Chapter VII

"Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailéd;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailéd?"
SHAKESPEARE.

That picnic on the farther shore of the loch marked a definite step in the progress of their intimacy.

Bel, in a distinctly coming-on disposition, proved herself at once a more enchanting and disturbing possession than Mark had found her hitherto. First she must discover a hollow full of bracken for his "arm-chair"; then she must take possession of the tea-basket and proceed to "play at being married" with all the airy innocence of nineteen. But nineteen never could have worked so simply yet skilfully on a man's heartstrings that, before their idyllic meal was over, the man in question found himself more than half regretting that promise to his mother. It was almost as if Bel had guessed at his defection and set out to punish him.

When tea was over he proffered his cigarette case. "More demoralisation, I suppose?"

"No; the reward of virtue!" she said, deftly extracting one with each hand.

"I say! Sheer greed! What about virtue being its own reward?"

She wrinkled her nose very prettily. "Can't say I've ever found it so. But then--I'm not overburdened with virtue. So I'm entitled to the reward!"

"Not in that form. You're my wife this afternoon!"

"So you can be as hectoring as you please? At that rate I vote we remain engaged to the end of the chapter!"

"Bel--if you talk like that, I'll marry you to-morrow," he threatened her, tempted beyond endurance; but she was gravely considering her two cigarettes. Then, lifting her lashes, she regarded him with lazy tenderness. "I'll be very good," she said, "and give up one of them in exchange--for a kiss!"

Thus challenged he seized her and kissed her vehemently--lips, eyes, and hair.

"Oh--oh!" she breathed, half in ecstasy, half in remonstrance; and he desisted without releasing her.

"You brought it on yourself," he said huskily. "Bel--you're a witch. You _do_ know how to make a man crazy for you."

Her sigh expressed contentment unabashed. But she seemed chiefly concerned with the cigarette in her left hand. It was crumpled into a limp wreck.

"There now, you've killed the poor thing," she said, holding it up for his inspection. "And I might just as well have enjoyed it. Do look at Bobs over there, disapproving visibly of your behaviour."

Mark looked; and the Irish terrier's stump of a tail moved to and fro in small jerks. The rest of him remained motionless, watchful, nose between paws, obviously prepared for active intervention, if need arose.

"Good old Bobs!" murmured Mark; and two velvet ears, several shades darker than the chestnut head, twitched in response, as who should say: "I appreciate the attention, but we can't enjoy ourselves properly till we're rid of her."

Bel snapped her fingers in friendly invitation. But he paid no heed. "He's quite uncomfortably human, that dog, and he hasn't accepted me yet. He's a jealous red-head, like his master--almost as jealous as his master's mother!"

"Why do you think she's jealous?" Mark asked, instinctively on the defensive at the mention of her name.

"I don't think. I know. It's quite natural. I should be horribly jealous--of my son."

"You would--would you?" he asked in a changed voice; and she, resting her head against him, answered nothing. Possibly she thought the allusion might induce him to speak more definitely of their marriage; but he merely continued to hold her, more gently now, and to stroke her ruffled hair.

For several minutes they remained thus, thinking their own curiously divergent thoughts. Then by degrees she drew herself away, laid the crumpled cigarette on his knee and put the other between her lips. "Light, please," she said, and as he held the match for her, she looked searchingly into his eyes.

"Bel--" he began vehemently; but she checked him with a gesture. "Pax! I want to enjoy my cigarette unmolested. Tell me more about the Hampshire home. I've heard next to nothing about it yet."

She settled herself to listen, hands lightly clasped round her knees, her eyes gazing dreamily out over the water. Like all women who pose habitually and instinctively, she had the art of seeming more natural than genuine simplicity can ever appear. And she had touched the right spring. If Mark loved any place in the world better than Inveraig, it was Wynchcombe Friars. His feeling for both was too personal, too deep-seated to be articulate; but he could at least describe externals; and he did it well. He told her of the long, rambling Elizabethan house, with its oak panelling and dark roof beams; of the great flagged terrace, flanked by moss-covered urns, overlooking a forest of Scotch firs that trooped down into the valley and climbed the opposite ridge in massed battalions.

"Outside my bedroom and studio windows," he said, "there's a very sea of pine tops, sinking into the hollow and rising again till they are splashed like dark foam against the sky. Magnificent trees. Most of 'em hundreds of years old. And the charm of it is that, on the other side of our ridge, behind the house, we drop down into typical English country: meadows and park land, and the Wynch flowing lazily through it; great lonely beeches and oaks, with all space to spread themselves in, and the grand old ruins of Wynchcombe Abbey. You'll simply love it. I'm longing to take you all over it."

"I'm longing too. It sounds very beautiful," she said with feeling; then paused, as if picturing the scene. But her feminine brain was revolving matters more practical than pine forests and ruined abbeys.

"Horses to ride?" she asked casually.

"Yes; and to drive. We're not motor-folk really. But mother succumbed to one at last for long distances."

"I'm glad. I love motoring. Are you within reasonable distance of town?"

