever possessed in the way of a soul. But it seems to have made you stand out bigger than before. I believe that even this fiendish stroke of Fate will only crush you for a time. You'll override it. You and your astonishing mother. Perhaps even wring some good out of it. That would simply drive me to the other extreme. People ought _not_ to accept and glorify horrors like this. It's all wrong. Simply encourages Kings and politicians to wallow in wholesale murder for their own ends.

"But this is heresy to you; so no more. If you hate reading this letter, please believe I've hated writing it. I thought you might speak this afternoon. But I expect it was too hard for you, poor boy. And it's really kinder on my part to do it this way, even though it _seems_ to put me in an ungracious position. If I saw you again, I might give way after all, in spite of myself. But it _wouldn't last_. A worse tragedy for you. At least I'm sparing you that. And I'm not returning your ring. I feel sure you would like me to keep it with your letters, as a remembrance of the one real phase in my rather artificial life.

"Will you miss me tremendously, I wonder? But it's no use thinking of that now. It's all cruel and horrible for both of us.

"If you ever hear of me marrying, you'll know it is simply a business arrangement--and no doubt you'll be very sorry for the man. Enough of this. Good-bye. Your unworthy but not unloving Bel."

There--it was done, even to the straight thick line under her signature with a loop at one end. She forced herself to read it through, with a critical detachment, and decided that it could not well be improved upon. Even the ungraceful thing, she had managed to do gracefully. There was a gleam of comfort in that. She felt half tempted to show it to Harry; but refrained. Harry was allowed to run out with it, however, though her cough was troublesome and a fine cold rain was falling.

Alone again, Bel sat down by the fire and tried not to be aware of a chill emptiness at her heart....

It was a sharp pang, this parting: the sharpest she had yet known. But she could and would live it down. Her invincible common-sense assured her that, after all, there were other men in the world, moneyed and titled; that a woman between thirty and thirty-five was at the zenith of her charm. But something else told her that men of Mark's quality do not grow on bramble bushes. Though he could not lift her to his level, he had raised her standard, if only for a time. The sort of husband who might have done very well six months ago would, now, not do at all. More and more she saw herself as the chief sufferer in this double calamity. Mark had his own fineness to uphold him. He had a beautiful home, devoted friends, a mother who worshipped him, Mr. Macnair, Sheila----

Though Bel put Sheila last, the thought of her had come first: and in the private corner of her heart she was glad that her loss could not be Sheila's gain. Though Mark might hesitate to set her free, she could not see him proposing marriage to another woman. It was her one crumb of consolation.

At the sound of the latch-key in the lock she rose and went hurriedly to her own room. Harry's jealous devotion seemed to her suddenly a thing intolerable----