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.