Chapter VIII

"England clasps in her embraces
Many. What is England's state?
Warn her, Bard, that Power is pressing
Hotly for his dues this hour:
Tell her that no drunken blessing
Stops the onward march of Power.

Has she ears to take forewarnings,
She will cleanse her of her stains;
Feed and speed, for braver mornings,
Valorously, the growth of brains."
GEORGE MEREDITH.

Two days later the head-lines of every newspaper in the kingdom announced in heavy-leaded type "Austria declares War," "Partial Russian Mobilisation."

At hundreds of breakfast-tables incredulous people read out those few and fateful words. Even at this late hour, the majority could scarcely bring themselves to believe that the Titanic struggle--long prophesied to deaf ears--had begun at last; that Austria was the megaphone merely through which Germany cried aloud her challenge to the world.

Keith Macnair, it need hardly be said, was numbered among the minority who had seen, with anger and dismay, warning after warning scoffed at or ignored by a pacific Government and a comfort-loving people; yet he neither exclaimed, nor cursed the blind guides who had been sedulously whittling down the fighting strength of the British Isles.

"Hullo! The fat's in the fire," he remarked coolly, having pulled in his chair and opened the _Scotsman_ with his customary deliberation. "The voice is the voice of Jacob; but the hand is the hand of Esau."

It was Lady Forsyth, standing behind him, who exclaimed and read out snatches from the Summary of Contents with heightened colour and quickened breath.

Though Keith had all the natural man's objection to these peculiarly feminine methods, he bore the infliction without a murmur, till Mark, towering behind his mother, took her waist between his hands and propelled her towards the sputtering kettle.

"Steady on, Mums, and feed your sheep," he commanded, standing guard over her. "Your righteous wrath will only give you indigestion, and the elderly gentlemen who are engineering this eruption won't be one penny the worse."

"And you ought to be grateful to them really!" Mona remarked, with a wicked twinkle. "What about the German invasion you were praying for?"

They all "ragged" her, young and old. She was irresistible; and unquenchable.

"Well, at least we can fight invading Germans, and we couldn't fight the petticoats!" she retorted, while Mark thrust a caddy spoon into her inattentive hand. "But it still remains to be seen whether our _pax vobiscums_ will permit us to hurt a single hair of a single 'kindred Teuton' head!"

The tea was made by now, thanks chiefly to Mark; and for five minutes she managed to concentrate her attention on cups and saucers. But throughout the meal they could talk of little else than the veiled drama of the nations and its probable developments. Mark himself was rather quieter than usual; but perhaps he thought the more.

When the younger ones went out on to the terrace, he followed Keith into the study, and for some time the two--who were as brothers in all but blood--sat together in a smoky, companionable silence, each absorbed in his own printed sheet. The Irish news was by no means reassuring. But Mark, to Keith's surprise, had tacitly dropped the subject; and it was the older man who spoke first.

"I'd give something for a glimpse, this minute, into Germany's barracks and her sacred Kiel Canal. If I know anything of the Kaiser and his gang, she's on the move already; counting on our neutrality of course. God send she may find herself mistaken; but Grey will leave no stone unturned to avoid war. As a philosopher and a man of letters, I'm with him there. But the rest of me is convinced that nothing short of Treitschke's 'terrible medicine' will shake us out of our democratic fiddle-faddling and partisan squabbling. It would link up the men and women, not to mention the Empire; and as for the Irish--at the first hint of real business, they'd be falling on each other's necks. In that case, Mark, you and I would be for offering our services elsewhere."

"Yes--of course. Rather so!" Mark agreed with fervour; then checked himself and fell silent.