"Seven miles from a branch line station and bad connections. We usually motor to the main line thirteen miles off. But we're not great Londoners, either of us. We've too much that's keenly interesting on the spot."

"Rather narrowing, isn't it?"

"I haven't found it so."

Again she was silent, contemplating the blurred beauty of inverted hills in the loch.

"And Wynchcombe Friars," she asked, "would be our main residence?"

"Well--where else?" he said, smiling at her pensive profile and wondering what she was driving at. "There's only this, besides. This is mother's little place--a legacy from a bachelor godfather. I don't run to half a dozen establishments."

"But surely"--she turned to him now, half eager, half anxious--"surely you have a house in town?"

"Rather not. Don't want it, and couldn't afford it. I'm not a cocoa or a patent medicine millionaire. Keeping up two estates--though Inveraig is not large--takes a fair amount of money. And I've put a good deal into our arts and crafts centre."

Her face fell so noticeably that he slipped a consoling hand through her arm. "Poor little girl! Is it a house in town she's after?"

"Well, naturally I"--she coloured a little--"I thought--you kind of people always went the regular round--London, Scotland, and the country."

"So we do; the social sort. Mother and I aren't the social sort. I didn't suppose you were either."

"I haven't had half a chance. But I'd like to be. A flat wouldn't ruin you, would it, Mark? Just for the season."

This time it was his face that fell. "Oh Lord! I could never stick out a London season, Bel. The very best time in the country too."

"And _I_ could never exist all the year round out of town." She stated the fact sweetly but with entire conviction.

"Hang it all! This is rather a serious state of affairs!" he said, with a lightness he was far from feeling. "We must see if we can't effect a compromise."

Suddenly he remembered his mother's words a fortnight ago; and impulsively he spoke his thought. "Of course if you feel--you've been let in; accepted a baronet under false pretences----"

"Oh be _quiet_!" she entreated, pain and passion in her low tone. "It's _you_ I've accepted."

"And you'll take me as you find me? That's all right." His fingers pressed her arm. "You do care--actively, Bel? It's not simply a case of 'L'un qui baise...?'"

It was a question to rouse the incurable coquette in her; and she flashed him a fugitive smile.

"In the course of my variegated life," she said, "I've mostly found it more blessed to receive than to give. But in your case--isn't my rather precipitate acceptance proof enough for you? And the fact that you can reduce me--_me_, to asking for kisses?"

"Oh--kisses!" he dismissed them with a shrug.

"Well--if it's more practical proof you're wanting"--she hesitated, then turned full upon him, her languor discarded like a garment. "I simply can't bear this crazy talk about going to Ulster. It's no earthly concern of yours. Mark--darling, _don't_ go, even if they are fools enough to fight."

She leaned urgently towards him. Her whole sweet face looked younger, tenderer, more appealing than he had seen it since that momentous afternoon in the glen. So swift, so surprising was her change of front, that he looked openly dismayed.

"You don't seem very keen on practical proofs after all," she said, bringing her face a shade nearer to his. "I did think your mother would have the sense to discourage you."

He shook his head. "Mother understands."

"That really means she gives in to your every whim. It's the way mothers are made. Specially when they own a son with a chin like yours! But the modern wife isn't quite so accommodating. And I suppose my feeling about it counts for something?"

"Of course it does--tremendously."

"Then say you won't go; and there'll be no more bother."

He thrust out his formidable chin and looked across the loch with troubled eyes.

"Darling," she persisted, "where's the _point_ of mixing yourself up with a purely Irish quarrel?"

He shrugged his shoulders, still keeping his eyes away from her face.

"I suppose--a natural prompting of the blood. Mother's a Stuart, of these parts, with a strain of North Ireland in her; and there's a link between Ulster and the south-west of Scotland that only those who belong there quite understand. In very old days, the two coasts were so close, at points, that men could row to and fro in ordinary sea-boats. And it's not a purely Irish quarrel, Bel. It's of the first importance that the United Kingdom should remain united--especially just now. Nothing would suit Germany better than Home Rule and 'Ireland-a-nation' before she throws off her mask. Personally, I admit I'm keen for a share in the scrap, if it comes to scrapping. I've the blood of fighters in my veins. But of course--if you're dead against it----"

"I _am_ dead against it," she said, softly implacable, edging closer still. "And _you're_ too strong to be obstinate. Mark--you're not going to refuse the first thing I seriously ask you to do for me?"

Her low-toned tenderness disarmed him utterly. "No, I'm _not_," he said, with sudden vehemence, drawing her to him. "I won't go to Ireland, Bel. No need to worry any more."

With a sigh of relief, she put her free arm round his shoulder, lifted her head, and kissed him on the lips. It was the first time she had done so spontaneously; and, at the moment, it eased considerably his bitter sense of disappointment. He said nothing, however, and for the rest of the evening Bel was all tenderness and simplicity; not a shadow of coquetry to mar the effect.

"I think my concession deserves a special reward," he said later on, as he grounded the boat under Inveraig, and handed her ashore. "You might chuck your Harry for once and come on up to dinner."

