‘First rate,’ Keith said quietly as he sat down amid a storm of cheers.
‘Heaven knows how I did it!’ he answered under cover of the noise. ‘Wish I could bolt now.’
But the Provost had risen and was praising him to his face; a far worse ordeal than the one he had so triumphantly weathered. The recruiting result, in figures, was not sensational: but Ardmuir was obviously impressed. It begged leave to distribute Sir Mark’s ‘great recruiting speech’ as a leaflet; and Sir Mark, privately overwhelmed, gave gracious consent, with the air of one who made brilliant speeches as easily as he ate his breakfast.
‘Really, old boy, you ought to stand for Parliament,’ Keith said as they drove home. ‘If that speech of yours is well distributed, the men will soon be tumbling in. One has to give them time up here. The Radical spirit is so strong in our beloved country.’
‘And the beauty of it is that the bulk of ’em, if they only knew it, remain Radicals just because they’re so conservative!’ Mark retorted with a flash of his mother’s humour. ‘But Parliament—no thanks; not yet awhile.’
Saturday was given over to rounding up his own men and business connected with his mother’s small estate. That evening he conquered, not without difficulty, a temptation to stroll down into the village and discover whether the Rowans was yet empty of its treasure; and when the last post came in he knew.
Glancing through half a dozen envelopes, he came suddenly on Bel’s handwriting. His mother, who was watching him, saw, without appearing to see, that he pocketed all his letters unopened and, after a reasonable interval, rose and left the room. It was easy to guess what had happened; and she rated herself for the horrid sinking at her heart. She could not sleep till she knew; but as Mark did not reappear, she went up early and, in passing, knocked at his door.
‘Good-night, dear,’ she said.
He opened it and stood before her—transfigured.