Keith said nothing; but his thoughts were effectually diverted from the threat of war to a more personal threat that touched him very nearly, because Mark was Helen's son. Being a man, he understood, as she could never do, the nature of Mark's infatuation for this alluring girl--"the ideal mistress" he classified her mentally; the siren-type, who sits combing her hair in the sunset and smilingly wrecks the souls of men. The straighter and cleaner a man's record, the more easily she flings her gold dust in his eyes; and should she chance to fall in love----

Macnair had not yet made up his mind on that score. He was concerned at the moment with one painful, practical question: could she, in the event of war, conceivably induce Helen's son to play the coward's part? He knew Mark for a man of strong passions; but he believed him equally strong in spirit and in will. He felt troubled and anxious none the less. Had he known of that recent surrender he would have felt more anxious still.

Mark left the study without further allusion to the subject; and later in the morning Bel appeared serenely graceful, in a new yellow silk golf coat and a distractingly becoming hat. With such a vision before his eyes no man in his senses could feel seriously concerned about European thunderclouds that might still, at the eleventh hour, dissolve in a harmless shower of rain.

Bel, of course, was airily convinced they would. "Besides," she concluded, with her engaging air of sagacity, "where's the earthly use of being an island, with an invincible Navy, if we're to be scared by every little flare-up across the Channel?"

Mark smiled and shook his head at her. She was ensconced in the deep window-sill of the studio, lightly swinging one foot.

"It's not a case of being scared, but of being prepared," he said, fingering the stray tendrils in the nape of her neck. "If Germany's engineering this squabble it'll be the biggest flare-up the world's ever seen; and before many days are out we may be thanking Prince Louis on our knees for having kept the Fleet in being----"

"Oh, be quiet!" she commanded, slapping the hand that caressed her. "You're as bad as Mr. Macnair." She leaned half out of the window. "It's a divine morning. A boat on the loch would be more to the purpose than all your horrid battleships put together. Here comes the midday post."

"The _Times_!" cried Mark, and was promptly extinguished.

"You aren't going to look at the _Times_ till to-night," she said. "You're to look at me in my new clothes. What else did I put them on for?"

The word "clothes" reminded him of an expected parcel. "You wait there a minute," he said mysteriously; and very soon reappeared with two of them. From the smaller, he extracted a rope of amber beads; from the larger, a snow leopard skin, lined with satin, to form a natural cloak.

Bel's face, during these proceedings, was certainly better worth looking at than the _Times_. The beads were the very colour of her coat; the pale tones and dusky markings of the skin harmonised perfectly with her hair; and her delight in both was too genuine to be marred by minor affectations. By lunch-time Mark had almost forgotten the International Crisis, and the threat of war.

But throughout that unforgettable week--when the world's destiny hung in the balance--events in Europe moved swiftly toward the great upheaval; while in England the tension of anxiety increased daily. Between those who feared that an enlightened Liberal Government would be criminal enough to fight, and those who feared the worse criminality of its failure to stand by France, there could be little peace of mind anywhere, except among the wilfully or constitutionally blind--a large majority in every country.

At Inveraig they could talk of little else, except in snatches. And Mark--reared by his mother to live in touch with the whole vast sweep of life--was as bad as the rest: though Bel, in her leopard-skin cloak and amber beads, was a vision enchanting enough to distract any man's thoughts from graver matters: and indeed she did her utmost to that end with fitful success. In her heart she hated this looming shadow, chiefly because it dwarfed her proudest achievement--the conquest of Mark: and as the week drew on, she became bored; even faintly irritable. She began to find or invent excuses for avoiding meals at Inveraig, and when Mark remonstrated, she candidly owned to being tired of the subject. She wasn't accustomed to that sort of talk, and a little of it went a long way. She would give him a holiday on Friday, she concluded graciously. They had friends coming to join them at The Rowans--Mr. and Miss Maitland from his part of the world.

Mark raised his eyebrows. "Maitland?"

"Yes. He's classical master at High Rough School. D'you know him?"

"'M--slightly. I've not much use for him. Sort of chap whose veins run ink instead of blood."

She flushed a little and lifted her head. "He's a great friend of mine; so you needn't make rude remarks."

"A _great_ friend?"

Mark bent a searching glance upon her.

"Yes: in his lukewarm way."