But she demurred at that. Honestly she couldn't chuck Harry to-night. Considering Harry's views and her devotion and her resentment, she was taking it all beautifully--in the intervals. "She's done more for me in three years," Bel concluded, "than my own people have in the rest of my life. So you oughtn't to grudge her the crumbs that fall from your table! You've monopolised me all day; and she hates being alone in the evening."

"Bring her along then. _I_ don't mind."

"Perhaps not, Mr. Egoist. But she would. She wants me to herself, just as you do. Don't you see?"

Mark grimaced. "No, I don't see. A couple of women. Morbid rot! Mother says the Suffrage business is increasing that sort of thing. I'll be glad to get you out of the atmosphere and away from all that rescue work of hers."

"But, Mark, it's splendid work----"

"Of course it is, for her. Quite unsuitable, though, for you. If you really won't come up, I'll see you home."

No, she really wouldn't. She was resolute on that point.

"Your people up there have had enough of me to-day," she added, smiling into his dissatisfied face. "They're like Bobs. They haven't quite accepted me yet. And--honestly, I don't seem to catch on, somehow, except with Mr. Lenox----"

"Not Sheila?" he asked, a little anxiously. "I'm very keen you two should be good friends."

"She evidently knows that, and she's doing her best. She's sweetness itself to me. But still----"

"Well? What's wrong with her?" He was on the defensive again.

"My dear, there's nothing wrong. If there was, she'd probably be twice as charming. She's the kind of tranquil angel who would show up beautifully against a tragic background. But, in ordinary life, she seems almost too good to be true."

"She's nothing of the kind," he retorted hotly, which did not improve matters. But for the life of him, he could not keep cool. "She's the right sort all through."

"Well, if she's such a living wonder, why on earth don't you marry her instead of me?" Bel countered with perfect good temper.

"For a very obvious reason, which you don't deserve to be told in so many words."

"Mark, you're horrid!" she pushed him lightly with her shoulder. "Don't let's spoil our beautiful afternoon squabbling over a side issue. No doubt we shall shake down together in the end. Only give us time."

Her sweet reasonableness disarmed him--for the moment. But he was a long while falling off to sleep that night. Things did not easily worry him; but within the last twelve hours several events of more than minor importance had conspired to that end.

First, Bel's frankness made it clear that at Inveraig she found no atmosphere of genuine welcome or of home. He must give them time, as she had said; but it was an unpropitious start. Second, he had, in effect, saddled himself with two promises that would be far from easy to keep. Third, there was the unwelcome prospect of that possible flat in town. If Bel seriously set her heart on it, he did not see himself refusing her; though goodness knew where the money was coming from, or how he was going to survive large doses of London society. Son of a mother who treated life as an art, he lacked the herd-instinct of the social type. But for all her indulgence, and his own imperious ways, he was not radically selfish; and beneath his blunt, Scottish exterior there dwelt a deep, natural tenderness for woman, as woman, common to the essentially masculine man.

Marriage, he supposed, meant compromise; and he began to see that, with Bel for wife, he would have to do his full share of it. Looking back over their "beautiful afternoon," he was uncomfortably aware of certain fundamental discords; still more aware that his mother had been right in several respects. It was an annoying trick of hers. She had been right about Ulster; about Bel's eye to worldly advantage; even about the minor matter of her age. For Mark had discovered, incidentally, that she was twenty-nine in June, two years older than himself. Not that a year or so mattered this way or that. But it was an additional score for his mother; and gave greater weight to her curious antipathy to the girl of his choice.

His disappointment about Ulster was keener even than he cared to admit; and here again--as his acutely wide-awake brain recalled words and looks and tones--a sudden vexatious doubt assailed him. Had her tenderly urgent request been as spontaneous as it seemed: a genuine response to his question about active caring? Or had she been skilfully leading him towards it all along? Her pretty coquetting with the tea-things, her pretence at being married, and her casual mention of a son--had it all been cleverly designed to stir him to the depths and so make victory secure? He hated himself for the suspicion. It persisted none the less. Yet he knew quite well that it would evaporate at the sight of her face and the touch of her lips. Only when the spell of her presence was removed was he capable of doubting her for an instant; and even so, he saw those doubts as a reflection on himself rather than on her. He was tired, simply; and--yes, more than a little disappointed. That was all; and the sooner he got to sleep the better.

Springing out of bed he stood a few minutes at the window looking out upon a world of stars in the heavens above and the waters below. Fitfully, through the silence, came the clear night note of the curlew; and the sound of the ebbing tide was like hushed voices talking secrets the stars must not overhear. As a small boy, lying wakeful in the summer twilight, Mark had woven entrancing tales about those mysterious confidences between the retreating waters and the shore: tales that had become part of the fabric of his inner life.

A few deep breaths filled his lungs with clean cool air and quieted his brain. Metaphorically, he wrung the serpent's neck and flung him into the loch. Then he went quietly back to bed. Happen what might Bel was Bel: a bewildering wonder of womanhood, neither to be analysed nor criticised; but simply to be loved and cherished and--so far as possible--obeyed.