"Oh, if he's lukewarm, he'll do! Didn't I say his veins ran ink? I'll let you be polite to him on Friday, and I must have Saturday afternoon and evening entire as a reward!"

But even while they talked, Europe hummed with the stir of gathering armies; and by Saturday morning the head-lines announced "Russian Mobilisation Complete." Germany, who had secretly forestalled that event, responded by declaring a state of war, and an impenetrable veil fell between her and the outer world.

Keith handed the paper to Mark, who had come in late for breakfast. "There you are, old boy. I said the end of the month, didn't I? Russia brings in France automatically. It only remains for Italy and England to show their hands. I back Italy to keep hers clean and stay out of it."

"And I back England to fight."

"Yes--if we've still enough of the old leaven to save us from the curse of legal verbiage and inaction."

For the rest of the meal he confined himself to intermittent "rumblings" (the word was Lady Forsyth's) against peace-cranks, Internationals, and so forth; but it was not until he had talked over the telephone to a friend in Edinburgh that he really let himself go--an event as rare as the proverbial "blue moon."

For it transpired that his friend--a professor of distinction--had just promised his signature to a neutrality letter strongly protesting against England's intervention in a Continental quarrel.

"Continental quarrel, forsooth! And the damned fools, not content with their egregious letter, are moving heaven and earth--that's to say International and Labour lights--to get up a Neutrality Committee, by way of further assisting a divided Government that stands shivering on the brink. Here we are, sunk deep in the ruts of peace in its most repellent form--peace, that has almost landed us in civil war; yet sober-minded men and women cry out against our taking the only course that can conceivably save half Europe, including ourselves, from the domination of the German machine."

His quiet grey eyes had a glint of steel in them, as he stood there beside the telephone in the study, swept, by intensity of conviction, so completely out of his philosophic calm, that Helen and Mark, the natural talkers, never dreamed of interposing a word. On the rare occasions when the spirit of speech moved him, they were willing to listen ad infinitum.

He had descended to a lower plane now, and was confounding the tyranny of the week-end habit, the curse of the country, that would send responsible people scuttling out of town on a Friday, though the last trump were sounding in their ears. He also confounded, for the first time in his life, that sacrosanct institution the Scottish Sunday, which would cut them off from letters, telegrams, and papers for twenty-four hours.

"Never mind, old man, we've got the blessed telephone," Mark consoled him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "And we can jolly well make ourselves a nuisance to all our friends and relations. What else is a telephone for? I vote we run down to Glasgow on Monday and sleep the night. We'd feel a bit closer to things----"

An imperious tinkle interrupted him. Admiral Sir John Forsyth this time. Unlike the heads of the political world, he had come up post-haste from Dorset, and he wanted a few words with his nephew.

It was while these things were in progress that Bel arrived, eager for a sight of Mark, and found herself relegated to the drawing-room with Sheila and Mona for company. Sheila apologised in her friendliest fashion; but that was quite beside the point. The appearance of the tea-tray brought in Lady Forsyth; but not till tea was half over did the telephone release Mark. Then at last came her chance of escape; and the lovers wandered off through the pine copse on to the small patch of open moor overlooking the loch.

"A shame to keep her waiting," he apologised tenderly. "But this is history, darling, on a tremendous scale; so you must make allowances."

"I'm trying to." She dropped her lips with a bewitching air of martyrdom. "But tremendous things are rather exhausting. I can't get into a state of thrill, like your mother and the rest. And I'm very glad--you may think what you like!--that there really is a chance we shall keep out of it. Mr. Maitland says Sir Edward Grey has admitted that the Entente's not binding, and a Liberal Government can't drag a free people into the horrors of war."

"Damn Maitland!" Mark flashed out; then reddened and drew in his lip. "Sorry. But if you don't want fireworks you'd better keep that chap's inspired remarks to yourself. Besides, you're practically one of us now; and I can't have you talking pacifist twaddle."

"Well, don't let's talk of it at _all_. I'm sick of the whole thing."

Mark said nothing, and they walked on in silence through the heather. Then she turned to him and slipped a hand through his arm. "Darling, let's go off somewhere to-morrow for the whole day and forget all about everything, except each other."

"Bel!" He stood regarding her with an enigmatical smile. For an instant she thought he would consent. "I'd love to, of course," he said honestly. "But I simply couldn't do it. Though we can't get papers, there's the telephone; and my mind would be on the stretch the whole time."

She shrugged, with a faint reflection of his smile. "Very well. I'll join the others. They're going for an outing in any case. Your Scotch Sunday is so desolating."

"Then I'll call in for you after supper, if you're not too tired. Keith and I are going to Glasgow on Monday for the night. See how they're taking things there."

She sighed. "This wretched war is simply spoiling everything." Her shoulder touched his as she spoke, and at once he put his arm round her. "It seems to shut me out."

"Only because you refuse to come in."

"But, Mark--it's such a horror." Her shiver was not pure affectation. "And I've no taste for horrors. I can feel it hovering there, across the Channel, like a tiger waiting to spring. And when I try to forget it, you don't help me. As you won't come to-morrow, I shall console myself by asking Mr. Lenox. I like him the best of your lot."

"All right; ask him. He can keep an eye on you. See that you don't flirt with Maitland."

"But I do--always. It's an understood thing between us. And if I can't have you, I must get what fun I can out of him!"

Maurice, though feeling the strain in his own way, accepted Bel's invitation, plus her proviso that no one was to say "War" or "Politics" from start to finish. Privately she felt Mark's defection more keenly than she cared to admit, but she intended to enjoy herself in spite of it; and she succeeded, by the primitive process of playing the two men off against each other. Maitland--a loose-limbed narrowly built person of nondescript colouring--had for years been discreetly in love with her. He was of those for whom discretion is the better part of everything. For which cause a penniless Bel could never become Mrs. Maitland. But the moth persisted in hovering round the candle, and he had heard with a mild pang of her engagement to Sir Mark.

Like many schoolmasters of second-rate quality, Maitland was less a man of intellect than of specialised culture. Years of close touch with the "humanities" had failed to make him human. He was humanitarian, merely: a very different pair of sleeves.

Maurice, watching him with Miss Alison, saw the girl in a new light, and wondered a little what Forsyth would think about it. But on his return he simply remarked that Maitland seemed the sort of schoolmaster who disseminated ignorance; that Miss Alison had been in great form, and they had had a ripping day.

Early on Monday afternoon the two men set out for Glasgow; and to Lady Forsyth the house, bereft of their presence, seemed a dead thing. A man's woman in the finest sense of the phrase, her men were the first best gifts of God to her. She was their born comrade. She had the rare gift of seeing life with their eyes; and through her nature ran a streak of inconsistency, peculiarly endearing to the more consistent half of creation.

Even in the midst of her real anxiety lest a Government wedded to peace should withhold England from the path of honour and safety, her sensitive spirit revolted against the oncoming holocaust of death and suffering, with a fierce intensity of which Bel's nature was purely incapable. She felt it as a vast thundercloud, stealthily, inexorably blotting out the light of heaven. These days of waiting--days of tense and awful quiet for all who were far from the throbbing heart of things--were as the pause of utter stillness that precedes the crash of the storm. And in that stillness she could see and feel too vividly things that filled her with a shuddering dread. The whole world's sorrow seemed to beat upon her heart, and at intervals through the vast diapason of universal anguish came the piercing note of personal pain.

She knew--triumphantly, yet shiveringly she knew--what it would mean for her if England went into the war, not merely as a protective Power, but as a united Empire to challenge conclusions with her most insidious and most formidable enemy. Mark would go out to France; and he would lose no time in going. That was his way. He had said no word of it, so far, either to her or Bel. But she knew his intention, if the girl did not; and even while she shrank from the surrender of her last best treasure, she never dreamed of withholding him. If it were really to be war on a big scale, everything, everyone must go....